Marina
It’s funny how memory works. How one single kiss can settle under your skin and live there, untouched, until something shakes it awake.
That night at the rooftop with Eli wasn’t the first time. I hadn’t let myself think about the first in years. But the second my breath caught near his mouth, it came flooding back. Like muscle memory. Like heartbreak laced with heat.
I was sixteen. He was twenty. Paris juniors tournament—before the gambling, before the tabloids, before he ghosted the whole sport and everyone in it, including me.
It was raining that night, I remember that much. We’d both made it to the finals in our draws. He’d already played; I was set to play the next day. He found me behind the media tent, sitting on a bench, nerves wrapped around my ribs like wire. And for once, he didn’t tease me. He didn’t smirk or throw some slick line.
He just sat next to me and said, “You’re gonna win.”
I laughed. Told him to stop jinxing me. Then he looked at me—really looked at me.
And kissed me.
Soft, short, almost like he hadn’t meant to. But it changed something. In me. I’d never wanted anything that much before.
And then he walked away. No explanation. No call. Just disappeared from the tournament, from the circuit. From me.
That kiss—God, that kiss ruined me.
Because ever since, I’d been chasing it.
Craving it.
Dominic was supposed to help. He was easy. Hot. Familiar. And he never asked for more than I could give. We kept it casual, physical. A distraction. But every time he touched me, every time I kissed him, I felt like I was still chasing something I’d already lost.
Like I was kissing with my eyes closed, hoping it would feel like before.
It never did.
So no—I didn’t just hate Eli because of his scandals or his reputation or the way my father talked about him like he was a walking plague. I hated him because he left me. Because he kissed me like he meant it, and then made me feel like I imagined the whole thing.
And now we were back. Back on court. Back in rhythm. Back in danger.
“You got in.”
I blinked, snapping out of the memory. Mira was grinning at me from the edge of the court, phone in hand, earpiece still buzzing.
“What?”
“You and Eli? Wildcard entry for mixed doubles at the Shanghai tournament. It’s official.”
I stared at her as if she had just told me we had won a Grand Slam.
Behind her, my team erupted into motion. Phones buzzed, someone swore under their breath, and I could hear the frantic tapping of fingers drafting a press release. Everyone was moving at once, high on adrenaline and disbelief.
“What? How? Already?” I asked, trying to catch up to the pace of whatever this moment had become.
“Apparently the exhibition went viral,” she said, her expression unreadable. “The board loved the chemistry. They called you and Eli the most electric mixed pair they’ve seen in years.”
My grip tightened around my water bottle. We had gotten in. Shanghai. Main draw. Wildcard. Me and Eli.
And I hadn’t spoken to him since the rooftop.
Not because I was angry. Not even because I was afraid. But because being near him brought back something dangerous—something reckless and too familiar. It felt like standing on a ledge with no rail. And for the first time in months, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to step back or jump.
I didn’t even have time to process the news before my father found out.
***
“You got in?” he repeated in our hotel suite later that evening, his voice laced with disgust. “You mean you got in? Or you and that disgrace of a partner?”
I stood frozen in the doorway, still wearing my warm-ups, my hoodie half-zipped and clinging to the sweat drying along my spine. Vincent paced like a man betrayed, his jaw clenched, each step heavy with disappointment.
“We played together,” I said, forcing my voice to stay level. “We got in together.”
“You partnered with a gambler,” he spat, refusing to look at me. “A player banned from three federations. And this—this is what you’re proud of?”
“It got me into Shanghai,” I said, swallowing the sting in my throat.
“It’s not a victory. It’s a stain,” he snapped. “You’re not rising, Marina. You’re falling. You’re aligning yourself with failure and pretending it’s rebellion.”
My voice cracked despite me. “Then why does it feel like the first real thing I’ve earned in months?”
He turned to me, his eyes cold and sharp. “You want to be remembered for tantrums and panic attacks instead of trophies? Because that’s the path you’re choosing.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Every word he threw at me landed like a blade, trying to cut something out of me I wasn’t ready to give up.
I grabbed my hoodie from the back of the chair and walked out. I didn’t bother with shoes. I didn’t have a plan. I just needed air—real air. Not the kind recycled through hotel vents and pressure.
***
I ended up at the only place that still felt like mine.
The courts behind the sponsor tents were quiet, lit by overhead floodlights that buzzed softly in the dark. My youth foundation had a session running tonight—small kids with oversized rackets, hand-me-down sneakers, and dreams so big they didn’t know how to carry them yet.
My father hated this place. He called it soft. Called it a distraction. But for me, this was the only version of tennis that didn’t feel like a war.
I didn’t expect anyone to be there waiting. But he was.
Eli stood at the gate, leaning against the chain-link fence like he hadn’t shattered my entire universe just days ago.
“You followed me?” I asked, the words coming out sharper than I intended.
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t follow. I just saw you storm off like a category five hurricane and figured wherever you were going would be more interesting than dodging your dad’s death glare.”
I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t tell him to leave. And when he fell into step beside me, I didn’t stop him.
The kids were already warming up, scattered across the court like scattered stars. I spotted Selene near the net, standing frozen with her racket clutched too tightly in both hands. Ten years old. Brilliant. But terrified.
Eli noticed her too.
“What’s her deal?” he asked quietly.
“Anxiety,” I said. “She wants to play, but sometimes she freezes.”
Without another word, he walked over.
He knelt beside her, lowering himself to her level, and started talking. Not about tennis. About space lasers. About broccoli. About how sometimes nerves just meant your brain thought you were too important.
She laughed—soft at first, then louder.
I watched from across the court, stunned by how quickly she unfroze.
“You’re good with them,” I said when he walked back over.
He shrugged, brushing off the compliment. “Kids don’t care who you used to be. They just care if you listen.”
Something caught in my throat.
In that moment—watching him make a scared girl laugh, watching his defenses drop, watching the boy I had kissed years ago peek through the man he had become—I felt it again.
The kiss. The one I never forgot. The one I had spent years trying to outrun with other boys, with safer boys. With Dominic. With anyone who didn’t make me feel like I was on fire.
But it always circled back to Eli. Always.