Chapter 4 Hardcore

Lucia’s POV

I stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my body and another twisted around my wet hair.

My bedroom smelled of vanilla body wash, and steam drifted through the open bathroom door. I walked toward my dressing table, reaching for my phone, which had been buzzing incessantly for the past five minutes.

If Amy was calling to remind me that I had training today, I was going to throw my phone out the window.

I knew I had training.

I was an Olympic athlete, for God's sake. Training was practically my religion.

I picked up the phone. Three messages from Amy.

Of course.

I opened the first one.

AMY: Good morning, Olympic champion. I've sent you today's schedule. Read it before you leave.

I smiled.

Olympic champion.

I could get used to that.

I opened the attachment, expecting the usual list of training sessions, physical assessments, and meetings that made up my new life as an official Olympic representative. Instead, the first thing I saw was a line in bold.

8:30 A.M. — WELCOME JEREMIAH SCHERBATSKY TO THE TRAINING CAMP.

I stared at the screen. Then I scrolled up.

Right at the top of the document, someone had added a cheerful little reminder.

WELCOME THE BREEZE PROPERLY!

I lowered my phone in shock.

Then I looked at the ceiling.

"Yeah, right."

I could already feel a headache forming.

"Not only am I going to welcome the Breeze, I'm going to welcome the wind and the entire whirlwind."

My phone buzzed again.

I glanced at the screen.

AMY: And before you ask, yes, Jeremiah will be there this morning. Please behave yourself.

I barked out a laugh.

Behave myself?

Oh, that was rich.

I tossed my phone onto the bed and marched toward my wardrobe.

"Behave yourself," I repeated in a mocking imitation of Amy's voice. "Lucia, don't upset the legendary Jeremiah Scherbatsky. Lucia, remember he's a very important man. Lucia, whatever you do, don't remind him that he's human."

I yanked open the wardrobe.

"Well, guess what, Amy? I'm human too. And I'm a human who has absolutely no interest in welcoming that man anywhere."

I pulled out my training clothes and tossed them onto the bed. Then I stopped, and my gaze drifted toward the phone.

Jeremiah Scherbatsky.

Five years.

I'd spent five years building a career, winning matches, collecting trophies, and becoming the athlete I'd once dreamed of being.

I'd done it for myself. For the love of the game. For every early morning I'd dragged myself out of bed to train when my muscles ached and my body begged for rest. For my parents, who had sacrificed more than I could ever repay to give me a chance. For the little girl who had fallen in love with tennis and never wanted to put down her racket.

But there had been a time when one man's opinion had almost convinced me that I wasn't good enough. And somehow, that name could still turn a perfectly peaceful morning into a personal attack.

I exhaled slowly.

"What made me even like him in the first place?"

Seriously.

What had I seen in that man?

The footwork, perhaps. The discipline. The way he moved around a tennis court like he could predict where the ball would land before his opponent even struck it. The interviews where he spoke about hard work and perseverance as if he had personally invented both concepts.

And that smile.

Good Lord, that smile.

I'd once watched an entire interview twice just because he smiled at the end.

Now, I covered my face with one hand.

I needed professional help. Or perhaps an exorcism.

Because there was no reasonable explanation for why nineteen-year-old me had looked at that man and thought, That's the kind of athlete I want to be.

I was now twenty-four, an Olympic representative, and a woman who could win a national final with thousands of people watching.

I should have been over it.

I was over it mostly.

I dragged my training clothes off the bed and changed into a fitted black sports top and red training shorts. I pulled on my socks, then sat at the edge of the bed to lace my shoes.

My fingers tightened around the laces.

For one ridiculous second, I wasn't in my bedroom anymore.

I was nineteen again.

Standing in a corridor with a racing heart, sweaty palms, and the sort of foolish hope that made you forget the world didn't owe you anything.

---

Nineteen years old and hopelessly starstruck. And after pouring my heart out to my idol, he just walked past me without another glance.

I stood there, feeling as though someone had poured ice water over my head.

I'd known he was famous and busy. I hadn't expected him to drop everything for a stranger. But I'd hoped for something. A little encouragement, perhaps. A genuine smile. Anything that didn't make me feel like a foolish girl who had wandered into a world she didn't belong in.

For days afterward, I replayed the encounter in my head.

Had I sounded stupid? Had he thought my dreams were ridiculous? Had I embarrassed myself by telling him how much I admired him?

The questions followed me into training.

I started overthinking shots I'd made effortlessly for years. I hesitated when I should have trusted my instincts, and whenever I made a mistake, I wondered whether I was simply not good enough.

Eventually, my university coach called my father.

That evening, Dad found me sitting on my bedroom floor, my racket abandoned beside me.

"Your coach called," he announced.

I groaned. "What did he say?"

"That you're playing well."

I looked up hopefully.

"He also mentioned that you've developed a habit of dropping your racket and running off to cry."

I covered my face.

"He didn't have to tell you that!"

"Personally, I think he should have included photographs."

"Dad!"

He laughed before sitting beside me.

"What's going on, sweetheart?"

I hesitated, then told him about Jeremiah. How I'd admired him for years, how much courage it had taken to approach him, and how his dismissive response had left me questioning myself.

When I finished, Dad was quiet for a moment.

"Can I tell you something?"

I sighed. "You're going to tell me whether I agree or not."

"That's my girl."

He picked up my racket.

"Do you remember why you started playing tennis?"

"Because I liked it."

"Exactly. You loved this sport before you knew who Jeremiah Scherbatsky was. You loved it before you knew what a national championship was. You loved it before anyone told you that you could make a career out of it."

I stared at the floor.

"But what if he thought I sounded foolish?"

"Then you sounded foolish for five minutes. The world will survive."

I gave him an offended look.

He shrugged. "You're nineteen, Lucia. You're allowed to be awkward. You're allowed to admire people. And you're allowed to make a fool of yourself occasionally. Believe me, I've had years of practice."

I laughed despite myself.

Then he took my hand.

"You cannot control what people think of you. But you can control what you do with your life. If you want to become a great athlete, work for it. Train hard. Learn from your mistakes. Keep improving."

His voice softened.

"Do it because you love this sport, not because you want one man to know your name. Your worth isn't a trophy, Lucia. And it certainly isn't something a stranger gets to decide by giving you attention or withholding it."

My eyes stung.

"And if I never become great?" I whispered.

"Then you'll still be my daughter, and I'll still be proud of you."

He kissed my forehead.

"Now, come downstairs and eat something before your mother decides I'm starving you."

That conversation didn't magically fix everything. I still had difficult training sessions, and I still questioned myself sometimes.

But slowly, I stopped letting Jeremiah's reaction dictate how I played.

I trained because I wanted to improve. I competed because I loved the challenge. I kept going because I wanted to discover how far I could take my talent.

My parents had sacrificed too much for me to waste my opportunities chasing the approval of a stranger.

Jeremiah had hurt me, but he hadn't made me.

There was a difference.

---

I finished tying my shoes and stood, bringing myself back to the present.

I was twenty-four now. A national champion, an Olympic representative, and I had better things to do than obsess over a man who probably couldn't remember our conversation.

Probably.

I grabbed my training bag and left my bedroom.

Halfway down the staircase, I slowed beside the wall of photographs that decorated the space overlooking the living room.

My wall of sporting heroes.

When I'd dreamed of owning my own house, I'd imagined filling a wall with pictures of athletes whose achievements had inspired me. Now, it was covered with them.

There was a tennis champion who had won three consecutive Grand Slam titles, another who had returned from a career-threatening injury to win Wimbledon, and a runner who had recovered from a disastrous Olympic start to claim gold.

There were swimmers, gymnasts, and table-tennis champions whose journeys had taught me about discipline, courage, and resilience.

Each picture represented something I admired.

Once, I'd planned to put Jeremiah's photograph right at the top. I'd even chosen the picture in my mind: him standing on a tennis court, racket in hand, wearing that infuriatingly confident smile.

Then he'd dismissed me in that corridor, and I'd abandoned the idea.

I never bought the photograph. I never printed it. And I certainly wasn't about to start now.

The thought of hanging his face on my wall made my stomach turn.

"What made me even like him in the first place?" I muttered.

I turned away from the wall, smiling to myself.

I had earned my place among my heroes in my own way. No one had practised those hours for me. No one had stood in my place when the score was tied and the pressure threatened to swallow me whole.

I'd done the work. I'd taken the losses. And I'd kept going.

Jeremiah could keep his awards and his legendary status. I didn't need his photograph on my wall, and I certainly didn't need his approval to prove that I belonged.

My phone buzzed.

AMY: Where the hell are you?

I glanced at the time.

Oh, hell.

I typed quickly.

ME: Coming.

I grabbed my keys from the kitchen counter and hurried toward the front door.

Another message arrived.

AMY: We're all waiting for you. You kept The Breeze waiting.

I froze.

Then a slow smile spread across my face. Not a friendly smile. You know, the sort of smile that would have made my father ask what I'd done and whether he needed to start preparing my defence.

Jeremiah was waiting for me.

Good.

I was Lucia Delgado, one of the best table-tennis players in my country, and I had earned my place at the Olympics.

Jeremiah could remember me or forget me. He could approve of me or despise me. It made no difference to the athlete I'd become.

I opened the front door.

"Welcome to the whirlwind, Jeremiah," I whispered. "God help you."

Then I stepped outside, ready to face the man I'd once admired.

This time, I wouldn't be the nineteen-year-old girl hoping for his approval.