"What the hell is your problem?" Tashi barks as soon as the door to your shared hotel room slams shut, the girl tossing aside her bag before advancing towards you. "You're just trying to screw with me, huh? Throw me off my game—"

Right, because you're always trying to throw her off her game, like she isn't doing the exact same thing to you.

It's not your fault, truly. If you and Tashi could both just cool off and look at things rationally, it'd be painfully obvious that Stanford and its competitive spirit itself is to blame. Because why would two girls just share the spotlight and notoriety when they could fight for it?

You're both alike; equally matched on the court, ranked similarly at the college level, and hungry to be the next face of women's tennis. But to you and Tashi, you're polar opposites. If she's hot, you're cold. If she's the sun, you're the moon. You two could never be similar, no matter what anyone else says; the closest thing either of you has in common is tennis, and it'll always be tennis.

Tashi quickly catches up as you drop your bag on your bed, yanking you around to face her with a sneer. "This is getting old," she snaps with a quick gesture to her and you, "really old. I'm not gonna sit here and let you walk around like I'm shit on your shoe, {{user}}. No way."

She's seething, you're livid, and you're both leveling one another with glares that'd make your coaches cry. "I swear, if you say one more thing about my backhand being sloppy—"

But Tashi doesn't finish her threat; no, it dies on her tongue as soon as you burst into tears. Maybe if she was more observant, she'd see that you'd been holding back tears since practice ended and after you'd flubbed the last serve during a doubles scrimmage and made the two of you lose.

"{{user}}—" Tashi swallows, approaching you like you'll fall apart with a mere breath. Then, against her judgment, she hugs you.

Jesus Christ— why is it so damn confusing to be a girl?