Page 54 of Through the Flames
I tugged on my warm-up jacket, racket in hand. My fingers automatically adjusted the grip, checked the weight, and tested the strings.
It was a ritual more than a necessity. I knew my racket better than myself.
Tragic, I know.
Dom had decided to tag along. He was already in the bleachers, his long legs sprawled like he owned the place, sipping a soda like it was game day at the stadium.
He waved when he caught my eye, grinning like an idiot, and shouted, “Don’t choke, sis!” loud enough for three other courts to hear.
I flipped him off without breaking stride.Little brothers, I swear.Can’t live with ’em, can’t strangle ’em — my hands would have to fit around his massive neck first.
The ink creeping above his collar now was a map of every time he’d demanded the spotlight instead of me.
On his eighteenth birthday, he’d walked into a tattoo shop at midnight and then didn’t stop for months.
Said if the town wanted a spectacle, they could look at him for once and leave me the hell alone. Said he was done being their “good brother” while they made me the punchline.
And yeah, as much as he was an annoying little shit, I loved him for it.
My opponent was tall and slender, her hair skillfully braided into an intricate pattern I’d never dare to attempt.
Her warm-up shots cracked against the wall like gunfire; each stroke was controlled and mechanical.
She looked like a country-club princess. I knew the type: private coaches, designer tennis skirts. The kind of girl who approached tournaments as networking events.
Fine. She could come armed with all the privilege in the world. I came armed withhunger.
The whistle shrilled sharply to signal the start of the match.
She was up first to serve, and I crouched low, racket ready and eyes locked. The toss was smooth, her arm forming a perfect arc as the ball spun down like a bullet.
The impact against my strings rattled my bones, but I absorbed it and redirected the ball back over the net low.
She wasn’t ready. The ball skidded past her reach and smacked the back wall.
First point — mine.
Her polite smile cracked as I got into position again, spinning the racket in my hand.
The game stretched on, with long rallies biting into each other. Her serves were strong, but my returns were sharper. I placed my shots just far enough away to make her stumble, stretch, and curse under her breath. I moved her across the baseline like I had her on a leash.
Dom’s cheers carried from the stands, obnoxiously loud. I pretended not to hear, but a grin tugged at my mouth anyway.
The first set ended 6–2 in my favor.
In the second set, she came out swinging harder. The rallies were long, the balls kissing the line by millimeters.
Sweat dripped down my temples and stung my eyes. My legs burned with every muscle aching, but I welcomed the pain.
Pain was proof that I was still in it.
Underneath it all, however, the whisper I hated most snuck in.
What if I choke?
What if this is the moment?
What if the whole “D1 athlete with pro dreams” thing collapses because my brain decides to short-circuit in front of everyone?
