Marina
Coming back from Tokyo with a win felt like breathing in fresh air after being underwater for too long. We weren’t the champions of the tournament—but we won our first big match as a team. As a real team. It felt different this time. Lighter. Like we were starting something that belonged to us—not my father, not the media.
Eli was grinning like a kid the whole flight home. “We need to celebrate,” he said, nudging me with his shoulder mid-air. “I’m talking snacks, music, possibly karaoke.”
“No karaoke,” I groaned, turning to the window.
“Yes karaoke. And chairs. Spinning ones. And cake.”
I looked at him. “Are you five?”
He smiled. “Only on weekends.”
We decided to throw a mini party at my foundation. Just for the kids. No press, no agents, no sponsors. Just us.
I walked in with two bags of snacks. Eli came in behind me with juice boxes tucked under one arm and a Bluetooth speaker already blasting early 2000s pop.
“Who’s ready to get schooled in musical chairs?” Eli announced.
“ME!” half the kids screamed, running toward him.
“No, no, no,” I called. “You don’t want him on your team. He cheats.”
“I do not cheat,” Eli said, hands raised in mock innocence. “I just win.”
“By sitting before the music even stops.”
“It’s called strategy, Coach.”
I smirked. “We’ll see about that.”
We cleared space in the middle of the court, lined up a half-circle of plastic chairs, and Eli set the speaker on top of a crate.
The music started. The kids danced in jagged little circles, giggling and bumping into each other.
Eli and I joined in for round two. He kept making ridiculous faces at me during the game. When the music stopped, I saw him sprint for a chair like his life depended on it.
I beat him by half a second. He flopped on the floor like he’d been tackled. “I’ve been robbed!”
The kids exploded into laughter. One little girl shouted, “Coach Eli, you’re too slow!”
“Traitors, all of you,” he groaned, but he was laughing too.
I couldn’t stop smiling. Not just because it was fun—but because this felt real. It wasn’t a tournament. It wasn’t about titles or headlines.
It was just us. Then my phone buzzed.
At first, I thought it was just another notification.
Then I saw the text from Mira.
“You need to see what Leah Sterling just posted.”
I froze. Leah was one of my rivals from another team. She was just like me, a rising star. I clicked the link. It was a clip.
A shaky video of me, hunched over on the court during my panic attack weeks ago. My breathing. My collapse. My pain.
And Leah’s voice over it in the background—smug and venom-laced.
“This is what happens when you get too soft. Maybe that’s why she’s losing deals and her daddy dropped her—because she’s falling apart. Can’t even handle a match without crying. Yikes.”
Beneath it were thousands of comments. Some sympathetic. Most weren’t.
“Not mental health—mental weakness.”
“No wonder she needs a man to save her.”
“Leah’s just saying what we’re all thinking.”
My hands trembled around the phone. Eli saw my face and stopped mid-laugh. “Marina?”
I turned the screen toward him. His smile vanished.
“Who the hell filmed that?” he asked, voice low, sharp.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I didn’t even know it was filmed.”
“Sterling’s a piece of—”
I shook my head, the laughter from moments ago still ringing in my ears like a cruel echo. “Why would she do this?”
“She’s threatened. That’s why. You’re back. You’re stronger. They just don’t like how you’re doing it—on your own terms.”
I blinked fast, trying not to cry in front of the kids.
“Come on,” Eli said gently. “Let’s get out of here.”
As we walked to the car, the air cooler now under the city lights, I heard it.
“Marina! Eli!”
Flashes. A paparazzi, flanked by a local reporter.
“Any comment on Leah Sterling’s video? Are you stepping back from tennis again, Marina? Are the rumors about you cracking under pressure true?”
Before I could answer, Eli stepped between us.
“You think someone having a panic attack is a scandal?” he snapped. “It’s a symptom. Of pressure. Of pain. Of being human. And if this is what the tennis world calls weakness—then maybe the tennis world needs a reality check.”
More flashes. More cameras. But I stepped forward. Because I was done hiding. I looked straight into the camera.
“If being soft means I can breathe,” I said calmly, “and still win—then I’ll wear that like a crown.”