From His Lucky Charm to Tennis Queen

Seventeen days ago, my father died at the bottom of a well.

Seventeen days—long enough to turn the word "accident" over in your mouth a thousand times until it loses all meaning. Long enough to wear the rust off the old key he left behind, my palm burning from the friction. Long enough to understand one simple truth: the world doesn't go easy on you just because you're pitiful.

My mother lay bedridden, unable to rise. The bank's collection calls started at dawn and didn't stop until dark. A thick stack of bills sat on the dining table, each one more vicious than the last. I'd added up those numbers—they formed a hole I couldn't fill in ten years of working.

The only person who could fill it in one breath lived on the top floor of this building.

The thirty-eighth floor—a place I'd thought I'd never set foot in again.

Nine years. The last time I saw him, he was still the boy who'd lose a match for me, who'd rush home without even changing out of his uniform.

This time, I came with a price tag and an opening line I'd rehearsed all day.

Self-respect is a luxury.

I stood before that dark wood door and took a deep breath, holding it in my lungs like I was about to dive underwater.

Just when my head broke the surface, I felt myself sinking again.

This time, I let my arms fall. I stopped struggling.

Just hold on. Just stay alive.

That phrase had sustained me for two solid years, even as I grew sick of hearing it.

My lips were cracked dry. I licked them. Cheap lip gloss—fake strawberry flavor.

I'd worn the same kind the first time Cole kissed me.

That sweet, artificial taste slid down my throat and turned bitter at the end. Something soft in my chest, something I'd been carefully protecting all this time, was burning to ash. Growing up was a cruel business.

"A shy child like you will be fine once you're older," my mother used to say. "People get thicker skin as they age, louder voices too."

She was wrong.

The shyness didn't disappear. I didn't suddenly become extroverted overnight.

I just reached a dead end where, to survive, I had to shove my shame into some corner and keep my body from shaking while my face pretended everything was fine.

I kept hoping I'd go completely numb one day, too lazy even for self-loathing.

Not there yet.

I counted what I had with me: phone, keys, and that opening line I'd rehearsed in my head all day.

Did you memorize your script, Wren?

Yes.

Really?

...Probably.

My social skills had always been about as useful as soggy toast, but tonight couldn't go wrong. Tonight I only had one chance.

Deep breath. Don't shake. Shaking won't help anyway.

I raised my hand and knocked softly. Solid wood—even the knock sounded dignified.

Too soft? It's not even bedtime yet.

I glanced nervously over my shoulder. Nearly midnight. The entire hallway was silent, devoid of any sign of life. The lights were dimmed to their lowest setting, the far end disappearing into darkness. This whole floor seemed to house only him.

Just as I was about to knock again, familiar footsteps approached and the door opened.

A pair of blue-gray eyes assessed me without a trace of surprise.

He looked freshly showered, wearing only plaid lounge pants, bare-chested, pushing wet hair back from his forehead with one hand.

He frowned slightly, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. Light from inside spilled out, casting shadows across his face.

"Where's your mom?"

His voice was hard, but I caught that tiny thread of concern underneath.

Please don't be gentle with me. I'm about to use you again.

"She's fine. Discharged this afternoon. She's home now."

He looked down at me, let out a short sigh, and stepped aside.

"Come in."

The space inside was vast and empty. One entire wall was floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city's lights. Cold marble floors, cold furniture, cold lighting. This place was just like him—clean, expensive, utterly devoid of warmth. Not a single photograph on the walls, just a lonely row of polished trophies on the entryway console.

I stopped just inside the door, unsure where to put my hands.

Should I sit? No. Sitting would make me look comfortable. I wasn't comfortable at all.

Stand then. Standing makes me look like a debt collector.

I finally clasped my hands in front of me like someone at a job interview. Great job, Wren. Very professional posture.

"Last time we parted, you sounded like you never wanted to see me again in this lifetime."

He always spoke this directly, like arrows shooting straight at their target, piercing and painful.

I'd cursed myself a hundred times not to blush, but my face burned anyway.

"What are you here for?"

He pulled a water bottle from a small fridge in the corner. The crack of the cap opening sounded somehow violent. His eyes never left me as he drained it in one go.

I couldn't open my mouth. I swallowed hard, squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again.

"I... need money."

Over these years, he'd long since stopped being just the young master from our building. He'd broken into the professional circuit, won his way to the threshold of a Grand Slam, and the figures on his sponsorship contracts alone were numbers someone like me could never count in a lifetime. Two hundred and fifty thousand—to him, probably just the price of a watch.

He broke the seemingly endless silence.

"How much."

"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Surprise, doubt, anger—they flickered across his face in succession.

Everyone said they couldn't read him. But I could read him better than anyone—I'd grown up learning to read his expressions. That skill had been earned through endurance.

"What for?"

"...Urgent need."

My hands were shaking badly. I had to clench them into fists. There was no way back now.

"If you want to borrow from me, state your reason clearly."

That lowered voice pressed down until I could barely breathe.

"Not borrowing. I want you to give it to me."

"...What?"

He laughed coldly, staring at me for a long moment with an expression of utter absurdity.

"On what grounds."

"If I borrowed it, I couldn't pay you back anyway. You know that."

"So?"

I swallowed.

"I'm not taking it for nothing. I'll trade you something you want."

"You know what I want, do you? Bold of you." He spoke with mockery.

"How could I not know? You've only ever wanted one thing. The next four years—on call whenever you need me. Whatever you want me to do, I'll do it. Whatever you say I am to you, that's what I'll be. You've always believed I'm your lucky charm, haven't you? I'm selling it to you. Four years."

The moment the words left my mouth, I shocked myself.

Did I really just say that? So blunt, so shameless.

I'd rehearsed this script all day just to say it without stuttering even once at this moment.

See? People backed into corners can even cure their stutter.

Since he was very young, every time Cole played a match, the "lucky charm" he insisted on was my kiss.

Those blue eyes flashed like flame. He strode forward, looming over me. I forced myself not to step back.

He seemed to be clenching his jaw, his chin moving slightly. His gaze was vicious enough to strangle me.

"Do you know what you're saying?"

I knew perfectly well. But I couldn't meet his eyes and lowered my head.

Cole grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. Then, in words that were almost cruel in their nakedness, he sealed the deal.

"Wren Kelly. You just sold yourself to me for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

I turned my face away, dropping my eyelids.

"Call it whatever you want. Right now, this is the only way I can pay back that debt. I didn't want to do this to you—"

The truth rushed to the tip of my tongue. I bit it back quickly.

I'd finally decided to go to California for a fresh start, and now these four years of my life were clutched in his palm again.

He walked to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and extracted something. Several pages stapled together, edges neat—as if prepared long ago, just waiting for me to show up. He hadn't written a single extra word.

He held those pages between two fingers and extended them toward me, looking down at me with those cold blue eyes, pulling his mouth into a cruel smile.

"If I'd known you needed money instead of not being ready, I wouldn't have waited like an idiot. Take it!"

With trembling hands, I pulled the paper from between his fingers.

The paper was light. Impossibly light.

I'd always thought selling yourself would be a heavy thing. There would be noise, risk. But there was nothing—just a thin sheet of paper passing from his hand to mine.

Done.

My ears burned and ached. My back was covered in cold sweat.

Miserable, yet somehow relieved.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. My mother's surgery costs. The bank's demands. That massive stone pressing down on our household could finally be shifted aside, at least a little, tonight.

I folded those pages and tucked them into my jacket's inner pocket, pressed against my heart. Like carrying a burning coal, or a lifeline.

I was an adult now, old enough to pay for my own decisions.

Good thing I didn't love Cole anymore.

Just standing here was this humiliating, this painful, this heartbreaking. If I still loved him, I probably couldn't even stay on my feet.

I stared at that patch of darkness outside the window, took a deep breath, and pulled myself back from it. Hold on. Just stay alive.

My hand was still tucked in my inner jacket pocket. Besides that thin document, there was something else pressed there, something I'd never told anyone about—a rusted key. It reminded me that I was standing here tonight for more than just money.

I pressed that document against my heart again. I lowered my eyes, repeating silently that phrase I'd learned so well over these two years—

Shame is a luxury too.

That night, I thought what I'd sold was myself—my next four years, my name, my public face. Much later I'd understand I was wrong. What he wanted was more brutal than just me. And the moment I signed my name wasn't an ending. It was the beginning—of me, of him, and of that well, all falling together, downward.