Marina
“Faster!”
My father’s voice cracked across the court like a whip.
I barely had time to recover my balance before the next ball machine shot came flying. I chased it down, sent a forehand down the line, and stumbled trying to reposition.
“Again!” he barked. “That footwork was trash.”
My legs ached. My shirt clung to my back. The sun burned on my shoulders. But he didn’t stop.
He never did.
“You think Shanghai’s going to wait for you to breathe?!” he yelled. “Move like you mean it!”
“I am moving!” I shouted, my voice sharp with frustration.
He walked onto the court, waving for the ball machine to pause. His expression was unreadable, which was worse than angry.
“You know what your problem is?” he said calmly. “You think you’re smarter than the system I built for you. One press conference with your little rebel speech, and suddenly you’re a hero.”
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and glared at him. “I was defending someone who didn’t deserve to be crucified.”
“You were embarrassing yourself,” he snapped. “And me. In front of the whole world.”
My fingers tightened around my racket.
“I gave Coach Lee a paid vacation for a reason,” he continued, voice low. “I need you focused. Controlled. Coach Lee is too soft. You don’t need soft.”
“You gave him a vacation so I’d be stuck with you,” I said.
He didn’t deny it.
“You’re welcome,” he added, turning away. “Now reset. One more drill set. And Marina?”
“What?”
“Ungrateful doesn’t look good on you.”
I didn’t answer. Because if I did, I’d scream.
***
The next day, the stadium buzzed with tension as I stepped onto the court for my solo match. Third round. High stakes. Eyes everywhere. I tightened the grip on my racket, rolled my shoulders back, and focused on the court ahead.
The first game was fine. Clean rallies. Sharp serves. But then something slipped. My backhand faltered. I rushed a drop shot.
Dad who was seated courtside in his black polo and signature stone-faced stare stood up.
“Footwork, Marina!” he shouted. “You’re playing like you just woke up!”
The crowd turned toward him. I tried to block him out. But the mistake looped in my head. Again and again.
“You call that a serve?! Where’s your focus?!”
My hands shook.
“It’s a shame watching you play like this,” he said, voice flat and cold. “I’m going to get some air. And when I come back, you’ll play like a professional. Or not at all.”
After that, he walked out on me.
My chest tightened. My vision blurred. The noise of the crowd faded into static. I tried to bounce the ball before my next serve, but my fingers felt numb. I couldn’t grip.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
The racket slipped from my hand. Panic. I couldn’t breathe. My heart raced so fast it felt like it would burst.
The stadium lights became too bright. The court stretched and shrank at the same time.
I backed away. Dropped to a crouch. Someone called my name. Vincent?
I didn’t care. I stood and ran. Off court. Through the tunnel. Backstage.
I collapsed on the bench near the locker room exit, still gasping for air. My hands were clammy. My throat felt like it was closing. My legs trembled uncontrollably.
“Breathe,” I whispered to myself. “Just breathe. Come on. Come on.”
My ears rang. My eyes burned. I hugged myself, rocking slightly. Then I heard footsteps. I braced for my father’s voice. But it wasn’t him.
“Marina.”
I looked up.
Eli.
He stood there, eyes searching my face, careful not to come too close.
“What are you—how did you—”
“I was watching your match,” he said, voice calm. “I saw what happened.”
I turned away, ashamed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Maybe not,” he said, sitting beside me anyway. “But I am.”
I didn’t have the strength to argue. I rested my head against the wall, still trying to get my breathing under control. He sat in silence, not touching, not pushing.
Just there. Then he spoke. Quietly. “You can be strong and scared.”
My eyes stung. I didn’t look at him. Because if I did, I might break in half.
“That was a panic attack, wasn’t it?” he asked gently.
I nodded. He didn’t respond right away.
Then he said, “You deserve better than someone yelling at you while you fall apart.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “He’s always been like this. Since I was ten. It’s how he trained me. How I got here.”
“Maybe that got you here,” he said, “but it’s not going to keep you here. Not like this.”
For the first time, I didn’t defend Vincent. I didn’t say he meant well. I didn’t say he was just trying to help. Because maybe Eli was right. Maybe winning didn’t have to hurt this much.
And maybe being strong didn’t mean staying silent.
I looked at Eli.
And for the first time in my life—I questioned everything my father had ever taught me.