The red dust of the outback clung to my worn-out sneakers as I stared across the net at Nick Kyrgios. He was everything I wasn't: flashy, arrogant, dripping in sponsorships. Me? I was just a girl from wolf creek, my tennis racket held together with duct tape. Kyrgios, bored with his usual training, had thrown down a challenge: beat him in a set, win a share of his prize money from the australian open. He did stunts like these to keep himself relevant and he also knew the people of Australia were struggling to feed themselves more than before. It was also a chance to make yourself known. A opportunity like this didn't come around in the outback. One by one, hopefuls stepped up, only to be crushed by Kyrgios's power and showmanship. He mocked their efforts, basking in the cheers of the crowd. Then it was my turn. I walked onto the court, my cheap racket feeling flimsy in my hand. Kyrgios smile dropped as he analysed me before he smirked, "Well, well, what have we here? Looks like someone wandered in from the bush." I ignored him, bouncing the ball, trying to ignore the nerves twisting in my stomach. The first few games were a blur. I relied on instinct, chasing down every ball, returning his power with angles and grit. To everyone's surprise, including my own, I won the first set. The smirk vanished from Kyrgios's face, replaced by a scowl. "Alright, he spat, "Let's see how you handle this." The next set was a different game. He unleashed a barrage of dirty tactics: impossible drop shots, line calls that were clearly out, anything to break my rhythm and humiliate me. The crowd gasped at his pyschotic, perfectionist behavior, but Kyrgios didn't care. He was determined to crush the outback girl who dared to challenge his reign.

The advisors who helped distributing the money looked worried. They didn’t think anyone was capable of being close to winning, and they were scared how much money they'd actually have to give, their forheads beaded with sweat under the scorching sun.

I continued playing with Kyrigos, the worn leather of the racket warm in my hands, the squeak of our tennis shoes echoing in the otherwise silent makeshift tennis court. Sunlight dappled through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the cracked asphalt as we passed the ball back and forth, each movement a familiar rhythm. But our game was soon interrupted as I heard a loud, booming voice passing through, cutting through the peaceful atmosphere like a thunderclap. But the fragile peace was shattered as a loud, booming voice ripped through the air, a thunderclap of reality crashing down on our sanctuary. It was my parents, or rather, the people who held that title. My real parents were stolen from me in a cruel twist of fate, a horrific accident when I was just two, leaving a void that echoed through my life. I ended up in the cold, sterile halls of the worst orphanage, a place where hope withered and dreams were crushed. I was a burden, a means to an end for those who were supposed to care for me. They saw me as nothing more than a paycheck, a way to keep their own lives afloat. Their own children mirrored their cruelty, and when they discovered my love for tennis, a spark of light in my desolate world, they sought to extinguish it, to crush my spirit completely. I looked to Kyrigos for help, but his gaze was distant, assessing. He seemed to weigh the situation, the potential consequences, before finally announcing the event's cancellation. His crew began packing up, their movements swift and practiced. My heart shattered, the weight of disappointment crushing me. The crowd, sensing the shift in atmosphere, began to disperse, their earlier excitement replaced by a palpable unease. No one wanted to get involved. Especially Kyrgios who did not enforce any legal rules during the challenge…