Chapter 2
The effects of the drug, which had been binding my body, didn't completely wear off until the morning.
When I woke up , it was already broad daylight. The person who took everything from me last night had not appeared again, and at this very moment, the revelry on the television screen had reached its peak.
Sixty thousand fans rose to their feet and cheered. Confetti rained down throughout the stadium.
Marcus stood on what used to be my mound, wearing my number 1 starting jersey, his hands raised high. He had just thrown the signature curveball that I had personally taught him, striking out the last batter in a row, and winning the championship with a complete game.
At the highest point of the stands, my wife Scarlett stood up and applauded with pride for her "new ace".
Everything was as perfect as a fairy tale, except for the one who truly conquered this land.
Just hours earlier, Scarlett presented a forged medical report to the judges and the media, announcing that I was unable to play due to acute inflammation of my elbow.
Less than an hour after the match, major sports media outlets simultaneously released a bombshell press release:
"Liam Carter flees the game due to psychological issues! The team is forced to make a last-minute coaching change!"
The message was written with extreme realism, saying that I had a mental breakdown in the locker room and was too afraid to step onto the paddleboard. In just half a day, my inbox was flooded with termination notices from sponsors; on social media, I was a coward, a weakling, a liar; my teammates shook their heads and sighed in front of the camera, saying they were "very disappointed" in him.
My reputation plummeted from its pedestal to the gutter within 24 hours.
I returned to my original home from the hotel, sat at the dining table, and coldly watched the championship scenes being replayed on TV, while the hosts fiercely criticized my "cowardice."
I turned off the TV with the remote and took out a pre-prepared divorce agreement from the drawer. I uncapped the pen and neatly signed my name in the lower right corner.
Late at night, Scarlett pushed open her front door.
She saw the documents on the dining table. She walked over, picked them up, glanced at them casually, and let out a contemptuous sneer.
"Bang."
She threw the agreement back onto the table like trash.
She turned to her assistant behind her and ordered without hesitation, "Let him make a scene. The whole team is watching. I bet $100,000 that in less than three days, he'll be crawling back to me like a dog."
She didn't kick me out immediately, but used the charity excuse that "the divorce proceedings aren't finished" to keep me. Because she still needed me.
The next morning, Scarlett tore off her last pretense.
“Marcus has rare blood type, and his training intensity is high right now, requiring regular blood transfusions for maintenance. The team’s blood bank doesn’t have enough.” Scarlett looked down at me. “You also have rare blood type. When you had surgery, you used the team’s medical resources. Now, it’s your turn to pay up.”
She took me to the team's secret medical room.
Marcus was leaning against the treatment bed, holding the expensive old glove that had originally belonged to my grandmother, turning it over and over in his hand. When he saw me come in, a mocking smile appeared on his lips, and then he loosened his grip on my wrist.
"Thud." The glove fell to the ground.
Marcus bent down to pick it up, then suddenly hissed, clutched his ankle, and pretended to be in pain as he fell onto the carpet.
Scarlett's expression changed drastically. She rushed over to support him and anxiously checked his foot. After confirming he was alright, she abruptly turned her head and stared intently at me.
“You injured the team’s new ace,” her voice was as cold as ice. “Kneel down. Apologize to him.”
The doctors and nurses around me held their breath, all watching to see me make a fool of myself. A former champion pitcher, now reduced to a substitute blood bag, and subjected to such humiliation.
I clenched my fists, straightened my back, and stared coldly at her without taking a single step back.
Seeing that I was unyielding, Scarlett bent down and picked up her grandmother's glove, walked to the medical shredder next to her, and hung the glove above her.
"You won't kneel, huh? Liam, do you think your backbone is enough to protect this tattered thing your grandmother left behind?"
I bit my lip hard, the sharp taste of blood spreading in my mouth.
To save my grandmother's gloves, I stared at the ground, my voice flat and cold as ice:
"sorry."
Marcus looked down at me, his smile growing increasingly arrogant.
He thought he had crushed my spine, but he didn't know that by kneeling, I had severed the last connection between myself and the team, and between myself and Scarlett.
Scarlett tossed her gloves onto the table and said to the doctor, "Draw blood."
A large needle was inserted into a vein. Blood flowed rapidly into a blood bag.
Two hundred milliliters, four hundred milliliters, eight hundred milliliters.
My lips started to turn purple, large beads of cold sweat appeared on my forehead, and my fingertips trembled uncontrollably due to lack of blood.
The doctor stopped what he was doing, looking troubled: "Coach Scarlett, we can't continue. The patient is at risk of acute shock..."
Scarlett glanced coldly at Marcus beside her. Marcus leaned back against the pillow, coughed at just the right moment, and rubbed his shoulder.
"Draw another eight hundred." Scarlett gave the order without hesitation, her tone unwavering. "Marcus's health is the team's top priority right now."
The doctor was still hesitating.
I leaned back in my chair, feeling my body heat rapidly draining away, but I kept my eyes open, staring at Scarlett, and coldly spoke:
"Go ahead and smoke. After you're done, I won't owe you a single penny."
You want blood? I'll give it to you. This body owes you, and today we'll settle the debt with interest.
Just after I crossed the 1200 ml mark, I was plunged into complete darkness and lost consciousness.
——
When I woke up again, the first thing I saw was the glaring fluorescent light of the ICU.
All I could hear was the monotonous buzzing of the monitor. I was connected to various tubes, feeling like an empty shell.
The ward door opened, and Scarlett walked in, casually placing a bowl of warm porridge on the bedside table. She picked up a spoon, looking down at me as if giving alms to a beggar: "Eat some."
I avoided her hand, took the spoon myself, and swallowed it down in a few mouthfuls, suppressing the spasms in my stomach.
"Give me your phone," I said calmly.
Scarlett paused, then sneered, "What? Now you know to call for help? Who called?"
"It's none of your business."
Her eyes turned cold instantly, and just as she was about to lash out, her phone rang in her pocket.
When the call connected, it was Marcus's voice: "Scarlett, my arm hurts a little."
"I'm coming right away!" Scarlett's tone instantly became extremely gentle. She stood up abruptly, not even sparing me a glance, and walked out of the ward in her high heels without looking back.
The door closed.
I lay in the empty hospital room. Outside the window, the city's neon lights shone, and they were still celebrating that shoddy championship built on lies and theft. But in my heart, once I walked out of here, that woman named Scarlett would be nothing more than a dead person.
Despite the violent trembling in my fingers, I pulled out a sturdy black business card from the most hidden compartment of my wallet.
Her business card contained only her name and a readily accessible personal number: Elena Wolf.
The CEO of a Swiss sports medicine group, the absolute leader of a business empire worth billions.
A few years ago at a top business summit, she glanced at me, handed me this business card, and said, "If you need the best resources, you can contact me."
I never used it because I felt I had a way out. Looking back now, it was incredibly foolish.
Without the slightest hesitation, I dialed that number.
The phone rang twice and was answered instantly.
I briefly described my current situation: drained of blood, ruined reputation, and a need for a clean network of connections.
The person on the other end of the phone didn't ask for the reason, nor did they show any surprise.
A calm, assertive female voice, radiating overwhelming control, came from across the ocean. Just a few words, yet they sounded like an unyielding, supreme command:
"I'll have someone arrange it. Come here."
