Chapter 2

Hannah Vance POV

A week before the National Team Trials, I arrived forty minutes earlier than usual.

I rounded the corridor to fetch balls from the equipment room. As I passed the coach's office, the door was slightly ajar, and Liam's voice drifted out from inside.

I froze in my tracks.

"Coach Harris, please reconsider Chloe Vance for the roster," Liam said, his voice kept very low, yet every syllable came through crisp and clear. "Her technique isn't bad. She just needs a chance."

Coach Harris said something, but I couldn't make it out.

I took half a step back, pressing my spine against the wall, my palm gripping the strap of my racket bag.

A few minutes later, the office door swung open, and Liam stepped out, heading down the other end of the hallway.

I waited until he was far in the distance before stepping out. After just a few paces, laughter from several teammates drifted over from the lounge, with Liam's voice mixed in among them.

"Hannah Vance? She's just a smoke screen," Liam said, his tone casual, as if commenting on nice weather. "With her taking all the attention out front, who on the team would look twice at what's going on between me and Chloe? Once the trials are over, I couldn't care less about her."

Someone let out a chuckle. "Does she actually think you have feelings for her?"

"She threw herself at me. It's not like I forced her."

Standing at the corner of the hallway, my fingers dug into the wall, the beds of my nails turning pale.

I had always thought I was the one he tacitly accepted. He took the water I brought, used the courts I reserved, and whenever his gaze swept across my side of the stands during matches, it would pause for a beat.

I had mistaken all of it for signs.

Only at that moment did I realize I wasn't even someone he tolerated—I was merely a cloth draped in front of him and Chloe Vance, meant to be discarded the moment she was shielded.

I waited until their banter faded and they walked away before I finally moved.

My legs had gone numb. I leaned against the wall to catch my balance for a moment, then turned and walked back. My steps were steady, completely indistinguishable from any other day.

That night, I wept in my dorm room until dawn.

I didn't turn on the lights. Buried beneath the covers, I bit into the edge of the blanket, terrified of making a sound, tears soaking a massive patch of my pillow.

I dug out that towel from the bottom of my locker. The initials in the corner were still crooked, every single stitch pushed through with my own hands.

I stared at it for a long time, folded it back up, and shoved it down to the very bottom of the locker, burying it under my winter training gear.

When daylight broke, I washed my face in front of the mirror. The girl looking back had swollen eyes, but her expression was chillingly calm.

I made up my mind: I was done loving Liam Sterling.

From that day on, I stopped bringing him water, stopped reserving courts for him, and never went to watch his matches again.

Rumors circulated that Liam and I had fallen out, but I offered no explanation.

I poured all the time I had saved straight onto the tennis court. I cranked the ball machine to its highest setting and hit shot after shot until my arm physically couldn't lift anymore.

Liam still treated me according to his old impressions.

The day before the internal assessment, he sneered at me outside the locker room in front of a whole crowd. "Hannah Vance, where did your tennis skills go? Hiding them somewhere? Don't end up dead last in this test again."

A few people chuckled.

I was stuffing a towel into my racket bag. My hands didn't hesitate, and I didn't even look up.

Saved in my phone's photo album was a screenshot: No. 1 on the National Junior Rankings, with the name Hannah Vance sitting right at the top.

I had held onto that screenshot for nearly half a year, and I had never shown it to a single soul.

Officials from the national team arrived shortly after to speak with me. Their intention was clear—they wanted me on the national squad to prepare for the upcoming World Junior Tennis Championships.

I politely declined.

Lying across my desk was an acceptance letter from an overseas tennis academy offering a full scholarship, with only one condition: place near the top of the national rankings.

I had already met it.