Three Strikes Under

The pool lights flickered — that telltale fluorescent hum that meant the circuit was about to blow. Great. Just perfect.

Maddie kicked off the wall, her strokes mechanical, counting laps to keep her mind off the email she'd received two hours ago. From Sarah. Her *friend*. The one who'd CC'd their boss on that presentation, the one with the "minor edits" that somehow made Maddie look incompetent. The one who'd taken credit for the Reynolds account during the all-hands meeting.

Baseball had always been Sarah's sport. She understood the rules of play: bunts, sacrifices, stealing bases. She treated their friendship like a game where someone had to lose, and Maddie had been playing softball all along — still running bases, still believing in teamwork.

The water pressed against Maddie's ears, muffling the world to a distant thrum. This was her sanctuary now. The community pool at 11 PM, populated by insomniacs and ghosts. She'd played softball in college, briefly, until she realized she hated the way the ball could come at you without warning, how you had to be ready to swing at anything.

Her phone buzzed on the deck. Sarah again.

Maddie flipped onto her back, floating, staring at the water-stained ceiling. They'd been friends for seven years. Had been through divorces and promotions and that time Sarah got so wasted at the Christmas party that Maddie had to drive her home and hold her hair back while she cried about her mother. That had to count for something.

But lately, everything felt like a setup. Sarah's comments about Maddie's age during team meetings. The way she'd "accidentally" leave her out of email chains. The way she'd deployed that baseball terminology Maddie hated — "three strikes and you're out" — when discussing Maddie's project timeline during a call with the VP.

The pool lights died completely. Darkness swallowed the water.

Maddie kept swimming. She knew every inch of this pool. Muscle memory guided her strokes.

Sarah had never liked swimming. Too quiet, she'd said. Too much time alone with your thoughts. She needed noise, crowds, the applause of a stadium. The constant validation that she was winning.

Maddie reached the wall and pulled herself up, water streaming from her hair. Her phone lit up the darkness. Another notification.

She opened it.

"I'm sorry," Sarah had written. "I know what I did. Can we talk?"

Maddie sat on the edge of the pool, her legs dangling in the water. She'd been swimming for months now, building endurance, learning to hold her breath. Learning that sometimes you had to stop fighting the current and just let it carry you.

She typed back: "Tomorrow. 8 AM. The diner on 4th."

Then she deleted it. Typed again: "No."

Then she deleted that too.

She climbed out of the pool, grabbed her towel, and didn't look back at the dark water. Some games you had to stop playing. Some friends you had to leave in the shallow end.