Marina
I kissed him. Again.
Oh my God, I kissed Eli Santiago. Again.
What was wrong with me?
One second I was high on adrenaline, flushed from the match, and the next—I was grabbing his collar and launching my dignity off a cliff.
And the worst part? He didn’t even mention it.
Not on the ride back to the hotel. Not during the flight home. Not when he handed me my suitcase like a gentleman who had not just been ambushed by my lips.
He didn’t gloat. Didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk like I expected. And that… told me everything. Eli Santiago wasn’t going to make it a thing. He was going to let me pretend it never happened.
And maybe that’s why I’d kissed him in the first place—because for the first time in forever, I felt free. Free from expectation. From judgment. From every cruel voice in my head telling me I was never enough unless I won.
That match in Shanghai—we barely won.
But I loved every second of it. Not because we were playing for points. But because I was finally playing for me. And maybe, just maybe, for him too.
I couldn’t stop replaying it. The way he looked at me when the crowd stood. Like I wasn’t just his partner on court—but something else. Something more.
Diabolical, Marina.
Completely reckless. And yet… how long could I keep pretending I didn’t feel something?
When we landed back in Madrid, he helped me load my bags into the car like nothing had happened.
“Well,” he said, stretching. “Same time tomorrow? Practice court seven?”
I nodded, keeping my eyes on my shoes. “Yeah. Thanks for—everything.”
He smiled. “You’ll thank me properly when we beat the top seeds in Tokyo.”
I rolled my eyes. “Dream big.”
He gave me a small wave and walked off. And I didn’t stop him. Because if I did, I might kiss him again.
The moment I stepped onto the patio of my father’s house, I knew something was off.
Vincent Chen was seated in one of the wrought-iron chairs, a glass of untouched tea on the table. And next to him—Dominic.
My stomach sank. Vincent didn’t even say hello.
“You barely won, so basically you lost,” he said.
“I competed,” I answered tightly.
He stood, voice icy. “You were paraded in front of an international audience and still failed.”
Dominic scoffed. “With Eli Santiago no less. Great choice, by the way.”
I crossed my arms. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on you,” Dominic said, standing too. “But clearly, you’ve moved on.”
My eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on, Marina,” he snapped. “You and Eli? You think people can’t see it? The flirting, the press photos, the way you looked at him?”
My father’s jaw tightened. “She won’t be with that dirt boy. Not while I’m still breathing.”
“Enough!” I exploded. “Both of you.”
Dominic looked stunned.
“You have no say in my life,” I said to him. “You never did.”
And then I turned to my father.
“And you? I’m done with your obsession with control.”
“You’re not walking away from this family,” he said, voice low, dangerous.
The next day, Vincent revoked all my practice privileges at the club. “Until you cut off contact with Santiago,” he said. “You’re not welcome.”
“Then I’ll train somewhere else.”
He didn’t blink. “Try it. I’ll pull every sponsor tied to your name.”
***
The pressure built. And then came the press event—set up to talk about our time in Shanghai. I sat under the hot lights, makeup melting, throat dry.
The moderator smiled. “Marina, tell us—what was it like playing with Eli Santiago?”
I hesitated. And just like that, the tears started. I blinked hard. Looked down. Covered my face with my hands. I couldn’t do it.
They were all watching. Judging. Waiting for me to fall apart again. And then I heard his voice.
“She doesn’t owe anyone an answer.”
Eli stepped up to the mic.
“She’s not some polished doll you poke with questions and expect perfect answers from. She’s a human being. A damn good one.”
Cameras clicked. The room went silent.
“She’s carried this sport since she was a teenager,” Eli continued. “And maybe you should be asking what it costs to do that.”
I looked up, stunned. He wasn’t angry. He was furious. But not at me.
For me.