Eli
“Split step! Marina, I said split—not stumble!”
“I didn’t stumble,” she snapped, chasing down the next ball. “I pivoted with attitude.”
“Oh, that’s what we’re calling it now?” I grinned, tossing another ball. “Because from here it looked like your ankles were giving up on life.”
She rolled her eyes and whacked the ball back so hard I barely got my racket up in time.
“Jesus, take it easy!” I called. “This is practice, not war!”
“You asked for intensity.”
“I asked for rhythm. You’re giving me Roland Garros final energy.”
“Well, maybe don’t talk so much,” she said, her ponytail swaying as she turned to grab another ball. “Then I wouldn’t feel the urge to aim for your head.”
We were halfway through footwork and reaction drills, alternating between rallying and sprint drills that had both of us gasping for air. Marina had this fire in her today—sharp, fast, focused—and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t light something in me too.
I tossed another ball. She returned it. We moved like we were synced—step for step, shot for shot.
“You’re getting too good at this,” I muttered as she landed a low volley with surgical precision.
“I was always good,” she tossed back. “You’re just finally noticing.”
I walked toward the net, holding my racket loosely. “Oh, is that how it is?”
She met me there, breathless, sweat beading along her forehead. We were inches apart. Just enough space for the air to spark between us.
“You sure you’re not just intimidated?” she asked, her voice softer now, teasing.
“Terrified,” I said quietly.
Our eyes locked. Her lips parted, just barely. I couldn’t remember what we were doing anymore—what the next drill was, what time it was, who we were pretending to be.
And then, without even thinking, we moved.
Our noses brushed. My hand hovered at her hip. Her fingers curled around the edge of my sleeve.
And we kissed. Not like the last time—rushed and confused.
This time was slower. Real. Her mouth was warm, sure. Her breath caught as I pulled her closer.
But then—
“Oh my GOD, my eyes!”
We jumped apart like teenagers caught by a teacher.
I spun around. And there he was.
Marcus.
My manager.
Standing near the back gate of the court with his hands dramatically slapped over his face.
“Can you two not make out on a training court? Holy moly, I’m gonna need bleach for my brain.”
Marina flushed deep red and stepped back, brushing her hair behind her ear. “We—uh—were just—”
“We were not asking for commentary,” I said, glaring. “What are you doing here?”
Marcus dropped his hands and pointed at his phone. “Vincent Chen is holding a press conference.”
My stomach dropped.
“What kind of press conference?” I asked slowly.
Marcus glanced at Marina. “The kind with cameras. And microphones. And your name involved.”
Marina’s expression went blank, and her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“He said he’s addressing your ‘unauthorized coaching arrangement’ with his daughter,” Marcus added. “And that there are ‘undisclosed agreements’ being violated.”
I clenched my jaw. “Unbelievable.”
“He’s trying to control the narrative,” Marina muttered, voice cold now. “He wants the world to think I’m some out-of-control puppet who wandered off.”
Marcus looked between us. “Do you want me to shut this down?”
“No,” Marina said before I could answer. “Let him speak.”
I glanced at her, surprised. She was standing tall. Eyes steady. Her lip was twitching, but not from nerves—from resolve.
“He wants attention?” she said. “Let him have it. Because once we step out there and own this—there’s no story left for him to twist.”
I reached over, touched her hand briefly. She didn’t pull away.
“We go together,” I said.
She looked at me, smiled faintly. “Always.”