chapter 12
1351 Words
chapter 12
By the third match, people were watching on purpose.
The first time Sandra beat Tim, everyone called it luck.
The second time, they called it a bad ⅝day.
Now?
Now the court was lined with students pretending not to stare.
Sandra bounced the tennis ball against the ground, eyes locked on the net. Her rheart thudded hard, but her face stayed calm. She liked this feeling — the tight focus, the quiet right before everything exploded into movement.
Across from her, Tim rolled his shoulders, jaw set.
He wasn’t smiling today.
Good.
She didn’t want easy wins. She wanted proof.
The game started fast.
Rallies stretched longer than before, both of them covering the court with sharp footwork and controlled aggression. Sandra chased every ball like it owed her money. Sweat clung to her temples. Her arm burned.
She didn’t care.
She took the first few games. Barely. Every point felt stolen.
But Tim adjusted.
His serves got sharper. Lower. Faster. He stopped trying to overpower her and started moving her — left, right, forward, back — forcing her to run, to stretch, to reach just a second too late.
She hated that he was learning her.
Hated that he was patient.
The score tightened.
Whispers rose from the sidelines.
“Come on, Sandra!”
“Tim, you’ve got this!”
She blocked them out.
This wasn’t about them.
This was about proving she belonged here — not just as “the girl who works hard,” not just as “surprisingly good.”
She wanted to be undeniable.
Match point.
Her chest heaved as she wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. Her legs felt heavier than before, but she bounced on her toes anyway, refusing to show it.
Tim served.
Fast. Wide.
She reached it — barely — sending a desperate return high over the net.
Too high.
The moment the ball left her racket, she knew.⁸
Tim stepped forward and smashed it down the line.
Game. Set. Match.
The sound of the ball hitting the court echoed louder than the cheers.
Sandra froze for half a second, staring at the spot where it landed. Her throat tightened, but her face didn’t change. She’d learned that trick years ago.
Never let them see the hit land.
Applause broke out. A few shocked laughs. Someone said, “Finally!”
Finally.
Like her winning before had been a mistake.
She walked to the net, forcing her grip to stay steady as they tapped rackets.
“Good game,” Tim said, breathing hard.
She nodded once. “Yeah.”
She turned before he could say anything else.
Every step off the court felt heavier than the last. Not because she lost.
But because losing felt familiar.
Like slipping back into a place she had fought to climb out of — the place where effort wasn’t enough, where people expected her to fall short eventually.
She grabbed her water bottle and took a long drink, eyes fixed on the ground.
It’s one game, she told herself.
You’ve lost worse than this.
But the voice in her chest whispered something meaner.
See? This is where you really belong.
Her jaw tightened.
No.
She’d be back tomorrow.
Earlier. Stronger. Faster.
Because Sandra didn’t get the luxury of staying down.
And if Tim thought this win meant he was ahead?
He had no idea who he was dealing with.
Sandra woke to the soft rustle of papers and the scratch of a pen.
Morning light filtered through the Dome windows, pale and quiet. Monica sat cross-legged on her bed, books spread around her like a fortress.
She looked up when Sandra shifted.
“Hey,” Monica said gently. “You’re up.”
Sandra pushed herself up on her elbows, hair a mess, eyes still heavy. “You’ve been studying already?”
Monica gave a sheepish smile. “Test on Monday. I panicked.”
Sandra nodded. “Makes sense.”
There was a pause. Monica’s pen stopped moving.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come yesterday,” she said softly. “To your match.”
Sandra blinked. “Mon, it’s fine—”
“No, it’s not.” Monica set her book aside. “I should’ve been there. I know how much it meant. I just… I really needed to pass this one.”
Sandra sat up fully now, shaking her head. “You don’t owe me that. School comes first.”
Monica studied her face. “Did you win?”
Sandra hesitated just a second too long. “No.”
Monica’s expression shifted immediately. She slid off her bed and came to sit beside Sandra.
“That doesn’t erase the other two wins,” she said firmly. “You’re still the only one who’s beaten him at all.”
Sandra let out a quiet breath. “It just felt like… everyone was waiting for it. Like, there she goes, back where she belongs.”
Monica’s shoulder bumped hers gently. “Anyone who thinks that doesn’t know you.”
Sandra stared down at her hands. “Still feels bad.”
Monica reached over and squeezed her fingers. “You’re allowed to feel bad. Just don’t unpack and live there.”
Sandra huffed a soft laugh. “You sound like a motivational poster.”
“Excuse you,” Monica said, nudging her. “I am a studying motivational poster.”
Sandra smiled — a real one this time.
For a moment, it felt lighter.
Until her phone buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
And again.
Sandra frowned, reaching for it. “Why is my phone—”
Her words died.
Her screen was flooded with notifications.
Mentions. Tags. Messages.
Monica leaned closer. “What?”
Sandra opened the school forum.
Her stomach dropped.
A photo was at the top of the page — grainy but clear enough. It was from yesterday. The exact moment after match point. Sandra standing still on the court, shoulders slumped just slightly, racket hanging loose at her side.
Caption:
“Guess hard work isn’t always enough 💔🎾”
Posted by: Emily Carter
Replies were already stacking up.
“Ouch.”
“Back to reality.”
“Told y’all it was a fluke.”
Sandra’s chest went tight and hot at the same time.
Monica grabbed the phone gently. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“She—” Sandra swallowed. “She was on the committee yesterday.”
“I don’t care if she’s the queen of the Dome,” Monica snapped. “This is disgusting.”
Sandra kept scrolling.
Another post.
A short clip this time — slowed down. The final smash. The ball hitting the ground. Sandra not moving.
Caption:
“The moment the streak ended.”
Laughing emojis flooded the comments.
Sandra locked her phone, face going blank in that way she’d perfected over the years.
Monica turned to her. “Hey. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you pretend you don’t care.”
Sandra forced a shrug. “It’s just a game.”
Monica’s voice softened. “It’s not just the game. It’s her trying to make you small.”
That landed.
Because that was exactly what it felt like.
Not teasing.
Not rivalry.
Erasure.
Sandra drew in a slow breath. “I won’t give her the reaction she wants.”
Monica studied her carefully. “Okay. But you don’t have to be made of stone either.”
Sandra nodded, but her mind was already moving ahead.
Emily didn’t care about tennis.
She cared about image. Status. Control.
And Sandra had embarrassed her in front of the committee.
This wasn’t about the match.
This was payback.
Sandra looked at the photo one more time — the frozen version of herself looking defeated.
Her jaw tightened.
You caught me in one moment, she thought.
You don’t get to define the whole story.
Monica squeezed her hand again. “Whatever she thinks she’s doing… she picked the wrong girl.”
Sandra didn’t smile.
But something steadied behind her eyes.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “She did
- Writer
