synopsis: Chris and you were always children who were compared to each other by your families, subjected to a competition over who was better at tennis and everything else. This also led to you becoming rivals and hating each other. But what if this hatred wasn’t mutual and a brief moment of intimacy completely alters your feelings toward him? (9,5k words)
warnings: fingering; exhibitionism; lots of kissing
author’s note: so sorry for the delayed part, it was completely my fault 😢 but here it’s the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it and comments are always appreciated for the progress of the series❣️
also taglist open! comment under this post to join.
Your mother's expression told you everything you needed to understand: bewildered and suspicious.
“I thought you had practice today?” your mom asked, her tone was skeptical and questioning.
You swallowed hardly, and answered without letting your voice tremble, “I had, but it ended early. Then I ran into Chris.”
Even though she nodded, you could see in her eyes that she still had questions and didn’t fully believe what you told. When Chris's mother called everyone to dinner, you all headed toward the dining table.
When you saw Chris leaning over to whisper in your ear, you flinched, “I guess we'll put off the announcement for a while.”
Your jaw clenched involuntarily because another plan was ruined because of her, “I’m really sorry,” you whispered, voice tight, “I hate being the cause of something like this—“
“I could try many different ways to explain to you how meaningless this is right now, but I can't.” he leaned in just slightly, but pulled away instantly, “So please stop blaming yourself, or even thinking there's any blame to be had.” he whispered and brushed his hand against yours—slowly, discretely.
You pressed your lips together to suppress your smile and without turning your gaze toward his, “I want to learn those “different ways” sooner rather than later.” you said then walked toward the dining table.
When you sat down at the table, Chris was next to you, and your mom and dad were sitting across from you two. You turned to your father with a question to avert your mother’s gaze, “You didn’t tell me you were coming here today. I mean… if you had told me, I would’ve left training early.”
Your father shook his head with a slight, knowing smile, “Actually, we’d planned to get together today just as parents, so that’s why we didn’t tell you.” his voice was soft but at the same time there was a subtle hint of teasing.
You swallowed, paused for a moment, “I see.”
Just as you were about to take a bite from your meal, Chris’s mother fired a question to you, “Seriously, did you two run into each other somewhere? I figured Chris would be out tonight since it’s the weekend.”
After exchanging a brief glance with Chris, you turned back to his mother, “We ran into each other on the court. As you know, I have a game in two days, so I can’t skip practice—and that’s where I ran into Chris too.”
Without dwelling any longer, Chris’s mother nodded, “I see, darling. It’s fine this way, all together.” she smiled softly then turned back to her meal.
Finally, you had started eating without drawing attention to yourselves; your parents were chatting among themselves, and you were exchanging glances every now and then, but all of those glances were brief and fleeting. Just as you were doing everything you could to make sure your mom didn’t notice anything, you felt Chris’s hand, on your thigh.
He placed his hand on your thigh, gently squeezing it but affectionately, hoping to help you calm down a little, but you took it the wrong way. Even if you tried to push his hand away, his grip was firm enough to restrict your moves.
You shot him a quick glare while keeping your cool to everyone else on the dining table and hurriedly tug at the hem of your skirt. Chris’s eyes kept staring down your thigh, the brief sight of your skin evoked something in him, almost primal even.
As his hand began to creep a little higher, you grasped his hand tightly and stopped him, and all he did was give a slight smile, “Chill, don’t make it obvious.”
You rolled your eyes slightly, trying not to let anyone notice, and threw him another quick glance, “Stop that.” you whispered and tried to brush his hand aside, again.
He leaned in slightly to whisper in her ear, “If you can keep quiet right now, no one will figure anything out.” he said and pulled back slightly to observe your reaction, and when he saw that you weren’t resisting, just a little hesitant, he whispered again, “Trust me—it’ll help you relax. I’ve got you.”
You swallowed hardly, trying so hard not to stop him right then and there, but when his hand slowly started roam around your thigh, you pressed your lips to not make any sound. He ran his hand along your inner thigh, making you suck in a sharp breath through your nose.
But when his hand slid under the hem of your skirt, pushing the fabric of your panties with his fingers precisely, you closed your eyes that were already shifting its focus from the dinner to roll back at the assault of pleasure going on between your legs. You tried to squeeze them to halt Chris’s movements, but his strong hands pried them back open and held them apart with his other hand.
“I said relax, you don’t want to draw any attention now, do you?”
“Chris—“ you whispered in protest but at the same time, you started to part your legs slightly. It was like your body had a mind of its own.
When he felt you surrender yourself to him, he felt emboldened, he slightly pinched your throbbing clit and immediately sank his fingers into you, his thumb continued to rub circles on your hardened nub.
Not expecting the intrusion even though your cunt was craving it, you arched your back slightly, pushing yourself back on his fingers as they filled you up to his knuckles. You bit your fist to muffle the sound you were making in the meantime, desperately hoping that no one would notice.
With the wicked pace he was going at, you were lucky the laughter sounds around the table drowned out the squelching noises. Now, all you were focused on was fighting back the moans that Chris’s fingers threatened to fuck out of you.
He started to circle your clit, bringing you closer to the edge, you were getting delirious with the way the pleasure was building. And all he did at that moment was watching you getting closer and closer, You squeezed your eyes shut asyou felt your orgasm building, while bucking time to time into his hands.
With the sound of your father’s voice, you opened your eyes and paused for a moment, not knowing how to respond, you nodded, “Yeah, yeah… just tired, dad.” you muttered, made sure your voice didn’t tremble.
“We can leave early if you want, if you're really tired.” he asked with a bit concern in his voice.
You shook your head quickly, “No, no, I’m okay—“ when you felt his fingers hit that sweet spot, you choked on your own words. Now you had everyone’s full attention and gaze on you. After shooting Chris a stern look, you continued, “I’m okay, seriously.”
Although he wasn’t entirely convinced, your father nodded slightly and turned back to the table.
And when you saw Chris right next to you struggling not to laugh, pressing his lips together, you pinched his thigh, “We’ll talk later.”
He bit onto his bottom lip and when he started to move his fingers again, faster now, you were the one who bite on your bottom lip. His pace was bringing you closer to your orgasm, driving you insane, and all the while trying so hard to keep your facial expressions steady was making it extra difficult for you to release.
And when your orgasm suddenly came crashing on you, you shuddered and started to buck your legs but Chris used his other hand to stop you moving too much before you caught any more attention. As you struggled to quietly come down from your high, he stilled the move of his fingers and waited for you. When you caught your breath and came down from your high, he slowly pulled out his fingers, even though the sudden emptiness making you wince slightly, you covered it with a clear of your throat.
“You were so good for me, love.” he whispered in your ear with that smirk of his.
As if nothing had happened, he took a napkin from the table and gently wiped his fingers that were slick with your arousal while staring at you, never taking his eyes away from yours until they were thoroughly cleaned.
“I can't believe this actually happened… God.” you muttered to yourself but Chris heard it of course.
“The look on your face when you come, and how you try to keep quiet… I’ll make sure to always remind you of that, every fucking time.” he parted his lips to say more but when he remembered where he was, he slowly puled away and got back to his meal, still grinning like an idiot all the while.
Even though you rolled your eyes, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. And once again you realized that you were truly in love with this man.
The next day, you went to the court early and started your practice. You had a match tomorrow, and thinking it couldn’t hurt to get in some last-minute practice, you left home early.
Your mom had been nagging you as usual; she kept asking why you’d come home with Chris yesterday, and this morning she asked questions she already knew the answers to—like where you were going early in the morning—and more.
Even though you didn’t like the way she meddled in your life so much, you couldn’t let her get you down before the game, and you didn’t want to argue with her either—because even though you didn’t approve of some of her behavior, you wanted to see her watching you win and your games. Even if she wasn’t the ideal mother, you were eager to prove something to her, thinking she’d love you if you did.
Finally, when you stopped worrying about your mom, yesterday came to mind—what had happened at the table, and what Chris had done.
Trying not to let anyone on to it had made everything even more thrilling, pleasurable and exquisite. The way he moves his fingers, those slow, rhythmic thrusts of his fingers, and whenever you try to close your legs, the way he halts you with his other hand and pries them open even wider for himself—
The moment you heard Chris’s voice, you turned your head to the court entrance. He was walking toward you with a gym bag in his hand and that signature, unmistakable smile on his face.
“Good morning…” you murmur and after a brief pause, “Chris, you know I have an important game tomorrow.” you muttered as you took off your headphones.
He nodded as if to imply that he was aware of it, “I know, baby. I came here both to support you and to practice; you know I have my own matches too.” he let out an amused chuckle and planted a kiss on your forehead.
You sighed heavily, slightly stepped back to put some distance, “You know how it always ends whenever we come here to train together, Chris.” your tone was firm, a little fed up.
Chris furrowed slightly and tilted his head to the side; though he was still smiling, the warmth had faded from his face a little, “Okay, but if you want to focus completely, I won’t even bother you—we’ll train separately. I just thought training together would be beneficial for you, too.”
You snort, rolling your eyes instinctively, “Lame solutions, again.”
As your words begin to gradually get on his nerves, his smile fades completely and he grows serious, “Lame? What’s going on? Because I have absolutely no idea what you're trying to do. I'm telling you the reason I came here is both to support you and to train, and you're telling me all this nonsense.” he scoffs then takes a step toward you, “I'm telling you I won’t distract you—let's train separately—and you snap at me.”
You exhale deeply before speaking up, “Every time I tell you I want to focus, you somehow manage to crowd me and distract me—you can’t deny that.”
“If you had told me no, I would have stopped right away.” his voice had risen slightly, “But up until now, you weren’t the one telling me to stop; don’t talk to me as if I’m the one distracting you and keeping you from your training.”
You narrow your eyes, scoff audibly, “So am I the one at fault here, just because I didn’t say no to you?”
“I told you I’d stop if you said no; it has nothing to do with blaming you.“
You stare at him, jaw tight, “Y’know what? I'm going to train with Riley or by myself at the outdoor court; I don't have a minute to spare anymore.”
As you started packing your equipments, he called out your name, “You gotta be fucking kidding me, right? What are you getting so riled up about?”
You give him a flat look, the kind that usually ends the conversation as you walk past him with your gym bag slinging over your shoulder.
He mutters a curse under his breath as he catches up to you, “You can't go anywhere without talking.“
“I'm already short on time, so back off, Chris.” you said as you tried to break free from his grasp.
“Don’t give me that bullshit about your practice now—come over here and let’s talk like two mature adults, can you do that?”
You poke your inner cheek as you stare at him deadly, “Are you the one saying I'm acting immature here?”
“Will you stop twisting my words, for fuck’s sake… Just calm down and talk.”
As you pulled your arm away from his grip harshly, your voice grew louder, “Damn it, Chris; stop telling me to calm down, let’s talk, or settle down. Nothing but that comes out of your mouth, and all you’re doing is take up my time and acting like you fucking understand me.”
“Then tell me what the hell is bothering you—talk to me, don’t shut yourself off.” he was getting slightly furious now, “Are you stressed because of the match tomorrow? Let me help you calm down. Is something else getting you down? Tell me what it’s so I can fix it—at least let me know what the problem is.”
You sigh heavily, pause for a moment to gether your thoughts, trying to come up with an excuse or a reason but when you found none, you chose to be honest, “Mom. It’s about my mom.” even if your eyes well up, you keep going after blinking a few times, “I have to win this game; forget about losing—it can’t even end in a draw. I need to show her that my efforts have paid off and that I’ve succeeded. If I fail despite working this hard… I can’t alow that to happen.”
“Losing one game isn't the end of the world—“
“You don’t understand, Chris. I’ve never told you about what I’ve been through—I wasn’t ready to talk about it, but if you’re willing to listen now—”
He cuts you off firmly and drags you to one of the benches on the sidelines, “Tell me. I’m all ears.”
You inhale deeply before starting, “I was never good enough for her. I mean… no matter how hard I tried, she always compared me to you—all the time.“
With that Chris’s frown got deeper, “Me?”
You nodded slowly, “You were really good even when you didn’t train, and you could beat me even when you didn’t practice—and my mom just couldn’t accept that. Even when I worked my ass off like a dog, she wasn’t paying attention to my effort; she was only focused on whether I could defeat you or not.” you scoffed, quicky wiped away a tear that had rolled down your cheek, “She kept reminding me that you were always better than me, even without trying, and that no matter how much I trained, it didn’t make a difference; she kept repeating that despite all my training, I couldn’t reach your level—and never would.”
He waited for you to continue, “That day, when you told at dinner that I’d defeated you, she didn’t even congratulate me—she just looked surprised and give me a nod. Even when we got home, she didn’t say a word; she wouldn’t say a thing because, in her eyes, the chance of something like that happening was zero—it was impossible.” you ran your hand through your hair, letting out a deep sigh through your nose, “That’s exactly why I have to win tomorrow—I have to show her that all this hard work has paid off. You have no idea how much she’ll put med down if I lose, or what will follow.”
He paused for a moment all the while rubbing his thumb over your pulse point on your wrist, then spoke, “I didn’t know you were trying to deal with all this. I really don’t know what to say… I’m just shocked. The way she dismisses all your hard work and training, treats it as if it were nothing…” he sucks a sharp breath through his nose then continues, “Yeah, my parents used to compare you to me from time to time—we’re the same age and we’re both into the same sport, so it’s totally normal. But it was all just playful banter. With my parents being so proud of you practicing this much—and even wanting me to be the same way—there’s nothing more ridiculous than your mom thinking that way.”
You smiled faintly, caressing the back of his hand slowly, “After your family praised me so much that day, I realized the problem wasn’t with me. I’d never really thought she was right to begin with, but that day I truly understood that what matters is my own hard work and effort. Still… deep down, I always wher to be at least a little proud of me; I would have preferred her support rather than having her put me on display like an object.”
He draped his arm over your shoulders and pulled you into his side, “C’mere.”
You let him pull you toward him without putting up any more resistance. He tightens his hold, tugs you into his side, and resting his chin on top of your head.
“The pressure of the game, my mom… everything just piled up all at once; I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that. I’m sorry.” you mutter, your voice cracks and voice so quiet that it’s nearly a breath.
His thumb brushed over your wrist, back and forth, gentle and steady, “You don’t need to apologize. I just… want you to feel free to share anything that’s bothering you with me from now on and to put your trust in me—that’s all.” he whispered as he traced his fingers through your hair gently, slowly.
You nodded without a slight hesitation this time, “I will, Chris. I love you so much.” you said, slightly lifting your head from his chest to stare at him.
He presses a small, tender kiss on your temple, his lips linger there a little before speaking, “I love you so much.” he smiled faintly, nuzzled his nose against yours affectionately.
You smile softly, and for a moment, he doesn’t move, just breathes in steady, slow pulls—like he’s afraid to exhale. Like letting of that one breath might ruin that easy, peaceful silence between you. His fingers keep holding yours, squeezing every now and then, and in the quiet that follows, he doesn’t break, not all at once.
Until he’s glancing down at you as if a question had just occured to him, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t feel ready, but what about your dad? What was he doing while you and your mom were quarrelling? How is your relationship with him?” he asked with hesitation in his tone, as if he was afraid might snap at him again or that he might offend you.
Contrary to his concerns, you spoke calmly, your voice was low but understanding, “If it weren’t for him, or if he were more like my mom, I probably would have given up long ago. He was the only one who believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself; he was my biggest supporter, and he still is.” you pause for a bried moment, “But somehow, he’s trying to maintain a balance between us and bring me closer to my mom. Even though he says she loves me and just wants me to succeed, it doesn’t sound convincing or persuasive anymore. I used to trust my father in everything, like… absolutely everything. But now I feel like I know deep down that he doesn’t really feel that way; he’s just trying to make her out to be good and defend her so I won’t end up hating my mother.”
His expression got both relaxed and softer. Although the thought that your father might be like your mother had frightened him at first, he felt relieved when he realized your father was by your side and supporting you, “It’s only natural for your father to act this way—it’s exactly what he should do. He knows that if he told you he agreed with you, you’d get even more worked up.“ he muttered against your temple and after a brief pause, he continued, “So don’t go blaming your dad or anything—he’s caught in the midst of you two and, from what you’ve said, he’s doing his best to make you both happy keep together.”
“Yeah, I know…” you murmured, voice low and reluctant to accept that he was right.
After planting another kiss on your temple, he cradled your head against his chest, “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me all of this; I can’t even put into words how much it means to me, baby.”
You let out a hearty chuckle straight from your chest and shook your head slightly, “Thank you for giving me the courage to open up to you, Chris. I guess until now, I’ve never vented to anyone else except for my dad. Even to Riley. You’re the second.” you grinned in amusement as you wrapped your arms around his waist.
He raised a brow, matching your energy with his, “So what should I do now? Should I be flattered, should I be over the moon with joy,” he leaned in to whisper against your lips, hands sliding to your hips in a maddening slowness, “or should I thank you in several ways?”
You brush his hair off his forehead gently, fingers lingering, “What if you did all three?” with that smirk tugs on your lips, he didn’t waste any second and crashed his lips against yours.
Your mouth moved with his before you could think, the kiss fierce and messy, tasting of everything you’ve felt for each other. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, with a feeling of wanting to protect you from everything in the world, from every person who had hurt you.
You pull back just enough to catch your breath, lips tingling, heart ricocheting against your ribs. He chases you immediately, mouth finding yours again before you can even form a word. It’s greedy this time, hungry. He holds your cheek tightly with his one hand and with other, he tangles it in your hair like he’s terrified you’ll disappear.
You gasp, the air gone thin, and his chest heaves under your palms. He slowly slides his hand toward your waist, gently laying you down on the bench, not breaking the kiss, not even for a second.
Your back hits the cool metal of the bench, the contact made you suck a sharp breath but he swallowed every bit of sound you made by the press of his mouth. He pins you there, knee brushes against your inner thigh slightly with precision.
When you finally tear back for breath, his forehead falls against yours, both of you panting, grins breaking through the wreckage of it all. He looks flushed, lips swollen and red from the kiss, and somehow more beautiful than you’ve ever seen him.
“That’s why I want us to train separately…” you whisper, dizzy with it all.
“I promise, we'll train separately. Just… a little more, please.” he says, voice hoarse, already chasing your mouth again, “Will you?”
You don’t even realize how hard you’re clutching to his shirt until you break the kiss, dragging in a ragged breath. hisforehead stays pressed to yours, his grin dizzy and desperate.
“Chris, I really have to practice…” you whisper, breath taking. Your hands cup his jaw, thumbs brushing the corner of his mouth gently.
He huffs, a little dazed, a stupid lopsided smile etched on his flushed face, “Okay…”
Adoration blooms in your chest, so sharp it feels almost physical and you can’t help but laugh, “Stop pouting.” you breathe, still laughing, you ran your hand through his hair gently, “You know how important it’s for me.”
“Mmh,” he hums, distracted, nose bumping yours, “I know, and I know you’ll pull it off.”
You smile softly, brushing the corner of his mouth with your thumb slowly, “Thank you, that means a lot to me.” you murmur, starting to push him off of yourself, “Now, stop pouting.”
“I don’t.” he says firmly, but from the way his voice cracks into half-whine, boyish and aching, you know he’s trying not to.
As you got up from the bench and reached for your gym bag, you turned to him, “Do you really think so?” you ask, voice teasing and amused.
“Since you're so eager, why don't you go to practice and get it done?” he says, arms crossing over his chest as he looks everywhere but you.
You really burst out laughing just now—the kind where you can’t help but laugh out loud, “You’re literally sulking… Gosh.”
“Stop it.” he rolls his eyes but can’t help the way his lips tug upward slightly.
After stopping your laughter, you walk toward him, “The court outside is probably empty, and training there would be good for me, since the match is gonna be there tomorrow. And after my practice and tomorrow’s match,” you lean down to whisper against his ear, “I’ll be all yours.”
“Fuck…” he mutters as he clench his fists to hold himself back from doing something that will distract you.
“Of course, are you kidding? Deal.” he says eagerly, with an unmistakable excitement in his tone.
You huff out a laugh then slung your bag over shoulder hurriedly, “I’m leaving then; don't skip your practice.” you warn him before walking toward the exit door.
“Only if I could focus.” he murmurs under his breath as he gets up from the bench.
He turns back to you, “Yeah?”
After quickly closing the distance between you with a few strides, you press your lips against his. Even if he doesn’t immediately grasp what’s going on, he responds right away. It happened fast, like slipping—not a decision so much as gravity pulling you together. His mouth was warm, careful against yours, his hand cupping your cheeks as if he’d became his dream come true.
But when you pulled away slowly, he realized that this dream has lasted only a brief moment.
“What was that for?” he asked, still breathless.
“For listening to me today, for supporting me, for being here for me, for everything…thank you, Chris. I love you so much.”
Your words hit him sharp like a blade, staring at you as his forehead pressed to yours, his chest heaving, “I’ll always be there for you, whenever and wherever you want, I’ll always be. I love you too, so damn much.”
A soft smile rose on your face as you heard his words, the way his voice trembled and cracked with emotion, “I have to go now, see you tomorrow.”
He nodded slowly, trying to sound firm as he murmured, “You’re going to be great at tomorrow’s match, I’ll be there, alright?”
“Alright.” you said, still smiling as you walked away from him without lingering any longer.
And so, even though you hadn’t counted how many times you’d thought this, Chris was the love of your life and always would be.
The roar of the crowd echoed through the stands; everyone was eagerly awaiting the game; fans were cheering on their favorite players from time to time, and there was a constant buzz in the air. You were stressed and anxious, trying to shake off the glares your mother gives you out of your mind, and instead you were thinking about what your father had said before the game.
“Don’t stress out—just focus on having fun; don’t make winning your only goal.”
“You know how much I love you and always will, even if you fail, right?”
“Losing won’t change a thing for me, so don’t let it stress you out or make you hurt yourself during the game, alright?”
While doing warm-up exercises on the court, you’d occasionally make eye contact with your opponent and smile at each other; there was an air about her as if she were trying to show you that there was no animosity between you, and she was trying to keep everything friendly, which was another thing that put you at ease.
When it was finally time for the game, the referee called both of you over, “Heads or tails?” he asked both of you, twirling the coin in his hand.
After exchanging glances, she gestured for you to choose one, and you, with a nod of your head, “Tails.”
When the referee flipped the coin, heads came up, and your opponent went first.
After shaking hands and wishing each other good luck, you took your places. As you walked to your spot, along the sidelines, you saw someone with a cap pulled down over their head.
As soon as our eyes met, he smiled at you and, trying not to make it too obvious, gave you a thumbs-up, “You can do it, I'm here for you.” he mouthed quickly and offered a reassuring smile before signaling you to focus on the match.
You bit your lower lip to suppress your smile, “I love you.” you mouthed, without drawing any attention you focused on the game.
You took your position, trying not to think about what Chris had said or the fact that he was watching you there, waiting for you to nail the game easily.
The match had begun as soon as the referee blew the whistle.
After she took her position, she served with a forehand, sending the ball over the net with a ground stroke on your side. Just as you were about to receive the ball with a forehand as well, the referee blew the whistle, “Foot fault, you cannot step over the baseline before hitting the ball, watch out.” after a brief pause, “One-love.” he announces as he returns to his place.
You poke your inner cheek with your tongue out of frustration, then take your place and get into position. Of course, it’s impossible not to notice your mother’s piercing gaze at that moment. After mumbling something under her breath, she leans in to whisper in your father’s ear, then glances around as if gauging everyone’s reaction for your point loss.
You take a deep breath; even though you feel your eyes welling up, you don’t let yourself break down—Chris won’t let you. He signals for you to remain calm and mouths, “Focus. Don’t let her distract you.”
You gave him a small nod, quickly wiping your eyes and return to game, waiting for referee’s whistle. As soon as the referee’s whistle is heard, she serves again. This time, you’re receiving the ball without stepping over the line. It lands on her side with a smash, making a loud sound as it hits ground. She receives and sends back with an overhead, her movements and strokes were smooth and controlled; she was playing well enough to make you tense and show you that this match wouldn’t be an easy one.
“With the last stroke, it’s 6-3. The final score is 30-15.” referee as he blows the whistle, showing the third set is over.
You slammed your racket to the ground and headed to the sidelines to get a drink. Right then, you had to do whatever it took to escape your mom’s piercing glare—otherwise, you’d lose this set too, and winning this set was your last and only chance.
When you saw Chris motioning for you to come to behind the lines, you immediately slipped through the crowd and went to behind the lines.
He’d already taken off his cap, leaned his back against the wall, and was waiting for you, “Here you are, c’mere.”
You threw yourself into his arms without a moment’s hesitation. You buried your face in his neck, breathing in his scent, and couldn’t hold back the few tears streaming down your cheeks.
When he noticed you were crying, he immediately lifted your head from his neck to face you, “No, no, no… stop crying. C’mon…” he murmured as he quickly wiped away your tears, caressing your cheek reassuringly.
“If she wins this set too, I’m done for, Chris. Don’t you get it? I’m playing like shit—this isn’t like me at all… Fuck—“
“Okay, breathe.” he squeezed your arm to stop you from rambling any further, “Just like I told you before the game started, just like I always say, losing isn’t the end of the world—get that through your head. The real question is this: are you afraid of losing, or are you afraid of your mom? You didn’t even look at where she was sitting the whole game; while you were trying not to look at her, you didn’t even notice how hard your dad was trying to get your attention. He was waiting for the right moment to cheer you up,to motivate you.”
You scoffed in disbelief, pulling away from his grip slightly, “If I’d even glanced at my mom for a second, I wouldn’t have won even that one set—what are you talking about?”
He sighed heavily, pinched the bridge of his nose and suck a sharp breath through his nose, “Okay, the halftime break is almost over—prick up your ears and listen to me.” a pause, “If you want to win this game, put your mom out of your mind, put the thought “what if I lose” out of your mind, think of your father, think of my words, just set all your fears aside and focus on match—don’t think about anything else, don’t be afraid, for fuck’s sake, please.”
You nodded instinctively, swallowed hardly as you took a deep breath, “Okay.”
Before you could say another word, the bell rang, signaling the end of halftime. After cupping your cheeks and planting a kiss on your temple, “You can do this, I love you.” he murmured as he smiled softly, reassuringly.
“I love you too.” you muttered vaguely with a faint smile then walked toward the sidelines, watching people taking their seats for the match.
You stood on the baseline, observing her as she prepared herself for the service. You spread your legs shoulder-width apart, arched your back slightly, and predicted how she’d serve and adjusted your stance and position accordingly.
With the referee's whistle, she served the ball with a drop shot. You didn’t wait, received her service with a half-volley, hit the ball low on the short hop. It crossed the net softly near the net, making it hard for her to receive but she met the ball easily, sending it back with a backspin, careful not to make a foot fault as the game continued with rally. As the back and forth of the strokes got more and more tense, fast, everybody was holding their breath, waiting to see who would be the first to give the first of the third set.
Just as everyone was convinced that it’d last forever, referee blew the whistle, “Foot fault.” just as you were about to curse, he pointed at you, “One-all, this side wins the first point.”
At that moment, when you realized it wasn’t you but your opponent who had crossed the line, you let out a deep, relieved sigh. It was as if a burden you hadn’t even known you were carrying had been lifted from your shoulders in that instant.
After what felt like an eternity, you looked over at the seats in the stands where your mom and dad were sitting for the first time; your dad was giving you a thumbs-up and clapping. And next to him was your mother, clapping softly with a small smile on her face.
You swallowed hardly, got back into the game without overthinking it. Even though that look on her face was still lingering in the back of your mind, you focused on your serve; if you didn’t want that little smile to turn into a frown, your only option was to focus on your serve and win the second point.
When it was finally your turn to serve, you took your position and sent the ball over to the other side with a powerful serve. It landed with a ground stroke, making a loud thud sound as it hit her side. She received it with a backhand, sending the ball to your side without hesitation.
You kept passing the ball back and forth, and after a long rally of serves and shots, you won the set, 7-5. Now that the score was thirty-all, the draw had given you some relief and restored your self-confidence.
No matter whether you scored or missed, you’d glance over at the stands where your mother and father were sitting, and no matter what happened, that smile never left your father’s face. If you scored points, he cheered you on nonstop and clapped for you; if you lost points, he’d mouth, “It’s okay, stay calm,” but his smile never faded.
Then there was your mom. If you scored points, she’d give you that smile of hers—the one where she never compromises—and she’d cheer you on; but if you lost points… well, then every time you looked at her, every time your eyes fell on her, you’d feel regret. Even that smile you’d managed to coax out of her would fade from her face, replaced by a forced, insincere one; though she thought she acted the part perfectly and didn’t show it, you could tell from her expression that she wasn’t at all pleased.
With the score now 5-3, you only needed one more point to win. She was going to serve this time. After you both took your places and positions, she opened the match with service but because she threw the ball too fast, it went out of bonds, which was a violation of the rules.
As she felt herself getting closer to losing, her frustration was rising, escalating. Even though you felt deep down that you were getting closer to winning, you took your position again without letting your expectations get the better of you, and waited for her to serve her second service.
Just as you’d prepared yourself, thinking she wouldn’t make another mistake on her second serve, the referee blew the whistle again, “Net fault. The ball must go over the net; it cannot touch it or graze it.” he pointed at you, “This side wins the set with 6-3, and the score is 40-30.”
Just one set was needed, that one set and you’d won the game.
“Fuck.” you muttered under your breath as you missed your second service.
The first one was because you crossed the baseline and the second one was missed serve, which was a fail of hitting the ball into the correct service box.
You’d bottled up all the curses running through your mind, and at that moment you were so afraid to look over at where your parents were sitting. Because you knew exactly what you’d see and you’d be subjected to if you stared. Instead, you turned to Chris.
He’d been watching you intently ever since then; you’d heard him cheering from time to time, but right now he had a different look on his face—a look you hadn’t seen since the start of the game—a look of belief, reassurance.
“You'll win—just keep calm.” he mouthed, giving you a firm, small nod before gesturing for you to focus back.
You wanted to believe in him, you really did, but even though you could have won the match 6-4, you’d let it slip to a tie again—it was 5-5. To win, both of you needed two more points, a two-point lead. You’d gone back to square one. Instead of taking the easy way out, you made two mistakes on the serve and handed the point to your opponent with your own hands.
Even though you didn’t fully believe what Chris said, you took your position and waited for your opponent’s serve. She started the game with a strong, powerful service, makes you land to your side with a smash, makes you receive it with hurried and controlled steps. After sending it back to her side with a backhand, she received it with a volley, landing it to your side before it’s touched the ground.
But when the ball lands to her side with your slice, she gets confused whether to receive it with a topspin or backspin, she mixes up her moves and the ball drops to the ground without her attempting to receive it.
“6-5, match point.” referee announces as he points at you.
You let out a deep breath, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand quickly. You were just one point away from winning. Once you’d taken your place behind the baseline with that in mind, you got into position to serve.
Your goal was to make it difficult for her to return the ball with a single powerful stroke and then gradually force her to give up while returning the shots, which is exactly what happened.
You started the game with an ace, landing the ball into her side with a smash, making her move quick to catch the ball and receive it at the last second. The strokes kept coming one after another, she was going feral, just like you. Her strokes were landing to your side with loud thud sounds, you were receiving them with overheads, but when you find her weak spot one moment, you take a deep breath and with a strong forehand, you land it to her side with a half-volley, getting her stumble over her own feet and making it difficult for her to receive and send it back.
And the long awaited sound, the referee’s whistle.
“Match is over. This side wins with 7-5, congrats.” he points at you one last time and a round of applause erupts from the stands.
Just as you’re thanking the referee and nodding, you saw Chris was about to come to the court, but you gestured him to stop, pointed at your mother and father with your brows and he stepped back immediately, putting his cap back on as he walked away from the stands before giving you one last glance that says “We’ll talk later.” in the most simple way.
And within seconds, notifications started coming in one after another.
Chris: I knew you'd win anyway; I'm so proud of you, my love.
Chris: Enjoy your winning with your family today; tomorrow we’ll spend time together and celebrate your win. I love you so much.”
An involuntary smile spread across your face but with your father was walking toward you with that proud smile on his face, and behind him, your mother was walking slowly, a smile on her face that was proud but also seemed to be trying to show off or prove something to others, that smile on your face faded a little.
“That’s my girl—I’m so proud of you. Congratulations, my dearest.” he closes the distance between you with a few strides and hugs you tightly.
“Thanks dad, I can't even believe myself that I won…” you murmur as you hug him back just as tight.
“But you did and you should be proud of yourself too, you have to be.” he says, voice muffling against your neck.
You laughed softly, “Thank you, dad.” voice low but grateful.
As your father slowly pulled away from you and you turned to your mother, you exchanged a brief glance; you waited for her to embrace you, but she didn’t take a single step.
“Congrats, sweetie. You were so good out there.” she smiled, slowly patted your forearm and then stepped back without an attempt to hug you.
You swallowed hardly, nodded without showing how you really felt, “Thanks mom.”
She nodded slightly and when someone else called out to her, she turned to them immediately. With that proud smile on her face and his pretentious manner—even though she was trying to appear humble—she was bragging about your winning as if it was her instead.
Your mother hadn’t changed, and she never would. Even if you told her the news of your world championship, she’d never bother to show you her joy or pride; instead, she’d use you to praise you to others, to boast about you. But never directly.
“Don’t get hung up on her—she’s acting this way because everyone’s around right now, but once we get home, she’ll show her feelings in a better way; she was really happy when you won, trust me.” your dad said, draped his arm around your shoulder with a squeeze.
You shrugged, “I dunno, dad. But it doesn’t matter now, really. Anyone who wanted to hug would’ve done it, just like you. But she chose not to, so I don’t care anymore.”
“She will, you just trust me, okay?” he kissed the top of your head and ruffled your hair slightly.
You let out a sound mix of groan and chuckle, “Okay, okay… I trust you. Just stop playing with my hair, Gosh.” you muttered with a feigned annoyance as he kept ruffling it.
“You know that I love you so much, right?” he asked as he stopped ruffling your hair.
You looked up at him with a witty smile, “Nuh… I don’t know. Do you?”
He rolled his eyes playfully, pinching the tip of your nose a little, “You know I do and I always will, don’t you ever forget that.”
You chuckled heartily, hugged his neck again, “I love you too, dad.” you muttered into his neck quietly.
You almost always trusted your father’s words, and you wanted to trust him about the things he said regarding your mother; you expected her to hug you when you got home and tell you, “I’m proud of you.” with her whole heart, sincerely.
Your only hope was that your father would be proven right.
Because your father had to take care of something urgent about work, you came home with just your mom.
The moment you stepped into the house, you turned around at the sound of your mother’s voice; she was hanging her coat on the coat rack, “Everyone kept saying how great the game was and congratulated you…” she let out a sigh, “I was about to say, “After all that training, she should at least win,” but I held back thankfully.”
She must be fucking kidding, right?
When you got home, you were expecting her to properly congratulate you and give you a hug or something, but were those the first words she said?
You don’t think, you walk toward her with a few strides and stand in front of her, “Are you serious?”
She shrugs, “Yeah. I mean am I wrong though? All that training was obviously to win, and you did win, but everyone’s making such a big deal out of it—“
“Making such a big deal out of it, are you joking with me mom?” you ask, your voice a little rough at the edges, “People are congratulating me, and you’re saying they’re overreacting—that I’m just doing what I’m supposed to do—or am I misunderstanding?”
Silence stretches until it thins and she frowns, “That’s exactly what I meant to say—so what?”
Your throat stalls, “Mom—“ it comes out like a cough, so you swallow and try again, “Is winning a game something I’m supposed to do in your eyes? Don’t I even deserve a congratulations, a simple hug?”
There’s something sharp in her voice now, “I’ve already congratulated you; if you want me to hug you that much, I’ll hug you.” she said as if it was the easiest thing.
When she took a step to hug you, you halted her moves with your hand, “No need anymore. The real problem is that you ignore my work, my training, and all the effort I put in. While I was out there figuring out how to win and planning my next move, I was also wondering how you’d react if I lost—how angry you’d get with me—but I realize now that even if I win, it doesn’t change a damn thing for you; on the contrary, you just look down on my winning…”
“I’m not downplaying your efforts or anything.” she says, voice tightening like a knot you can’t see.
Your voice is too bright, skimming, “So why did you say it was so pointless for people to congratulate me the moment we walked through the door? Even strangers congratulated me more sincerely than you did; even my friends gave me a hug, but you thought I deserved only a brief congratulations. Not even a hug.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose, “Can you stop repeating yourself? All you keep saying is the same thing.“
“You’re making me do nothing but repeat myself, mom. Up until now, I thought the problem was Chris—maybe it was. But now the problem isn’t just him; the problem is me. The problem is… the way you make it seem like everything I do in every game is just something that’s supposed to happen, something simple, and the way you constantly remind me that the games I win aren’t worth praising or acknowledging. The way you treat me—even as I’m scrambling to please you and win even the slightest bit of your support—is getting worse than ever!”
The calm thins, shows metal, “Don’t treat me like I’m some kind of awful mother!”
“But that’s exactly what you’re.” the words land with a dull finality, no flourish, no room for appeal, “What a daughter tries to win a game just to please her mom, or to win so her mom won’t get mad at her? I forgot all about myself—I disregarded my own success, I ignored it, just to get your damn approval and support!”
She’s relentless as she starts to raise her voice even more, “Talk to me properly, or we’ll fall out in the end, you hear me?”
“What difference would it make if we fell out, mom, as long as you haven’t changed?” a breath, shaky with effort you won’t name, “You still think you're in the right and that I'm overreacting—what's the big deal if we grow apart, huh?”
She lets out a small, strangled sound that she tried to disguise as a laugh, “You really are insatiable, you know that, right?”
Your jaw clenches so hard your teeth ache, “Insatiable? Is that all you have to say to me? Instead of trying to win me over, are you insulting me again?“
“What did I do to upset you, huh? I congratulated you, I was happy for you—and then, because of one little thing I said, I’m suddenly the most horrible mother in the world?!” she says, loud and with turmoil.
“You’ve never been happy for me, and you’ve never genuinely congratulated me.” you exhale hard, like a door kicked shut, “I thought the problem was Chris; I defeated him, but nothing changed. I won today’s match, but nothing changed. I don’t know what you expect from me anymore.” a pause, “Do you really think I didn’t see that look on your face, that way your face dropped, every time I lost a point? Because you always wanted to be in my shoes.” you said, the words just slipped out without thinking twice.
Her frown deepened, “What the hell are you talking about?”
You inhale sharply through your nose, “At first I thought the problem was Chris; I thought you always wanted me to be better than him, and that you wanted to show off at my expense, but I realize now that’s not the case.” a pause, “You wanted me to fulfill the dreams you couldn’t achieve yourself, and then told others about me as if they were your own accomplishments. The better I became, the better you’d have been; all your friends would have showered you with praise for how well you’d raised me. That’s why every time I lost, and every time Chris won, it ate away at you. When the praise became too much, you couldn’t handle it; once you realized the praise wasn’t for you, you belittled my success, my efforts.”
“You—“ she feels it, low and hot, “You don’t have a clue what you’re saying. Who do you think you are that I’d try to be in your shoes, huh?”
You shake your head slowly, “Deny it all you want, but you know I’m right.”
She barks a laugh, a dry, papercut sound, “You're so full of yourself, I don’t know who put you up to this, but it definitely wasn’t me.” she doesn’t wait, “Just look at how highty and mighty you’re acting just because you won one little game.”
You exhale a laugh that isn’t, “You're freaking out ‘cause you're not in my shoes; it's gnawing at you.”
“Who do you think you are that I’d want something like that, huh?” she keeps going, reckless now, “I’m the one who brought you to this position, who raised you—“
“Don’t—don’t you dare think you had any part in my success or that you raised me.” you snap, the words ricocheting, “I couldn’t have done any of this without my father; he was the only one—and I mean only one—who was there for me. Don’t you dare try to take credit for this. All you did was demoralize me and belittle my efforts. I achieved all of this through my own hard work and effort, okay? Because of those practices you looked down on and thought were pointless, you bragged about yourself and showed off to your friends at my expense. If I hadn’t worked so hard, you wouldn’t have been able to make even a fraction of your dream come true.”
“Get out of my house, get the hell out and don’t ever come back.” she’s seething now, seething and fiercely protective, “Pack your things and get out.“
The room tilts. You freeze. Your mouth opens and nothing helpful comes out. Her words land hard enough to bruise.
“As expected.” you spit your last word and go upstairs to pack your belongings.
The moment you turn your back, the tears you’ve been holding back since a little while ago start streaming down your cheeks; after going into your room and slamming the door shut, you start sobbing uncontrollably. It never even crossed your mind that the argument could end this way, that you’d eventually be kicked out of the house—or that your mother could be so heartless.
You immediately pulled your suitcase out of the closet and started shoving your belongings inside, your sobs continuing unceasingly as tears streamed down your face.
Even if you didn’t have all your belongings, you’d at least gathered the things you’d need right now.
And you texted the only person who came to mind.
You: Can you come and pick me up?
let me know your thoughts about the fic in the comments below, thanks for reading :)
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