Chapter 1
Monte Carlo sunlight hits the clay like a weapon. I’ve always liked that. Clay doesn’t forgive; it shows everything — every wrong step, every loss of focus, every mark you leave behind. There’s no hiding on clay.
The crowd hums, a vibration I feel in my bones. They chant my name, the clipped German syllables rolling off foreign tongues. I keep my gaze fixed on the ball as I bounce it — one, two, three times — then launch the serve. My body moves the way I’ve trained it to: mechanical, efficient, ruthless.
Across the net, some French wildcard strains to return. He can’t. The ball explodes past him and hits the tarp. Another ace. I don’t celebrate. I never do. Emotion wastes energy.
The match ends 6–1, 6–2. Clean. Controlled. My agent Elena waits by the tunnel, smile too polished. “Perfect start, Lukas. Sponsors will love this.” She pats my arm as if I’m one of her assets, which I suppose I am.
I shower, ice, eat, stretch. The routine keeps me safe — until the quiet comes. Nights in Monte Carlo are dangerous. The body slows but the mind won’t. My phone glows in the dark hotel room, the blue light painting the sheets. I scroll aimlessly through the tennis feed, then — impulsively — open the app.
It’s supposed to be discreet. Masks, anonymity, no names, no faces. Just… desire. I told myself I’d deleted it weeks ago. But tonight, something pulls me back.
R: “Couldn’t sleep either?”
A message pops up. The username’s simple: R. We’ve spoken before — a few weeks back, briefly. Nothing serious. But his words lingered, the same way a well-placed drop shot does — unexpected, intimate, impossible to ignore.
Me: “Long day. You?”
R: “Watched a match. You play?”
I pause. My thumb hovers. Something about the way he writes — direct, confident — makes me want to answer honestly. Instead, I type: “Sometimes.”
R: “Bet you’re good. You sound like someone who likes control.”
That hits somewhere low in my chest. Control is everything. It’s who I am — who I have to be. Yet the way he says it feels like a challenge.
Me: “And you sound like someone who likes testing it.”
There’s a long pause. Then: R: “Maybe. But only with someone who can take it.”
My pulse ticks faster. I can almost hear his voice — deep, teasing, dangerous. I tell myself to stop. To put the phone down, sleep, train, repeat. But my fingers keep moving.
Me: “You talk a lot for someone who hides behind a mask.”
R: “Maybe I want to see how far I can push before the mask slips.”
Something shifts in me then. A line crossed, quiet but irreversible.
Later, in bed, I stare at the ceiling. My body is relaxed, but my mind won’t shut up. His words echo like the rhythm of a rally: push, pull, tease, strike.
I imagine what he looks like. Strong hands. An accent I can’t quite place. A body that knows exactly how to move. It’s ridiculous — I don’t even know his name — but the image burns bright behind my eyes.
Tomorrow I’ll face Rafael Mendoza. “El Rayo.” The media’s darling. Fast, fiery, emotional — everything I’m not. We’ve traded matches and insults for years. He drives me insane.
And yet, as I drift toward sleep, I can’t shake a strange thought. The way R wrote, the cadence, the confidence… it feels familiar. Too familiar.
But that’s impossible.
