Eli
I thought everything was finally starting to settle. That I could slowly leave the past behind me. After that session with Marina and the kids, I felt alive again—unjudged, like I actually had a chance. But somehow, the past always catches up.
The next day, in the rehab room, I was midway through a leg curl when a news notification blew up my phone.
“What the fuck!” I shouted, nearly dropping it.
The rehab room echoed with the slam of the weights as I yanked the earbuds out of my ears. My phone kept pinging, vibrating like it had a damn heartbeat. Texts. Missed calls. Notifications flashing like red alerts.
And then I saw it.
“Leaked Betting File Reveals Santiago’s Past Dealings—Is His Comeback a Scam?”
I froze. My chest clamped down. My mouth turned to sandpaper. There were screenshots. Betting slips. Bank transfers. Receipts from when I was nineteen. Names blurred out, except mine. Never mine.
And the comments? Brutal.
Fraud. Cheater. Tennis’ biggest mistake.
And at the bottom of the article, the credit: Exclusive leak provided by Damian Kole.
Of course.
Damian fucking Kole.
We’d been rivals since we were kids, same junior circuit, same ranking climb. He hated me. It got worse after one night in Monte Carlo when I, stupidly, accidentally, hooked up with his girlfriend. She hadn’t told me. But that didn’t matter.
He swore I’d pay. And now here we were.
I stood up too fast, dizziness punching through my skull.
“He thinks I’m hustling my way back?” I shouted into the room, chest heaving. “I earned my spot!”
The door creaked. I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Marina.
She stepped inside, hoodie still on, racket bag slung low like armor. She didn’t speak, just watched.
“You saw it,” I said flatly.
She nodded once. Of course she had.
“I’m not sitting,” I snapped before she could even suggest it. “I’ve already sat. Sat through bans, sat through silence, sat through everyone pretending like I never mattered.”
She walked closer, set her bag down with the same grace she did everything else. “There’s a press conference tonight.”
I scoffed. “Perfect. Let them drag me in real time.”
“You need to get ahead of this.”
“They’re going to eat me alive.”
She didn’t flinch. “Not if I’m standing next to you.”
I stared at her. “What?”
“I’m coming to the press conference.”
“Why would you—”
“Because you’re not doing this alone.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed again.
Milo (Little Bro): Calling…
Shit. I picked up instantly. “Hey. You okay?”
His voice was small but sharp. “Are you okay?”
I turned my back slightly, stepping toward the window. “I’m fine.”
“Liar,” Milo muttered. “I saw the article. Damien’s a damn cockroach.”
“Milo—”
“I mean it. He’s a loser. You’re the one still playing. Still fighting. Screw him.”
I swallowed. My throat burned. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I am resting. In between puking sessions from chemo. Let me have my drama.”
That made me laugh, just a little. But it cracked something in me. “I’ll be fine,” I said again, softer this time.
“You’d better be,” he said. “You promised me. No more disappearing.”
“I’m not.”
“Good. Now go wreck some pressroom.”
We hung up. I turned around and found Marina watching me.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“My little brother.”
Her expression shifted—like a glitch in her cool facade. “You have a little brother?”
“Yeah.”
She hesitated, then: “Where is he?”
I looked away, jaw clenched. “In the hospital. Chemo. He’s fighting cancer.”
She didn’t say anything at first. Just…stood there. Then she walked over, slow, careful. “I didn’t know,” she said softly.
“No one does.”
***
That night, the press room was packed. Cameras. Flashes. Reporters buzzing like vultures. I sat beside Marina, palms sweating against the table, heart slamming against my ribs.
The questions came hard and fast.
“Mr. Santiago, can you confirm the authenticity of the betting slips?”
I leaned in. “They’re from five years ago. I’ve never denied that I made mistakes.”
“But do you believe you deserve to be back on tour?”
I opened my mouth. But before I could speak, Marina did.
“He does.”
All eyes shifted.
“I’ve trained with Eli,” she said. “I’ve watched him work harder than anyone here. He’s not asking for sympathy. Just a second chance. Something every athlete in this room has needed at some point.”
A reporter raised her hand. “But Marina, aren’t you worried about what this does to your image?”
“Someone like Eli?” she repeated. “You mean someone who shows up, takes responsibility, and still plays his heart out?”
Another voice: “But your father—”
“My father doesn’t speak for me,” she cut in. “I do.”
Click. Click. Click. The sound of cameras catching every sharp word like it was breaking news.
“I partnered with Eli because I believe in his game,” she finished. “I’m standing beside him now because I believe in his character.”
The room went still.
And in that moment, with Marina next to me and the whole damn world watching—
I didn’t feel ashamed.
I felt…seen.
When we finally stepped off that platform, the crowd buzzing behind us, I didn’t speak. I just looked at her.
The kind of look that says:
Thank you. You didn’t have to—but you did. You’re the only one who ever has.
And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a comeback story.
I felt like someone who still had a shot.