Against the Score

chapter 2

Bakley's POV

I barely slept.

The staff knock came again at five-thirty. I dressed in the half-dark, my shoulder still tight, and went downstairs alone.

Arthur was already in the briefing room, hoodie swapped for the facility’s training jacket, face unreadable. Management stood between us like a wall of expensive cologne and forced smiles.

“Exhibition starts at six this evening,” the head of PR said. “Televised. Ranking points. Sponsors are watching. You two will do a short joint interview at noon. Keep it professional. No old drama.”

My jaw flexed. Arthur didn’t look at me.

The interview room was small, bright lights, two chairs set too close. Cameras were already rolling. The interviewer smiled the way people smiled when they smelled blood.

“Bakley, Arthur—eight years of one of the most heated rivalries on the tour. Fans still quote that old interview where Arthur called you a distraction.

How does it feel to share a recovery facility and now an exhibition match?”

Arthur’s answer was flat. “It’s a ranking opportunity. Nothing more.”

The interviewer turned to me. “And you? Any lingering feelings about that comment?”

I felt Arthur’s presence like heat against my side.

The confession from last night still sat under my skin. I could have said nothing. I could have stayed silent. Instead the old hurt pushed the words out before I could stop them.

“Lingering feelings?” I gave the camera the same smirk I used on court. “None. I’ve moved on. I’m dating someone. Have been for a while. The past is just points on a scoreboard.”

The air in the room changed.

Arthur’s hand, resting on the arm of his chair, went completely still. The interviewer leaned forward, hungry.

“Dating? That’s new. Care to share—”

“No,” I cut in. “Private. Unlike some people, I don’t need to announce every decision on live television.”

Arthur’s head turned just enough for me to catch the flash of something sharp and cold in his eyes.

The misunderstanding peaked right there—Arthur hearing confirmation that the years of silence, the note on the hotel desk, the sacrifice he claimed last night, had meant nothing. I had replaced him. I had won that too.

The rest of the interview blurred. Management stepped in. Cameras cut. The PR team looked pleased. Rivalry was good for ratings.

In the hallway afterward, Arthur walked past without slowing. I followed, because silence had never been my strength and the hate between us was louder than ever.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Arthur said, voice low, not looking at me.

“Do what? Tell the truth?” I stepped into his path. “You left. You called me a distraction. I found someone who doesn’t walk out the night before a final. That bothers you?”

Arthur’s eyes met mine. The controlled stillness cracked for half a second—raw, furious, almost wounded—then sealed again.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Arthur said. “It clarifies things. Tomorrow I won’t hold back. Not for ranking points. Not for anything.”

He pushed past. My shoulder burned where we brushed.

The rest of the day was warm-ups, media clips looping our old matches, interviewers asking the same questions in different rooms.

Management fed the fire—old footage of Arthur’s “distraction” quote playing beside my new smile. Every screen in the facility seemed to carry our faces. The rivalry had never been only ours.

It belonged to the people who sold tickets.

By evening the arena was loud. Lights. Crowds. Ranking points flashing on the board.

I stepped onto the court first. Arthur followed thirty seconds later. The crowd noise rose like a living thing. We took our places on opposite baselines. No handshake. Just the old, electric distance.

The umpire called time.

I bounced the ball once, twice. My shoulder ached. Arthur’s gaze never left me—cold, focused, the same look he used to wear in hotel rooms right before he kissed like he was trying to own something.

First serve.

I tossed the ball. Arthur’s return came hard and deep, a statement more than a shot. The rally stretched. Every ball carried the weight of eight years, last night’s confession, and the public claim I had made under the lights.

On the changeover, Arthur walked past the net. For one second our eyes locked.

“Whoever you’re dating,” Arthur said, voice only for me, “doesn’t know you the way I do. Remember that when you lose tonight.”

I opened my mouth—

The umpire’s voice cut across the court. “Time.”

Arthur was already walking back to the baseline. The crowd roared. The ball kids reset. Cameras swung toward my face.

I stood there with the words still burning in my ears, the misunderstanding complete, the hate and the old intimacy tangled so tightly I could barely breathe, and the next point waiting like a loaded gun.

The match had only just begun.