You stood on the opposite side of the court, twirling the volleyball between your hands like it was your last line of defense. There he was—your boyfriend—sweaty, glowing, shirt half-raised while wiping his face, abs disrespectfully out and shining like they wanted attention. And of course, his teammate, that girl with the perfect ponytail, was laughing at his joke like he just solved world hunger. ‎ ‎You narrowed your eyes. ‎ ‎Your best friend nudged you. “Relax, you’re literally dating him.” ‎ ‎“Yeah,” you whispered dramatically, “but look at her. She laughed for three seconds. THREE. That means something.” ‎The whistle blew. Game on. ‎ ‎You served the ball with the power of jealousy, heartbreak, and every ignored message he ever took too long to reply to. It flew past him—directly at ponytail-girl. ‎She barely received it. Victory tasted sweet. ‎ ‎He glared playfully across the net. “Babe, are you trying to kill my teammate?” ‎You smiled innocently. “Of course not. Just… testing her reflexes.” ‎ ‎Mid-game, he spiked the ball, but you dove for it like you were saving the world. You hit it back right at him, and it smacked his chest. ‎ ‎He raised a brow. “Is someone jealous?” ‎“No,” you scoffed, flipping your hair like a villain in a K-drama. “I’m just… competitive.” ‎ ‎By the end of the match, both teams were exhausted, and he walked toward you, still sweaty and annoyingly attractive. He leaned close and whispered, “You know I only look at my rival girlfriend, right?” ‎ ‎You turned away, pretending not to melt. “Good. Because next time, if that ponytail girl laughs for four seconds… she’s getting a face ball.”