Chapter 3

When I got home from the hospital, Scarlett was waiting for me.

“You owe the team, and now it’s time to pay it back.” She commanded me from above. “Starting today, go to the rehabilitation center twice a week to help Marcus with arm physiotherapy.”

"Why should I go?" I looked at her coldly and slapped away the schedule she handed me. "It's not enough that you've drained me of my blood, now you want me to be a servant to a fraudster who impersonated me?"

This was the first time I had shown her such direct aggression since I regained consciousness.

Scarlett's face darkened, she let out a cold laugh, and slammed a thick stack of documents directly onto my hospital bed.

"Why should I? Liam, don't you understand your current situation? Your scandal of deserting the team has ruined the team's commercial value. The team's legal department is holding back the tens of millions in sponsorship breach of contract fees for you!"

She leaned down, her eyes fixed on me like a venomous snake: "If I don't agree, you won't even be able to leave this ward. Either go and get physical therapy for Marcus as payment for breach of contract, or I'll have my lawyers sue you right now, apply for a restraining order, and make sure you're burdened with tens of millions in debt for the rest of your life, unable to even afford a plane ticket to leave this city!"

I clenched my teeth tightly.

Elena is expediting my departure procedures. At this critical juncture, I absolutely cannot be held back in the country by a lengthy legal battle.

Scarlett has pinpointed my Achilles' heel.

I stared at the face I once loved so deeply, and felt a wave of nausea wash over me.

"Okay." I stared at her, swallowing back the rising taste of blood. "I'll go."

Just consider it as accompanying you to the end of this last play, just consider it as watching a soulless zombie jumping around.

——

The rehabilitation center's physiotherapy room is extremely spacious, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows facing the city's bustling skyline.

Marcus lay comfortably on the treatment bed. Scarlett stood beside him, fiddling with a jar of massage cream.

The therapist smiled obsequiously from the side: "Mr. Marcus, every time you come, Coach Scarlett always reminds us to warm up the massage cream, saying that your arms can't get cold. I've been doing this for twenty years, and I've never seen such a considerate coach."

The surrounding athletes cast envious glances.

Scarlett didn't care. She coldly ordered, "Liam, come here. From today onwards, you will be in charge of all of Marcus's physical therapy."

I walked over, half-squatted by the bed, and placed my hand on Marcus's arm with a stern face.

The same muscle definition, the same throwing motion. I felt the texture of that arm, but my heart was as cold as ice—these arms were all show and no substance, they couldn't possibly throw a perfect fastball.

Marcus, with his eyes closed, suddenly gasped, jerked his hand back, and complained with disgust, "What are you doing? Be gentle! Are you trying to break my ligaments as revenge?"

He was clearly making something up out of nothing, but Scarlett immediately bristled like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

"Are you deaf?!" she shouted, pointing her finger at my nose. "If you don't control your filthy hands, I'll have the security guards break your fingers one by one!"

I didn't say anything, but just gave Marcus a cold glance and eased my grip.

I don't need to retaliate against his arm, because a lie is still a lie. Scarlett doesn't care about the truth, so let her drown in this self-deceiving bubble.

That evening, Marcus was smoking alone in the physiotherapy room, which was filled with rubbing alcohol. He arrogantly tossed the still-burning cigarette butt into a container of used alcohol swabs.

"boom!"

The fire raged violently in an instant, and the toxic smoke, like a black beast, quickly engulfed the entire enclosed room!

The fire alarm blared.

Scarlett was the first to rush into the smoke-filled room.

At that moment, Marcus was screaming for help on the left; while on the right, I was choking on the extremely pungent smoke, my lungs were spasming, and I was completely powerless, so I could only lean against the wall and cough violently.

Through the thick smoke and firelight, Scarlett turned her head.

She looked at me. Just once. Only once.

Without hesitation, she turned and grabbed Marcus, dragging him out of the room. In the firelight, she uttered a chillingly cold sentence to her assistant who rushed to the scene:

“Liam can get out on his own.”

Her tone was nonchalant, as if she were discarding a bag of trash. Then, she followed Marcus's stretcher closely and fled without looking back.

I was unconscious in the fire for a full forty minutes.

It was an elderly, unassuming cleaner with gray hair who pulled me back from the brink of death.

I was sent to the hospital again, and Scarlett never came to see me once.

Scarlett was by Marcus's bedside, carefully peeling an apple for him.

"I'm so afraid my arm will be ruined and I won't be able to shoot anymore," Marcus said, feigning fear.

“Don’t be afraid,” Scarlett soothed softly. “With me here, your arm will always be alright.”

Five years ago, on the eve of my MLB start, she sat on my bedside in the same way, holding my elbows tightly and saying, "Don't be afraid, Liam. These arms of yours are for the Cy Young Award."

Now, all that remains of those arms is destruction.

I didn't rush in and become hysterical, because anger is directed at people you can count on.

I feel it's a waste to even hate Scarlett.

On the eve of my discharge, the doctor approached me with a somber expression, holding a comprehensive medical examination report.

“Liam, the damage to your heart from the large amount of blood drawn and the smoke inhalation is secondary. The most fatal thing is the nerves in your throwing arm… they have suffered irreversible damage.” The doctor’s eyes were full of heartache. “You can never throw a ball more than eighty miles a minute again. I suggest you retire.”

These words were like the judge striking the gavel to deliver a death sentence. But I remained unusually calm, took the report, folded it, and put it in my pocket.

I went back to the villa, packed all my things, and then left.

Sitting on a cold bench in the waiting hall, I took out my phone and opened the photo album.

There are hundreds of photos of me and Scarlett there.

I pulled out the SIM card, and just as I was about to break it, the phone vibrated one last time.

It was a text message from Scarlett:

The cleaning lady said you're leaving, and I don't have time to play hide-and-seek with you. You have to be at Marcus's physical therapy tomorrow, so don't make me send someone to catch you.

I gave a bitter smile, then smashed the card and the phone, which was covered in her marks, to pieces with my bare hands and threw them directly into the recycling bin next to the passageway.

A clear announcement rang out over the airport:

"Boarding for the flight to Zurich is now beginning..."