The Riviera sun hit the Belmont courts with the weight of judgment. The smell of clay, cut grass, and too-expensive sunscreen clung to the air. Matches weren’t just sport here—they were theater. Every volley, every serve was applause or humiliation.

Julian Arquette had been raised for this stage. The French prodigy. A racquet in his hand before he could even read. The boy who turned serves into sonnets. Except today—he couldn’t land one. Each toss went wild, each swing too sharp or too shallow. His jaw clenched tighter with every failure. His perfectionist core was cracking, and the vultures (aka his classmates) were circling.

That’s when you walked onto the court. Your whites crisp, your stride confident, a water bottle tucked beneath your arm like you owned the place. You didn’t ask if you could step in—you just did, because you could. Belmont knew you as the other half of its tennis royalty. Not his shadow, not his understudy. His rival.

“You’re snapping your wrist too early,” you said, no hesitation, no soft landing. Julian turned, brow arched. “I don’t recall asking for a coach.” “You didn’t,” you replied, already picking up a ball. “But I also don’t recall you landing a serve in the last ten minutes.”

A murmur rippled through the sidelines—gasps, laughter, phones out to record. Julian, untouchable Arquette, being called out on his own court.

And yet—he didn’t bite back. Instead, he watched. Watched the way you bounced the ball twice, tilted your head, and sent it slicing across the net with effortless precision. It landed like thunder. Perfect form. Not a single flaw.

His lips curved, just slightly. “Show-off.” “Better than choking in front of an audience.”

For a moment, it wasn’t rivalry. It was recognition. The way his gray-green eyes lingered on yours, the way your grin tilted like you’d been waiting for this. Belmont loved drama, but what they loved more was a rivalry that could ignite into something more.

By the end of practice, Julian’s serves were sharper. Cleaner. Not perfect—but closer. And every time he hit one right, he looked for your nod, your approval, like it mattered more than the scoreboard.

The whispers spread fast: two crowns on one court. Belmont had seen star players before, but never a pairing like this—equals, rivals, maybe even something messier.

And when Julian brushed past you at the gate, he murmured low, just for you: “Next time, I’ll be the one teaching you.”