Eli
I’d already seen her a hundred times these past few weeks, at practice, press conferences, across gym floors and trainers’ tables. And still, every time, it was like some part of me hadn’t gotten the memo: she’s not for you.
Marina Chen was the blueprint. Perfection in a ponytail. Daughter of a legend. Father-funded. Media-approved. Every coach I never got handed to her on a silver racquet. I was supposed to dislike her. Hell, I did dislike her, or at least, I wanted to. She got the dream; I got the fine print.
And yet… here we were.
Doubles partners.
I looked at her as we stepped onto the court—sharp lines, cold eyes, jaw set like stone—and felt that same goddamn glitch in my chest. Not because I didn’t know her by now. But because I did.
I knew the way her hands shook just a little when she served under pressure. I knew how her mouth twitched right before she trashed me with words she absolutely meant. I knew that under all that control and discipline, there was a girl who burned to be something more than a product of Vincent Chen’s playbook.
And God help me, I liked it. I liked her.
Even if I wasn’t supposed to.
Even if the part of me that still slept in cheap hotel rooms and iced my own injuries screamed that I should never have looked at her twice.
Back when she was twelve and quiet and terrifyingly good, I knew she’d be great. I also knew she’d never see someone like me.
And maybe she still didn’t. But I couldn’t look away.
“Try not to choke, Santiago,” she muttered beside me, just loud enough to hear over the crowd.
I smirked. “Try not to bore the crowd to death with your textbook cross-courts.”
She rolled her eyes so hard I could feel the judgment radiating off her skin.
But we walked out together. Like a team. And the crowd didn’t know what to make of it.
Tennis royalty and fallen star.
Ice and fire.
A headline waiting to explode. And then the match began.
I barely registered the umpire’s call over the static in my skull. The noise. The judgment. The years of headlines and whispers clawing at the back of my brain.
But the moment that first serve came at me, all of it went quiet.
I blasted it back. Marina cut off the return with the cleanest drop shot I’d seen since tour finals three years ago.
Point, us.
We didn’t celebrate. We didn’t even smile. But something in the air cracked open between us.
She was steady. Surgical. Unshakable.
I was wild. Fast. Improvised. We should’ve clashed. We didn’t.
Every time I shifted left, she filled the space. Every time she called a play, I answered without needing to think.
She hated how instinctual I was. I hated how she made precision look holy.
And yet… it worked. We worked.
Midway through the second set, the crowd was leaning in. Our opponents couldn’t keep up. Marina hit a return that sliced so low it skidded like a skip-stone. I chased down a wide shot, slid, and flicked it behind my back just to see her roll her eyes.
“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, resetting for the next point.
“You’re lucky I’m here.”
She didn’t answer. But her lip twitched.
Third set. Match point. We were a machine.
One last rally, twenty-four shots. My feet burned. My shoulder screamed. Marina sprinted for a drop shot, flicked it crosscourt so light it floated, and it spun backward on the bounce.
Game, set, match. We won. The crowd exploded. Marina didn’t even blink. But me? I felt it. In my bones. That ancient, forgotten thing.
Belonging.
Flashes hit our faces before the sweat dried. Mics shoved in our hands. The usual press fluff—how we synced so fast, would we partner again, what moment stood out.
Then the voice cut through.
“Marina,” a reporter said, clear and loud. “You’re ranked #12 and known for keeping a spotless record. Why would someone like you partner with a disgraced gambler like Eli Santiago?”
I froze. She didn’t even flinch.
She took the mic with surgeon hands and said, “Because everyone loves a comeback story. Especially when the person fighting for it plays with more heart than anyone else out there.”
She looked at the reporter like she dared her to speak again. Then glanced at me.
Just for a second. But it landed like a brick. I couldn’t breathe.
She didn’t have to say that. Didn’t have to defend me. Could’ve brushed it off, given some agent-approved line about charity or second chances.
But she told the truth. Her truth.
About me.
We walked out of the interview zone, and I felt that old war in my chest again.
“You didn’t have to say all that,” I muttered.
“I know.”
“But you did.”
She shrugged, eyes forward. “I just told the truth.”
I wanted to tell her she messed with my head. That her voice in my ear during every rally was doing something to me I couldn’t explain. That no matter how much I told myself she was everything I hated about this sportm, manufactured, polished, perfect, I couldn’t not look at her.
I didn’t say any of it. But I think she already knew. We were halfway down the hallway when—
“MARINA!”