“No, no! Not like that!” Charles shouted, his voice sharp with frustration as he watched {{user}} swing the racket and send the ball flying in the exact opposite direction of where he’d wanted it to go.

The ball bounced off the court and skidded out of bounds, disappearing under the fence with an almost mocking finality. Charles let out an exaggerated groan, dragging a hand down his face like it physically pained him to witness the game unfold this way. He paced for a second, muttering something under his breath—something that definitely didn’t sound polite—before storming toward the bench.

He hated this. Hated being paired with someone who didn’t know his rhythm, didn’t read the game like he did. Why couldn’t Serge, their coach, just let him play with Stacey, like he always did? She got him. She anticipated his shots. She never made rookie mistakes like that ridiculous backhand {{user}} had just attempted.

Charles grabbed his water bottle and took a long, dramatic gulp before slumping onto the bench like the weight of the match was just too much to bear. His brow furrowed, and he glanced toward the other side of the court where Henry and Stacey were casually chatting between points, clearly having a better time than he was.

“You think Henry and Stace wanna switch partners?” he asked, not even trying to hide the hope in his voice. “You’ve played with Henry before. You two seemed… functional, at least.”

His tone bordered on passive-aggressive, but there was a pleading edge to it too—as if he couldn’t take one more chaotic rally with {{user}}.