Even when I was born, I felt it—that pressure, like time was slipping away faster than it should.
My father trained me with a look in his eyes that said this wasn't a dream. It was a deadline. If I failed, everything would stop.
I didn't understand it as a child.
My dad went bankrupt. He borrowed money from local gangsters to keep me training. I didn't know that when I was little.
But now I'm nine years old, and I can see it.
My father is anxious all the time. He watches the clock. He watches me.
Time is running out.
And I have to make this count.
The tournament court smelled different from the public ones. New paint. Fresh lines. People watching.
Roki wiped his hands on his shorts and bounced the ball, trying not to look at his father in the stands. He could feel him anyway—those eyes, fixed, heavy, counting every point like money.
The rally started fast.
Forehand to forehand.
Hard. Flat. Over and over.
The other boy didn't miss. Every time Roki pushed deeper, the ball came back just as hard, just as clean. No angles. No fear. Just pressure.
Roki's arm began to burn.
Why won't he break?
The score climbed without mercy.30–30.40–30.
One point from losing the game.
Another rally. Longer this time. Roki ran side to side, shoes squealing, chest tight. He swung harder, tried to force something—anything—but the ball kept coming back. Same height. Same depth. Like hitting against a wall.
I glanced up for half a second.
My father wasn't shouting.
That was worse.
The ball came again—high to his forehand.
I almost swung hard out of habit.
Almost.
Instead, his grip loosened. His wrist softened. The shot felt wrong the moment he hit it—too gentle, too slow.
The ball floated.
Then dropped.
Just over the net.
The opponent froze, lunged too late, and the ball bounced twice before he reached it.
Silence.
Then a few claps.
"Deuce," the umpire called. "Forty all."
I stood still, heart pounding so loud it drowned everything else out. My legs shook—not from fear, but from relief.
Finally, I looked at my father.
For the first time that day, his dad nodded.
Everything was on the line now.Not just the game.Not just the match.
I stepped back to the baseline, gripping my racquet tighter.
I step to the line and bounce the ball, but my hand feels too light.
First serve.
I toss it too far back. I know it before I swing. The contact is late, and the sound is wrong.
Fault.
The noise from the crowd gets louder, as if it were waiting for that to happen. My chest tightens. I think about my father. About time. About everything riding on this point.
I stop.
I breathe in. Slow. Then out.
Second serve.
I bounce the ball again, and this time my hand is steady. I toss it up—perfect. Hanging there, bright and clear. For a moment, I can see everything: the box, the space, the line.
I swing.
Clean. Fast. Loud.
The ball snaps past him before he even moves.
"Ace."
One more time, Roki. Just one more time.
He looks ready.
Okay. Breathe. Then commit.
I bounce the ball once.Twice.Three times.
I stop.
I toss—perfect.
I strike.
Boom.
My forehand lands deep, heavy. He answers it right back.
Boom.
The ball bounces again, just as hard.
Boom.Boom.Boom.
We're locked now—no space, no mistakes, just pressure. My legs burn as I chase every shot, pushing, surviving.
But I know the truth.
One cannot win with defense alone.
The ball comes back high.
I move.
I sprint toward the net as it flies over, heart pounding, everything screaming at me to go forward.
To win, you must attack!
I step in and swing—slamming it as hard as I can.
The crowd erupts.
The sound crashes into me all at once—cheering, clapping, voices blending until I can barely hear myself think. My ears ring. My legs feel light, like I might float off the court.
I walk to the net.
We shake hands.
"What's your name?" I ask, still breathing hard.
He looks at me for a few seconds, like he's memorizing the moment.
"My name," he says slowly, "is Luke Caine."Then he gives a small smile. "You were the better one this time."
I nod. "You did pretty well, too."
We let go.
We walk past each other, finishing by shaking hands, the noise still roaring behind me, knowing this match is over
As I walk into the locker room, I finally sit down, letting everything sink in.Three long, grueling sets.It feels unreal now that it's over.
I take off my shoes. Then my shirt. My hands are still shaking a little, but for the first time all day, I breathe—really breathe. The pressure loosens its grip on my chest.
Footsteps echo behind me.
Father.
I look up. He's standing there with a deep, satisfied smile on his face. He doesn't say anything at first. He just looks at me, like he's measuring something only he can see.
"Good job, boy," he says at last. "You did good in the end. Come back to the house when you're ready."
"Yes, Father," I reply.
He turns and leaves.
I hurry to put my clothes back on. Days like this—days when Father is happy—are rare. And when he's happy, he makes my favorite meals.
Special noodles.Seasoned eggs.
I think about the smell, the warmth, the quiet comfort of it as I step outside.
For today, at least, I did enough.
As I walk out of the building, I see our house a few blocks away.
Something feels wrong immediately.
There are four men outside, surrounding it, their voices loud and sharp, cutting through the street. People are watching from a distance but no one is stepping in.
"Pay us our money now, old man," one of them shouts. "Before things get bad."
My chest tightens.
I see my father standing near the door, his shoulders hunched, holding out a small stack of bills. His hands are shaking. It isn't enough—I can tell by the way they react.
One of the men, wearing a green mask, steps forward.
"Teach him a lesson," he says coldly. "He's been messing with us."
They grab my father.
I freeze for half a second—then my body moves before my fear can stop it.
I run.
Around the side of the house, to the small window I know how to open. My hands fumble, heart pounding so hard it hurts. I slip inside, barely breathing, and grab the phone.
My fingers shake as I dial.
"Police," I whisper urgently. "Please—my father—there are men outside our house."
I crouch low by the window, listening to the shouting, praying they don't see me.
For the first time, tennis doesn't matter.Winning doesn't matter.
For the first time, I didn't make this decision out of pressure.
There was no shouting. No fear. No clock ticking in my head.
I will become the greatest tennis player in the world.
You won't have to deal with this anymore, Father, I promise.I'll carry it from here.