____________________________________
"Winning the race is not always to the swift."
— Aesop's fable of "The Hare and the Tortoise"
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1. In any field of endeavor, anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.
2. Left to themselves, things always go from bad to worse.
3. If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will go wrong, is the one that will cause the most damage.
— Murphy's Laws.
____________________________________
MiMie's Perspective:
"I will defeat you, Afreen."
My gaze locked onto the girl across the net.
"Right here."
"Right now."
A slow breath escaped through my lips.
The corners of my mouth twitched—not into a smile, but into something closer to disbelief.
My fingers tightened around the handle of my racket until the leather grip creaked softly beneath my palm.
My pulse, which moments ago had been hammering wildly against my ribs, began to settle.
Not because I was calmer.
Because something had just clicked.
The roaring crowd faded into a distant blur, as though someone had drawn an invisible curtain between her and the rest of the stadium.
For the first time since the match had begun, she wasn't looking at the scoreboard.
I wasn't looking at the crowd. I wasn't even looking at Afreen. I was looking inward.
"So this is what Tahir meant."
It's not about speed. Not about talent. Not even about strength.
The realization didn't arrive like lightning.
It unfolded. Piece by piece.
Like dozens of scattered puzzle fragments quietly sliding toward one another until an image emerged all at once.
"To defeat an enemy who has no weaknesses, I don't go hunting for cracks that don't exist."
My grip around the racket relaxed ever so slightly.
The tension in my shoulders eased.
Not because the pressure had disappeared—but because it had finally found somewhere to go.
"I should stop fighting them—and start dismantling myself."
My breathing slowed.
The panic that had been clawing at my thoughts loosened its grip ever so slightly.
The weight on my shoulders remained…
But now I knew where to place it.
"To look within myself for the answers, not in the opponent."
A slow breath escaped through my nose.
The court suddenly felt different. Not smaller. Not larger. Simply… clearer.
"I should rise above my own weaknesses."
"I should turn the parts of me that hesitate, overthink, feel too deeply—into leverage."
My gaze drifted across the court. The white boundary lines. The tightly stretched net.
Afreen.
The racket resting confidently in her hand.
The way she stood so effortlessly composed.
Everything seemed strangely clearer than it had only seconds ago.
A memory surfaced.
Not because I searched for it—because it demanded to be remembered.
As Tahir used to tell me that, when I am overwhelmed with something, when I am looking for answers or solutions to a problem, and I only have myself, no external source of help.
According to Tahir's nonsense philosophy, there are 5 theories that will likely lead you to finding a solution to any problem you face.
The first was…
"There are things We know that We know about."
The second goes…
"There are things that We know that we don't know anything about it."
The third is…
"There are things that we don't know we know about it."
And the fourth said…
"There are things that we perspective-wise, partially know a bit about."
And then finally…
"There are things that we don't even know that we don't know about."
Yeah… It is as crazy as it sounds.
Which is why I never thought much about it.
I used to dismiss it.
I used to think he was just being… Tahir.
Complicating simple things because he enjoyed watching people struggle to understand him.
But now…
Facing Afreen…
It's like my entire perceptions have been opened up. And I can see many things that I ignored.
Things that had always been there. Waiting. Quietly. Patiently.
With that said…
If I can apply Tahir's philosophy to my current situation…
"How can I defeat Afreen, who appears to have no weakness?"
Hmm… This is so hard.
May be I should take it step by step.
May be I should review my mindset and my resolve.
I closed my eyes for only a heartbeat.
Then opened them again. The answer wasn't complete. But it was beginning.
Hmm…
I think I got it now.
"I should run through every tactics I know. Correlating to the first philosophy."
A tiny nod escaped her before she even realized she had moved.
"But then I should deliberately avoid the ones I know I don't know. Which corresponds to the second, and with that, might help reduce my error margin."
Yes… Don't force unfamiliar techniques.
Don't gamble on uncertainty. Don't let desperation choose for me.
"That leaves three theories."
The words settled naturally inside her mind.
Almost peacefully.
"The things I partially know but just some basics about, at least from my perspective, that's like the trick shots that I haven't perfected yet."
I could almost see them. The countless drills. Half-mastered techniques.
Risky returns. Possibilities that still carried uncertainty.
"Then the theory saying that, the things I don't know that I know."
My fingers tightened unconsciously around the racket.
"Well that's tough, but I get it."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Not confidence. Recognition.
"This one has to do with muscle memory, the practice over the years, honed some skills that I may not even know I know them. May be subconsciously."
Hundreds. No… Thousands of swings.
Footwork drills. Reaction exercises.
Hours beneath the scorching sun. Hours beneath the rain.
Hours after everyone else had already gone home.
Maybe… Just maybe…
Some of those lessons had buried themselves deeper than conscious thought.
"And finally the things I don't even know I don't know."
I almost laughed. "Well that's a no go area."
A soft chuckle escaped my lips despite myself.
"Because it's ridiculous and impossible to fathom."
My lips parted slightly. A tiny, almost inaudible laugh escaped me. The last theory is indeed impossible to grasp.
My heartbeat had slowed now. Not because the pressure was gone. Because I had stopped resisting it. I had accepted it.
Accepted myself. Accepted uncertainty.
Accepted that not every answer needed to be known before taking the next step.
So I should gamble everything on the third and fourth options then.
The words settled inside me like an anchor.
Even in my own head, this sounds like scattered nonsense—half philosophy, half desperation.
Yet somehow… Standing here.
With a racket in my hand.
With Afreen waiting across the net.
With an entire stadium watching me fall apart—It makes more sense than anything else ever has.
A bead of sweat rolled slowly down the side of my face.
I didn't wipe it away.
But right now, right here, with the court vibrating beneath my shoes and the crowd roaring like an approaching storm… every idea counts.
The chants from the A.R.C section still battered against my ears.
Somewhere behind me people were shouting my name.
Not cheering.
Mocking. Booing. Calling me a sellout. Calling me a snitch. The words still hurt.
But they no longer reached the center of me.
They circled outside. Distant. Muted.
Like rain against thick glass.
I don't know where luck will strike.
I just need to survive long enough for it to matter.
Maybe I'll start with—I slowly raised my head.
My eyes settled on Afreen. She was already waiting. Already expecting another serve.
Already expecting another desperate attempt to outplay her.
Good.
Let her expect that.
______________________
"Hey Afreen… tell me something, what happens to the boy who cried wolf..?"
My voice carried surprisingly well. Steady. Curious. Almost casual.
Afreen blinked. Only once. "Well… as you know, in the end—"
"Forget it," I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. "Lemme ask you this instead…
What happened in the end, for the Hare and Tortoise story… eh?"
Afreen laughed easily, confidently. Her shoulders relaxed.
She even shook her head slightly as if indulging a child. "Hahah… I see… You think you are the Tortoise huh… so slow and talentless."
The words sting—but I don't react.
My fingers merely rolled the tennis ball slowly across my palm. Back. Then forward again.
"Forget it," I say again, forcing calm into my breath. "I'll ask you this instead.
Tell me, Afreen… is living in a rural area better than in an urban area..? Eh..?"
Something shifted. Tiny. Almost invisible.
Her smile falters just slightly. Her brow tightens.
One eyebrow lowered by barely a fraction.
The confident rhythm in her breathing paused. Just for a heartbeat.
"Ehmm… why are you asking all these questions huh… just what are you upto?" Afreen asked.
There it is.
A warmth spread quietly through my chest.
Not victory. Recognition. The disruption.
The moment her mind leaves the court—even if only for half a second.
Just as I suspected.
The obsession with patterns. The need to categorize. The discomfort when logic fractures.
I will push again. Without giving her room to recover. Without allowing her thoughts to settle.
"Tell me again… is a small gain worth more than a large promise..? Eh.. Afreen..?"
This time I watched her eyes instead of her face.
Her pupils shifted. Searching. Sorting.
Trying to understand what game I was playing. Trying to find a pattern that wasn't there.
Her tone sharpens, irritation leaking through.
"Just what are these questions for… apart from losing the game, are you also losing your mind… MiMie…?"
I almost smiled. Almost. My chest rises and falls. Each breath steadier than the last.
The noise of the crowd blurs at the edges.
The chants disappear. The applause disappears.
Even the umpire seems impossibly far away.
Only Afreen remains.
Only the court.
Only this invisible battle unfolding between our minds.
I take the tennis ball into my hand.
Its rough felt presses gently against my fingertips. The familiar texture grounds me.
Anchors me.
Reminds me that this is still tennis. Still a game.
I roll it once between my fingers, then lift my gaze.
"Hey Afreen… what does foolish curiosity and vanity often lead to…? Eh…"
Silence. A strange silence. Not from the crowd. From her.
She stops smiling. Completely.
The playful confidence drained from her expression so subtly that someone watching from the stands might never notice.
But I do.
For the first time since the match began, Afreen doesn't have an answer ready.
Her lips parted slightly. Then closed again.
I bounce the ball twice.
The hollow sound echoed sharply against the court.
Once. Twice.
Shift two paces to the left, on purpose. To disrupt her. To disrupt whatever is going through her mind right now.
My shoes scraped softly across the grass.
Bounce it three more times.
One. Two. Three.
Then I look directly into her eyes. Not her racket. Not the court.
Her eyes.
"You have it too, don't you… Afreen."
"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. (OCD)"
The realization clicks into place with terrifying clarity. Not as a guess. Not as hope.
As understanding. The routines. The precision.
The intolerance for disorder. The need for patterns. The need for answers.
The need for everything to fit inside neat little boxes. Just like me.
That's why you were able to monologue my thoughts earlier, about the a "Girl being a Powerful Queen"
The entire board rearranges itself in my mind.
Every strange conversation earlier. Every unnecessary question. Every reaction.
Every pause.
Every smile. Every irritation.
Every piece slid effortlessly into place.
Even if I lose right now—right here—
My heartbeat no longer raced. It settled into something calm. Purposeful. Certain.
"I've seen it. Tahir "
My grip tightened around the racket one final time.
"I've seen beyond the player."
Beyond the talent. Beyond the trophies.
I've seen the person. I clearly see you now Afreen.
I've seen how you can be beaten.
_______________________
While Afreen freezes.
Not physically.
Her stance remains flawless—knees bent, shoulders loose, racket held at the perfect angle. Every inch of her body still radiates the effortless confidence she had displayed since the opening serve.
But behind her eyes—Something catches.
The playful certainty fades for the briefest heartbeat. Her pupils narrow. Her brow tightens almost imperceptibly.
As if dozens of thoughts have begun colliding at once. Searching. Sorting.
Trying to categorize questions that refuse to fit into neat patterns.
The smile that had seemed almost permanent falters—not disappearing entirely, but becoming restrained. Measured. Uncertain.
Just for a moment. I see it. There you are.
Not perfection. Not invincibility.
Just… human.
The realization sends a current through my body stronger than any adrenaline.
I gather everything I have left. Every aching muscle. Every burning breath.
Every fragment of resolve that had nearly slipped through my fingers only moments ago.
The racket settles naturally into my palm. My fingers stop trembling. My shoulders lower. My breathing evens out.
The roar of the crowd melts into a distant hum. The court narrows.
Only the service box exists. Only the ball.
Only Afreen.
I toss the ball high. Higher than before.
It spins lazily against the bright afternoon sky.
For one suspended instant—Everything becomes silent.
Then I explode upward.
"Yhyaaai!"
Every ounce of frustration. Every insult. Every doubt.
Every chant from the A.R.C stands.
Every painful memory from the last 20 minutes surges through the swing.
The racket slices cleanly through the air.
CRACK!
The impact reverberates violently through my arm, rattling my wrist and shoulder, but I don't care.
The ball tears across the court with vicious topspin.
Afreen's eyes sharpen. The hesitation vanishes. Instinct takes over. She lunges.
"Hyaaaaiii!"
Her shoes scrape violently against the grass as she whips her racket forward, her ponytail snapping behind her with the force of the movement.
The strings meet the ball.
THWACK!
It comes back fast.
Fast enough that most players would already be beaten. But my feet are already moving. Not because I planned it.
Because my body simply…Knows.
________________
The ball came back. Fast. Heavy.
Spinning violently toward my backhand.
My body moved before my mind could interfere. One step. Another. Plant. Rotate.
The racket met the ball with a satisfying crack that echoed across the lawn court.
The return skimmed just above the tape, dipping sharply into the opposite corner.
Afreen reached it—but half a heartbeat later than she normally would have.
Her racket caught the ball. Not cleanly. The return floated. High. Safe. Too safe.
Opportunity.
I attacked immediately. No hesitation. No second guessing. Just instinct.
"Hyaa!"
The forehand exploded down the line.
Winner.
"Fifteen-love, C.A.A!"
The C.A.A section erupted.
For the first time since the match began, I didn't hear pity in their voices.
I heard belief.
_________
I walked back to the baseline without looking toward the stands.
My heartbeat remained elevated, but something fundamental had changed.
The fear wasn't gone. It had simply became… Useful.
Across the net, Afreen rolled her shoulders once. She smiled. The same smile. The same relaxed posture. The same effortless confidence.
Anyone watching would believe nothing had changed.
But I could see it now. Tiny things. Microscopic things.
The slight pause before she settled her grip.
The way her gaze lingered on me just a fraction longer than before.
The almost invisible tightening of her jaw.
She was thinking.
About my questions. About the contradictions. About unfinished answers.
She was trying not to think.
Which meant…
She was thinking even harder. You really do have it… Isn't that right, Afreen.
Your obsessive mind can't leave unfinished patterns alone.
You won't admit it. You won't show it.
But I can see it.
Every question I asked is still echoing inside your head.
______________
I bounced the ball twice. Served wide.
A slice.
Afreen reacted correctly—Just… Late.
The ball clipped the edge of her strings and spun harmlessly into the net.
"Thirty-love!"
A louder cheer this time.
_____________
Another serve. Flat. Into the body.
Afreen adjusted perfectly. Returned beautifully.
We rallied. Five shots. Eight. Eleven.
The exchanges were nothing like the first set anymore.
Neither of us was searching for cheap points now. Every shot carried intention.
Every angle demanded another. Grass scattered beneath our shoes.
Our breathing synchronized with each impact.
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
I watched her feet. Still elegant. Still efficient.
Yet no longer… Instant.
Every decision seemed delayed by the smallest imaginable margin.
A hesitation invisible to everyone else.
Everyone… Except me.
She wasn't slower physically. Her mind was. Just enough.
She anticipated. Rejected. Recalculated.
Then committed.
That microscopic delay was all elite competition ever needed.
I drove a deep forehand into the corner.
She reached it. Returned short.
I stepped inside the court.
Finished the point with a cross-court winner.
"Forty-love!"
The C.A.A students exploded to their feet.
"40 — 0"
"MIMIE !" "MIMIE !"
"MIMIE !" "MIMIE !"
Their voices washed over me like cool rain after unbearable heat.
Hope.
I could hear it again.
___________
Point after point. Serve after serve.
Return after return.
The rhythm belonged to me now.
A kick serve.
Ace.
A disguised slice.
Winner.
A deceptive drop shot.
Afreen reached it—but not before it bounced twice.
She frowned. Only briefly.
Another rally.
This one stretched to twenty-three exchanges.
Sweat rolled freely down both our faces.
Our shoes carved dark streaks across the grass.
Neither of us blinked.
Neither of us surrendered ground willingly.
But every prolonged exchange favored me now.
Because every additional decision demanded another calculation from Afreen.
Another choice. Another prediction. Another pattern. Another unanswered question.
I could almost see the machinery inside her mind working against itself.
The score climbed relentlessly.
One game. Then another.
The commentator's voice had grown louder with every announcement.
"C.A.A takes another game!"
"What a turnaround!"
"MiMie has completely changed the momentum!"
The atmosphere inside the stadium transformed.
Students who had fallen silent earlier were now screaming themselves hoarse.
Even those who had doubted me were standing. Clapping. Believing.
____________
I wiped sweat from my forehead.
My chest burned. My thighs trembled.
But I was smiling. Not because I was winning. Because I understood.
Afreen wasn't unbeatable. Nobody was.
The scoreboard changed once again. One more point. Just one. One point…
…and the second set was mine.
The entire stadium stood.
Even the commentators lowered their voices.
Match point.
I bounced the ball. Once. Twice. Across the net—
Afreen inhaled deeply.
Then…
Everything about her changed.
Her shoulders relaxed. The tension around her eyes dissolved.
Her breathing slowed. Her grip loosened.
She closed her eyes.
Just once.
A single second.
When she opened them again—The uncertainty was gone.
Completely.
The unfinished questions…
Vanished. She had forced them away.
Locked them behind a door somewhere inside herself.
Her smile returned. Not the playful one. Not the amused one. The dangerous one.
"Oh…"
I whispered under my breath. You figured it out.
Afreen rolled her neck slowly. Cracked one shoulder.
Then looked directly into my eyes. There wasn't a trace of hesitation left.
Not one.
The next rally began.
Immediately the court felt different. Every return came back deeper.
Harder. Sharper.
Her feet were alive again. She attacked every angle. Countered every trick. Punished every short ball.
The pressure returned with frightening speed.
The game I thought I controlled… Was slipping. Again.
The scoreboard shifted. Point by point.
My advantage disappeared.
The chants from the A.R.C stands erupted once more.
"A.R.C!" "A.R.C!" "A.R.C!"
Their rhythm pounded through the stadium like war drums.
But now—
The C.A.A students answered.
"MIMIE!" "C.A.A!"
"YOU CAN DO IT!"
Their voices collided across the court until the entire stadium became a wall of sound.
Neither side willing to yield. Neither side willing to believe defeat.
Every point drew louder screams. Every rally ended with thunderous applause.
The momentum swung back and forth so violently that even the umpire had to wait several seconds before announcing each score.
Finally—
The scoreboard settled.
Deuce.
"40 — 40"
Meaning I must win the next 2 points consecutively to win the set.
Judging by the situation whoever claimed the first point would almost certainly take the set.
I walked to the baseline once more. My breathing was ragged. Sweat dripped from my chin onto the grass.
Across the net, Afreen stood perfectly still. Watching. Waiting.
I bounced the ball. Once. Twice. Three times.
I tossed it high. Higher than before.
Then exploded upward.
"HYYAAAI!"
The serve screamed toward the corner. Fast. Precise. Exactly where I wanted it.
Afreen moved.
She reached it effortlessly.
Her racket came through—
Then…
Something happened.
Something so subtle that almost nobody noticed.
From the stands… It looked like a simple slip. An unfortunate misjudgment. Perhaps her footing had failed. Perhaps the grass had given way beneath her shoe.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
But I knew better.
Because I had been watching her every movement for the last hour.
This… Wasn't a slip. It wasn't hesitation. It wasn't fatigue.
It wasn't anything I had seen from Afreen before.
For the first time since we stepped onto this court…
Afreen did something completely out of character.
And the moment I saw it—A chill ran the length of my spine.
Her racket slips.
Not because she swung too hard. Not because her footing failed. It simply…
…slid.
For the briefest fraction of a second, the handle seemed to glide through her fingers as though her own hand had forgotten how to hold it.
The racket spun away in slow motion, flashing beneath the afternoon sun before tumbling helplessly onto the grass.
The ball screamed past her untouched.
Silence punched the air.
The roar of thousands collapsed into absolute stillness.
Even the wind seemed to stop moving.
Afreen didn't move after it.
She remained exactly where she was, arm still extended from the incomplete swing, her fingers slightly curled—as though they were still expecting to feel the familiar grip resting against her palm.
Her eyes slowly drifted downward.
She stared at her empty hand. Not with anger. Not with embarrassment. Not even with frustration.
Confusion.
Pure, unmistakable confusion. Her eyebrows knitted together. A tiny crease appeared between them.
Her breathing shortened almost imperceptibly.
For the first time since stepping onto the court, certainty abandoned her expression.
"…"
Then her head lifted. Abruptly.
Her eyes swept across the stadium.
Left.
Right.
Up into the stands. Not searching for applause. Not reacting to the point.
Searching. Frantically.
As though she expected someone…
Something…
…to appear.
Her gaze darted across rows of faces with unsettling urgency.
Students blinked back at her, unaware that they were being examined.
The silence broke only when one of the ball attendants hurried toward her.
"Your racket."
Afreen accepted it automatically. Her fingers wrapped around the handle.
She tested the grip once. Twice.
Almost absentmindedly.
Still…
Something about her expression remained unsettled.
I didn't hesitate. There was no time to question it.
No time to wonder what I'd just witnessed.
Whatever had happened—It had happened.
And opportunities like this never waited.
I walked calmly back to the baseline. The tennis ball rested against my fingertips.
Its rough felt brushed gently across my thumb.
My breathing steadied. One bounce. Two. Three.
The crowd slowly found its voice again.
Then…
I tossed the ball into the air. High. Clean. Everything slowed.
Now.
My body exploded upward.
"HYYAAAI!"
The racket carved through the air with absolute conviction. Not power.
Precision.
The contact rang through my entire arm.
The ball shot outward—not toward the court—but beyond the net post itself.
Gasps rippled through the audience.
It curved.
Outside the doubles alley.
Outside what every spectator instinctively believed possible.
Then… It bent.
Like it had remembered where it belonged.
An around-the-post shot.
Elegant. Cruel. Impossible-looking.
The ball curled back into the court at an angle so violent it almost defied reason.
Afreen reacted instantly. Instinct overrode thought.
She exploded sideways. Grass tore beneath her shoes.
Her body leaned dangerously close to losing balance, yet somehow she recovered mid-stride.
She stretched. Further. Further.
Every muscle in her shoulders and back tightened beneath her uniform.
Her fingers clenched around the racket.
She reached it.
"HYAA!"
CRACK—
The strings met the ball.
Then—
Something happened.
It lasted less than a heartbeat.
A tiny jolt. Almost invisible.
Her wrist flinched.
Her fingers twitched around the grip.
For one impossible instant…
…it looked as though electricity had surged through both hands gripping the racket tightly.
Not enough to stop her swing. Just enough… To steal its certainty.
The return lacked power. Far less than it should have.
The ball floated. Weak. Weightless.
It kissed the top of the net. Hung there. Balanced.
Then…
Dropped.
Back onto her side.
The point was over.
The set…
…was mine.
I didn't celebrate. I couldn't. Even I froze.
My racket lowered slowly.
My chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.
Sweat rolled from my forehead into my eyes, but I barely noticed.
Because nothing about what I'd just seen made sense.
Around me—
The C.A.A section erupted. An explosion of sound. Students leaped from their seats.
Some screamed until their voices cracked.
Others hugged one another.
Banners waved wildly above their heads.
"C.A.A!" "MIMIE!"
"SHE DID IT!"
Hope—
Real hope—
Returned to them all at once.
The despair that had settled over them only minutes earlier shattered into exhilaration.
Across the stadium, the A.R.C section answered with a mixture of disbelief and anger.
Some students booed loudly.
Others shouted my name—not in support, but in accusation. Or perhaps encouragement. Or perhaps both.
The noise blurred together into one enormous wall of emotion.
Afreen slowly turned toward the crowd.
Her expression remained strangely blank. She wasn't reacting to the cheers. She wasn't reacting to the boos.
Her eyes continued searching. Patiently. Methodically. Almost desperately.
Scanning face after face.
Row after row.
As though someone she expected to see…
…wasn't there.
Then—
Without warning—
She let the racket fall from her hand. It landed softly on the grass.
She walked toward the equipment stand without saying a word.
The nearest official instinctively stepped aside.
Afreen reached down. Picked up another racket.
She weighed it carefully in her palm.
Turned it once. Twice. Testing the balance.
Her fingers settled around the fresh grip. She swung once through empty air. The motion was clean. Fluid. Perfectly controlled.
The uncertainty… Gone.
She slowly raised the racket.
Pointed it directly at me across the net.
Then—She smiled.
____________________
Afreen's smile never left her face.
She slowly lowered the new racket.
Then raised her free hand. "Umpire."
The official looked up.
"I request a side switch."
The umpire nodded after a brief glance at the conditions.
"Approved. Players, switch sides."
For a brief moment, neither of us moved.
Then we walked toward one another.
We crossed paths at the center of the court.
Close enough to hear each other's breathing.
Close enough to notice the sweat glistening along each other's temples.
Afreen never looked away. Her smile remained. Calm. Knowing. Almost challenging.
I walked past her without a word.
As I reached the opposite baseline, I lifted my eyes toward the sky.
The afternoon sun had shifted. It wasn't directly overhead anymore. Its angle had begun its slow descent, leaning toward my side of the court.
I narrowed my eyes instinctively.
Hmm… Not ideal.
The sunlight wasn't a problem yet.
Not really.
If my calculations were right…
Another thirty… maybe forty minutes…
Then it would begin interfering with high tosses and overhead tracking.
Not enough to matter now.
Probably not until the latter stages of the fourth set.
If we reached that far. I exhaled.
One problem at a time.
______________
The Third Set begins.
Across the net, Afreen bounced the ball lightly against the grass. Once. Twice.
Three times.
She looked… Relaxed. Almost refreshed.
The umpire raised a hand.
"Third set."
"Play."
Afreen served. "HYAA!"
The ball exploded toward the corner. Fast.
Then—It curved unexpectedly. A trick serve.
I barely reached it. My shoes tore across the grass.
I slid. Recovered. Returned.
Afreen was already waiting. She redirected it diagonally.
I sprinted. Another return. Another impossible angle.
Back across the court.
Then again. Left. Right. Forward. Backward.
She wasn't merely trying to beat me anymore. She was making me run.
Every shot stretched the entire width of the court.
Every rally became another test of my legs.
My lungs burned. My calves screamed.
The exhaustion from the marathon finally demanded repayment.
Still…
I refused to stop. Every time my body wanted to slow—My resolve pulled it forward.
"HYAA!"
"HYAA!"
"HYAA!"
Our rackets echoed through the stadium.
Point after point.
Afreen smiled every time she won one. Not broadly. Not triumphantly. Just that same irritating smirk.
Almost playful. Almost… Personal.
"15 — 0."
She slowly turned away. Not toward her teammates. Not toward the scoreboard. Toward the stands.
Toward… Someone.
Her chin lifted ever so slightly. The smile deepened.
Almost as if she were asking—
"Well? Aren't you going to do something?"
I followed her gaze for only the briefest moment. It landed on… someone.
"Tahir."
Still seated. Still quiet. Still watching. He didn't move. Didn't react. Didn't even blink.
Afreen looked back at me. That smile remained. Almost disappointed.
Then the next serve came. Another trick shot. Another impossible angle. Another sprint.
"30 — 0."
Again—She looked toward the stands.
Toward him. Almost daring him.
Move. Interfere. Rewrite this.
Nothing.
Tahir remained exactly the same.
Silent. Motionless. Watching.
The rallies grew longer. Far longer than before. Each exchange became a battle of endurance.
Grass stains spread across my shoes.
Sweat soaked through the back of my jersey.
My breathing grew louder. Heavier.
Yet every return still came back. One after another. No panic. No frustration.
Just…
Resolve.
"Twelve…"
"Thirteen…"
"Fourteen…"
The crowd counted one particularly long rally aloud.
On the fifteenth shot, I managed to catch Afreen leaning too far forward.
I disguised a slice.
She reached it—Late.
The ball drifted wide.
"30 — 15."
A roar erupted from the C.A.A section.
Hope flickered again. Only briefly.
Afreen chuckled under her breath. "So persistent…"
She rolled the racket once in her fingers. Then the tricks became crueler. A disguised drop shot.
I barely reached it.
She lobbed.
I ran backward.
Another diagonal. Another slice. A fake overhead. Then a soft touch.
Every shot forced another desperate burst of speed from exhausted legs that had already carried me through a marathon earlier that day.
My body obeyed.
But the fatigue was becoming impossible to hide.
My shoulders rose and fell violently. My legs felt heavier with every point.
Even gripping the racket demanded conscious effort now.
Afreen noticed. Of course she noticed. She attacked without mercy. Another trick serve. Another impossible angle. Another sprint. The point slipped away.
The scoreboard changed. Quietly. Relentlessly.
Then—
"Game and third set… A.R.C."
"40 — 15."
The whistle echoed.
The third set belonged to Afreen.
The A.R.C section exploded. Students leapt onto the benches. Flags waved wildly above their heads.
Their new chant rolled across the stadium like thunder.
"LONG LIVE THE NEW QUEEN!"
"AFREEN'S HER NAME!"
"DESTROY THE SNITCH!"
"THE FAKE QUEEN!"
"MIMIE THE SELLOUT!"
"BOO!" "BOO!" "BOO!"
"MIMIE IS A CRY BABY!"
"BOO!" "BOO!" "BOO!"
The words struck harder than any serve.
Not because I believed them. Because they wanted me to.
Across the C.A.A section, faces tightened.
Isham shot to her feet. "That's enough!"
Her voice disappeared beneath the chanting.
The others beside her looked equally furious.
Hands clenched.
Faces burning with anger.
Aysha stood so abruptly her drink nearly spilled.
"Oh, come on!"
Her voice cracked as she shouted toward the A.R.C supporters.
"Shut your dirty mouths, you insolent Rats."
"Stop acting like children!"
Nobody listened. The chanting only grew louder.
___________
Far away…
Inside the C.A.A clinic…
Mustyy sat upright on the hospital bed.
The Elite TV broadcast reflected in his eyes.
His injured arm rested against the blanket.
His good hand tightened around the television remote so fiercely that the plastic creaked beneath his fingers.
His jaw locked. The muscles along his neck tensed. His breathing became uneven.
"…Come on, MiMie…"
The words escaped as little more than a whisper.
"…Don't let them get to you…"
His thumb pressed harder against the remote.
"…You can do it…"
His eyes never left the screen.
"…I believe in you…"
The corners of his eyes shimmered.
"…You're the most awesome person I've ever met…"
His voice grew even quieter.
"…Since I came to Yola…"
"…Since I came to this school…"
He swallowed hard.
"…Rise…"
"…Fight…"
"…You're the real deal…"
"…Come on, MiMie…"
"…Don't give up…"
______________
Across campus…
Inside ARC's clinic…
Safeeyah watched from her hospital bed. Bandages wrapped around her injuries.
Pain lingered in every movement.
Yet her eyes remained fixed on the television.
As Afreen claimed another point… A slow smile spread across her face. Small. Sharp. Almost painful.
"…Get her, Afreen…"
Her whisper trembled.
"…Humiliate her even more…"
Another tear rolled silently down her cheek.
She didn't wipe it away.
"…Let her feel it more…"
The smile remained. But beneath it… Her heart continued breaking. Piece after piece.
Every thought of Imran reopened the wound. Every memory hurt. Every heartbeat reminded her of betrayal. Joy and grief lived inside her simultaneously.
One smiling.
The other bleeding.
_______________
Back at C.A.A's Admin block.
High above the C.A.A campus… Inside the Director's office… The Elite TV flickered across the room.
The Director stood rigid before it. The remote groaned beneath his grip. His knuckles had turned white.
His jaw tightened with every point Afreen won.
Regret slowly replaced confidence.
Why…
Why did I approve her request?
Why did I approve her as the Lawn tennis champ.
I thought she'd win.
I thought she'd justify every risk.
His pride shrank with each chant echoing through the speakers.
Then—Another thought surfaced.
"Tahir."
His expression darkened. Even further.
That boy… He isn't doing enough. Not nearly enough. His eyes narrowed.
Perhaps… He needs motivation.
Real motivation.
Perhaps reminding him about expulsion…
And informing his father…
Will help him remember the terms of our agreement.
His fingers tightened again. The remote cracked.
__________________
Back at the stadium…
None of that reached Tahir. He sat exactly as before.
Orange soda resting beside him. Hands relaxed. Eyes quietly following the court.
No frustration. No excitement. No panic. No satisfaction.
Nothing. Only stillness.
Beside him, Aysha could no longer remain seated.
She jumped to her feet.
"C.A.A!"
"COME ON, MIMIE!"
"YOU CAN STILL WIN!"
She clapped until her palms stung.
She shouted until her voice turned hoarse.
Still…
Tahir remained silent. Watching. Calculating. Waiting.