Marina
I didn’t speak to my father after that. The day passed without a word between us. By morning, the tension hadn’t eased, but the routine had returned.
“I’ll be doing light solo drills with Coach Lee tomorrow morning,” I told him, keeping my tone smooth. Calm. Unbothered.
Coach Lee was my backup coach. Whenever my Dad was buried in sponsorship meetings or networking with men in blazers who smelled like cigars and arrogance, Lee stepped in.
My Dad didn’t even glance up from his tablet. “Lee has you on footwork this week. No volleys.”
“I know. I just want to clean up my cross-court pattern. Won’t be long.”
He nodded once, then paused. “You’ll send me the footage.”
“Of course.”
I smiled, turned, and walked out of the suite with perfect posture, steady breath, and a lie smoldering on my tongue.
Marina Chen had never lied to her father. Well, once. In middle school. I bombed a geometry quiz and forged his signature with a glitter pen I borrowed from the girl next to me. When he found out, he chased me around the kitchen in foam crocs yelling, “You think I can’t catch you? I TRAINED you!”
He caught me. I never lied again.
Until now.
“You’re late,” Eli said the second I stepped onto the dim side court.
He was shirtless, of course. Because his ego required it. Leaning against the net post like the devil’s favorite cover model, tattoos glinting under the stadium lights, cap backward, smirk locked and loaded.
“I’m five minutes early.”
“You’re ten minutes past the time I said.”
“You’re not my coach.”
“Not yet,” he said, tossing me a ball.
I caught it midair, deadpan. “Try that line on someone who hasn’t read every scandal article about you.”
“Maybe I like playing to my strengths,” he said, jogging to the baseline. “Let’s see if you’ve got more than just tight ponytails and press-ready interviews.”
The first ten minutes were war.
He missed signals. I returned too fast. One of my backhands nearly nailed him in the ribs.
“Do you even know what formation we’re running?” I snapped, panting.
“I was improvising.”
“This isn’t jazz, Eli. It’s tennis. Stay in your lane.”
He grinned, unbothered. “You’re a joy, Chen.”
I stomped up to the net. “Do you want a partner or not?”
“Yes,” he said without flinching.
I blinked, off-balance. “Then behave.”
“Define behave.”
“Don’t ignore cues. No surprise tweeners. And stop smirking like this is your personal redemption arc.”
“No promises.”
“Then I’ll aim for your shoulder next time.”
He smirked wider. “There’s the fire.”
We went again.
Longer rallies. Cleaner transitions. We were actually starting to sync and, honestly? That was terrifying.
His lobs got weirdly soft, my volleys started snapping like I meant it, and my chest? Yeah, not tight from cardio, tight from the fact that he was way too close, way too focused, and, unfortunately, way too hot for someone who ruined his entire life in public.
Like, why is sweaty, tired, serious Eli kind of giving??
I’m supposed to hate him. He’s literally the scandal king. And yet my brain is like: maybe enemies can hold hands.
“That was out,” I barked as a ball sailed an inch wide.
“Margin for error,” he called back. “Adds drama.”
“This isn’t roulette, Santiago.”
“Maybe not,” he said, bouncing the next ball. “But sometimes, high risk pays off.”
I rolled my eyes. “Right. Because that worked so well for you.”
He served. Fast. Clean. I returned with more aggression than necessary.
He laughed. “You’re only this intense because you like me.”
“You’re delusional.”
“You agreed to play with me.”
“For charity. And PR. And because my agent said it would look good in headlines.”
“But you’re still going against your father,” he said, tossing the ball in the air. “That’s not PR. That’s personal.”
I hesitated. He saw it. Of course he did.
“You think I don’t know what it’s like, living under someone’s shadow?” he asked.
“Don’t pretend we’re the same.”
“We’re not,” he said. “You have a clean image. I have a burned one. But I know what pressure feels like. I know what it costs.”
“You gambled on your own match.”
That shut him up. For a second. He stepped closer. “You act like you don’t care, but you do. You came here. You’re risking headlines, your dad’s approval, your perfect little image—”
“I’m not risking anything,” I snapped. “I’m managing optics. I’m controlling a situation.”
“Right. Keep telling yourself that.”
I hit the next ball so hard it left a red welt on his forearm.
“Ow,” he muttered, rubbing it. “Still hit like a machine.”
“And you still talk like a tabloid.”
But he didn’t back down. And I didn’t walk away.
We trained for another hour. Wordless rhythm. Shadows stretching long across the court. By the end, we were both on the clay, lungs heaving, tension clinging to us like sweat.
I sat back, stretching my legs. Eli flopped beside me, arms braced behind him, head tilted toward the stars.
“It’s exhausting, isn’t it?” he said quietly.
I didn’t respond. He didn’t look at me. Just spoke, voice steady.
“Pretending to be fine when you’re not. Holding it together. Smiling on cue. Talking like a brand, not a person.”
My muscles froze mid-stretch. He didn’t know about my sickness, did he?