Page 1

Chapter 1: Avery

T he tennis ball whizzes past my ear at 120 miles per hour, and I don't even flinch. I'm used to it by now. What I'm not used to is losing. Not like this. Not when I'm better than this.

"Forty-love," the chair umpire announces, his voice echoing across the stadium.

I bounce the spare ball against the court, trying to steady my racing pulse. The Australian sun beats down, and sweat trickles down my spine, making my designer tennis dress cling uncomfortably. One more point and this match is over. One more point and I'll have crashed out of yet another Grand Slam in the first round.

"Miss Jenkins, time violation warning."

My fingers clench around the ball. I've been here before, too many times in the past year. The pressure, the whispers, the disappointed looks from my coach. I toss the ball up for my serve, but it's all wrong. The timing, the angle, everything, it all leads to a double fault.

"Game, set, match—Rodriguez."

The crowd's applause taunts me. Now, I should walk to the net, shake hands, be gracious in defeat. That's what professionals do. That's what my sponsors expect.

The good girl. Fuck that.

"This is bullshit!" I hurl my racquet across the court. It skids against the blue hardcourt surface, leaving an ugly mark. "That was clearly out in the second set, and you know it!"

The umpire's face remains impassive. "Miss Jenkins—"

"Don't 'Miss Jenkins' me!" My voice carries across the suddenly silent stadium. "This whole tournament is rigged. The line judges, the calls, everything! You've had it out for me since the first point!"

The crowd starts murmuring, phones raised high to capture my meltdown. Some are booing now, others laughing. The umpire gives me a code violation warning, but I'm past caring.

"Avery." My coach's voice cuts through my haze of anger. "That's enough."

No. It's not enough. I've spent the last two years struggling to maintain my ranking, of watching younger players zoom past me in the standings, of reading articles questioning if I've lost my edge. It all comes pouring out. I grab my water bottle and hurl it at the umpire's chair, missing by inches.

"You want to see a meltdown? I'll show you a meltdown!"

Security starts moving in as I upend my tennis bag, sending racquets and gear scattering across the court. The crowd's reaction is a mix of gasps and jeers. Someone shouts, "Go home, drama queen!"

I flip them off.

The tournament director appears courtside, her face a mask of controlled fury. I know what's coming. Fines, suspension, maybe worse, but watching my career implode feels almost liberating.

I storm off the court, ignoring the mandatory press conference. Let them fine me. Let them write their articles. I'm done playing nice.

Back in the locker room, reality crashes in hard. My phone is exploding with notifications:

Tennis Bad Girl Strikes Again! Avery Jenkins' Latest Meltdown

Nike "Reconsidering Partnership" with Troubled Star

From Rising Star to Falling Star: The Avery Jenkins Story

#TennisTantrum trending worldwide

My agent's text is short: Emergency meeting tomorrow. This is bad, Avery. This is my last meeting with you. You need to find a new agent.

I slide down against the lockers, still in my sweat soaked tennis dress. My hands shake as I scroll through socials. The video clips are everywhere of me throwing the racquet, screaming at the umpire, flipping off the crowd.

My mom calls, but I let it go to voicemail. Then my dad. Then my sister. They all know what this means. At twenty-six, I'm watching everything I've worked for since I was four years old crumble in real time, one repost at a time.

A notification pops up from Wilson, my racquet sponsor. They're "suspending our partnership pending review." Translation: They're dropping me as soon as legal gives them the green light.

I open Instagram, masochistically reading the comments:

"What a disgrace to the sport!"

"Someone needs anger management"

"Remember when she used to actually win matches?"

The worst part? They're not wrong. I haven't made it past the third round of a major in eighteen months. My ranking has dropped from number eight to forty-three.

My coach texts: Press conference in 10. Damage control.

I text back: Not happening.

Avery, you NEED to face this.

I can't. Not yet. Not when I can barely face myself in the locker room mirror. The woman staring back at me looks desperate, and nothing like the confident player who won the French Open three years ago.

Another text buzzes through, this one from an unknown number: Need an agent who can handle the storm? Call me.

I delete it without responding. I've got bigger problems right now than shopping for new representation. Like figuring out how to rebuild a career, or if it's even worth trying.

The locker room door opens, and a tournament official pokes her head in. "Miss Jenkins? The press is waiting."

I grab my bag, already planning my escape through the back exit. "Tell them I said to go to hell."

It's not my smartest move, but then again, I haven't made a lot of those lately. As I slip out into the Melbourne night, my phone keeps buzzing with notifications, each one another reminder that in tennis, like in life, love means nothing.