9

Gabriel’s POV

I watched as Rachael delivered a thunderous overhead smash, driving the ball straight over the net before it rocketed past her opponents and bounced hard against the floor.

“Out! Game, set, match-Team Adams!” the referee boomed.

“Yes!” Rachael’s triumphant voice echoed across the arena as she leaped into the air.

Intrigued, I watched as she trotted over to John.

They immediately launched into a complex, perfectly synced secret handshake I’d never quite understood. She was smiling wildly, a radiant smile, I realized with a sharp pang, that I hadn't seen up close for a while now.

The defeated couple walked off toward the left side of the pavilion. Over the course of the tournament, the players had naturally divided: the eliminated pairs sat on the left, now as spectators, while the undefeated finalists sat on the right.

Out of twenty couples, it was down to just two: Brittany and me versus Rachael and John.

As Rachael and John headed toward us, she deliberately ignored both me and Brittany, her chin held high as she climbed up.

“Break a leg, honey,” John drawled, blowing a dramatic kiss toward Brittany as he sauntered past her with a swish of his ponytail.

Brittany looked utterly gobsmacked, glaring at his retreating back before turning to me with a huff.

I glanced up at the digital scoreboard beside the referee’s chair. I was mid-tier at best. Rachael had completely been right.

Even after I’d secretly convinced Amanda to swap partners so I could pair with Brittany, I still had to push myself to the absolute limit. It amazed me that so many people played this sport with such crazy passion; I’d always assumed it was just Rachael’s quirky obsession.

But we were here now, seconds away from the final round. And the thought of winning that single, delicious kiss from Rachael was the only thing fueling my veins. It wasn't just about Brittany’s baseline skills anymore; I had to win this.

The sharp blast of the referee’s whistle signaled us to take the court. The crowd erupted into a loud applause.

Through the overhead speakers, the manager’s enthusiastic voice boomed through again: “Whew! The championship match we’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you again for an incredible tournament!”

The clapping subsided into eager hushes as we crossed into the white lines.

“Good luck, Gabe!” a female voice squeaked loudly. Amanda.

I watched Rachael’s shoulder stiffen before she turned to John, whispering to him.

“They’re exceptionally good, especially her,” Brittany muttered under her breath, nervously adjusting her grip tape.

“Listen to me, Gabe. John’s weakness is his backhand, but Rachael covers for him constantly. We need to drive deep, high-bouncing slice lobs to her baseline to force her backward, then drag John out of position with short cross-court angles. Got it?”

I nodded, barely understanding. “Got it.”

Rachael and John disbanded, taking their defensive positions as the referee raised a shiny silver coin.

“Coin toss for serve,” the referee bellowed.

“Heads,” I called out, my eyes locked directly onto Rachael across the net.

The coin flipped through the air, before he slapped it onto the pack of his palm. “Tails!”

Rachael stepped forward with a cocky sneer. She bounced the tennis ball twice against the rackef, tossed it high into the air, and in one fluid, terrifyingly fast motion, whipped her racket forward.

I froze in momentary shock from the sheer speed of her serve, but Brittany lunged sideways just in time, slamminga heavy forehand return back over the net.

“Focus, Gabe!”

Right. Focus.

Back and forth. For several grueling minutes, the ball blurred between the net. The entire arena fell dead silent except for the frantic squeak of our rubber soles against the court and grunts as we hit the ball back.

She was incredible. Rachael was a total beast on the court. She had endless stamina. John held his own, but Rachael was undeniably carrying their entire team.

You’d think by the final match her legs would be giving out from playing all afternoon, but she was moving across the court with speed.

And with every furious return she sent across the net, I fired back with equal fervor.

Before I even realized it, five extended games had passed, and it felt now like it was just the two of us going back and forth while John and Brittany hovered nearby.

“Giving up anytime soon?” I taunted, staggering smoothly to my right and hitting the ball across.

She crouched low, gripping her racket with both hands to whip the ball back across. “Why? Tired already?”

“You kidding?” I was breathless as I sent it back, the ball flying high. “I could go on for days.”

Her lips pursed. A tiny trickle of sweat slipped down her neck, tracing down chest and sliding into the shadow of her cleavage.

Half-distracted by the sight, I nearly missed the incoming return, but Brittany swooped in, barely rescuing us.

My lungs were burning. Everyone gets tired eventually even me. But losing to her today wasn't an option on the table.

As Rachael sprinted forward to intercept , I caught the subtle weight shift in her stance, she was anticipating another heavy hit.

Instead of winding up for a power stroke, I abruptly softened my wrist at the exact fraction of a second before impact. Rather than a roaring forehand, the ball barely kissed the strings of my racket, dropping like a stone over the net in a delicate drop shot.

The ball bounced twice on the floor before rolling.

“Game, set, match- Team bolt!” the referee yelled, throwing his arm into the air.

The overhead speakers crackled to life over the roaring crowd: “And we have our champions! Congratulations to Team bolt And a massive round of applause for our runner-ups, Team Adams. To honor their incredible performance, Team Adams wins an exclusive coupon for 50% off their next vodka milkshake order!”

Rachael stared at the spot where the ball lay still, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated fury.

Even as Amanda threw her arms tightly around my neck, my eyes never once left her.

John stepped up, gently taking Rachael by the elbows, murmuring something to her. But she just rolled her eyes, before walking off the court. John ran after her.

I smirked.

She thought she could get furious, storm out, and use her anger as an excuse to run away from me.

She thought I’d let her forget about our deal. But she was dead wrong.

Because up until this exact second, I hadn't forgotten a single detail of how her lips felt last night.