Against the Score

Chapter 4

Bakley's POV

I got through the mixed zone on autopilot.

Questions about the loss, the rivalry, the girlfriend comment—I gave short answers and left before the clip of Arthur’s final line could loop again on every screen.

There won’t be a next match worth watching. The words sat under my ribs like a second bruise.

By the time I reached the recovery wing the facility was quieter. Most of the media had cleared. I pushed open the door to the treatment room Vivian always used. She was already there, table ready, soft lamp on instead of the overheads.

“You’re late,” she said, voice calm. “And you’re holding the shoulder higher than you should.”

I dropped my bag and pulled my training shirt over my head. The cool air hit the treated muscle. “Arthur played like he had something to prove.”

“He always does with you.”

Vivian gestured to the table. “Lie down. Face first.”

I stretched out. Her hands settled on my back, warm and precise, finding the knot under my left scapula that had tightened through every lost point.

The pressure burned. I exhaled slowly, the same way I always did.

“Talk if you want,” Vivian said. “Or don’t. The muscle will tell me enough.”

I was quiet for a while. Her thumbs worked in slow circles.

The match replayed behind my eyes—Arthur’s clean winners, the smirk at the net, the private taunt about whoever I was dating.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” I muttered into the face cradle.

“Said what?”

“That I’m dating someone. It was true enough. But I said it to hurt him.”

Vivian’s hands didn’t pause. “Did it work?”

“Too well.”

She shifted her grip, pressing deeper. I hissed. She eased off a fraction, then resumed with more care.

“You’re allowed to move on,” she said quietly.

“Even if he looks at you like the war never ended.”

I gave a short, humorless laugh. “He looks at me like he wants to finish it on the court and somewhere else at the same time.”

Vivian’s fingers slid higher, working the edge of my shoulder blade. The door to the hallway stood half open. Footsteps passed—staff, other players, the usual late traffic. I closed my eyes and let the pain pull me under for a moment.

That was when Arthur walked by.

I didn’t see him at first. I only felt the shift in the air, the way Vivian’s hands stilled for half a second. Then I opened my eyes and caught the reflection in the glass cabinet across the room.

Arthur stood in the hallway, stopped mid-stride. His gaze was locked on the table—Vivian's hands spread across my bare back, on the way my head was turned toward her, on the quiet intimacy of the room after a public loss. Whatever he saw, it landed wrong.

I started to push up. “Arthur—”

Arthur was already moving. He stepped into the doorway, expression carved from ice.

“Convenient,” he said.

The word was soft and vicious. “Lose the match, invent a girlfriend for the cameras, then let the physio put her hands all over you like it’s the same thing.”

Vivian’s hands left my back at once. I sat up, my shoulder protesting.

“It’s treatment,” I said. “You know what this is.”

“I know exactly what it looks like.” Arthur’s eyes flicked from my bare chest to Vivian’s face and back. The hate in them was sharper than anything he had shown on court.

“You spent eight years turning every match into a public execution. Now you’re performing the recovery too. Does she know she’s part of the show, or is she the new distraction you announced today?”

My pulse slammed. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” Arthur stepped fully into the room. The door stayed open behind him. “You’ll tell the press another story? That you’re dating the woman who works on your shoulder after I beat you? At least keep the lies consistent.”

Vivian moved between us, calm but firm. “Both of you. Out of my treatment room if this is going to continue.”

Arthur didn’t look at her. His attention stayed locked on me.

“I meant what I said in the hallway,” he said. “There won’t be a next match worth watching. Not if this is how you play the rest of the season—using anyone close enough to hurt me.”

He turned and walked out. The door swung wider with the movement. I was on my feet before I could stop myself, pain flaring down my arm.

“Arthur—”

Arthur didn’t stop. His voice carried back from the hallway, cold and final.

“Enjoy the treatment, Carson. Try not to confuse it with something that actually matters.”

The footsteps faded. Vivian exhaled slowly. I stood in the middle of the room, shirt still off, shoulder throbbing, the misunderstanding sitting between us like a live wire.

My phone buzzed on the counter. A message from management, flagged urgent.

Joint press conference tomorrow 10 a.m. Topic: the rivalry, the exhibition result, and the personal comments made today. Attendance is mandatory for both players. No refusals.

I stared at the screen. Behind me Vivian quietly packed her supplies. Down the hall Arthur’s door closed harder than necessary.

The hate had new fuel now—visible, physical, and public by morning. And I had twelve hours to decide whether I would correct the misunderstanding or let it burn.