CH3

Kira Vance (POV)

That night, I couldn't sleep.

Outside the window it was already very quiet, the entire villa sinking into the silence of deep night. But I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.

My left wrist was faintly swelling, but what truly kept me from calming down wasn't the discomfort in my wrist.

It was that gaze from during the day.

I closed my eyes, but my mind still uncontrollably conjured up that figure in the second-floor viewing area.

Black coat.

Cold, sharp contours.

And those eyes that had remained on me the whole time.

Adrian Cole.

This name—no one in the professional tennis world didn't know it.

Former world number one, Grand Slam record holder, the most aggressive baseline player. When I was little, I had even repeatedly studied his match recordings, imitating his backhand variation and attacking rhythm.

Completely different from Ethan.

Ethan was like the sun, always standing at the center of a crowd, dazzling, gentle, making people unable to help but draw near.

But Adrian was more like ice. Sharp, cold, carrying a natural sense of distance. Especially him in matches—his aggression was shockingly strong, like he could tear apart an opponent's entire rhythm at any moment.

Before, watching through a screen, I just thought he was very strong.

But after truly seeing him in person today, I realized for the first time that the oppressive feeling of a top professional player could really make someone instinctively nervous.

Especially the way he looked at people—like he could easily see through all pretense.

Thinking of this, I irritably turned over.

Did he notice my little maneuver this afternoon?

No, we were so far apart, that's impossible.

...Then why do I keep thinking about him?

Probably because this was the first time, the first time someone truly noticed me.

When this thought emerged, my chest suddenly caught lightly. I stared at the ceiling in the darkness for a long time, finally threw off the covers and got up.

When I couldn't sleep, I usually went to the training facility.

One in the morning.

The entire court was so empty only echoes remained.

I turned on the side court lights, set up the tablet beside me, and started practicing serves again.

Bang.

Bang.

Over and over.

Monotonous, repetitive, tedious.

But I was long used to it. No practice partner, no ball machine, I could only rely on continuous recording and playback to correct my movements.

Ball toss height off by three centimeters.

Center of gravity landing point wrong.

Swing timing early by a fraction of a second.

I quickly adjusted the data with my head down, then stood back at the baseline again.

Sweat gradually soaked through my back.

My left wrist began to tremble slightly from fatigue. But as if I couldn't feel the pain, I continued swinging. Because only at times like this could I briefly forget those messy emotions.

Another ball landed.

Out past the sideline. I frowned and bent down to pick up the ball.

But a low voice suddenly sounded behind me. "You could clearly hit much more aggressively."

My back instantly tensed.

The court was too quiet—so quiet even breathing had nowhere to hide.

I whipped my head around.

The man standing in the shadows finally slowly walked out.

It was Adrian Cole.

My breathing stopped for an instant. Why was he here?

How much had he seen?

Light fell from overhead, outlining his sharp, defined features. His black coat hung open casually, light gray shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his cold, pale, slender wrists especially noticeable under the lights.

At this closer distance, that oppressive feeling was even more obvious than during the day.

Not intentional.

But an aura naturally formed from standing at the world's peak for so long.

I gripped the racket tightly, even my palms starting to sweat.

And Adrian's gaze remained on me the whole time.

Very direct.

Like it carried some kind of undisguised observation. This feeling made me very uncomfortable. Because over all these years, few people would look at me this seriously.

What they saw was usually only:

"Ethan's practice partner."

"The Vance family's adopted daughter."

"The person who understands Ethan best."

But Adrian's gaze at me was different. He didn't seem to be looking at a "practice partner," but rather re-evaluating something.

"Why do you always hold back your power?" He stopped at the sideline, his voice not heavy, yet making it impossible to evade.

I was stunned for a few seconds before answering in a low voice: "...Because that's more suitable for training."

After saying it.

Even I was startled.

Because this sentence, I had said it too many times.

Like something taken for granted.

Suitable for training, suitable for Ethan, suitable for the entire team. But no one had ever asked: was it suitable for me?

But Adrian didn't immediately respond.

He just looked at me.

Those pale gray eyes were too quiet, as if seriously observing my reaction.

The air suddenly became a bit strange.

I could even clearly feel that he had developed some kind of curiosity about me.

Not ordinary courtesy.

But truly—caring.

This realization made my heartbeat inexplicably skip.

The next second, Adrian finally slowly spoke: "Is it suitable for training."

"Or suitable for Ethan?"

The air suddenly went quiet.

In that instant, my throat suddenly tightened. I avoided his gaze. "What are you saying?"

The overhead lights in the court were cold white and glaring, making even the air seem to carry a chill. But being stared at by him like this, I inexplicably felt my breathing become chaotic.

But Adrian seemed to have no intention of letting me off. "That last ball." He suddenly spoke. "You deliberately held back."

My fingertips stiffened slightly.

As expected.

He saw it.

Not only saw it, but even noticed the rhythm change in that instant.

"If you had continued pressing the backhand corner, Ethan couldn't have reached it." Adrian's tone was very calm. "But at the end you pulled the ball back to center court."

When he said this, his gaze remained on my face.

As if confirming something.

I was silent for a long time before speaking in a low voice: "Public training day wasn't an official match to begin with."

"So you have to let him win?"

This sentence left me unable to answer for a moment.

Because the answer was actually obvious.

Yes.

Ethan needed to win.

The media needed footage of that "perfect genius," sponsors needed him to continue standing under the spotlight, the entire Vance family needed Ethan to keep winning.

And I just needed to cooperate. That was enough.

All these years, I had long been used to it.

But I didn't know why—after Adrian pointed it out so bluntly, that emotion that had already gone numb suddenly started faintly aching again.

I looked down at the tennis ball on the ground and didn't speak.

Adrian didn't continue pressing either.

The air went quiet again.

Only the air conditioning's faint hum remained.

After a few seconds, I heard footsteps approaching.

Very light.

Yet they inexplicably tensed my nerves.

The next second, a tennis ball that had rolled away suddenly stopped by my feet.

I was startled and looked up.

Adrian had somehow already bent down and picked up the ball for me. His slender fingers casually spun that yellow tennis ball, the motion natural as if he'd just done it in passing.

But I was still stunned.

Because no one had ever done these small things for me.

Over all these years, everyone took for granted that I would organize the court, pick up balls, adjust data, cooperate with training.

As if I was naturally supposed to stand in a position of "taking care of others."

So when Adrian handed me that ball, I was actually at a loss for a moment.

"Thank you." I reached out to take the ball.

The instant our fingertips touched, I realized his hands were very cold.

Completely different from Ethan.

Ethan trained year-round, his palms were always warm.

But Adrian's body temperature was very low, even when approaching he carried a cool feeling.

This unfamiliar feeling made my heartbeat inexplicably quicken.

I was just about to step back.

But Adrian suddenly looked down at my left wrist. "You're injured?"

I tried to hide my hand behind me.

But the motion had just started when he had already frowned slightly. "It's swollen like this and you're still practicing serves?"

His tone wasn't particularly heavy, yet inexplicably carried an oppressive feeling.

I explained in a low voice: "I'm used to it."

Adrian stared at me for two seconds, then suddenly smiled a bit.

Very faint.

Yet it made me freeze.

Because from the public training until now, this was the first time I'd seen him smile. His originally cold, sharp features suddenly softened a bit in that instant, yet made it even harder to look away.

"You're pretty ruthless with yourself."

My breathing paused slightly. This feeling was very unfamiliar.

Over all these years, I had long been used to standing behind Ethan. No one would pay special attention to me, much less would anyone stop late at night to watch me practice alone.

But Adrian kept standing there.

Didn't leave.

Also didn't redirect the conversation back to Ethan like others did.

The person he was looking at had always been me.

This realization made me inexplicably flustered. I instinctively looked down to avoid his gaze and tossed the ball up again. "I'll continue training."

When the words came out, even I noticed a bit of unnaturalness.

But Adrian suddenly spoke: "Kira."

This was the first time tonight.

He called my name.

His low voice was especially clear in the empty court.

My motion paused.

I didn't know why, but when he called my name like this, a very light trembling sensation suddenly ran up my back.

"What is it?"

Adrian looked at me, stopped for two seconds, then slowly spoke: "Has anyone ever told you."

"You're actually very suited for a real professional court?"