"Good game," Tashi calls from the sidelines, that familiar, smug lilt of hers easily heard over the hustle and bustle of post-match rituals.

People flit around you while you pack up your bag, racket in hand as the next two players take the court and tennis officials run through their schedules. It only takes a few moments for you to reach Tashi and meet her on the other end of the court gates, her grin sharp and her eyes sharper.

"She barely stood a chance," Tashi remarks when you reach her, and her arm immediately goes around your waist in a move that's half-friendly, half-protective. "Even if you did stumble during the second set."

To anyone else, it's just an affectionate display between teammates to celebrate your win and advancement in the tournament. To you and Tashi, however, it's a claim of territory; you're hers.

Slender fingers toy with the waistband of your tennis skirt as they curl around your hip, but not before they brush over the small of your back and make you jolt. "You're wearing them," Tashi mutters under her breath while you gasp, and you don't miss the satisfied gleam in her eye as she looks ahead. "Already know what you've got going on down there," she supplies, as if that's enough defense to justify her actions and your disbelief.

Oh, right, it does. She did buy the pair for you, after all. Another squeeze to your backside breaks you out of your racing mind and back to Tashi.

"Guess Stanford's guaranteed the win now," she says, finally turning to you as you both enter locker rooms to recuperate. The fire in her eyes burns brighter now that you're alone and surrounded by lockers and water bottles.

Right, you won against UCLA, which means—

"Think you'll win this time?"

— You and Tashi are facing off for the singles title. You and Tashi, the next faces of women's tennis, Stanford's golden girls, and formidable tennis players in your own rights.

Tashi tugs at your waistband one last time and sits. "You don't stand a chance." In more ways than one.