Page 122 of The Bargain

Nadia doesn’t make a single second of the match easy for me. Sweat stings my eyes, my wrist aches, my lungs burn—but I don’t care. I’ve never played like this before: not careful, not perfect, not afraid of missing. Because what would be the point? Being afraid never stopped me from losing the things I was afraid to lose. Being afraid only ever kept me a prisoner. Now, I can move freely, reacting instead of planning. Plans go wrong all the time anyway—I should know. I made a plan, once, a terrible bargain, and when I gave it rules, I ended up breaking every single one of them anyway.

The match stretches past an hour, then two. The crowd is roaring now, clapping between serves, the air electric with heat and noise. Nadia fights hard, elegant yet ruthless, but somewhere in the final set, I feel it: the click of the rhythm, the spark of certainty. My body realising something before my mind can.

Nadia serves wide. I sprint, catch it on the edge of the line, twist, swing⁠—

The ball arcs through the air, spins, lands just inside the baseline.

Match point.

The sound that follows is a burst of euphoria: the umpire’s call, the applause, the collective exhale of the crowd. Someone presses a silver trophy into my hands; it’s warm to the touch, warm from the sun. I hand it to Dad, who kisses it and brandishes it like he’s won it himself, and I walk back to where I left my bag with my towel⁠—

Which comes flying at my face. I catch it mid-air.

My heart stops, stutters back to life. It aches like it’s been shot through with an arrow.

If it wasn’t for the adrenaline of the match still pumping through my system, I think my legs would’ve buckled from sheer relief.

“Another shiny trophy, love?”

Leaning against the chain-link fence beyond the court, half in shadow, half in sunlight, Elias watches me with a slight smirk. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. He’s had a haircut, too, but still looks like he combed his thick dark hair by running a hand through it. His eyes are like dark jewels—his beauty strikes me all over again.

“You don’t have enough of those, no?” he says.

I wipe my face, sling my towel around my neck and stalk carefully closer. My heart is beating a mile a minute. My body aches, skin tingling with want. When I reach him, Elias hands me my water bottle and I keep eye contact as I take a long draught. He doesn’t: his eyes immediately fall to my throat, which is covered with a sheen of sweat.

“Did you come all the way here to make fun of me?” I ask finally, my voice mild enough.

“Someone’s got to keep you humble.”

I pretend to look past him. “Where’s he, then?”

“That’s not very romantic of you.” He laughs, low and soft. “Thought you’d be jumping into my arms and all that.” He smirks. “Cause another embarrassing display of obscenity or whatever Mrs Kendall called it.”

“Maybe I would’ve jumped into your arms if you hadn’t thrown a towel at my face.”

“I threw it in the air.”

“Towards my face.”

He shakes his head. “So pedantic, this girl of mine.”

My heart lurches once more, forgetting its own function.

“Since when am I your girl?”

“Since I’m asking you out.”

He has the audacity to say it calmly, softly. He holds my gaze, and he doesn’t even look nervous, or cocky—he looks sincere. And that sincerity is somehow more intimidating than if he’d pinned me to the wall by my neck.

“In exchange for what?” I ask, uncertain now, because this is new territory, a make-or-break match in a sport I’ve never trained for.

Elias pushes off the wall and stands right in front of me.

“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing at all, love. No conditions, no bargain, no payment. Just you and me, no lying, no pretending, no holding back. Your heart and mine. Your life and mine.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as you want. Forever, preferably.”