Marina
The photo we posted wasn’t even dramatic.
Just Eli and me, sitting on the rooftop of my foundation at sunset. The sky was streaked with orange and pink, soft light wrapping around us. He had his arm casually slung over my shoulders, and I was leaning into him, smiling at something off-camera. No kiss. No grand declaration. Just a quiet moment captured between us.
But the caption said everything.
@marinachenofficial: Not a scandal. Not a secret. Just something real.
@elisantiago.tennis liked it within seconds.
The internet exploded in under an hour.
Half the comments were hearts, crying emojis, and cheers. People called us “power couple goals,” posting long threads about how we both deserved happiness, how love should never be hidden or shamed. Supporters flooded my mentions, telling me to hold my head high and be proud.
The other half? Not so kind.
“So unprofessional.”
“She’s ruining her career for a man who almost got banned.”
“This explains the breakdowns. She’s clearly not focused.”
“He’s manipulating her. Just like her dad said.”
I should’ve been used to it by now — the world dissecting every move I made, turning my private life into public spectacle. But this time felt different. Heavier. Like punishment for daring to choose something that made me happy.
Eli read some of the comments, his jaw tightening before he tossed his phone into a drawer.
“Why are people so miserable?” he muttered.
I shrugged. “Because we’re not.”
He looked at me, eyes dark and serious. “Are you sure you’re okay going public? We don’t have to do this. We can take the post down. Say it was hacked.”
I laughed, even though my chest felt tight. “You want to fake a cyberattack?”
“Kind of,” he said, stepping closer, wrapping his arms around my waist. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“I’ve dealt with worse,” I said quietly, resting my head against his chest. “And I’m tired of hiding. You told me not to do that anymore, remember?”
His forehead pressed against mine. “Then we face it. Together.”
***
Two days later, we had our first tournament since going public.
Tokyo was magic. The crowd cheered, the air buzzed with possibility. But Berlin — Berlin was fire. Not the good kind.
The moment Eli stepped onto the court for warm-up, whispers rippled through the stands. By the time he took his seat courtside as I walked on for my match, a few boos echoed through the stadium.
At first, I thought I imagined it. But then it grew louder. A ripple of disapproval sweeping through the crowd like a cold wind.
Someone shouted, “Go coach your girlfriend from the locker room!”
Another yelled, “You’re just here for the clout, Santiago!”
My grip tightened around my racket. I glanced at Eli. He didn’t react. Just sat there, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on me like he always did — like the noise didn’t matter.
But I knew it did. Because I knew him. And I knew how much this hurt.
The match started. I played like my life depended on it. Every swing was sharper. Every serve hit harder, fueled by something fierce and stubborn inside me.
The more they booed, the more I focused. My body moved on instinct, every shot precise, every point hard-fought. I could feel their judgment like heat on my skin, but I refused to let it break me.
When I finally won match point, I didn’t jump or scream. I just walked to the edge of the court, turned to the crowd—and blew a kiss.
A slow, deliberate one.
They quieted instantly. The stadium held its breath.
Then I raised my mic for the post-match interview.
“Anything to say about today’s win?” the reporter asked, half-smiling.
I looked out over the crowd, feeling every eye on me. I didn’t hesitate.
“That kiss?” I said, loud and clear. “Was for the man who helped me breathe again.”