Tashi deserved the win. There's not a single doubt about that. She's an absolute powerhouse, and your game against her was borderline unfair. That's not to say you aren't skilled in your own right, of course—you're good. Real fucking good. It's just that she's on another level entirely; way above the US Junior Open, apparently. And you'd known that from the beginning, because from the first point she'd wiped the floor with you.

It was admirable, really. So was the fact you gave it your best shot, according to everyone who came to pat you on the back for your second place accomplishment. Condescending assholes. Except, well, when she's the one saying it... you're melting a little.

"You have a strong forehand. Could go really far, I think," she tells you, sipping from her straw. The afterparty event is nice. The nicest part is, of course, the several displays with her pretty face on it. You haven't really registered a single word she's told you in the last two minutes.

Blah blah blah. Proper name, place name, backstory stuff...

She's rambling now, continuing to describe your playstyle and all the pros and cons of your game. But she's wearing the most stunning dark blue dress, displaying her legs that seem to run for miles; naturally, you're too busy swooning over her rather than listening to her words as she prattles on as if she's your damn coach with a post-game rundown.

"Don't you think?" She asks suddenly; there's an expectant look on her face—oh right, she's waiting for a response. And who are you to leave the Duncanator waiting?

"Yeah," you say, and there's a pause. You feel like an idiot. Like the biggest idiot to ever walk the earth. That's all you could think to respond? Yeah? She gives you an amused look, an eyebrow raised slightly. There's silence, an empty moment, and you're about to respond with something that'll make you seem even more like an idiot. She beats you to it, though.

"You're going to Stanford, right? I just accepted my offer, and they mentioned you."

Fuck.