Chapter 3

Hannah Vance POV

That afternoon, Coach Harris called me into his office.

The Team Director was there as well, seated on the sofa with a teacup in hand, his gaze never leaving me.

"Hannah," Coach Harris said, leaning against the back of his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk. "I'll ask you just one thing. What is your actual skill level?"

I stood on the other side of the desk without offering an explanation.

I glanced at the Team Director, then looked back at Coach Harris. "Call the highest-ranked male player on the team. Have him play one game against me."

Coach Harris raised an eyebrow. Without a word, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

Ten minutes later, the team's top-ranked male player walked in with his racket slung over his shoulder, his face practically screaming bewilderment.

The Team Director followed us out to the courts, while Coach Harris brought up the rear and pulled the door shut behind them.

It was an exhibition match of just a single game.

The male player served first. He didn't take me seriously at all, tossing a casual serve straight down the T. I shifted my weight and whipped a return that slammed right into the corner of his baseline. He didn't even manage to lift his racket.

On the second point, he dialed up the power, serving wide. I slid cleanly into position and sliced a drop shot with my backhand. The ball plummeted the instant it cleared the net; he charged forward, but it was already too late.

15-love.

His expression shifted, and he began playing in earnest.

Yet no matter what serve he threw at me or what angles he chose, I returned every single one, each of my shots landing at an increasingly brutal angle.

When he scrambled to the left, I drove the ball to the right. When he rushed the net, I lobbed it deep into the backcourt. The moment he retreated to the baseline, the ball was already dropping at his feet.

On the third point, he gave everything he had to fire a body serve. I stepped aside, blocked it with a backhand, and the ball grazed the tape before dropping over. He lunged onto the court floor, but couldn't even touch it.

From 40-love, another point fell into place. By the time the game concluded, he hadn't managed to win a single point.

He stood at the net, chest heaving, staring at me, unable to speak for a long time.

He was ranked number one in the entire training camp and had never lost a game to a female player, let alone suffered a clean sweep without scoring once.

His mouth opened, wanting to say something, but in the end, only one sentence came out: "When... when did you practice this?"

I didn't answer, simply picking up my towel to wipe away the sweat.

Without anyone noticing, the Team Director had set down his teacup, its lid sitting askew.

Coach Harris had his arms crossed, his face devoid of expression, yet something flickered beneath his eyes.

Back in the office, Coach Harris shut the door behind us.

"Out with it," he said, taking a seat. "Why were you hiding it?"

I remained silent for a beat before finally speaking.

I told him about Evelyn Vance.

"My stepmother, Evelyn Vance, laced my protein powder with crushed glass shards on three separate occasions," I said calmly, sounding as though I were reading an incident report that had nothing to do with me. "The first time was during last year's winter training, the second was during spring training this year, and the third was last month. Because I beat Chloe Vance in the previous team assessment, she decided I had brought shame upon the Vance family."

The office was dead silent, save for the soft clink of the Team Director's teacup lid brushing against the rim.

"My esophagus was torn after ingesting it," I continued. "I was rushed to the hospital to have my stomach pumped and stayed for three days. That time, I told the team it was acute gastroenteritis."

I pulled out my phone, pulled up photos of the medical records, and placed the screen flat on the desk.

Coach Harris took it and looked through the files, then handed it over to the Team Director.

The Team Director finished reviewing them, set the phone back on the desk, clasped his hands together, and said nothing.

"She hurt you three times?" Coach Harris asked.

"Yes," I said. "The first time, I assumed the protein powder had gone bad, so I replaced the tub. The second time, I suspected something was wrong, but lacked proof. The third time, I kept a sample and sent it out for lab testing."

I took a folded lab report from my pocket and laid it beside the medical records.

Coach Harris picked it up to read, his fingers gripping the edge of the paper so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"So you didn't dare play well," Coach Harris said in a low voice. "If you played well, she would move to harm you."

I didn't nod, nor did I shake my head.

I stood there with my back straight, my face completely expressionless.

"Does your father know?" the Team Director suddenly asked.

I glanced at him without answering.

That single look was answer enough. My father didn't know—or rather, even if he did, he wouldn't care.

Silence fell over the office once more.

Coach Harris and the Team Director exchanged a glance, neither saying a word.