Marina
“Why the hell were you talking to Eli Santiago?”
My father’s voice came the second I stepped off the court. No warning, no hello—just sharp, loud, and aimed like a serve to the gut.
I stopped walking, sweat still clinging to my skin, racket hanging loose in my hand.
“We said a few words. That’s it.”
Vincent Chen’s jaw clenched. He was in full coach mode—track pants, clipboard under one arm, tension built into every line of his body. “You are not to speak to him. Not even one word. Do you understand me?”
“It was nothing,” I snapped. “He sat next to my water bottle. I told him to move. That’s all.”
“I don’t care if he sat on your face,” my father hissed. “You do not interact with that man.”
I recoiled slightly, blinking hard. “Jesus, Dad—”
“I mean it, Marina.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice but not the heat. “He is toxic. He is everything we’ve worked to avoid. Sponsors see you with him, even in passing, and they’ll question your image. They’ll question mine.”
I laughed bitterly. “Your image. Of course.”
He didn’t flinch. “He is a walking scandal. You are a global brand. You will not throw away your future by being seen around him.”
“It was two sentences.”
“Too many.”
I didn’t answer. I just turned away and stormed into the locker room.
And there, like the universe had a sense of humor, came Chloe Davis, ranked #48 and forever too loud.
She was applying lip gloss in the mirror, like the next match was a date. “Oh my God,” she said, eyes lighting up. “Did you see Eli Santiago today?”
I stopped in my tracks, yanking open my locker door.
“He may be a walking scandal,” she continued, “but I swear—he looked like a damn sin in sneakers. I don’t care if he bet on tennis or bet on horses. I’d still climb him like a ladder.”
I gagged so hard I nearly choked on my own spit. “You need therapy.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, giggling. “You’ve never had a thing for him?”
I froze.
Because I had. At twelve.
Back when I was still a shy kid in too-big tennis shoes, and he was already the golden boy of the junior circuit—sixteen, sharp, charming, stupidly fast on the court. He had swagger even then, and that smile that made people believe he could do anything.
I used to sneak looks at him during practice. I remember once, I stayed late hitting serves just to impress him, hoping he’d notice. He didn’t. A month later, he vanished from the circuit. Rose so fast, he didn’t see the fall coming.
I shoved the memory away and slammed my locker shut.
Chloe jumped. “Whoa, mood.”
“I have to go,” I muttered. I didn’t even change. I just threw on a hoodie over my training top and shoved my things into my bag.
But when I stepped outside, my father was there, waiting for me again. He was leaning against the wall like he owned the hallway.
“I’m going to the foundation,” I said before he could speak. “They’re doing a new workshop for the kids. I promised I’d show up.”
“No,” he said sharply. “Change of plans. We’re meeting Dominic and his father at the country club. They’re golfing at four.”
I blinked. “Golfing?”
“Yes. You remember how important Mr. Rivera is to the tour. You and Dominic should be seen supporting each other. The press loves the idea of you two.”
“I’m not going to a photo-op, Dad. I’m going to my foundation.”
He folded his arms. “That charity project? You mean the one about panic attacks and mental weakness?”
“It’s called mental health.”
“It’s called weakness,” he snapped. “Do you really want to associate your name with fragile people whining about pressure? What kind of message is that?”
“The right one,” I growled. “They’re not whining. They’re surviving.”
“You’re a machine, Marina,” he said. “You don’t need oils and breathing techniques. You need focus.”
I stepped forward, eyes blazing. “Maybe I am a machine. One you built. But I remember when I wasn’t. When you used to bring me bubble tea after matches, and clap even when I lost. That dad? I could breathe around him.”
He didn’t say a word. I turned and walked away. I made it to the side hallway before I felt it. The tightness in my throat. The pressure in my chest. My vision tunneling. My fingers trembling like they couldn’t hold on anymore.
No. Not again. Not now.
I dropped my bag and fumbled through it with shaking hands until I found it—the tiny dark bottle with the chipped label. Lavender oil.
I uncapped it fast, dabbed it on my wrists, under my nose, my neck. I inhaled. Once. Twice. Again.
“Breathe,” I whispered to myself. “One-two-three. Out. One-two-three.”
The hallway spun. The weight of the day pressed down like a mountain on my chest.
My dad’s voice still echoed in my skull.
“You do not get to ruin what we’ve built.”
I curled up on the bench and closed my eyes, clutching the oil bottle like it could anchor me to the floor.
I wasn’t twelve anymore. I wasn’t a little girl with posters on her wall. But I also wasn’t okay.
And I hated that no one seemed to care.