Against the Score

chapter 6

Bakley's POV

I walked into the closed-door session with the selection committee still replaying Arthur’s last words in my head.

Twenty minutes of formal criteria, ranking history, and leadership metrics later, we were dismissed with a single instruction: the first joint practice would begin immediately. Captaincy evaluation would continue on court.

The practice courts sat under the same high roof as the exhibition arena.

Empty stands. Bright lights. Two ball carts are already waiting. Arthur was already there, racket in hand, hitting slow warm-up balls against the far wall. He didn’t turn when I stepped onto the court.

Eight years.

The last time we had shared a practice court, everything had still been secret. Early mornings. Stolen looks between points. The kind of quiet that felt safer than any hotel room. I pushed the memory down and started my own warm-up on the opposite side.

The first rally lasted four shots.

Arthur drove a ball deep into my backhand.

I answered with more pace than control. The next exchange turned sharp. No coaching. No shared strategy. Just the old rhythm of trying to make the other one miss.

“You’re still late on the wide ball,” Arthur said after a winner. Voice flat, carrying easily across the net.

I caught the ball against my strings. “And you’re still talking when you should be hitting.”

Arthur’s next serve came harder. I returned it.

The rally stretched. Old patterns surfaced without permission—Arthur’s preference for the heavy kick, the way I used to read the toss before it left his hand. For three points it felt almost familiar. Then Arthur changed direction and the ball clipped the net.

“You’re compensating again,” Arthur said. “Same shoulder. Same bad habit.”

I walked to the net.

“You spent last night accusing me of performing a recovery. Now you’re diagnosing me mid-practice. Pick a lane.”

Arthur met me there. Close enough that I could see the tension in his jaw.

“I pick the lane where I don’t have to watch you pretend the past eight years were only about ranking points.”

My grip tightened on the racket. “You left a note. You called me a distraction on camera. Don’t rewrite it into something noble every time it suits you.”

Arthur’s eyes flashed. “And you turned every match into a public execution so no one would remember we ever shared anything else. Including last night’s physio show.”

The words landed. I felt the heat climb my neck. I stepped back and sent the next ball with deliberate force.

Arthur answered.

The practice stopped being practice. It became the same war we had fought for years, only now there was no crowd and no referee—just the sound of the ball and the weight of everything still unfinished..

We went at it for another twenty minutes. Arguments between points.

Old memories surfacing in the gaps: the hotel room the night before the final, the way Arthur used to correct my footwork with a hand on my hip instead of words, the silence that followed the note on the desk.

Every memory made the next ball harder.

Finally Arthur lowered his racket.

“This is useless,” he said. “We’re supposed to build a team. All we’re doing is proving we still hate each other.”

I wiped sweat from my face with my wristband. “Hate is honest. The captaincy will be decided by who can live with it longer.”

Arthur stared at me for a long second, then turned toward the sideline. “Practice is over for me.”

He walked off without waiting.

I stayed on the court, breathing hard, shoulder burning. The ball cart sat half-empty. The air still felt charged.

Vivian appeared at the entrance to the court a few minutes later, tablet in hand, the same calm expression she always wore after treatment sessions.

“The committee asked me to check the shoulder after the first joint session,” she said. “You’re favoring it again.”

I stepped off the court. The corridor outside was quieter. Arthur had already disappeared toward the locker rooms. I rolled the shoulder once, felt the familiar pull, and made the decision before I could talk myself out of it.

“Coffee,” I said. “After you finish the assessment. If you’re free.”

Vivian looked up from the tablet, a mild surprise in her eyes. “Coffee?”

“Somewhere that isn’t this facility. I need ten minutes that don’t involve ranking points or Arthur Davenport.”

She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “I finish at seven. There’s a place two blocks east.”

“I’ll wait.”

I turned toward the locker room. The corridor lights were harsh. I made it halfway before a figure stepped out of the shadows near the equipment doors.

Arthur.

He had not gone as far as I thought. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes had tracked the entire exchange with Vivian. The same cold assessment from the night he had walked in on the treatment room.

“Coffee,” Arthur said quietly. “With the physio. Right after you told the press you were dating someone else. You’re consistent, at least.”

My pulse kicked. “It’s coffee.”

Arthur’s mouth curved into something that was not a smile. “Keep telling yourself that. It won’t change what it looks like from the captaincy table.”

He stepped closer. The space between us shrank to the same dangerous distance we had occupied on the court.

“I will take the armband,” Arthur said, voice low. “And when I do, every practice, every lineup, every decision will remind you that you don’t get to rewrite the past by collecting new people to stand between us.”

He turned and walked away before I could answer. The corridor fell silent except for the distant sound of balls still being hit on another court.

My phone buzzed.

A new message from the selection committee:

Captaincy shortlist confirmed. Final evaluation: closed practice session tomorrow, Carson vs Davenport, no coaches. Winner recommendation carries majority weight.

I stared at the screen. Behind me the door to the treatment room was still open. Vivian’s voice carried faintly as she spoke to a staff member. Ahead, Arthur’s footsteps had already faded.

The first practice together in eight years had ended the only way it could—in a fight. The coffee invitation sat in the air like another weapon.

And tomorrow we would be locked on a court again with the captaincy on the line and no one else to stop whatever finally broke.