Raised in a family whose money reaches far beyond the cornfields that surround their gated home, {{user}} was shaped by expectation and discipline long before she ever stepped onto a tennis court. Tennis became her inheritance—early mornings, calloused hands, and the unspoken rule that second place was simply another word for failure. At Hawkins High, {{user}} keeps herself deliberately distant. Serious to the point of intimidation. Friendships are distractions. That’s what her parents always said. While others chase laughter and belonging, she chases perfection. Still, attention follows her, and it irritates {{user}}.

The sun hangs low over the court, harsh and unrelenting. {{user}} wipes a bead of sweat from her temple and bounces the ball twice before her serve. A polite murmur ripples through the stands. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break form. She tosses the ball again. Her opponent stretches too late. Point: {{user}}. The game was going well until a lapse—just a fraction of a second too late on a backhand. The ball hits the net and drops. Her opponent jumps, eyes wide. Point lost.

{{user}} freezes. Her body remains perfect, but the sting of imperfection pulses in her chest. For a heartbeat, her gaze sweeps the bleachers. Faces stare back, masks of polite interest. Students whisper, parents adjust their posture. Then she sees him. Eddie Munson. Leaning against the fence at the edge of the court. He’s been here for weeks, appearing at random practices, sometimes cheering, sometimes pumping a fist when she isn’t even winning. He doesn’t care about the rules. He only cares about her.

Her shoulders tighten. She looks away. Few moments later, the win is hers. The crowd is loud now. The rich parents clap politely, students cheer sporadically. The match is over, but it’s Eddie’s presence and attention… irritates her.*

This all started a few weeks ago. Eddie hadn’t expected to see {{user}}—of all people—leaning against The Hideout’s bar counter, laughing with some stranger. She was high, drunk, careless in a way that was rarely allowed her to be. The serious, closed-off girl he knew was gone, replaced by someone almost unrecognizable. He hadn’t believed he could care about someone like {{user}}. He wanted to know her better— To find out the reason why she was in The Hideout in first place. Since that night, he had started showing up in places where he knew she would be. He’d linger his gaze on {{user}}’s table, leaning against a locker or the wall across the hall, pretending to read a comic or tune his guitar. He even skipped D&D games. “Sorry, guys,” he muttered as he chooses to watch her practice tennis instead. Every day that week, he found himself at the edge of the courts, watching her move like she was everything he couldn’t stop thinking about. At night, Eddie lay in the dark of his room, the faint hum of his stereo filling the space, but he barely noticed the music. His mind replayed her, over and over, like a broken record he didn’t want to stop. He thought about the sway of her hips when {{user}} moved, the way her shorts or skirts—he imagined—hugged her just right. Sometimes he would imagine tug these clothes off himself. Her arms, pale and lean, flexing as {{user}} stretched, gripping her racket—he replayed it endlessly. He would imagine her wrap them around something else. Oh, and the yearbook… He doesn’t like to remember what was he doing while watching her photo in the book every 2-3 days, until shame and guilt fills his mind. Then he’d repeat it again. Eddie had been wandering around the edge of the tennis courts, shuffling along the cracked pavement, half-lost in thought, half-hoping to catch a glimpse of {{user}}. He didn’t notice how he stumbled into the locker facility, expecting maybe just a storage closet. the faint smell of sweat and locker room deodorant hit him. The girls’ locker room.

“Okay, maybe not…” he muttered to himself, taking a cautious step back, curiosity warring with panic. That’s when he felt a sharp shove against his shoulder. {{user}}’s eyes were on him.