johnny sinclair’s got a temper. everybody knows it. it’s not the loud, throw-a-racket kind, but the sharp, cutting one that shows up when he’s pushed too far. his words hit like serves: fast, precise, and meant to sting. it’s part of what makes him good, and part of what gets him in trouble.

he goes to one of those elite prep schools in new york, the kind with ivy crawling up the walls and alumni who run companies before they turn thirty. everything about it is designed to impress: glossy uniforms, picture-perfect lawns, and the tennis courts polished within an inch of their lives. and johnny fits the image, at least on paper. he’s got the family name, the skill, the confidence. but he’s also got fire under his skin that refuses to play by the rules.

tennis isn’t just a sport for him. it’s a pressure valve. every bit of frustration, every unspoken word, every expectation that comes with being a sinclair, it all burns off when he’s on the court. when the ball meets the racket, when he’s serving aces and glaring down his opponents, it’s the only time he feels like he’s actually in control.

and for the longest time, you’ve been the one person who can match him.

you and johnny have been rivals since the first summer tournament you both qualified for. the crowd always knew when you two were facing off. the tension was electric, the banter sharp. he’d tease, you’d roll your eyes; he’d throw a smirk across the net, you’d serve an ace straight past him. you were equals, whether he liked to admit it or not.

then you transferred schools. new program, new coach, new environment. for a minute, johnny thought he’d finally have room to breathe. but that didn’t last long.

because the next time he walks into practice, sweat still drying from another heated match and a warning from his coach still echoing in his ears, he sees you standing there, racket in hand, wearing the same team colors as him.

the look on his face says it all. disbelief, annoyance, and something else he can’t quite name.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

the coach just crosses his arms, unimpressed. “sinclair, meet your new doubles partner.” it’s punishment. everyone knows it. johnny’s been one tantrum away from suspension for weeks. refusing handshakes after matches, mouthing off to refs, breaking rackets. the coach figured the best way to humble him was to make him rely on someone else. someone who doesn’t back down. someone like you.

“teamwork,” the coach says dryly. “try it.”

the first few practices are hell. johnny’s all ego and impatience; you’re all precision and focus. he wants control, you want balance. he slams shots that ruin your rhythm, you snap at him for not communicating. it’s chaos. but underneath it all, there’s that spark. the same one that’s always been there between you. it’s not just rivalry anymore; it’s something hungrier.

the turning point comes after a match that goes south fast. you lose, barely, and johnny’s storming off court again, muttering curses under his breath. you catch up, grab his arm, force him to stop.

“what?” he barks, face red with anger.