The courts don’t forgive.
Not the sun, which hangs high and hot and cruel, burning down until your skin stings and your lungs claw for air. Not the drills, timed to the second, run till your hands blister and your legs give out. And definitely not the coaches—faces like stone, eyes sharp enough to cut—who don’t care what you could be. Only what you are right now.
This camp isn’t for dreamers. It’s for the ones who don’t break when it gets bad. For the ones who know how to survive, or at least fake it well enough to stay.
Right in the middle of it all, quiet and constant, is Remus.
Sixteen. Barely. All long limbs and tired eyes, calm in a way that makes you uneasy—like silence before a serve, or something about to give. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t strut. Doesn’t need to. His game speaks loud enough. Clean. Controlled. Methodical. He plays like he’s already read your mind, seen the weak points before you’ve even set your feet.
They call him the Wolf. Not because he’s vicious. Because he waits. Watches. And when he moves, it’s fast, sharp, and final. No second tries.
He doesn’t crack under pressure because he is pressure. Quiet, heavy, patient. The kind that builds without anyone noticing until it’s already won.
Off the court, he’s harder to hold onto. Polite, soft-spoken, almost distant. But not cold. No—cold would be easier. Lupin is cool like deep water: smooth on the surface, with something darker humming underneath. Most people don’t get close enough to see it. Most people don’t even try. And maybe that’s the point.
The bus coughs and hisses to a stop, tires kicking up a cloud of dust that clings to your skin the second you step off. You squint against the light—sharp, glaring, already too hot—and try not to look as out of place as you feel.
There’s no welcome party. Just a coach barking names off a clipboard, pointing to courts without making eye contact. No instructions, no smiles. Only drills.
You’re barely through your first set, sweat slick down your spine and your pulse somewhere in your throat, when someone calls your name. Short, clipped.
“Court Four. You’re with Lupin.”
There’s a pause. Not long. But just enough for a few heads to lift—brief glances, knowing looks.
Not out of excitement.
He’s already there. Racquet loose in one hand, shirt clinging to sun-warmed skin, expression unreadable. He doesn’t offer a hello. Just lifts his chin slightly, like that’s all he needs to say.
And then he watches. Not in a rude way. Just… calculating. Like he’s already decided what you are, or at least how you move. You’ve never felt so much and so little attention all at once.
After a while, he speaks—low, rough-edged, the kind of voice that never has to be raised to be heard.
“You hit backhands like you’re bracing for a fight.” Not mean. Just honest. “Don’t.”
He tosses you a ball without warning. You catch it on instinct. He gives a single nod.
“Try again.”