14. Ella
Fourteen
Ella
Our once cute, little apartment had become a graveyard of half-packed boxes and endless rolls of tape. Sierra was leaving, and with her went any chance of stability.
I couldn’t afford the rent on my own, so I was forced to scramble. I was hunting for a roommate, an apartment, honestly anything as long as it didn’t leave me sleeping on the fucking streets.
Desperate times, desperate measures.
Sierra’s room was already stripped of her string lights and half the supply office store she housed at any given time. Just beige walls and a faint scent of cardboard.
It wasn’t even her stuff being gone; it was her presence I was already missing.
The begrudging way she made me feel like I was her actual sister.
The late-night noise.
It was all gone.
I tripped over a box labeled “books” — for the third fucking time — shooting daggers at it. Books, of all things, were trying to make me face-plant. Talk about betrayal.
I thought I had time. I always thought I had time, and then time turned around to slap me in the face.
But I was fine. Totally fine. Except for the existential dread and the growing urge to crawl under the couch and live there. This was just my life having a mild stroke.
People moved and life went on. But why did it feel like I was always the one left behind, scrambling to make things work again?
Every single girl who messaged me so far had either a cat, a boyfriend, or a “weird energy” I couldn’t actually explain but very much didn’t trust.
I was refreshing housing apps like my life depended on it, but apparently I was a magnet for creeps or crypto bros.
At this point, my backup plan was befriending the raccoons behind the dining hall and seeing if they’d adopt me.
But I didn’t have the luxury of spiraling over it any longer. Not really. Because no matter how upside-down my personal life was, my schedule didn’t care.
Tennis didn’t care about any of my cute little personal crises. There was an indoor tournament tonight against our conference opponents.
Our rankings were on the line, so I couldn’t afford to lose my focus.
I could be homeless tomorrow, but I still had to show up and win today.
***
The facility always felt colder than it looked.
Bright white lights hummed overhead, bouncing off the pale walls and the glossy blue courts. The air carried the familiar indoor mix of rubber, disinfectant, and chlorine wafting through the vents from the pool next door.
My sneakers squeaked on the polished floor, and the sharp pop of balls hitting strings echoed like gunshots every few seconds from the other courts.
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 with hunger .
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?
I shoved it down, gritted my teeth, and forced my racket through another swing. The ball met the strings with a crack and shot deep into the corner.
She lunged, but too late. My fucking point.
The fear didn’t vanish, but it quieted under the rhythm. Serve, return, sprint, sweat. Over and over, until the noise in my head had to keep up or fall behind.
She started muttering after every missed point, her braid fraying, and her strokes growing frantic. At this moment, I knew I had her.
With a score of 6–3, the second set was mine too.
I shook her hand at the net. Her grip was limp, and her attention was already elsewhere. My mind, however, was still spinning. I was always wound tight after a match.
The sound of clapping and cheering from the bleachers suddenly reached my ears. My name echoed back to me.
Dom stood up as if he had just won, his arms in the air as he roared, “She’s a killer! That’s my sister right there!”
I rolled my eyes, but my chest still swelled. I loved the big idiot.
Sierra leaving, the boxes, the slow collapse of everything I thought was stable — all of it was waiting for me back outside.
But here, under the harsh lights and the echo of rackets against strings, I was untouchable.
I dominated.
And for a little while, this was enough.
***
“Holy fucking shit, you have no idea what kind of weirdos roam this campus!” I whined as soon as Hailey’s cute little face popped up on my phone’s screen.
She furrowed her brows, her lips parting in confusion. “Umm, what?”
“C’mon, Michaels, keep up. The roommate slash apartment hunt?” I waggled my head meaningfully, like some kind of deranged bobble head.
She held up a perfectly manicured finger. “First off, it’s Brentwood, not Michaels, as you very well know—”
“For the moment.” Colt’s deep voice rumbled from the off.
Hailey snapped her head to the side, gaping at her boyfriend. “Stop it!” she said in what she probably believed was a stern voice, but it just sounded adorable.
Colt must’ve felt the same way about it, his husky laugh rumbling through the speaker.
My bestie turned back to me, her eyes still wide. “Anyways, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted … what kind of weirdos are we talking about?”
“Like, all kinds of weirdos. It was like a fucking variety pack.”
Hailey winced, but the corners of her mouth were twitching. “That bad?”
“Let me break it down for you.” I settled deeper into the couch, taking a sip of my iced matcha, the ice sloshing in the cup as I wedged it between my thighs.
“Okay, so get this, roommate number one, right? I call her The Vanishing Act. She was perfect. Literally perfect. I’m talking, skincare fridge, a fucking Stanley collection she was willing to share with me, and she responded to memes with better memes.
We’ve texted for a week and set a move-in date.
It felt like a win, like the solution to all my problems.”
Hailey’s eyes were huge. “And then?”
“And then …” I said dramatically. “Nothing. No reply. Just blue bubbles of silence and emotional fucking whiplash.”
Hailey’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s odd, but she doesn’t sound like a total weirdo.”
“Keep up, babe. She was literally the only semi-normal one, but considering she ghosted all this,” I made a circular motion in front of my face, “something must’ve been wrong with her too. Ergo, weirdo.”
“Okay, so who came next?” Now she was properly invested. About damn time.
“Buckle in, princess–”
“Don’t call her that,” Colt muttered gruffly.
“Fine, fine. Buckle up, buttercup, next came…” I paused for effect, my eyes as wide as they could go, “Creeper McRedFlag.”
“Ominous.”
“He emerged from a vape cloud and was wearing cowboy boots.”
Hailey swayed her head from side to side. “Nothing wrong with a good pair of boots.”
“I agree. But these weren’t the ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’ kind of boots. These were red fake leather abominations straight from hell. Or a stripper pole. I’m not entirely sure about that.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.” Hailey snorted.
“Wish I was. He told me I had a ‘wild vibe’ and asked if I was into ‘after-hours fun.’ Which I assume means drugs or crimes. Or both.” I grimaced. “He also made eye contact with my chest the whole time. Bold, considering the bra was doing most of the work.”