Serve Me Chaos

POV Marina

“Keep your damn wrist up, Marina!”

My father’s voice cracked across the court like a whip, echoing louder than the crowd’s cheers.

I’d just aced match point, sent the ball slicing across the baseline with surgical precision, ending the quarterfinal in straight sets. The stadium roared. Cameras flashed. My opponent trudged to the net, shoulders sagging.

But Vincent Chen didn’t clap, smile, or even nod. He stood stiffly behind the guardrail, arms crossed and eyes cold. He wasn’t just my father—he was my coach. Tall and rigid in a perfectly pressed tracksuit, with slick black hair and a face that looked like it was carved from stone, he radiated silence. To him, every match was a checklist, and every mistake was a strike on a ledger that never forgave.

“You lost your backhand timing on the third game,” he said as I walked off the court, sweat dripping down my spine.

“Dad, I won,” I said, breathing hard.

He didn’t even blink. “And still almost blew it with two unforced errors in the second set.”

I kept walking. My legs trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the way his voice coiled in my head, tightening with every step. Stay sharp. Don’t celebrate. It’s not over until the last point. The words didn’t need to be spoken aloud anymore; they lived in me now, automatic as breath.

Backstage, under the harsh buzz of press lights and the flicker of camera flashes, I became who I was trained to be, flawless, composed. Perfect. I always was.

“Marina, you’re playing the best tennis of your life,” one reporter called out, voice bright with praise. “Is this your year?”