POV Eli
“Name?”
The girl at the front desk blinked twice, like maybe I was a hallucination. People do that sometimes. They see my face, squint, trying to match it to a scandal they half-remember from a headline they only skimmed.
“Eli Santiago,” I said, steady. No smile. Smiles make people nervous when they can’t tell if you’re here to play or burn the place down.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. “Wildcard entry?”
I nodded. “Yes, darling. I’ll try not to set anything on fire.”
She didn’t laugh. Figures.
“Restricted access,” she recited. “Courts six and seven only. No locker room privileges. No guest passes.”
She handed me the badge like it might infect her.
“Welcome back,” she added, bland and hollow, like reading from a cue card she didn’t believe in.
“Glad to be missed,” I muttered, looping the lanyard around my neck and walking inside.
***
The Madrid training facility hadn’t changed. Still the same gleaming glass doors. Same polished floors that echoed footsteps like accusations. Same tang of lemon cleaner barely covering the musk of old sweat and ambition.
But I had changed.
Five years ago, I was the prodigy. The golden boy. The kid with curls and a cannon of a forehand. Media said I was going to be the next Rafa.
Now?
Now they looked at me like a stray mutt someone forgot to put down.
“Is that him?”
“No way. They let him back in?”
“Thought he got banned for life…”
I kept walking. Past the whispers. Past the banners still clinging to the walls like faded memories—one of them with my name, sun-bleached and curling at the edges, like even the building was trying to forget me.
No locker. No welcome. I changed in the physio closet—just a folding chair, a hook, and the quiet judgment of a cracked mirror. My gear was a museum of former glory: scuffed shoes, ripped duffel, one racquet with a grip I’d rewrapped myself at 2 a.m.
I caught my reflection. Still six-two. Still built like a fighter—lean, strong, angular. The curls shoved under a backwards cap. Tattoos snaking down my arm like barbed vines. But my eyes?
They looked older than twenty-nine. Like they’d seen things no tennis camera ever caught.
And maybe they had.
***
I stepped onto the far practice court. Court Seven. The outlands. The place where they sent players when they weren’t sure if they were rising stars or crashing meteors.
Clay crunched under my sneakers. My shoulder twinged—ghost pain, a warning hum. I bounced the ball, easy rhythm. Muscle memory took over. The first serve wasn’t my fastest. Just clean. Just mine.
That’s when I saw her.
Marina Chen.
Across the complex, center court. Spotlight court. Her kingdom now.
Hair braided tight. Black skirt sharp and swinging with precision. Her serve cracked the air—clean, ruthless, like a gunshot in a cathedral. Every movement was surgical. Controlled. Unbothered.
I remembered her at twelve. Fragile, anxious, scared of her own toss. She used to double-fault and cry behind the bleachers. I was sixteen then—already winning matches, already in glossy interviews. She followed me around like a shadow. Watched. Never spoke.
Now?
Now she was the sun. And I was the ghost.
She hadn’t seen me. Or maybe she had—and chose not to care.
“Wow.”
A voice beside me. Young. Eager. Probably a next-gen hopeful.
“Didn’t think they’d let you back in.”
I didn’t look away from Marina. “They let me in through the back door,” I said. “You can thank PR desperation and a pity wildcard.”
He snorted. “You’re not worried someone’ll throw a bet on you again?”
I turned. Looked him straight in the eye. Two seconds. Three. He flinched first.
That’s all it took.
The scandal.
I didn’t throw a match. But I didn’t say no when someone offered money. I was twenty-one. Broke. Milo was in the hospital. Surgery bills were overdue. A rich guy said: Play the match. Win or lose. Just show up. So I did.
I didn’t tank. I didn’t cheat. I just played.
But the money trail said otherwise. And the tour doesn’t care about nuance. They banned me. Sponsors vanished. Friends ghosted.
And my brother? Still had cancer. Still needed me the next morning.
Buzz.
My phone lit up in my bag.
Milo – 1 New Message
How’s Madrid? Did your shoulder hold up? Want to FaceTime later if you’re not busy?
I swallowed hard. Milo was fifteen now. Taller. Braver than me. Still fighting. Still joking. Still the only person who didn’t look at me like I was toxic.
Not busy, I typed back. Call you after practice. Try not to roast me this time.
No promises, he replied, with a clown emoji.
I smiled. First time all day.
Then I looked up, and there she was, walking toward me. Marina Chen.
My heart didn’t race. It just… stopped.
She didn’t say anything at first. She just watched me hit one more serve. Then:
“Oh,” she said, voice like cut glass. “It’s you.”
I wiped my forehead with my sleeve. “Nice to see you too, Chen.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know they were handing out wildcards like charity checks.”
“Still sharp,” I muttered. “Still got that backhand?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Still got that gambling problem?”
I smiled, even though it burned. “Only thing I’m betting on now is myself.”