Chapter 3

The roar of the crowd was deafening as I hit the final backhand winner down the line. Alina lunged for it, her racket stretching desperately, but the ball skimmed past her reach and landed perfectly in the corner. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Then the umpire's voice cut through my daze: "Game, set, match, Barlow."

I had done it. I had actually beaten Alina Gevin—the tennis prodigy, the media darling, the fourth seed—in three grueling sets.

Alina approached the net with visible reluctance, her handshake brief and cold. "Lucky day," she muttered, avoiding my eyes. I could see the shock and fury simmering beneath her composed exterior.

"Good match," I replied automatically, though my heart was racing too fast to form any real thoughts. The victory hadn't fully registered yet.

As I walked off the court, the reality began to sink in. Spectators who had never heard my name yesterday were now cheering for me. A few even reached out for high-fives as I passed. Davis met me at the exit, his normally controlled expression replaced by unrestrained joy.

"That was masterful," he said, pulling me into a quick hug. "The way you targeted her backhand in that final set—textbook execution."

I couldn't stop smiling. "She wasn't expecting me to come to the net so much. I could see it frustrated her."

"Frustrated is an understatement," Davis laughed. "I thought she might break her racket after that drop shot in the third set."

The post-match press conference was a whirlwind. Journalists who had ignored me earlier in the tournament now clamored for quotes, asking about my background, my training, my sudden emergence. I answered as best I could, trying to remain humble while still acknowledging what this victory meant.

"I've always believed in my ability," I told them. "I just needed the right opportunity and support to show it." I glanced at Davis, standing at the back of the room. "I'm grateful to be back competing at this level."

By evening, my phone was blowing up with notifications. My Instagram followers had jumped from a few hundred to over ten thousand in hours. Tennis blogs were analyzing my playing style, comparing footage from my junior days to my current form. #ClaudiaBarlow was trending.

"You're going viral," Davis noted as we reviewed match footage in my hotel room, preparing for tomorrow's final. "But don't let it distract you. The job's not finished."

I nodded, trying to refocus. "One more match."

"One more match," he echoed. "Get some rest. Big day tomorrow."

But sleep didn't come easily. I lay awake, replaying points in my mind, imagining the final, feeling the weight of expectations that hadn't existed two days ago. When I finally drifted off, it was nearly 2 AM.

I woke early the next morning, my body humming with nervous energy despite the lack of sleep. I followed my pre-match routine religiously—the same breakfast, the same warm-up exercises, the same playlist in my earbuds. Routine was comfort. Routine was control.

Davis met me at the venue three hours before match time, his expression serious but confident.

"Your opponent plays an aggressive baseline game," he explained as we walked toward the practice courts. "She'll try to overpower you, but her movement isn't great. Make her run, change directions, vary your pace—she'll start making errors."

I absorbed every word, visualizing the tactics, feeling my focus sharpen. After a light practice session and stretching, I headed to the locker room to change for the match.

The locker room was quiet, most players having already been eliminated. I went to my assigned locker, unzipping my bag to retrieve my match outfit—the new white tennis dress Davis had insisted on for the final. "Champions dress like champions," he'd said.

But as I pulled it out, my heart stopped. The dress was in tatters, deliberately cut with what must have been scissors, the fabric hanging in shreds. Someone had destroyed it.

"No, no, no," I whispered, frantically searching through my bag for an alternative. But I had nothing—my other match clothes were being laundered, and this was supposed to be my final outfit.

Panic rose in my throat. The match was scheduled to start in less than an hour. Without proper attire, I couldn't compete—it would be a default, a forfeit of everything I'd fought for.

With shaking hands, I called Davis. "Someone cut up my dress," I said as soon as he answered, my voice cracking. "It's ruined. I don't have anything to wear for the match."

"What?" His shock was audible. "Who would—never mind. Where are you?"

"Locker room B."

"I'm in a meeting with tournament officials about tomorrow's schedule. I'll be there as soon as I can. Try to stay calm."

The line went dead, and I sat on the bench, staring at the destroyed dress in my hands. Who would do this? The answer seemed obvious—Alina. She had been furious after our match, and this felt like exactly the kind of petty revenge she might take.

I checked the time: forty-five minutes until I was due on court. Davis might not make it in time. Desperation drove me to my feet. Maybe I could find someone from tournament operations, explain the situation...

I hurried into the hallway, the shredded dress still clutched in my hand, and nearly collided with someone rounding the corner. I stumbled backward, an apology already forming on my lips, when I looked up and froze.

The young man standing before me was strikingly handsome, with intense dark eyes and an athletic build evident even under his casual clothes. But it was his expression that caught me—a mixture of surprise and something I couldn't quite read.

"Sorry," I managed, suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look, with tears threatening and a destroyed tennis dress in my grip.

He glanced at the dress, then back at my face, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You need help," he stated simply.

It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway, too stressed to wonder who he was or why he was in the restricted player area.

"Wait here," he said, his voice low and decisive. Before I could respond, he had turned and walked briskly down the hallway.

I stood there, uncertain whether to trust this stranger or continue my search for help. The clock was ticking. In forty minutes, I would either be on court competing for my first professional title in years—or I would be defaulted, my comeback ending in humiliation.

The stranger was my only hope.