Michael's remaining hand shook as he stared at the phone screen. Hot tears blurred his vision, dripping onto the hospital sheets.
He didn't bother wiping them.
For the first time since the accident, he let himself cry—not the silent, angry tears he'd choked back when the doctors said he'd never pitch again, but loud, ugly sobs that made his ribs ache.
Aiko fought her teacher. His mind replayed the fight—Yuriko's dagger slashing, Aiko's stats plummeting, the way her virtual blood smeared the tent floor.
She kept getting up. Even when her muscles were literal garbage.
The monitor beeped wildly beside him. He didn't care. His stump itched, that phantom arm twitching like it wanted to hurl a fastball through the hospital wall.
That's it. That's what's missing.
Baseball hadn't just been a sport. It had been the one thing that made sense—the perfect math of a curveball's spin, the certainty that if he worked harder, threw faster, he'd win.
But after the car crushed his arm, that equation broke.
He'd buried himself in self-pity like it was a blanket. But Aiko… He zoomed the screen to her face. She knelt in the tent now, grinding wild herbs into paste with a stone. Her stats might be garbage, but her eyes…
They burned like she was staring down the world's nastiest slider.
She's me. The me from before.
His tears sizzled into something hotter. I've been an idiot.
For months, he'd told himself his life was over—no arm, no future, just a hospital bed and a dead-end app game. But Aiko, with every bone in her body screaming in pain, had fought. She'd trusted a "god" who blew half his savings on pixelated bee bombs. And she was winning.
He tapped the "Home" button on his phone.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as he checked the time—9:34 PM. His thumb swiped to the calendar.
The car wash fundraiser was scheduled for Saturday. Four days away. Too long. Even if Aiko survived that fight, the next crisis would drain his funds dry.
He needed cash. Now.
Michael opened his texts and stabbed at Tyler's contact. The keyboard lagged, each letter torturously slow.
[Michael]: Change of plans. Move car wash to tomorrow.
Three dots appeared instantly.
[Tyler]: ??? U high?
[Michael]: Dead serious. Can't wait.
[Tyler]: Bro the team isn't even in town tmrw! Jake's got a chem final. Luis's visiting his grandma.
[Michael]: Then find new people. High school kids. Cheer squad. Anyone.
[Tyler]: Ur not making sense. What's the rush???
Michael gritted his teeth. He could practically hear Tyler's confused groan through the screen.
Letting his stump throb, he forced himself to type calmly, methodically—the way he'd once strategized pitching sequences.
[Michael]: Viral moments don't wait. We need to strike while the story's hot.
[Tyler]: Since when do you know news cycles??
[Michael]: Since I spent 3 months in bed Googling "how to make money fast." Tomorrow. 10 AM.
The three dots lingered.
Michael's mind raced. Push harder. He channeled the tone he'd used on the mound—unshakable, leaving no room for doubt.
[Michael]: Get Katie Martinez. Tell her I'll give an exclusive interview.
[Tyler]: Katie?? The girl who DUMPED you??
[Michael]: Exactly. She runs the campus gossip blog. 20k followers. She'll come for the drama.
A pause. Then:
[Tyler]: …Where? Can't use Route 9. Manager said weekends only
[Michael]: Campus quad. More foot traffic.
[Tyler]: They'll tow us!!!
[Michael]: Tell Coach to call the Dean. Remind him I'm the guy who packed stadiums last season. Another pause.
Michael's stump itched, phantom fingers twitching like they wanted to grip a ball. Adapt. Adjust. Survive. [Tyler]: Ur scary when u think
[Michael]: Tomorrow. Noon. Or I post the video of you streaking at the frat party.
[Tyler]: U BLUFFING
[Michael]: Try me.
He tossed the phone onto the tray, already mapping the next steps.
The hospital's Wi-Fi was garbage, but he'd seen a Starbucks across the street. If he could sneak out during shift change…
"No."
The word slipped out loud. Aiko's face flashed in his mind—her split lip healed, her eyes blazing with borrowed courage.
She's doing the work. So do yours.
He yanked the charging cable from his phone, ignoring the 22% battery warning. The YouTube app loaded sluggishly. His channel—One-Armed Ace—had three subscribers. All spam bots.
Start framing the story.
He propped the phone against a water pitcher, angling the camera to show his bandaged stump and the untouched burrito rotting on the tray. His reflection glared back—pale, puffy-eyed, hair greasy from weeks without a proper shower.
He hit record.
"Hey. Michael Cobb here. Former UT starting pitcher. You might've heard—got hit by a driver. Arm's gone. So's my future." He paused, let the words hang. "But I'm still here. Still fighting. And I need your help."
He held up the red envelope of cash.
"My team's throwing a car wash tomorrow. Campus quad. Noon. Every dollar goes toward a prosthetic arm so I can…" His voice cracked. Real or acted? Even he wasn't sure. "So I can stand on that mound again."
Michael's thumb hovered over the upload button.
The phone screen glared in the dark hospital room, the video title screaming at him: ONE-ARMED ACE: COMEBACK STARTS NOW. He looked ghostly—pale, greasy hair, eyes sunken from weeks of bad sleep.
This is either genius or pathetic. But either way, he must do it.
He tapped the button.
Processing... 12%
A spinning wheel replaced his face. Michael leaned back, the stiff hospital sheets scratching his neck. His mind buzzed—what if no one cared? What if they laughed? He grabbed his phone again, scrolling through old photos to stop the panic.
His eyes lingered on the picture his teammate took when he won High School State Championship at age 17.
His younger self grinned on the mound, glove raised. The crowd blurred behind him, a sea of green and gold. Mom stood in the front row, her "COBB'S THE BOSS" sign crooked but proud.
"Fastball's looking sharp, Mikey!" Coach had slapped his shoulder after the game. "Scouts'll be crawling here next year."
Back then, life was simple: pitch, win, repeat.
Processing... 48%
A picture of him kissing Katie at sunset on campus rooftop immediately drew his attention.
Oh, how invincible he felt at that moment!
Her blonde hair glowed in the golden light, his letterman jacket swallowing her frame. She'd whispered something before pulling him closer.
Three months after the accident, she'd sat right where Tyler had, picking at her nails. "I'm sorry, Mike. I just… can't do this."
He deleted the photo.
Processing... 76%
Then he saw the old Alabama Trailer Park where his "home" was located.
In the picture, Mom flipped burgers on a rusted grill, laughing as smoke billowed into Uncle Joe's face. Little sister Daisy squirted ketchup on their chihuahua.
The grill was probably pawned by now to pay his medical bills.
Upload Complete!
It was time to get it all back, Michael decided.