CHAPTER 12 #2
Her grin widened, eyes brightening like she hadn’t expected me to say that out loud. “Oh, so that’s what this is about? You know, if you just wanted to be friends, you could’ve asked me. No need to make such a big deal out of it.”
I gave a half-smile, glancing away for a moment, feeling a faint warmth in my chest. “Yeah, well… it’s not like I’m great at making friends here. Or showing people I like them.”
She turned her head toward me, the teasing in her voice softening. “Good thing I like figuring people out. Even the stubborn, awkward ones.”
“You really think I’m that obvious?”
“Oh, completely,” she said, lips curving into a smirk. “But it’s endearing. Kind of makes me think I might actually figure you out before the next tournament.”
I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
“Well, you’ve got a friend now. Whether you like it or not.” Her tone gentled again, and she let her knee brush mine as she adjusted her pace. “Besides… I want to see you smile more. It suits you.”
Something unguarded flickered through me. “This is temporary. Extremely temporary.”
Her smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. “A bit late for that now, isn’t it?”
I let out a quiet breath. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”
“Why would I? People should see you smile more. You said yourself it’s exhausting having that ice-queen reputation on tour.”
I snorted, turning my face away for a second, even though the smile tugging at my mouth refused to vanish. “My smiles are actually reserved only for people I… want to get to know me,” I murmured.
She paused, just for a beat. “Oh?” she said, her voice dipping playful-soft. “So you’re saying I made the cut?”
I shot her a sideways look. “You’re dangerously close to losing your privileges.”
She grinned, leaning slightly closer on her bike, elbow brushing mine for half a second. “You basically admitted it.”
“I did not.”
“Alex,” she said, eyes sparkling, “you’re literally smiling at me right now.”
I opened my mouth to deny it, but she was right, my smile wasn’t going anywhere, and hers was only growing.
That’s when a voice broke through the moment. “Liv, you hiding in here?”
I turned to see her manager, the one I remembered from the champion’s dinner a few weeks ago. She's leaning in through the doorway with a knowing smirk forming as her gaze flicks between the two of us.
Olivia pushed away from the treadmill, grabbing her water bottle. “Not hiding, just trying to get the jetlag off my system.”
As she walked past me, I caught a whiff of her shampoo, fresh, slightly citrusy, and for a second, my brain stalled, trying to process the fact that someone could smell so… lively.
She slowed just enough to glance back over her shoulder at me, but it landed like a spark straight to my nerves. Her eyes met mine, and the corner of her mouth lifted, subtle but unmistakably for me.
And just like that, a part of me couldn’t stop replaying that small, effortless bubble we’d shared before the interruption.
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That night, my room looked less like a hotel suite and more like a strategy bunker.
Coach Kit had claimed the desk chair like it was his throne, leaning forward with a notepad in hand, while Max, my analyst, was sprawled across the couch, tossing a tennis ball up and catching it like he was trying to hypnotize himself.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, notebook open, though most of it was filled with doodles and a few half-hearted reminders; breathe, don’t smash racquet if annoyed.
The advice was standard tournament prep, but somehow hearing it from them made it feel like a pep talk with extra seasoning: keep my opponent from taking control, make her work for every point, and, of course, trust my weapons.
I tried to focus, nodding along, even as my pen went rogue, sketching a very unflattering caricature of my opponent with steam practically shooting from her ears.
By the time I closed my notebook, the plan had morphed from words on paper into a game in my head, a match I was already itching to play.
When they left, I sat there for a moment in the quiet, staring at my notes. Tomorrow it wouldn’t be about plans or bullet points; it would be about stepping onto that court and making it happen. And honestly? I couldn’t wait.
I flicked off the overhead light and settled back against the pillows, phone in hand. I told myself I was just going to check the weather for tomorrow, maybe peek at my match time again. Instead, my thumb somehow found its way to Instagram.
The first thing that popped up? A photo of Olivia from earlier, hair pulled back, laughing at something just out of frame. Probably her manager.
Then her story caught my eye, a photo of a hopelessly crooked car parked outside the players’ hotel with the caption: Tennis players and parking... It’s a tragedy.
Without thinking, I hit reply.
Three dots appeared instantly, like she’d been waiting for someone to bite.
She cannot mean that moment. The one where I collapsed onto the couch after training, possibly leaving a faint impression of drool like some kind of abstract modern art. And my mom didn’t even have the decency to wake me up before Olivia saw me? Truly, the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
My brain does a double-take. Cute as in “harmless” or cute as in “I didn’t mind watching you sleep”? And why does that second option make my heart feel like it just skipped a set?
Three little dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. She’s thinking. This is torture.
She could’ve said “asleep” or “tired” or literally anything else, but no, she went with soft. And now my brain is short-circuiting like a faulty scoreboard.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. Say something witty. No, say something normal. Or say nothing before you accidentally propose.
Before I can choose, another bubble pops up.
I set my phone down, but my brain didn’t quiet as easily.
Her last message replayed in my head, warm in a way I didn’t want to think too hard about right now.
My heart was still doing this weird fluttering thing, the kind that didn’t happen on court, didn’t happen during interviews, didn’t happen anywhere else except with her.
I tried to force myself to focus on something else; the ceiling fan, the faint hum of the air conditioner, even the rhythm of my own breathing but every little thing reminded me of her words. Cute. Not just any cute, Olivia cute. And that was the worst, most distracting kind of cute.
I rolled onto my side, phone still warm in my hand, and silently cursed her. And maybe, just a little, thanked her too.