Novelas y relatos de After Every Hit We Take

“You can’t win if you keep hesitating to strike. Don’t hold back” I didn’t stop even as he spoke. I made a spin and went for a hit on his torso. But I was swept off the floor before my hand could make contact with his body, the air leaving my lungs with a rush. Caine crouched and extended his hand to help me up. But I hit it off and stood up. “That’s all for the night. It’s enough to make you win, maybe after you lose tomorrow you’ll learn better,” he said and walked off.

The only reason I choose to take a cold bath instead is that I am fully aware that if I go to the gym in this state of mind, I would most likely also hit Moretti a little. The last time I hit him was two days ago, yet I can't stop thinking about it. I almost feel like I'm craving it. There’s something about landing a blow on his smug face that I adore. My insides get warm and sticky, and my bones become pliable after it works me so hard. I shouldn't feel that way. I am aware of that. It's not good. Violence is not good. It is wrong to hit a teammate. I will never do that again. Unless I'm provoked by him.

“I feel the same way. We’ve come so far, and we can’t let anything tear us apart now. We’re stronger together, and we have to believe in that.” With a final nod, we rejoin the pack, ready to execute the plan. The operation begins with a series of coordinated strikes against the hunter’s known locations. Our strategy relies on speed, precision, and leveraging the intel we’ve gathered. Each team is assigned a specific target, and we move swiftly, driven by a sense of purpose and urgency.

“Got it.” We won the opening coin toss and elected first possession. Now it’s my turn to kick off. I look into the stands and miss our stadium. The number nine jerseys in the crowd always jump out at me and lift my spirits. Gold towels not so much. The whistle blows and I charge the ball. A Pittsburgh player catches it behind the twenty and starts running. I’m knocking pads with opposing players and running toward the player with the ball. He takes a hit and the ball flies out of his hands. There are players everywhere as I make a grab and feel the ball within my grasp. The hit I take knocks the air from my chest. I reach the ground sooner than expected and the impact is jarring. The number

“You are weak just like your father.” Something snapped inside me. My hand shot out before I could stop myself, striking him across the face with a force that sent him staggering against the desk. For a moment, silence. Then he laughed. A deep, mocking laugh that clawed at my chest. He leaned close, his voice a poison whisper. “You hit like him too. But remember , this wall swallowed your dad, his wife made him weak. Such a shame she dead weeks after your dad died protecting her. “You think that was a normal car accident??”

“They lie before my hips do.” She nods once, eyes never leaving me. I strike. She blocks—late, but better than last time—and we collide, arms tangling. I let her push me back two steps before shifting my weight and sweeping her legs. She hits the ground again, harder this time. “Don’t rush your recovery,” I tell her. “Breathe first. Create space between us to catch your breath if you must. Remember when you're short of breath your hits have half power.” She does. I can see it—the conscious decision, the discipline. Then she moves, scrambling back to her feet with a snarl that sends a ripple of pride through the onlookers.

The pain in my ribs sharpened with every stride, but I refused to let it show. The scrimmage had turned into something uglier than a game—more like a public execution Kane Harlow was determined to finish in front of the small but watchful crowd. He came at me again on the next shift, faster this time, stick lifted high the way he had in every clip I’d studied. The hit was textbook dirty: late, high, aimed at the same vulnerable spot between my shoulder and helmet that had ended Lila’s career. I braced, turned my body at the last possible second, and absorbed the impact against the glass. The boards rattled. My vision blurred white for half a heartbeat. But I stayed upright.

Then he fired. POW—PING! Direct hit. The target spun. I gasped in awe. To be honest, I knew he’d hit it—but not on the first try. I was looking at him like he had just parted the Red Sea. “Again,” I whispered. He hit another. “Yes! That’s my baby!” I yelled, completely forgetting my plan not to draw attention. A crowd started gathering. POW—PING! Then another. Then another. The people behind us murmured:

Crack—! The ominous foreboding struck the eardrums without a single error. A clean hit piercing left-center right from the first hitter. Because he was an incredibly fast runner, he safely arrived at second base with light steps, and S University stood on the edge of a cliff called a scoring crisis as soon as the match began. "Ball!" "Ball!" "Ball!" "Ball!"

He didn't speak or even ask me a word instead he lifted his hand and smacked me really hard. Even though I had seen it coming and knew how painful his hit could be, I didn't bother to dodge him, I wanted to feel it one last time. I wanted the throbbing pain and sensation to remind me that it was real, everything that had happened at the treaty event six months ago, how he hit me and humiliated me then made me take the fall. Every single one of them was real and I needed this reminder to keep me pushing until I see them pay for the pain they caused me.