"Are you insane?!" Peter shouted, his voice echoing through the batting cage.
Dranred didn't answer. He swung the bat with brutal force, sending another baseball screaming into the net. Each pitch from the machine came faster—156 miles per hour—and each hit landed with a hollow, furious crack. Sweat streamed down his face; his breathing was ragged.
Peter stood there, watching in disbelief. He'd seen this before. Whenever Dranred was here, it meant something—or someone—was eating him alive.
"Dranred, stop!" Peter barked. "You'll wreck your shoulder. The finals are tomorrow, damn it. You can't afford an injury now."
The bat slammed against another ball, harder this time.
"I gave her the first thing I ever bought with my salary," Dranred said between swings, his voice low, bitter. "I used to imagine giving it to her in the most romantic way. But I ended up handing it to her like some... farewell gift."
He stopped mid-swing, staring blankly at the machine as another ball fired out. "She's getting married."
Peter sighed. "We know that already."
"It's over between us," Dranred murmured. He straightened, lowering the bat to the ground and turning to face Peter. "Completely over."
"Come on, man," Peter said, trying to stay calm. "Estelle told you long ago that she didn't want anything to do with you. You're the one who can't let go. Just accept that she's—"
Thwack!
Peter froze. The next ball struck Dranred squarely on the shoulder. The impact was sickening. Dranred staggered back, grimacing in pain, his face twisting as he clenched his teeth.
"Damn it!" Peter ran to him. "I told you this would happen!"
"I'm fine," Dranred hissed, though his arm hung stiff at his side.
"No, you're not," Peter snapped, already dialing emergency services. "You're coming with me to the hospital. You can argue later."
Despite Dranred's protests, Peter got him checked into the ER. Doctors examined his shoulder—it was bruised, not broken—but the real damage showed in his hands. His palms were raw, bloodied, and covered with small cuts.
Peter stared at them, horrified. "You didn't even wear gloves?"
Dranred looked away. The silence said everything.
"You've been here for hours, haven't you?" Peter said quietly. "God, Dranred... there's blood on the bat."
The doctor finished wrapping his shoulder and left them alone. Peter exhaled sharply, pacing the room.
"You're being reckless," he said. "Of all the times you could destroy yourself, you choose the night before the finals! What the hell were you thinking? What do you think Coach will say?"
Dranred didn't respond. He simply stared down at his bandaged hands, flexing them slowly.
The sting was sharp—but it was nothing compared to what he felt in his chest.
Peter was still lecturing Dranred when two familiar figures appeared at the far end of the emergency room.
Estelle and Rosette had just finished their consultation about Rosette's eyes. Estelle hadn't yet told her sister about the donor Dranred had found—she was waiting for the right moment. With the finals starting tomorrow, she didn't want anything to distract James, especially since Dranred was involved.
"What's going on over there?" Estelle asked one of the nurses, who was watching the commotion where Peter was scolding a patient behind a drawn curtain.
"Another hospital visit for basketball star Dranred," the nurse whispered.
"Dranred?" Estelle and Rosette said at the same time.
Rosette instantly recognized Peter's voice, loud and sharp, cutting through the noise of the ER. Without a word, she started walking toward it.
"Rosette—where are you going?" Estelle called, hurrying after her and catching her by the arm.
At the sound of their names, Dranred froze. Then, without thinking, he pushed the curtain aside. Peter was still mid-sentence, but Dranred ignored him completely.
Standing just a few steps away were Estelle and Rosette. For a brief second, everything around them fell quiet.
"Rosette," Dranred said, his tone soft but full of relief. Then his eyes moved to Estelle. "Estelle." His voice faltered slightly.
Estelle's gaze dropped to his hands—wrapped in bandages, dotted with traces of blood.
"What happened to your hands?" she asked.
"Something's wrong?" Rosette turned toward her sister, worry in her voice.
"This?" Dranred lifted his hands slightly, forcing a faint smile. "Just a few scratches."
He hadn't even realized the extent of his wounds earlier. Maybe it was because the pain in his chest had been far worse—the pain of watching Estelle slip away for good.
He caught her looking at him again, her eyes flickering with something he couldn't read. Concern, maybe? Or just pity?
Stop being so pathetic, Dranred, he scolded himself silently. She's getting married. Whatever you had—whatever you hoped to fix—it's over.
For years, he had chased the idea of making things right—his friendship with James, his love for Estelle.
But standing there, under the sterile light of the hospital, he realized maybe some things weren't meant to be healed.
He never looked at another woman. Not because he couldn't — but because his heart had room for only one: Estelle.
And though it hurt, he had finally accepted that their love, like the happiest days they shared, now belonged to the past.
"This is nothing," Dranred said with a strained smile.
"Nothing?!" Peter's voice rose in disbelief as he stepped closer.
Rosette turned instinctively toward the sound.
"Just shut it," Dranred muttered under his breath, glancing at his friend.
"Don't 'nothing' me," Peter shot back. "You've got a game tomorrow, and look at your hands!"
"I'm fine. I can still play. You're overreacting," Dranred insisted.
Rosette gently freed herself from Estelle's grasp. "You're hurt? What happened?" she asked softly.
"I'm okay, really. Peter's just panicking," Dranred said, forcing another smile as he faced Rosette. Her brows were knit in quiet worry.
"Hey," he said, his voice lowering as he reached out and took her hand.
Rosette felt the rough texture of the bandages on his skin and instinctively traced them with her fingers.
"What's with that look?" Dranred asked, trying to sound light. "It's nothing serious—"
"You should take care of your hands," Rosette interrupted gently. "These hands inspire so many people."
Those words hit him harder than he expected. For a moment, the dull ache in his chest eased. The warmth of her touch, the sincerity in her voice — it felt like something inside him was quietly mending.
Was he still in pain from losing Estelle? Maybe. But in that brief instant, it was as if the pain had less power over him. When Rosette held his hand, it felt like assurance — that he wasn't entirely alone.
"Exactly my point," Peter grumbled. "He's been in the batting cage for hours without gloves. Look at the result."
"I get it, okay?" Dranred sighed. "I was careless. I forgot to wear protection. But this—"
He stopped midsentence, his eyes resting on Rosette again. There was a flicker of emotion on her face — sadness? worry? He couldn't tell.
"You shouldn't push yourself like that," Rosette said, her voice tender. "You, of all people, should know how important safety is." She held his hand again, more gently this time. "Be more careful next time."
Dranred stared at her, unable to look away.
Who is this girl? he wondered.
There was something in the way she cared — calm, pure, and unexpectedly comforting.
And before he realized it, she had already begun to ease a pain he thought no one could reach.
"I know. I will," Dranred said softly.
He reached for Rosette's hand and gave it a light tap — a quiet way of telling her not to worry. Then, as if remembering she was there, he turned to Estelle.
"You shouldn't be careless," Estelle said, her gaze dropping to their joined hands. "You have a game tomorrow."
Her tone was calm, but her chest tightened at the sight. She knew they'd always been close, but seeing it still hurt. Why did it bother her so much? She had no right to feel this way anymore — and yet, the thought that Rosette's simple words could comfort him, when once that had been her place, filled her with quiet anger she couldn't explain.
Dranred seemed unaware of her thoughts. "Before I forget," he said, turning back to Rosette, "will you be watching the first game live tomorrow?"
"Yes," Rosette replied, smiling brightly. "Actually, I'll be with Estelle and Bryan. James even bought our tickets himself."
Her smile faltered the moment she mentioned his name. The excitement in her voice faded, replaced by something heavier — guilt, maybe. It didn't escape Dranred's notice.
"What's wrong?" he asked gently. "Aren't you excited to watch the finals?"
When she didn't answer, his voice softened. "Is it because James's team will be playing against mine?"
Rosette said nothing, but her silence was enough.
And Dranred understood — he wasn't the only one struggling with the thought of facing someone who used to be a friend.