LOVE ON THE WINNING SIDE.

Lucia's POV

The first time I saw Jeremiah Scherbatsky, I forgot how to breathe. Not metaphorically. I mean, I actually fucking stopped breathing.

But that was thirty seconds later. First, I had to get there.

"Lucia, slow down!" Tessa called out.

The stadium hummed beyond the concrete walls, a low roar of voices and squeaking shoes. The corridor smelled of rubber and floor polish. My sneakers slapped the floor as I clutched my bag to my shoulder and ran.

"I'm not slowing down."

"You're going to fall."

"I won't." I replied her breathlessly.

"You said that yesterday before walking straight into a glass door."

"That door was practically invisible."

"Because it was made of glass?" She asked with concern.

"Details, girl."

Tessa laughed behind me, but I couldn't. Not when I was about to meet the man whose matches I'd watched so many times I could recite his best rallies in my sleep.

Jeremiah Scherbatsky. The Breeze.

Coach had picked four of us from the Westbridge University team to attend this tournament. “Study the footwork,” he'd said. “See what separates good from great.”

I'd been excited. Then I saw the draw sheet, and my excitement turned into something dangerously close to hysteria.

At just twenty-four, Jeremiah was already a legend. He moved across the court like the wind, reading shots before his opponents even swung. Watching him was equal parts inspiring and infuriating, because he made everything look so easy. He'd made me believe that being good wasn't enough.

I wanted to be great.

"Lucia." Tessa caught my arm. "The spectator entrance is that way."

She pointed behind us, binoculars swinging from her neck. She took those things everywhere, like a tiny, judgmental bird-watcher.

"I know."

"Then why are you going the other way?"

"I need to see something."

Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

I gave her my sweetest smile. "The Breeze."

"Oh, no."

I was already walking.

"Lucia!"

"I'll be back!"

"Don't you dare embarrass me!"

"Love you too!"

I'd slipped past a distracted security guard earlier by waving my university lanyard like it meant something. Now I turned the corner, heart hammering, with no plan except one: Jeremiah had to pass through one of these corridors before his match.

Then footsteps approached from the opposite direction.

I looked up.

A group of people appeared around the corner: coaches, staff members, and someone carrying a large equipment bag. Another man held a towel and a bottle of water.

And at the front of the group was the man I'd spent years admiring from behind a screen.

Jeremiah Scherbatsky.

He wore his match clothes with effortless confidence, his racket resting loosely in one hand. His dark hair was slightly damp around the temples, and he listened to something one of the men beside him was saying, his attention fixed on the match ahead.

He was right there in front of me. In real fucking life.

God. My lungs forgot their job.

He looked even more intimidating in person. Bigger, more handsome, and somehow more real than any photograph could have prepared me for.

I stood frozen for a moment, then remembered that opportunities didn't usually announce themselves twice.

"Excuse me!" I called out.

The group slowed. Jeremiah turned, and I rushed forward before common sense could stop me. He halted as I stepped into his path.

For one glorious second, I had his attention.

"The Breeze!"

Brilliant, Lucia. Absolutely brilliant.

"Hi." My voice came out breathless. I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to recover from my sprint.

I'd rehearsed this moment for years. Apparently I'd rehearsed everything except the part where I used actual words.

I straightened and forced a smile.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm a huge fan."

He said nothing.

"A really huge fan," I added, because apparently I hadn't embarrassed myself enough.

His expression stayed blank, except for a faint tightening in his jaw, as if I were a delay he hadn't planned for.

"I'm Lucia Delgado. First-year at Westbridge University."

Nothing.

"I… I play tennis. Obviously."

Still nothing.

"I'm the best player on our team. Well, according to Coach, anyway." I laughed alone. "Which isn't the same as being a pro, I know. I just..."

I stopped and took a deep breath.

Someone behind him cleared his throat, while Jeremiah shifted his racket to his other hand.

"I've watched your matches for years. Your footwork is ridiculous. Your semifinal against Alvarez? I've watched it at least twenty times."

Not even a smile.

Heat crept up my neck.

I should retreat, right?

Just turn back and run the hell out of this place. But retreating meant defeat, and I didn't do defeat.

"I started playing because of my dad, but you made me want to be great."

My voice wobbled. I hated that it wobbled.

"I want to compete at the highest level someday. I want to be like you."

There. I'd finally said it.

"I hope I can become even half as good as you."

Silence settled between us.

I searched his face for the smallest sign that my words had reached him. A smile. A nod. Anything. Instead, his gaze drifted past me to the man holding his racket bag.

The dismissal was so casual that it took me a moment to understand it. Years of imagining this moment, and he couldn't spare me a few seconds of genuine interest.

He glanced at his watch, bent to adjust his shoelaces, then straightened and turned toward his team.

"Let's go."

Two words. Just two fucking words.

Then he walked past me without another glance.

I stayed where I was, my smile dying slowly as his entourage followed him down the corridor. The footsteps faded, and the hum of the stadium swelled back to fill the silence.

Had he seriously just walked away?

My throat tightened. I'd imagined meeting him countless times, but never once had I imagined feeling this small afterward.

My eyes burned.

No. Absolutely not.

I wasn't going to cry over a man who couldn't spare me one kind word. I wiped the corner of my eye and squared my shoulders.

Dad had given up his Saturdays for years to drive me to practice. I wasn't going to spend them becoming nobody.

Fine. If Jeremiah Scherbatsky didn't care that I existed, I'd give him a reason to. I'd work harder, train harder, and get so good that my name would speak for itself.

One day, people would cheer for Lucia Delgado.

And when Jeremiah heard my name, he'd know exactly who I was. Not the nervous girl he'd brushed aside in a corridor, but a champion.

I don't remember the walk back. Just the burn behind my eyes and the roar of the crowd swallowing me as I dropped into the seat beside Tessa. She took one look at my face and opened her mouth.

"Don't..." I said, without looking at her.

She closed it.

A moment later, she nudged my shoulder. "He's an idiot."

A laugh escaped me. "You don't even know what happened."

"You left looking like you were about to meet the love of your life. Now you look like you want to burn the building down."

"I do not."

"Fair enough," she said, adjusting her binoculars.

"Okay..." I turned to face her this time. "I want to burn down the corridor. The building has done nothing wrong."

She laughed, and despite myself, I joined her. It helped. Not enough to erase the sting, but enough to breathe.

Around us, the stands kept filling. Phones raised, flags unfurled, and somewhere behind me, a kid begged his mother for a hot dog.

I shifted forward in my seat.

One rude man was not going to ruin the best day of my season.

The lights dimmed, and the crowd stirred. Then the announcer called his name, and the stadium erupted.

Twenty minutes. That's how long it took for Jeremiah Scherbatsky to walk away from me and walk onto that court like I'd never existed. And God help me, my disappointment melted into the familiar thrill of watching him play.

He was still The Breeze. Still the athlete whose discipline had pushed me out of bed at five a.m. for years.

I could be furious with him and still recognize his brilliance.

The match began, and Jeremiah dominated the opening rallies. Every shot seemed to land exactly where he'd decided it would. Every recovery looked effortless. Whenever the crowd thought a point might slip away from him, he found a way to turn it around.

I leaned forward, gripping my knees.

For a while, I forgot the corridor and the humiliation. There was only the court, the squeak of his shoes, the sharp thock of the ball, and the man who had made me believe greatness was possible.

Then his opponent sent a ball wide, and Jeremiah lunged for it.

For a split second, I thought he'd make the shot.

Then his right foot slipped, his body twisted, and a sickening crack cut through the noise of the stadium.

His racket flew from his hand, and he crashed onto the court.

I stopped breathing. Again.

I waited for him to get up. He always got up. He was Jeremiah Scherbatsky, the man who seemed capable of recovering from anything.

But he didn't move.

His right arm lay at an unnatural angle. When he tried to push himself up, his face twisted, and a strangled sound escaped him before he collapsed back onto the court.

The referee rushed toward him. Someone shouted for the medical team. The crowd fell silent, then erupted into frightened voices as officials hurried onto the court.

I gripped the edge of my seat.

What had happened?

Jeremiah tried again, and failed again. His face had gone pale. His uninjured hand trembled as it reached toward his shoulder.

"Oh my God," Tessa whispered. Her binoculars hung forgotten in her hand.

I'd spent years watching him make the impossible look easy. Now he couldn't even stand.

For one horrible, shameful heartbeat, a bitter thought slipped into my head.

Good. Now you know what it feels like to be humiliated.

But horror washed over me almost immediately.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I'd wanted him to notice me. Maybe even regret brushing me aside. But I'd never wanted this. Not him lying helpless on the court while strangers rushed to his side.

"Jeremiah!"

Someone shouted his name as a medical worker knelt beside him. Another moved carefully toward his injured shoulder while the referee waved his opponent back.

I couldn't hear what they were saying. Hell, I couldn't hear Tessa calling my name. All I could do was stare at the man I'd believed was untouchable.

The champion who had made me feel so small only minutes earlier was now lying on the floor, unable to stand.

I swallowed hard, fingers digging into the edge of my seat as the medical team prepared to move him.

For the first time that afternoon, I wasn't thinking about how badly I wanted Jeremiah Scherbatsky to notice me. I was wondering whether he would ever play again.

Almighty Jeremiah Scherbatsky was on the floor.