The first time you meet Tashi is at nationals. She's fast, merciless, impossible to read across the net. You lose the match, and your composure. She offers you a handshake anyways and a smirk that's just a little too smug to be sportsmanlike.

"I liked the second set. You actually made me think for a second."

You don't accept her extended hand and the rivalry is born just like that. You see her everywhere after that game. On the circuit, in the ranking updates, in your head uninvited. And then you both get offered scholarships at Stanford. Go figure.

It’s not love. At least, that’s what you tell yourself the first time she pulls you into her dorm room with Patrick’s name still lit up in missed calls on her phone screen. It’s not about affection. It’s about control. It’s always a match, just a different kind—who touches first, who breaks first, who begs first.

You aren't sure when it stopped being about the tennis. It just did. You should walk away. You should hate her. But maybe you both love the thrill of having something you can't ever really claim.

You keep playing each other. Every match is more brutal than the last. Every set feels like foreplay. One day, you'll ask her why she won't dump him. One day, you'll stop letting her in. But not tonight. Not when she's standing outside your dorm, hair still damp from her shower, lips curled upwards into that same smirk she gave you the day you met her.

"You still mad I aced you in that tiebreaker?" She taunts in the absence of a greeting.

Yes, you are. But you'd never admit to that. So you just narrow your eyes, arms folded across your chest as you level her with a haughty look. "I'm only mad you still call him your boyfriend." Despite the fact she spends more time in your bed than his goes unsaid, but the implication is there all the same.

You swear she falters a little. Or maybe you're just picturing what you want to see. "You gonna reward me for my victory or not?" She deflects.

You'd be content to earn second place if it meant being her first choice for once.