Saina Rathi
1
The red clay of Delhi Tennis Academy felt like home to Ananya Rai. Every morning, at exactly six-fifteen, she’d step onto Court Four, breathe in the warm scent of sunbaked dust, and begin her drills before the city’s traffic could find its voice. She lived for the thwack of the ball against her strings, for the rhythm of her shoes sliding into position, for the moment her serve arched into the perfect curve, sharp and fast. Today was no different—except for the buzz floating around the academy like static.
She bounced the ball once, twice, and then launched it across the net. The ace whizzed past the cone target and thudded into the back fence. Coach Dev, tall and no-nonsense, whistled from the side with a rare nod of approval. “Good, Ananya. Your placement’s tighter. Keep it like that for the Trials.”
She nodded, panting, the sweat already glistening on her temple. The National Selection Trials were a week away. This was it—the gateway to the senior women’s circuit. It was the moment she had prepared for since she was eleven and her brother Kabir had first handed her a racquet. He had been the rising star once—India No. 5 in juniors—until the car accident that took his mobility but not his love for the sport. Now, he was her coach, her strategist, and her anchor.
She walked off court, towel around her neck, when the sound of a luxury SUV slamming shut drew everyone’s attention. Heads turned. From the passenger side stepped a tall figure in a fitted black tracksuit, racquet bag slung over one shoulder. Sunglasses, expensive haircut, unmistakably not local. Ananya narrowed her eyes. A few whispers followed.
“That’s Aarav Singh, right?”
“Yeah, wildcard entry. Trains in Spain or something.”
Ananya rolled her eyes. Another rich kid trying to “discover his roots” through a tennis tournament. She was already annoyed. But then, he stepped onto Court One, picked up a ball, and served. It was fast. Deadly. Topspin heavy, dropping just inside the service box with brutal precision. The coach on that court actually dropped his clipboard.
Hmm.
Later, in the locker room corridor, she almost bumped into him as she rounded the corner. He stepped aside and offered a polite, “Hey.”
“Hi,” she replied coolly, barely pausing.
“You’re Ananya, right? I saw your U-18 finals last year. Great movement on clay.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve done your research.”
He laughed, a soft, easy sound. “I like to know who I’m up against.”
She offered a tight smile. “Well, now you do. Delhi clay’s not the same as Marbella.”
“I’m here to learn,” he said with a shrug. “And earn my spot.”
“Then earn it,” she replied, walking past. “No one’s giving you anything here.”
The next day, Coach Dev pinned the draw sheet for the practice matches. A simulated tournament to prepare them for the real pressure. Ananya walked over and scanned the names.
First Round: Ananya Rai vs Aarav Singh.
She didn’t flinch. “Perfect,” she muttered.
Kabir, watching from his wheelchair, smiled. “Be careful. That wildcard has a good drop shot.”
“I have better footwork.”
“Sure. Just don’t lose your head.”
She didn’t plan to. But something about Aarav—his unruffled calm, his laugh, his clean technique—made her strangely alert.
Match day arrived. A crowd of juniors and academy staff gathered around Court Two. It wasn’t just the match-up; it was the energy. Ananya, the hometown fighter with fire in her eyes. Aarav, the unknown quantity with Spanish training and a face like a sportswear ad.
They warmed up silently. When they shook hands at the net, Aarav said, “Try not to hate me if I win.”
“I won’t,” she replied, gripping her racquet. “I’ll just beat you back.”
The match was electric. Ananya dominated early, her forehands deep, her angles sharp. But Aarav adjusted quickly, throwing in drop shots, sudden lobs, backhand slices that forced her to run, change direction, stretch. It was the kind of match that demanded both brains and legs.
They split sets 6–4, 4–6.
The third set was brutal. Every point was a miniature war. Ananya’s calves burned. Aarav’s shirt clung to him in sweat. But their eyes were locked only on each other.
At 5–5, deuce, Aarav served wide. Ananya anticipated it, returned cross-court with venom. He scrambled and lofted a desperate lob. She rushed forward, timed her leap, and smashed it down the middle.
Point.
Then game.
Then match.
She shook his hand again, chest heaving.
“You’re better than YouTube,” he said, flashing a grin.
“You’re not bad for a wildcard,” she smirked.
Later, on the bleachers, Kabir teased, “You play better when you like your opponent.”
“I don’t like him,” she said too quickly.
Kabir raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say you did.”
That night, she found herself scrolling through Aarav’s public Instagram. Nothing flashy. Mostly slow-mo serves, beaches, books. One post caught her eye: a photo of a clay court at sunset with the caption, I don’t play for medals. I play for peace.
The next morning, she arrived at the academy to find Aarav already hitting balls with Coach Dev. She walked past them, but he paused and turned.
“Another match sometime?” he called out.
She didn’t turn. “Only if you bring your A-game.”
Behind her, she heard him say, “Always.”
And something, somewhere inside her—shifted.
2
Three days after their match, Ananya still felt its echo in her limbs. The aching in her thighs, the sore shoulder—it was the kind of satisfying pain that reminded her of a fight well fought. She hadn’t expected to be pushed that far in a practice match. But Aarav had done more than push her. He had stirred something in her she couldn’t quite define, and that bothered her more than any lost point.
Kabir watched her do resistance band drills and said without looking up, “Still thinking about the wildcard?”
She scowled, adjusting her grip. “I’m thinking about the Trials.”
Kabir smirked. “Same thing these days.”
Ananya shot him a glare but said nothing. The truth was, Aarav was everywhere now. He had charmed the ball boys, won over the academy physio, and even managed to make Coach Dev smile—something she’d never seen in her five years at the academy. But it wasn’t just that. He was good. He trained early, stayed late, and he watched her. Not in a creepy way, but like he was studying her game, trying to unlock something. And she hated that she had started doing the same with him.
That evening, she found him alone on Court Three, working on his returns. She hadn’t meant to stop, but her feet did. His backhand was a thing of beauty—low, compact, with that Spanish-school bite.
“You drop your elbow too much when you rush the baseline,” she said aloud.
He turned, surprised. “That’s bold, coming from someone who hugs the baseline like a security blanket.”
She walked in and leaned against the fence. “I win from there.”
“Until someone makes you run.”
“Then I run.”
He served a ball down the T, hitting the cone. “Let’s hit.”
She hesitated. “Now?”
“Unless you’re scared.”
She grabbed her racquet from the bench and stepped in. “Scared is what you’ll be when I break your serve.”
They rallied, the floodlights warming to life above them, washing the court in white glow. There was no score, no spectators—just the two of them, trading shots like secrets. Her breath synced with his footwork. Her volleys grew sharper. His defense tighter. The rhythm was natural, like they’d done this a hundred times.
“You play angry,” he said after a while, between rallies.
“Angry wins,” she replied, slicing a drop shot.
“Maybe. But it’s also lonely.”
She paused, letting the ball roll past her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Aarav wiped his face with his sleeve. “Just that… you don’t let yourself enjoy the game. You dominate it, own it, but you don’t let it breathe.”
She opened her mouth to snap back, but stopped. Because part of her knew he was right. And that part was uncomfortable.
“You sound like Kabir,” she muttered.
“Your brother’s smart.”
She turned away. “We’re done here.”
He didn’t stop her. “See you tomorrow, Ananya.”
But his words chased her to her dorm, to her cold shower, to her restless sleep. That night, she dreamt of a match without spectators, where every serve she hit came back faster, and Aarav’s eyes stayed on her, unreadable.
The next morning, Coach Dev announced that the final practice match series would begin—ranked players would face off, and the results would shape seedings for the Trials. It wasn’t an official tournament, but reputations would rise or fall.
Ananya was scheduled to face Priya Malhotra, the current No. 3 at the academy. She respected Priya. Defensive, relentless, strategic—like a wall that refused to break.
But the night before the match, she found herself on Court Five again, shadow swinging under the lights. She was in mid-motion when a familiar voice said, “Want me to feed you balls?”
She turned to see Aarav holding a basket.
She hesitated, then nodded. “Only if you promise not to comment on my breathing.”
He smiled and walked in. “No promises.”
They began. He fed balls—fast, wide, short, deep—and she returned each one with sharp footwork and laser focus. He never praised, never critiqued, just kept the tempo.
“Why are you really here?” she asked during a water break.
“I told you,” he said. “To earn my spot.”
“No. I mean here. This country. This academy.”
He looked at her, his gaze momentarily unguarded. “My mother died last year. She grew up in India. She always said she wanted me to see the place she came from. I figured if I was going to come, I should come as a player. It’s the only way I know how to connect.”
Ananya stared at him. The answer hit harder than she expected.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
He shrugged. “Thanks. It’s weird, isn’t it? How we chase things that hurt.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t seem hurt.”
“I play through it.”
She understood that. More than he could know.
The next day, she faced Priya on Court One. The stands were packed with academy members, coaches, and juniors. Even Kabir wheeled in from the physio room to watch. And standing alone by the corner fence was Aarav, arms folded.
The match was a grind. Priya retrieved everything. Ananya attacked relentlessly, but Priya’s counterpunches were maddening. They split the first two sets. In the third, at 4–4, Ananya served and missed her first. She tossed the second, nerves bubbling. Aarav made a small gesture from the corner—a stilling hand, like telling her to breathe.
She did.
She served.
Ace.
That was all she needed.
She closed the set 6–4.
Kabir cheered. Coach Dev nodded. Priya clapped her back.
Aarav simply smiled.
Later, as they passed each other by the cafeteria, she didn’t stop, but said quietly, “You were right. I don’t let the game breathe.”
He looked up. “But you’re learning.”
She walked away without turning.
But for the first time in a long while, she smiled.
3
The morning after her win against Priya, Ananya woke to the sound of monsoon rain hitting the academy’s tin roof like a thousand tennis balls. She lay still for a moment, letting the rhythm calm her. Her legs ached pleasantly, and her shoulder reminded her of each forehand she had ripped into the corners. But something else stirred underneath it all—an emotion she didn’t quite know how to name. Gratitude? No. Excitement? Not really. It felt like the court had become a space for more than strategy and serves. Like someone had quietly pulled a chair onto her side of the net and sat down beside her.
By the time she made it to breakfast, most of the players were huddled inside, watching highlights on phones and gossiping about seed placements. Her match against Priya had made waves. “Did you see that backhand winner at 5–4?” someone whispered. “She’s playing with something extra now,” another added. She tuned them out and sat across from Kabir, who was scrolling through draw predictions with a knowing smile.
“Seed three,” he said, sliding his phone over. “You’re going in as the third-ranked player for the Trials.”
Ananya raised an eyebrow. “Not bad.”
“Not bad,” he agreed, “especially since number four is gunning for you.”
She didn’t need to ask who. She already knew.
Aarav Singh had won all his practice matches since their own clash. Clean wins. Clinical, focused. The wildcard had become a serious contender. And the academy knew it.
That afternoon, the rain finally let up, and the courts opened for indoor rally practice. She had just wrapped up a tough drill session when she saw Aarav near the wall, hitting forehands into a rebound net with controlled aggression. His shirt was drenched, his breathing steady, and his face unreadable.
“Hey,” she called. He paused, then looked over.
“You here to give me elbow advice again?”
She smirked. “Only if you’re still dropping it.”
He walked toward her, towel around his neck, eyes warm. “Congrats on the Priya match.”
“You saw?”
He nodded. “Every point. That slice pass at 3–2? Art.”
She shrugged, suddenly shy. “I just followed the plan.”
“No,” he said, “you danced with the match. That’s new.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You talk like tennis is poetry.”
“Isn’t it?”
She didn’t reply, but a corner of her mouth twitched. He noticed.
“Want to hit for a while?” he asked, gesturing toward the spare court.
She checked her watch. “Twenty minutes.”
They started soft. Forehands, backhands, side to side, no pressure. But soon, the intensity climbed. Ananya liked the way he responded to her pace, the way his racquet made that clean pop when it kissed the ball. They weren’t talking anymore, just letting the game say what words couldn’t.
At one point, she ran down a sharp cross-court angle and returned it with a spinning lob. He backpedaled, misjudged the bounce, and fell flat on his back.
She laughed. “You okay, wildcard?”
He groaned, then grinned from the floor. “You love embarrassing me.”
“I didn’t know I could.”
He sat up. “You surprise yourself a lot these days?”
She thought about that. “Maybe more than I admit.”
They sat on the sidelines after, sharing a protein bar and silence. Then Aarav spoke. “I got a call from Spain this morning. My coach wants me back for summer qualifiers.”
Ananya’s heart did a strange, unwelcome skip. “When?”
“Week after the Trials.”
“Oh.”
He looked at her, and for a second the air was too still. “I’m not sure if I’m going.”
She blinked. “Why wouldn’t you?”
He hesitated. “Because something feels unfinished here.”
Her gaze held his. “Tennis?”
“Maybe more.”
She stood abruptly. “You should go. You’ve got opportunities waiting.”
“Sometimes the real ones are standing right in front of you.”
Her voice came out sharper than she intended. “Don’t try to romanticize a court. It’s just a place.”
He didn’t flinch. “You don’t believe that.”
But she walked off before she could answer. Because he was right, and that scared her more than losing a final.
The next few days were a blur of interviews, photo shoots, and media prep. The Trials were now under national spotlight. News channels had latched onto the narrative: Local Champion Ananya Rai vs Spanish Wildcard Aarav Singh—New Age Rivalry Brewing in Delhi Courts. Every article, every photo had their names side by side. Her phone buzzed non-stop. She ignored it.
On the eve of the first round, the academy hosted a press meet. Players were asked to wear formals. Ananya, in a navy blazer and jeans, stood by the juice counter avoiding questions. Until Aarav joined her, in a crisp white shirt, looking annoyingly good.
“Why are you hiding?” he asked, sipping orange juice.
“Not hiding,” she said. “Just… waiting.”
“For what?”
She hesitated. “For this to feel real. I’ve worked for this since I was ten. Now it’s here and I feel…”
“Terrified?” he offered.
She looked at him. “Do you?”
“All the time.”
She laughed. “You don’t show it.”
He leaned closer, voice lower. “Neither do you. That’s why they’re watching.”
She looked away. “What happens if we face each other again?”
“We play.”
“And after?”
He paused. “We talk. If you let me.”
She was quiet for a beat. “We’ll see.”
Later that night, as she sat in her dorm room regripping her racquet, Kabir rolled in and handed her a folded note.
“What’s this?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Some guy asked me to give it to you.”
She opened it. In neat, looping handwriting, it read:
If the court is just a place, then why do you look most alive when you’re on it? – A
She folded it slowly, a strange warmth blooming in her chest.
Maybe the court wasn’t just lines and clay.
Maybe it was the only place where everything finally made sense.
4
Day One of the National Trials arrived with the sky bleached silver and tension thick in the air. Players moved like ghosts through the academy halls, nodding without speaking, headphones clamped tight, eyes cast down. Ananya stepped onto Court One with her game face on—a mask carved over years of learning not to flinch, not to care, not to feel. Her first-round opponent, a wildcard from Pune, was fast, but erratic. Ananya dismantled her in straight sets, 6–2, 6–1, barely sweating, the crowd murmuring about how she was “in form,” how her footwork looked “meaner,” how her eyes seemed “sharper.” She heard every word and absorbed none of it. She wasn’t playing for the murmurs. She was playing for Kabir, for herself, and for the fire that had started to flicker every time Aarav Singh’s name passed through her mind like a misplaced breath.
He played his match two hours later. Court Two. Ananya watched from the shadows of the upper stands, arms folded, hoodie up. Aarav was grace under pressure—every serve precise, every approach clean. He won 6–3, 6–4. No drama, just control. Except when he turned after match point and glanced directly up at her, as if he’d known she was watching all along.
They didn’t speak that day. She passed him once by the water cooler, and he nodded. She gave him nothing back. Her defenses were up again, even if her heart hadn’t got the memo.
Round Two was tougher. Her opponent was left-handed, mixing spins with awkward angles, forcing Ananya into longer rallies. She dropped the first set 4–6. Kabir watched from the baseline with tight lips. At the changeover, she sat in silence, towel over her head, trying not to let the panic in. Then, from beyond the fence, a voice cut through: “You’re chasing. Start building.”
Aarav.
She didn’t look at him. But she heard him. And her body listened. She broke serve in the second game of the next set and never looked back, taking it 6–2, then steamrolling the decider 6–1. When she turned around after match point, he was gone.
That night, she found a message slipped under her door. Folded neatly, unsigned.
Beautiful comeback. I know you hate compliments. But too bad. – A
She stared at it for a long time, then tucked it into her racquet bag, behind the overgrips and wristbands and superstition.
Quarterfinals brought her back to the same court as Aarav’s match, just at different times. They were now the talk of the Trials—two players climbing parallel ladders, fated to meet. The bracket promised a possible final showdown. Every reporter sensed the story brewing. Every camera panned to her face when his name was mentioned. Still, they hadn’t spoken in person since that whisper through the fence.
Until the day before the semifinals.
She was hitting alone under floodlights, trying to iron out the tension in her cross-court angles, when his shadow entered the court without invitation.
“You always push this hard the night before a big match?”
She kept hitting. “Only when I don’t want to think.”
“About tennis?”
“About distractions.”
He picked up a stray ball and tossed it gently toward her. “Am I a distraction?”
She caught it cleanly with her racquet and sent it flying back. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He grinned. “I’m trying not to.”
She sighed and dropped her racquet on the bench. “What are you doing here, Aarav?”
He walked over, sitting on the bench beside her but not too close. “You told me once the court isn’t just lines and rules. I didn’t understand it then. I think I do now.”
She looked at him sideways. “And what’s your big realization?”
“That this game isn’t just a performance. It’s… a confession. Every shot says something we won’t admit outside.”
She blinked. “That’s the most dramatic tennis philosophy I’ve ever heard.”
“Then you’ve been hanging out with the wrong players.”
They sat in silence, the buzz of insects rising in the warm night. Finally, she spoke. “I’m scared.”
He didn’t flinch. “Of what?”
“That I’m playing better when you’re watching. That it means something.”
He was quiet. Then, “It does. But that doesn’t make you weaker. It just makes you… alive.”
She turned to him fully. “What happens if we meet in the final?”
“We play.”
“And after?”
He took a deep breath. “We talk. Maybe without racquets. Maybe over coffee.”
She smiled faintly. “You think you’re winning the semifinal, then?”
“I don’t think,” he said. “I fight.”
The next day, both won again. Ananya in three bruising sets. Aarav in two ice-cold ones.
Finals.
It was happening.
Their names stood across from each other on the academy bulletin board like fate had planned it from day one. Students gathered to take photos. Coaches whispered predictions. Someone even created an Instagram poll: Team Aarav vs Team Ananya – Who Takes the Crown?
Kabir rolled up beside her locker, holding two bananas. “Want one, champ?”
She took it and peeled it slowly. “Everyone’s watching.”
He chuckled. “Of course they are. This is what you trained for.”
She nodded, then paused. “What if I lose?”
He met her eyes. “Then you learn. And if you win… you still learn. That’s what this is. Not a war. A window.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”
As she walked toward the court, past crowds and cameras and nerves, she spotted Aarav standing by the entrance gate, headphones off, head bowed. He looked up, eyes locking with hers.
And just like that, it wasn’t about the trophy anymore.
It was about the court.
The game.
The emotion strung between two players.
And everything left unsaid.
5
It was the kind of final that didn’t need hype. The moment Ananya and Aarav stepped onto the court, a hush spread through the stands as if the match had already begun without a ball being struck. The sky was bright but not blistering, a perfect Delhi morning that smelled faintly of wet clay and warm anticipation. Cameras lined the perimeter, academy juniors balanced on concrete railings for a better view, and Coach Dev sat motionless beside Kabir, whose knuckles were pale against the wheels of his chair. The match hadn’t even started, and already it felt like something sacred.
Ananya bounced the ball thrice and looked across the net. Aarav rolled his shoulders, eyes calm, racquet loose in his grip. There was no bravado between them, no nervous chatter. Only the charged quiet of two people who knew each other far better than they’d admit aloud.
“Ready?” the umpire called.
They both nodded.
Ananya to serve.
First ball: a wide slice. Aarav read it, returned deep to her backhand. She countered with a down-the-line screamer. Winner.
Fifteen-love.
A whisper rippled through the crowd.
She reset, served again. He chipped a slower return this time, testing her pace. She charged forward, volleyed cross-court, but he guessed right and sent a flicker of a passing shot beyond her reach.
Fifteen-all.
And so it began. Point by point, game by game. It wasn’t just a match—it was a dialogue. She’d hit deep into his forehand corner, and he’d answer with a slice that dared her to net-rush. He’d bait her into short balls, and she’d lob him with spin so sharp it left the crowd gasping. At 4–4, the first set teetered. Ananya served, up 30–15. She took a breath, looked to her right where Kabir sat, then tossed the ball.
Double fault.
The crowd murmured.
She bit her lip.
Aarav stepped in for the second serve return and unleashed a forehand winner. Break point.
She steadied herself, visualized the court in her mind, and delivered a pinpoint serve down the T. He barely got a frame on it.
Deuce.
Two more rallies, two more shifts.
Eventually, she held serve.
5–4.
The set ended two games later in her favor: 7–5.
The crowd clapped politely, but not wildly. They were too stunned by the level of tennis—by how clean it was, how personal.
As they sat on opposite benches sipping water and toweling off, Ananya glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at the scoreboard. He was looking at her.
“You okay?” he asked softly, just loud enough for her to hear over the buzz of the crowd.
She blinked. “Are you?”
“I’m not trying to win today,” he said, voice low, “just trying to tell you something I can’t say off court.”
She stared at him. Her pulse stuttered.
“Then say it,” she whispered.
He smiled. “I am.”
The second set began. And everything changed.
Aarav turned aggressive, charging the net, cutting points short, rushing her rhythm. He wasn’t just playing better—he was playing braver. Ananya adjusted, but her legs were slower now, her serve a little more predictable. At 2–5, down break point, she hit a flat forehand that clipped the net and dropped on her side.
Set to Aarav: 6–2.
One set all.
Kabir frowned from the side, sensing her hesitation. “Breathe, Anu,” he said aloud. “Back to basics.”
She nodded to herself. This wasn’t about drama. It was about belief.
Third set.
Final set.
They battled. They pushed. They ran down balls they had no business reaching. At 3–3, the sun dipped slightly and a warm breeze rolled in. Ananya wiped sweat from her brow, adjusted her wristband, and served with the crispness of her eleven-year-old self—fearless and free. But Aarav matched her stroke for stroke.
5–5.
She held serve with a backhand winner that kissed the line. 6–5.
Then, match point.
Aarav served. She returned deep. He approached the net. She lobbed. He leaped—and missed.
Ball out.
Game, set, match—Ananya Rai.
The crowd erupted. Kabir clapped till his palms turned red. Coach Dev stood up for the first time that day. But Ananya wasn’t smiling.
She walked to the net, chest heaving, and extended her hand.
Aarav took it.
They didn’t let go.
“That was…” she began.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“I’ve never played like that.”
He stepped closer, his voice almost drowned by applause. “Because you weren’t playing alone.”
She didn’t know what to say. She felt like crying. She didn’t. Instead, she asked, “Coffee?”
He smiled, eyes soft. “Thought you’d never ask.”
As they walked off court, the medal didn’t matter. The cameras didn’t matter. Only the quiet, shared rhythm of two people who had fallen in love one shot at a time.
6
The café was just outside the academy gates, a quiet little place where the espresso machine sputtered like an old scooter and the wooden tables wobbled slightly if you leaned too hard. Ananya had passed it a hundred times but never gone in. It didn’t feel like her kind of place—too slow, too soft, too sentimental. But that night, with the tournament behind her and Aarav beside her, it felt exactly right. The bell above the glass door tinkled as they entered. No cameras, no reporters, no coaches. Just them. She sat near the window while Aarav ordered. He returned with two cups, no sugar. She raised an eyebrow.
“You didn’t ask how I take it.”
“You look like a no-sugar person.”
“And you’d be wrong,” she said, sipping and grimacing. “I like it sweet. Bitter makes my tongue feel like punishment.”
He chuckled, took the cup back, dumped in two sachets of brown sugar, stirred, and returned it to her. “There. Redemption.”
She took another sip and nodded. “Better.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, the clinking of spoons and muffled conversations around them filling the quiet. She glanced at him, leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled. There was no pretense in him tonight. He looked exactly like he had on the court—present, open, real.
“You didn’t have to let me win, you know,” she said suddenly, testing him.
He met her eyes, amused. “Is that what you think?”
“I’m not sure. You played differently in the third set. Looser. Riskier.”
“Because I had to,” he replied. “You were reading me like a book.”
She smiled. “A predictable book?”
“No,” he said. “A brilliant one. I just… didn’t want it to end.”
Her gaze softened. “Me neither.”
Outside, the rain had begun again, tapping softly against the windowpane. She watched the drops slide down like tiny runners racing to the sill.
“When do you go back to Spain?” she asked.
He exhaled. “I don’t know. My coach wants me there in five days. Summer qualifiers begin soon.”
“Will you go?”
He shrugged. “I should.”
“But you don’t want to?”
“I want to stay where it matters,” he said, eyes fixed on hers.
The weight of that landed between them like a serve with too much spin—impossible to ignore.
“Aarav,” she began, unsure how to say what her chest had been holding all day, “I don’t do this. I don’t… mix tennis with anything else.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to be soft and sharp at the same time.”
“You don’t have to choose,” he said gently. “You just have to be honest.”
She looked down at her cup. “I’ve spent years building walls so I don’t feel anything on court. You come in like a monsoon and now everything’s dripping.”
He laughed. “That’s poetic.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t romanticize me.”
“Too late.”
They sat with that for a while, the tension now softer, like the quiet at the baseline just before the serve. Not fear. Not hesitation. Just the stretch of something beginning.
“You know what I kept thinking during our final?” he asked.
“What?”
“That I didn’t care about the medal. I just wanted to know if you’d come have coffee with me.”
She looked at him, stunned. “You idiot. You could’ve just asked.”
He smiled. “But this way, I got to play you at your best.”
She blushed, and it caught her off guard. She hadn’t blushed in years.
After an hour, they stepped out into the drizzle. He walked her back to her dorm, slow, unhurried, like neither of them wanted the evening to end. At the door, she paused.
“This doesn’t change anything about training,” she warned.
“Of course not.”
“I’m still competing for the same slots.”
“Obviously.”
“And I’m still going to beat you next time we play.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
She reached for the doorknob, then turned back. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For showing me that I can be fire and feel. Both.”
He stepped closer, his voice low. “Ananya, you’ve always been both. I just had the privilege to notice.”
Then, without asking, without rushing, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
She stood still.
Just breathing.
The next morning, she woke to a message from the All India Tennis Association. She had been selected to represent India at the Asian U-21 Championship in Bangkok.
Kabir rolled into her room holding his phone, face glowing. “You’re in. You’re going to Bangkok!”
She stared at the message, her heart pounding.
“And so is Aarav,” Kabir added casually. “Dual entry. Mixed doubles included.”
Ananya blinked. “Wait. Mixed?”
Kabir nodded. “You two got nominated as a wildcard pair for the mixed category. You’re being sent as India’s best shot.”
She sat back on her bed.
Mixed doubles.
With Aarav.
The universe had a strange sense of humor.
She texted him one word:
“Partners?”
His reply came within seconds.
“Always.”
7
The Bangkok heat was not like Delhi’s. It didn’t burn—it clung. Thick, salty air draped itself over Ananya’s skin the moment she stepped out of Suvarnabhumi Airport. She adjusted her cap and glanced sideways at Aarav, who looked entirely too comfortable in the humidity, sipping coconut water like a local. He caught her glance and raised a brow. “What?”
“You look like you’ve been here ten times.”
“Only twice. But I have excellent hydration habits.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your forehand’s better than your jokes. Barely.”
The Indian team had arrived two days before the U-21 Asian Championship to acclimatize and train. Ananya had always imagined her first international assignment to be a solo journey—headphones in, eyes forward, mission mode. But now she found herself in a doubles draw with someone who made her laugh too easily and think too often.
Their first practice session was awkward. Not because of skill—if anything, their styles matched shockingly well. Aarav’s net instincts complemented Ananya’s baseline precision, and when they focused, they were magnetic. But the off-court shift between them kept leaking in. Every time their fingers touched during a mid-court conference, her heart did a ridiculous stutter. Every time he leaned close to whisper about serve positions, she forgot what her right hand was supposed to do.
Coach Dev, flown in to supervise the India squad, noticed. “You two need to clean up the footwork,” he said after their first scrimmage. “Too much crossing in the middle.”
Ananya nodded, wiping her face with a towel.
Aarav said nothing.
Later, in the hotel hallway, she cornered him. “Are we doing this or not?”
He blinked. “Doing what?”
“Playing like teammates. I need to know if we’re still competing or collaborating.”
His expression softened. “We’re both.”
“That’s not sustainable.”
“It is if we trust each other.”
She looked at him for a long beat. “Can you switch it off? The… whatever-this-is between us?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I can channel it.”
“And if we lose because of it?”
“We won’t.”
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning like a slow rally. Her fingers itched to text him. But she didn’t. Instead, she opened her notebook and wrote a single sentence: I’m afraid to want something that wants me back.
Their first mixed doubles match was scheduled against the Korean second seeds—fast, flashy, and notoriously hard to break. Ananya tightened her shoelaces courtside, focusing on her breath. Aarav stood beside her, doing shadow swings, lips moving silently. She turned to him. “You good?”
He nodded. “Let’s dance.”
The first set was brutal. Their opponents peppered her with low volleys and sliced through Aarav’s net coverage with inside-out returns. They dropped the set 4–6.
In the break, Coach Dev gave them ten seconds of silence before speaking. “You’re not playing your game. You’re playing scared.”
Aarav turned to her. “You want me to lead more?”
“No,” she said. “I want you to trust me.”
He nodded.
They entered the second set with renewed clarity. She served with venom. He intercepted volleys like lightning. Their communication sharpened—hands gesturing, eyes locking between points, steps syncing like choreography. The crowd began to buzz.
They won the second set 6–2.
Third set: super tie-break.
Every point was a heartbeat. At 6–6, Aarav placed a perfect poach down the middle. 7–6. Then Ananya fired an ace down the T. 8–6. The Koreans fought back. 8–8. Then 9–8.
Match point.
Aarav served wide. The return came fast and deep to Ananya’s forehand. She ran, swung, and cracked it down the line. Winner.
10–8.
They had won.
For a second, no one moved.
Then Aarav turned to her, laughing, breathless, and wrapped her in a hug before she could object. She froze—then melted into it.
The crowd clapped. Cameras flashed.
Coach Dev smirked. “Finally.”
Later, in the locker room, Aarav sat beside her, both of them spent and silent. He handed her a water bottle.
She took it. “Thanks.”
He turned to her. “You know I’m falling for you, right?”
Her throat tightened.
“I’ve been trying not to,” he added. “But you make it impossible.”
She stared at him, terrified by how much she wanted to say yes.
“I’m not asking for anything now,” he continued. “Not during the tournament. I just needed to say it out loud. You deserve honesty.”
She looked down at her shoes. “I’ve never done this before. The whole… feelings thing.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to lose focus.”
“You won’t,” he said. “You’ll just learn a new kind of focus.”
She exhaled. “You talk like love is a serve I’ve never practiced.”
He smiled. “Maybe it is. But you’ve got the best grip for it.”
She laughed, despite herself.
As they walked out of the locker room together, side by side, the Thai sunset poured over them like approval.
And for the first time, Ananya wasn’t afraid of being seen with him.
8
The next morning, Ananya woke before her alarm. The Bangkok sky outside her hotel window was still ink blue, the edges beginning to blur with dawn. The sheets around her were twisted, sleep having been more of a suggestion than a state. She lay still, thinking of Aarav’s voice from the night before—You know I’m falling for you, right? It played like a looping rally in her mind, over and over, the rhythm of it unsettling and strangely beautiful. No one had ever said anything like that to her with such quiet certainty. She had lived years in the ruthless economy of ambition, where love was a luxury she didn’t have time for. But now, with the tournament underway and her name on the mixed doubles draw, something had shifted. He wasn’t a distraction. He had become… a rhythm.
Their quarterfinal match was set for noon. The opponents were a Thai-Japanese pair with a reputation for unpredictability—he served with a left-handed slice that kissed the lines, and she volleyed like a magician, eyes always two points ahead. As Ananya and Aarav entered the stadium, the announcer’s voice echoed in both English and Thai. The crowd was thinner than before, but louder—clapping, whistling, holding signs with sharpie-drawn hearts next to their names. Somewhere, someone had labeled them India’s Golden Pair.
“Pressure,” Aarav muttered, cracking his knuckles.
Ananya smirked. “I thrive on it.”
Coach Dev sat just behind the baseline in the coaching box, arms crossed, eyes steely. Kabir had called her earlier from Delhi—his voice filled with pride, teasing her just once: “Don’t come back married to your doubles partner, okay?” She had groaned and hung up, smiling so hard it hurt.
The first set began strong. They moved like clockwork—Aarav poaching at the net, Ananya controlling rallies from the baseline. They broke early and held firm. Aarav’s serves were fluid, his court coverage instinctive. Ananya fed him opportunities with deep shots and angled returns. The scoreboard ticked like a metronome.
6–3, first set.
In the break, as they sipped water and dabbed sweat from their brows, Aarav leaned in and said softly, “You make it look easy.”
“It’s not,” she said, catching her breath. “It’s just… right.”
He smiled, and they bumped fists.
But the second set was war.
The Thai-Japanese duo returned with a vengeance. Their pace accelerated, their formations switched without warning. Suddenly, Ananya’s shots weren’t landing as deep, Aarav’s net play became reactive, and they were trailing.
1–4.
Coach Dev made a subtle signal—slow it down.
Ananya took the next point with a slice return, followed by a deft lob. Aarav held serve, and the energy shifted. The comeback began. They clawed back game by game.
5–5.
The crowd was on its feet.
At 6–6, it went to a tie-break.
Aarav served first, aced. 1–0.
The next rally lasted 28 shots, ending with Ananya sliding wide and whipping a cross-court forehand that clipped the line.
2–0.
They kept going, matching pressure with poise.
At 6–3, triple match point.
Ananya stood at the baseline, bouncing the ball.
Aarav looked back at her from the net. “One more?”
She nodded. “Let’s finish this.”
She served wide. The return came short. Aarav stepped in, volleyed sharp. The Japanese player lunged and sent it back, low and spinning. Ananya rushed in, reached low, and flicked a forehand just over the tape.
It dropped in.
Game, set, match—India.
The stadium erupted.
They didn’t cheer immediately. They just looked at each other, eyes wide with disbelief, then broke into identical grins. Aarav lifted her hand and kissed it before she could protest. She blushed, genuinely, as the cameras flashed.
Later, in the locker room, she sat beside him, their legs barely touching. She was too tired to talk, but too exhilarated to be silent.
He nudged her knee gently. “What are you thinking?”
“That I never thought I’d care about doubles.”
“Because of me?”
“No,” she said. “Because I never thought I’d care about… sharing the court. Sharing space. Sharing anything.”
He turned toward her. “And now?”
“Now it feels like we’re playing one match—with two racquets.”
He leaned in slowly, cautiously, but this time she didn’t flinch. She met him halfway.
It was a kiss that didn’t need words—soft, sure, sealed in sweat and sunlight.
After, she pulled back and whispered, “Don’t let this get in the way.”
“It won’t,” he promised. “It’s not in the way. It’s the way.”
That night, they went for a walk along the Chao Phraya River, avoiding the press and skipping the team dinner. They sat on a bench, watching the ferry lights blink on the water.
She rested her head on his shoulder.
He took her hand.
For once, there was no strategy, no footwork, no score.
Just stillness.
Just swing.
9
The finals were scheduled for Sunday morning at ten, but Ananya was already awake at six, sitting on the balcony of her hotel room with a banana in one hand and a nervous flutter behind her ribs that refused to settle. Bangkok moved below her in sleepy patterns—street vendors unpacking crates, delivery bikes buzzing like mosquitoes, monks in saffron robes weaving between morning walkers. It was a beautiful distraction, but it couldn’t drown out the anticipation building inside her. She wasn’t afraid of the match. She was afraid of everything that came after.
She and Aarav hadn’t spoken much since the quarterfinal win. Not because something had gone wrong—but because everything suddenly felt too right. In the locker room, in the elevator, in the hotel corridor, their eyes met in silence that felt louder than anything they’d said before. It was as if the court had opened a door between them, and now they stood at its threshold, hearts thudding, uncertain who should cross first.
Their semifinal had been clinical. They beat the Chinese third seeds 6–4, 6–2, barely breaking a sweat. On paper, it was domination. Off paper, it was orchestration—movements woven like music, hands brushing mid-rally, glances thrown not just for coordination but for confirmation: I’m here. I’ve got you.
And now it was the final.
Coach Dev called a short strategy session an hour before the match. Aarav sat beside her, quiet, focused. The South Korean team they were facing had gone undefeated all season—big serves, fast hands, and no weak spots. Dev scribbled on a whiteboard about net play and returning formations, but Ananya only half-listened. Her mind kept drifting to Aarav’s fingers, tapping lightly on his knee in a nervous rhythm she recognized from their first practice session in Delhi. He always did that before a big match. And he always played better afterward.
As they entered Centre Court, the stadium buzzed with more people than ever. Flags, banners, chants. The announcer’s voice boomed in three languages. “Representing India: Ananya Rai and Aarav Singh!” The crowd roared.
She glanced at Aarav. He squeezed her hand once—tight, quick, grounding. “We’ve got this.”
She nodded. “One point at a time.”
First set.
It was a storm.
The Koreans came out swinging. Their male player served bullets that barely gave Aarav time to react. Their female player cut angles like a surgeon, catching Ananya flat-footed more than once. At 1–5, Ananya slammed a backhand into the net and cursed under her breath.
Aarav walked over. “Breathe.”
“I am.”
“You’re thinking too much.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You do that scrunchy thing with your forehead.”
She scowled. “Don’t analyze my forehead.”
“Then stop frowning at the score.”
She laughed, despite herself.
They lost the set 2–6.
In the break, Coach Dev didn’t speak. He just handed them water and nodded once.
Second set began differently. Ananya’s returns grew heavier, deeper. Aarav found the rhythm of his volleys. They started anticipating the Koreans’ patterns, forcing errors, stealing momentum. The crowd felt it too—the volume rising with every break point saved, every rally won.
At 5–3, Aarav served with his usual casual stance but sent in an ace that curled at the last second.
Set India: 6–3.
One set all.
Final set: super tie-break to 10.
The stadium felt like it was holding its breath.
Ananya stood at the baseline, ready to serve.
Aarav looked at her. “No matter what happens,” he said, “this has been the best match of my life.”
She met his gaze. “Mine too.”
They began.
1–1.
2–2.
3–4.
5–5.
Then a miscommunication at the net—both moved for the same shot. Collision. Missed point.
5–6.
Aarav turned, breathing hard. “My bad.”
“Forget it.”
6–6.
Then 8–7.
Then 9–8.
Match point.
Ananya’s serve.
She bounced the ball once, twice, then stopped.
Aarav stepped forward. “Hey.”
She looked at him.
“You’ve already won,” he said.
“Don’t jinx it.”
“I’m not talking about the match.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She served.
The return was deep, fast. Aarav lunged, deflected it mid-air. It popped up.
The Korean woman rushed forward, looking for the kill.
Ananya anticipated it, stepped in, and drove a forehand down the line with all the weight of every sleepless night, every lonely drill, every wall she had built—and every one she had let fall.
Winner.
10–8.
The stadium exploded.
The Indian bench ran onto the court.
Medals were placed around their necks. The anthem played. Photographers shouted. Somewhere, Coach Dev was smiling with his arms crossed, and Kabir was probably crying in his living room back home.
But all Ananya saw was Aarav.
He pulled her close, not like a celebration but like a thank you.
“I love you,” he whispered into her hair.
She froze.
Then melted.
“I know,” she whispered back.
And just like that, she crossed the threshold.
10
Home didn’t feel like home until the Delhi clay kissed the soles of her shoes again. Ananya stepped onto Court Four exactly three days after returning from Bangkok, the gold medal tucked inside her bag, not out of modesty but out of something gentler—ownership. She didn’t need to flaunt it. She had lived it. The red dust puffed under her steps like old memory, like a place that had waited for her to come back whole. She bounced a ball, glanced around the empty court, and served. Crisp, straight down the T. Ace. Of course no one was watching—there didn’t need to be anyone. It was her reminder: the game had always been her constant.
Kabir was already at the academy canteen when she joined him later, sipping sweet lime soda and pretending not to have teary eyes behind his sunglasses. “Look at you,” he said, grinning. “International medalist. Youth icon. India’s new golden girl.”
“Stop,” she said, poking his shoulder. “You sound like a YouTube comment.”
“You love it.”
She smiled, then hesitated. “I’m scared.”
He leaned back. “Of?”
“That I’ll forget how this felt. That winning will become… expected. That love will become routine.”
Kabir’s voice softened. “Ananya, you’ve always been the girl who fights. But now you’ve learned to feel. That’s not weakness. That’s power.”
She nodded slowly. “Do you like him?”
“Aarav?”
“Yeah.”
Kabir smirked. “I like anyone who makes you text with emoji hearts at midnight.”
She groaned. “I didn’t!”
“You did.”
They both laughed.
Across town, Aarav had landed an hour earlier. He texted her from the cab: Back. Craving paranthas. Missing you more.
She typed back: Court Four. One set? Winner buys lunch.
His reply came instantly: I was hoping you’d say that.
By noon, they were back where it all started. Opposite ends of Court Four, rackets in hand, hearts probably still bruised from Bangkok but beating in rhythm anyway. He walked in, hair still messy from the flight, and tossed his bag aside. “You look like a champion.”
She tilted her head. “You look like jet lag.”
They played a set.
No spectators. No medals. No interviews.
Just shots.
Just silence.
Just that old rhythm between them.
She won 7–6, in a tiebreak.
As they sat on the bench afterward, wiping sweat and drinking water from shared bottles, Aarav reached into his bag and pulled something out. A small, velvet box.
Ananya froze.
“Relax,” he said, grinning. “It’s not a ring. You’d probably run.”
“Facts.”
He opened it. Inside was a silver bracelet, engraved on the inside with just one word: Setpoint.
She blinked. “You got this made?”
“I designed it on the flight. You say it every time you’re about to serve for the match. Even before Bangkok.”
She turned it over in her hand, reading the word again and again. “I do say that, don’t I?”
“It’s who you are. You play life like it’s always set point.”
She slipped it on. “So… what are we?”
He leaned back, looking up at the sky. “We’re two players who met on the same side of the net. And decided not to go back.”
She looked at him, heart warm. “I like that.”
He smiled. “There’s more. I’m staying.”
“What do you mean?”
“I turned down Spain. I’m applying for residency training here. I want to coach juniors. Start a program with Dev. Maybe even Kabir.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re serious?”
“I don’t just say things on court, Ananya.”
She touched the bracelet. “You really love me.”
“I really do.”
She stood, walked around the bench, and sat beside him. Their arms touched.
And for once, she didn’t feel the urge to run.
Not from love.
Not from home.
Not from herself.
Later that month, they were on the cover of a national sports magazine—India’s Power Pair: Love, Sweat & Aces. But the photo she kept framed by her bed wasn’t from the podium in Bangkok or the magazine shoot. It was from Court Four, taken by Kabir on a quiet afternoon—just her and Aarav, rackets down, heads leaned together, laughing like the match had never mattered at all.
Because in the end, what they found wasn’t just victory.
It was the rhythm of love.
Played point by point.
Set by set.
Game, match, everything.
The End
