Eli
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
I didn’t look up. My hands were gripping the bar above my head, thighs burning as I forced through another round of pull-ups. Sweat dripped down my back. My shirt was long gone. My pride? That disappeared years ago.
“I said—this room closes at ten, Mr. Santiago.”
The girl holding the clipboard looked about nineteen and nervous. I dropped from the bar with a wince and grabbed my towel.
“Yeah? Then maybe lock it next time.”
She didnt think it was funny.
“Wildcard players don’t have clearance for after-hours sessions.”
“Good thing I’m not here to follow the rules,” I said, limping slightly as I moved to the leg press. “Just ten more sets and I’ll disappear again.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
I already had. Repeatedly. But that wasn’t the point. No one knew I came here at night. No physio. No coach. Definitely no press. Every rep, every drop of sweat, every ache in my shoulder—I earned alone.
Rehab wasn’t glamorous. It was pain, repeated. Quiet. Desperate. They said I didn’t deserve a comeback. They forgot to ask why I needed one.
“You ruined your own career.”
That’s what Marina had said to me two days ago. Cold. Brutal. And yeah, I guess she wasn’t wrong. But she didn’t know the whole story.
Nobody did.
I didn’t throw the match. But I did take the money. Not to lose. Just to show up. Just to play.
I was nineteen, ranked #22 in the world, and flat broke. My mom had full control of my finances back then. Sponsors handed me checks. I handed them to her. I didn’t question it. I thought I was helping my family.
But my mom had a sickness—no scars, no bandages, just hunger in disguise. Gambling. The devil’s game. She wore it like perfume, sweet on the surface, toxic underneath. At first, it was little things. Then bigger ones. Then everything. Every cent I earned, every sponsorship check, every bonus… gone. Burned at the altar of roulette wheels and rigged promises.
By the time I found out, the money for Milo’s surgery was already ash.
My little brother had just been diagnosed. Lymphoma. He needed chemo. Specialists. Travel. I had nothing left to give.
So when a sleazy agent with a Rolex and too many rings said, “Just play your first-round match. Win or lose, doesn’t matter. Twenty grand,” I didn’t think. I just said yes.
I didn’t tank. I fought like hell and won in three sets. But it didn’t matter. They found the transfer. And that was enough.
Eli Santiago: Match-Fixer. Party Boy. Tennis’ Fallen Prodigy.
The press made it sound like I took a dive in the finals of the U.S. Open with a cigar in one hand and a betting slip in the other.
They never asked why.
I lost everything. The same people who once kissed my ass couldn’t even make eye contact. And yeah, maybe I punched an umpire too. But he called the ball out when it was a full inch in.
Anyway.
Now I was back. Wildcard. Broken shoulder. No team. No endorsements. Just a racket, bad reputation, and Milo FaceTiming me after chemo with a smile on his face and no hair on his head.
So yeah, I wasn’t done. Not yet.
The courts were quieter than I remembered , or maybe I just noticed it more now. The usual noise, the rhythm of training, the pressure in the air, it all felt distant.
That’s when I saw her.
Marina was alone by the benches, rewrapping her wrist. Her form was perfect, as usual. Everything about her was polished. Her visor sat low over her brow, hair pulled tight in a ponytail, not a single strand out of place. Like always.
I walked over slowly. “Still strangling your wrist like it owes you money?”
“What do you want, Santiago?” she said, yanking her grip tape tighter.
“I want to enter the charity exhibition next weekend.”
“Great. Have fun.”
“With you.”
She froze. Her eyes met mine. Sharp. Suspicious.
“You’re joking.”
“Dead serious.”
Her laugh was short, sarcastic. “Why would I ever agree to play doubles with the guy the tennis world tries to forget every six months?”
“Because we’d win. And more importantly? We’d get a wildcard into the main draw.”
She rolled her eyes. “You really think that’s enough reason for me to gamble my image on you?”
“It’s not a gamble,” I said, leaning in. “It’s a strategy. You’re a top-15 singles player with crap doubles PR. I’m the comeback story people either want to see succeed or watch crash and burn. Together, we trend. Easy.”
“You want me to use my name to carry yours,” she said flatly.
“No. I want us to use each other. You get PR points. I get visibility. We both get to compete.”
She stood. “Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—my father would murder me.”
“Then don’t tell him until we win,” I said, grinning.
She turned and walked away. Didn’t say no. Didn’t say yes either. But the way she didn’t look back told me she was already thinking about it.
Later that afternoon, I passed by the boardroom near the locker area. Through the cracked door, I heard one of the tournament officials talking to Marina’s manager.
“If she partners with Santiago, the media spin alone will blow up the viewership. Her numbers have plateaued—this could reset her image. Show she’s fearless.”
I grinned.
They were more afraid of losing relevance than they were of me. I could work with that.
***
The next day, she was standing by the event board. Arms crossed. Tense. Looking at the flyer like it had personally insulted her.
“You think I should do it?” she asked, eyes still fixed forward.
I leaned against the wall. “I think you already said yes in your head. You’re just waiting for someone to blame if it goes wrong.”
She sighed. Deep. Reluctant.
“Fine,” she said.
It was fine.
Until her dad showed up. Vincent Chen came around the corner like a storm wrapped in silk. Designer blazer. Stone-cold expression. He looked at Marina, then at me, like he was deciding who to kill first.
“What the hell is this?” he growled.
His voice was quiet , too quiet. The kind that made your pulse spike.
“I told you to stay away from him. Are you deaf or just stupid?”
I felt it in my gut. That shame. That old, heavy shame. I looked down. Swallowed.
“The match was for cancer research, sir,” I said, voice tight.
He didn’t even blink. “I wasn’t talking to you.” His gaze never left me.
Then he turned to Marina, ice in his veins. “And you… how dare you?” He stepped closer, towering. “After everything I’ve built for you, we don’t associate with trash. Not now. Not ever.”
Marina’s jaw tensed. Just for a second. But I saw it. That crack in the armor. “Dad—”
“You’re not playing with him. End of story. This will stain your name, your reputation, everything I’ve sacrificed. I said no. That means no. You will not ruin yourself for this.”