Eli
“Move your feet, old man!” Marina shouted across the net, smirking as she slammed another serve my way.
I barely returned it in time. “I’m not old. I’m seasoned.”
“You’re seasoned like expired soy sauce.”
“That’s… culturally insensitive,” I wheezed, clutching my side as I jogged to the net.
She tossed me a towel and rolled her eyes. “Maybe if you’d stop trying to return my serves with that fragile ego, you wouldn’t be sweating like a boiled shrimp.”
“You know, for someone who claims to love me, you talk a lot of trash.”
She leaned over the net, grinning. “Keeps you sharp.”
We’d been training for our next mixed doubles match for the last three days. The Berlin match had electrified the media—now, the spotlight was blinding. Every reporter wanted to know if we’d survive as a team. As a couple. As proof that redemption and romance could work on court.
Truth was, I didn’t care about proving anything. I just wanted to keep playing with her. Keep showing up.
“Alright,” I said, bouncing the next ball. “Let’s go one more set.”
“Fine,” she said, stretching her arm. “But no more stunt shots.”
“Me? Never.”
Two volleys in and we were moving fast—quick footwork, precise shots. Marina hit a short lob, and I sprinted to the net to smash it.
That’s when it happened.
I twisted too hard—my right shoulder yanked in a direction it wasn’t meant to go.
A hot, sharp pain sliced through my arm.
“Shit—” I gasped, staggering sideways.
“Eli?” Marina dropped her racket and ran to me. “Hey—hey, what happened?”
I clutched my shoulder, trying to breathe through the pain. “It’s fine. Just pulled something.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said, panic rising in her voice. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“It’s just a pinch—probably a nerve—”
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Eli. Sit down.”
I sat. Because something in her voice—something scared—made me do it.
She knelt beside me, carefully touching my arm. “Don’t move. I’m calling the medic.”
“Marina, we don’t have time for—”
“You can’t even lift your arm. Don’t tell me we don’t have time.”
The medic came. Then the team doctor. Then X-rays at the clinic a block from the courts.
“Nothing’s torn,” the doctor said, frowning at the scans. “But your shoulder’s inflamed. If you play, you could tear it for real.”
“How long do I have to rest?”
“Two weeks, minimum.”
I stared at him. “Our match is in two days.”
“Then you shouldn’t play.”
“But I can play?”
He sighed. “Technically? Yes. Smart? Not at all. It’s pain management, but the risk is high.”
Marina crossed her arms. “He’s not playing.”
I turned to her. “Marina—”
“No. I mean it. You’re not risking your shoulder for one match.”
“It’s not just one match.”
“Yes, it is!” Her eyes were wide, voice cracking. “One match against your entire future? No.”
“We’ve worked for this,” I said. “We trained. We fought back. We made it this far. I’m not quitting now.”
“You’re not quitting. You’re healing. There’s a difference.”
I stood slowly, holding my shoulder. “We started this together.”
“And we can finish it—just not now.”
“We have one match, Marina,” I said, my voice low. “One chance to show them we’re more than the scandal. More than the headlines. We’re real. And I’m not letting this injury steal that.”
She looked away, lips trembling. “You can barely hold a racket.”
I walked over to her. “I’ll find a way. You’re not playing that match alone.”
Her eyes welled. “What if you get worse? What if I’m the reason your career ends all over again?”
I reached for her good hand. “You’re not the reason I fall. You’re the reason I stand back up.”
She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You’re impossible.”
I smiled through the pain. “And you love me anyway.”
She let out a shaky breath.
“You sure?” she whispered. “You really want to do this?”
I leaned in, kissed her forehead.
“We finish what we started.”