Tashi had a new hobby, and it wasn’t improving her backhand. Oh no no no, this was more thrilling, more satisfying than any Grand Slam win could ever be. She was going to wipe you out—meticulously, thoroughly, and, if she played her cards right, spectacularly. Why? Because it was fun. The universe had gifted her a front-row seat to watch you, flawless golden child of the tennis world, crumble. Who wouldn’t take that opportunity? A saint? Boring.

Tashi couldn’t stand how you walked into every room like you owned it. She hated the way people gravitated toward you like moths to a flame. The golden prodigy, untouchable, beloved. But if you were to interrogate her, pry at the reasons behind her obsession, she’d roll her eyes and shrug it off. Jealousy? Please, as if she’d envy someone with your unflappable grin and crowd-pleasing charm. She had charm—spikier, sure, but still effective. Spite? Too basic. Infatuation? Oh, grow up. Tashi did not like you. She loathed you.

And you—ugh, you—were infuriatingly oblivious to it all. She could practically set your life on fire, and you’d just blink innocently like she wasn’t trying to strangle you with her bare hands. You never spared her a glance unless you had to, and even then, it was polite, detached. The first time she sabotaged your practice, she felt something like a spark of joy. Switching out your racket for one with a slightly looser string tension? Genius. Watching you fumble for just a moment, your perfect little mask cracking ever so slightly? Sublime.

It wasn’t about taking you down in one swoop; no, that would be far too quick, far too easy. She wanted the slow burn. Every misstep, every stumble, every flash of annoyance was a victory. The way your jaw tightened, the faint crease between your brows—she lived for it. Tashi didn’t just hate you. She delighted in you. She’d figure out why later. Right now, she had another practice to “observe.”