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He parried easily.
Of course he did.
My calves and arms burned from the previous match, but I’d die before giving him an easy fight.
Thud, thud, thud. My footsteps smacked the ground, before I swung my arm back and speared a smash hit his way, chest heaving, while he wasn’t even out of breath.
I almost growled.
“I didn’t know poor people played tennis.”
You little shit.
“Only the fortunate ones,” I muttered as I launched the ball with a loud plock, grip white-knuckled on the handle.
Blood rushed in my ears as the ball flicked back and forth, each blow matched with a verbal jab. We weren’t playing to win—we were playing to make the other lose.
The smell of sunscreen settled in my nose, and the fabric of my shirt clung to my spine as the match inched to a close. I was desperately out of breath, but finally, so was he.
Something fierce thrummed in my bones, making me feel strangely… alive.
Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.
A small crowd had gathered, as though it was a match point at Wimbledon, not a casual game. I thought I faintly heard Pri shout, “Kick his ass,” but I couldn’t be sure—and I didn’t risk taking my eyes off him or the ball for even a second.
Time dilated, stretching around the next point, which would crown one of us victor.
“Tell me something,” he drawled, voice slicing through the static of the crowd.
My hairs stood on end.
“Do you enjoy dressing like a slut?”
My insides crumbled.
His words slid between my defenses, to the soft, bleeding core underneath. My teeth ground together, aching with restraint to not let him guess how much he’d gutted me.
The sound of footsteps hitting gravel, the thump of the ball flying my way, the murmurs of bystanders, everything sounded wrong.
My body felt like it didn’t belong to me, moving of its own accord to parry, while all I wanted was to shut down and curl into a ball.
I sprinted and returned his stroke.
Slut, slut, slut, the blood in my ears chanted.
Sweat clung to my brow, making my eyes sting—or maybe they were burning with something else entirely. I blinked it away as the ball flew across the pitch as if in slow-motion.
The chants and boos of the crowd sounded like I was underwater.
My breath hitched and stuttered to a stop.
He missed the return by half an inch.
I felt nothing.
No buzz of triumph, no warm bubble swelling in my crumbling chest. The victory tasted like ash in my mouth, but I forced on a smug grin that hid the garbled mess inside.
It hurt to put it on. It hurt to breathe.
