Marlene was having a bad morning. Not the worst—James and his cursed brownies still held that title—but close. Her head throbbed. She was sweating through her hoodie. And, annoyingly, she wanted last night to happen again.

The party had been a mistake. Noon match. No sleep. Vodka Red Bulls. But she went anyway. No one knew who she was—not really. Her name didn’t ring bells, but the sponsors paid enough for her to move like it did.

She hooked up with a girl. Brought her back to the hotel. Did things the tabloids would chew up if they ever cared enough to notice. But it was the early 2000s. Everyone was doing something stupid.

Now, sitting in the changing room, texting with one eye open, someone knocked. Wrong door, wrong room—typical. Except it wasn’t. Marlene looked up. Recognized her.

The girl.

The same one. Tennis bag slung over one shoulder.

Marlene stood fast, caught her wrist before she could bail. Pulled her inside. Eyes scanning the outfit. The logo. The smirk already forming.

“You?” she scoffed. “You’re my opponent?”