The Champion He Didn't Deserve

The day Wyatt Lum won the Open title and completed his Grand Slam, I couldn't even reach him. I was his fiancée, after all. But my calls just went straight to voicemail. Meanwhile, his childhood friend Rosalind Jones was busy posting trophy selfies all over social media. Her caption practically smirked off the screen. Rosalind: [You promised we'd share this moment.] There it was in the corner of the photo. Just a glimpse of Wyatt's hand on her shoulder. I typed back before I could stop myself. Clover: [What a perfect pair. Should I go ahead and order the wedding invitations?] My phone rang within seconds. "Delete it," he ordered, his voice cold and sharp. I had sacrificed my entire career for his dreams. Every early morning practice. Every tournament across three continents. Every time he doubted himself, I was there to pick him up. But somehow I ended up being the villain in the story. Devastated and broken, I packed my bags to start over somewhere new. A semi truck made sure I never got that chance. As the world faded around me, one thought kept circling back. 'Why did I ever quit?' Then fate hit rewind. This time around, my fingers locked around the racket with everything I had. No surrender. No backing down. This life, the spotlight would belong to me alone. Or so I thought. Then Ian Bright walked onto my court and messed up all my plans. Jovannia Tennis Academy. Present day. Sweat stung my eyes as I glared at the ball sitting dead on the baseline. My tongue scraped across cracked lips. I served again. Thwack. Thirty days since I had rebooted my life at twenty years old. Thirty days since I had touched a racket after fifteen years away. My father had died young. My mother, Sylvie Green, worked as a tennis coach and poured everything into my younger brother Lucas Hill. The funding. The private trainers. The international camps. All of it went to him. I was just his hitting partner. The problem was that I kept beating him every single time we played. Sylvie's face would twist whenever it happened. Venomous words would fly at me like I had committed some terrible betrayal. All I ever got were occasional tips thrown my way by her colleagues when she wasn't watching. But raw talent has a way of refusing to stay buried. With half the training everyone else received, I took my first championship in eighteen months. At sixteen, they started calling me the Jovannia phenom. My star kept rising right up until the national team trials. Then c***k. My racket split in half mid swing. My mind went completely blank as I frantically scanned the court. I had no idea who to turn to or what had just happened. Thankfully, a teammate tossed me a spare racket. But my swings were completely off. I had no control over power or angle. That match ended in humiliating defeat. I spent days scrambling to adjust, but pushing too hard only backfired. From that moment on, the losing streak snowballed out of control. Nobody cared why I had started failing. They only saw a fallen prodigy and moved on. Skeptical stares followed me everywhere. Mocking whispers filled the space behind my back. The crowd seemed to take vicious delight in my failure. I choked on it every single day. Not a single soul reached out to help. My shaky confidence crumbled to dust until even stepping onto the court made me nauseous. I ended up withdrawing from the national team qualifiers. My career derailed before it ever really began. Now I stood there white knuckling my racket as sweat plastered my shirt. I launched another ball skyward. This time, my grip wouldn't falter. Not ever. During a water break, Wyatt approached me. My would be fiancé from the previous life. We had been hailed as Jovannia's golden duo when we joined the provincial squad together. Everyone pegged him as a shoo in for the national team. Now he frowned at me with what looked like concern. "You're overtraining," he said. "Even if you're in a slump, don't wreck your health." Before I could respond, his clingy shadow Rosalind cut in. "Wyatt. Come train with me." And just like that, he ditched me for her. His earlier concern turned out to be as genuine as a plastic trophy. I gulped my water and watched them rally together. There he was. The man who had strung me along for years, now fawning over his precious childhood friend. Their hands clasped as he corrected her stance, putting their intimacy on full display for everyone to see. How had I missed this sick dynamic last time around? After my collapse, Wyatt had been my boyfriend. He never lifted a finger to help me get back on my feet. Instead, he smooth talked me into retirement with pretty words and empty promises. Then came the ultimate betrayal. A public proposal the second he made the national team. He knew I was desperate for family after a lifetime of neglect. He exploited it perfectly. Love starved and gullible, I said yes. I sacrificed my entire career. All of it for nothing. As his fiancée, I managed everything at home. I took on caring for Wyatt's parents too, all so he could focus completely on his matches. For years, I poured my heart into planning our dream wedding. But after his championship win, he stopped mentioning marriage altogether. Whenever I timidly brought up wedding plans, he would brush me off with some excuse about training or travel. If I pressed further, he snapped with visible annoyance. So I learned to bite my tongue. Yet the rumors about Wyatt and Rosalind were everywhere. They ate away at me day after day. After more than a decade in limbo with no ring and no real commitment, all I got was watching him fall for her right in front of my eyes. In the end, I died charging through a storm to confront him that fateful night. I blinked away the bitter memory and threw myself back into training. The national team trials were coming this October after all. Trusting a man with my happiness turned out to be a recipe for disaster. That mysteriously broken racket. The shadowy culprit behind it. Those three defeats that crushed my spirit. None of it would happen again. This time, I would leave no openings for anyone.