Eli
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
That was how the call started.
“No ‘hey, Eli,’ no ‘good morning’?” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “Love the warm energy, Marcus.”
“You’re all over the internet with her,” my agent snapped. “Her hand in yours, your shoulder, her head—Jesus, do you two have no sense of optics?”
I sat up in bed, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear. “We were sitting near a fountain. We weren’t naked.”
“That’s not the point!”
My screen lit up again—another message from PR. Another headline notification.
“WTA Golden Girl and Tennis’ Former Bad Boy—Is It Love or PR Suicide?”
Marcus kept ranting. “Sponsors are calling, Eli. Calling. Do you want to lose your last gear sponsor over a damn shoulder lean?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I snapped. “Neither did she.”
“You think Vincent Chen gives a crap about that?” he barked. “You think Marina’s father—the man who basically funds half the academy pipeline—is going to let this slide?”
I gritted my teeth. “He can’t do anything. He doesn’t control me.”
“Well, he might start throwing around legal words if this doesn’t go quiet, fast. His people are already implying it’s a breach of her image contracts. That this is ‘intentional image damage’—whatever the hell that means.”
“What is he gonna sue me for, Marcus? Emotional support in public?”
“Don’t joke, Eli. This could ruin both your reputations. You’re finally rebuilding yours—don’t throw it away over this.”
I hung up. I couldn’t do this right now.
I went to the court afterwards like I always did. I stretched. Warmed up. Hit a few solo serves. She didn’t show. I waited twenty minutes. Then thirty. Then an hour.
Still nothing.
Finally, Mira, Marina’s manager, showed up on the far side of the fence. She looked like she hadn’t slept.
“She’s not coming,” she said.
I walked over. “Why?”
“Her father banned her from using the court. Her keycard was deactivated this morning.”
“What the hell?”
“She’s locked out of every facility he manages. Sponsors are asking questions. Media is circling. She’s under so much pressure she can barely breathe.”
I stared at her, pulse pounding. “Is she okay?”
“She will be. Just… don’t push. Not right now.”
I nodded once. But inside? I was spiraling. I went home. Paced. Stared at the bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge. The one I kept for ‘guests.’
Poured a shot. Stared at it. And then dumped it in the sink. I couldn’t go back to that version of myself. The one who self-destructed the moment things went sideways. Instead, I grabbed my keys and drove to the only place I could think of.
Marina’s foundation was quieter in the afternoon. Most of the kids were doing homework or already home. I found the coordinator, Amira, sitting on the court bench.
“You volunteering?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
I shrugged. “If you’ll let me.”
“You famous again or infamous this week?”
“Bit of both.”
She tossed me a spare whistle. “We’ve got a few kids that could use a good rally partner.”
I spent the next few hours hitting balls with shy kids in oversized shoes. Fixing footwork. Making them laugh. Letting them mess up without punishment.
One girl—Nina—barely spoke. But by the end of the hour, she asked me to show her my slice shot “again, but in slow motion.”
I felt lighter. Sweatier. Grounded. Like I wasn’t just waiting for a text that wouldn’t come.
The sun started to set. I stayed to sweep the court. I wasn’t sure why I lingered. No—I did.
I knew this place was her sanctuary. Her escape. She never said it out loud, but it was obvious in the way she looked at the kids, at the court, at the damn mismatched benches she personally painted.
So I waited. And I was right. Just after 8 p.m., I heard the gates creak open. She walked in slowly. Hoodie up. Hair pulled back. Face bare.
Our eyes met. I stood up, heart in my throat. She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked closer.
And then she smiled. “You’re here.”
I nodded. “Thought you might be too.”
She looked around. “I needed a place that didn’t ask me for anything.”
I gave her a soft look. “You got it.”
We stood in the middle of the court. Quiet. Real. Then she sighed. “Let’s resume training.”
I blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
She nodded, her voice low but steady. “Fuck what everyone says. I want to play again. With you. Tokyo is waiting for us.”