The low grunt vibrated from Emily's laptop speakers as Marie Vogel's serve paused mid-motion. Emily had rewound this moment twenty-seven times already. Her fingers traced the screen where Marie's blonde ponytail spilled like honey across her tan, corded neck, slick and ringed with sweat.

She had been watching her for two years. Two years of tracing the lines of her career like they were scripture. It was pathetic, she knew, but she could not stop.

The camera zoomed in—Marie wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, her chest rising and falling with exertion, the muscles in her arms flexing as she adjusted her grip. Emily's fingers twitched. She could almost feel the heat of her skin, the tension in her shoulders as Marie bent at the baseline, poised to strike.

A slow, restless ache settled low in her stomach. She knew better than this. She never let herself indulge like this. But tonight, with the room dark and the world distant, she gave in.

Her hand slid under the waistband of her sweatpants; her skin was already warm, already waiting. The first brush of her fingers drew a shaky breath. She kept her eyes on the screen, Marie's voice ringing in her ears from some post-match interview replay—that low, husky timbre, the hint of German sharpening her vowels.

Emily's touch turned deliberate, circling slowly, teasing. Imaginary hands replaced her own—stronger, rougher, calloused from years of gripping a racket. Marie's hands. The thought sent sparks up her spine. She sank deeper into the pillows, back arching slightly, her free hand fisting the sheets.

She could picture it too clearly—Marie looming over her, pinning her hips down with one effortless press, hot breath at her ear. "You've been missing me, hmm?" That voice, curling around her like smoke. "Let me help you relax."

Her breathing hitched. The pad of her finger pressed harder, dragging in slow, maddening circles. The TV commentary blurred into white noise. All she heard was the rush of blood in her ears, the quiet, needy sounds escaping her own lips.

She imagined Marie's mouth on her neck, her knee nudging between her thighs, the scrape of teeth against her pulse. The fantasy burned brighter than reality. Her hips rolled up against her own hand, chasing the tension coiling tighter, tighter —

The phone on the nightstand buzzed. Loud. Insistent.

Emily gasped, jerking her hand away as if burned. The screen lit up—a notification flashing against the dark. Her heart hammered, caught between frustration and embarrassment. She swallowed, her skin still tingling, her pulse still racing.

The phone kept ringing.

Emily snatched the phone, irritation flaring hot in her chest. The screen lit up—WTA Coordinator. Her thumb hovered. If she ignored it, she could slip back into the warmth still lingering between her thighs, chase the ghost of Marie's voice still tangled in her thoughts.

The call kept ringing.

She exhaled sharply and swiped to answer. "Emily Whitaker," she said, aiming for crisp professionalism over the rasp still clinging to her throat.

"Em, hey." The voice on the other end crackled with the energy of someone juggling three things at once. "Listen, we've got a problem in Stuttgart—Kara's down with food poisoning. Can you catch the first flight out?"

A jolt hit Emily's ribs like a misfired serve. The phone nearly slipped from her fingers.

Emily's breath caught. Stuttgart. Marie Vogel would be playing there. Her pulse hammered harder than it had moments ago, fingers tightening around the phone. "Yeah," she said too fast, voice cracking. "Yeah, I—I can be there."

The coordinator muttered something about forwarding the details before ending the call. The phone slipped from Emily's limp hand onto the bed. Her skin was still flushed, still humming from the ghost of her own touch, but all she could think about was the way Marie's shoulders rolled when she adjusted her grip on her racket. The way sweat glistened along her collarbone under stadium lights.

She uncurled from the bed, legs unsteady, and stumbled toward the closet. Her suitcase lay half-packed from last week's tournament—clothes folded too neatly, massage oils tucked into organized pouches. Her hands trembled as she grabbed another pair of scrubs. Don't be stupid. Marie wouldn't even glance her way. Players like her never did.

But countless hours rewatching her matches frame by frame. The way Marie's voice sounded in German interviews  — cute and careless, like she couldn't be bothered to play the professional tennis player for them. Emily knew the cadence of her sighs, the angle of her smirk when she challenged a line call.

The flight was brutal—too short to sleep, too long to sit with her thoughts. Every jolt of turbulence sent her stomach lurching. By the time the plane landed, she had played through all the scenarios of her meeting Marie Vogel for the first time, making her head spin.

***

Three days later, the air in Stuttgart clung thick with the scent of sweat-damp towels and deep heat rub. The stifled groans of players echoed through the physio suite long after matches ended. Emily lingered, packing away her oils, wiping down the massage table with practiced swipes of a disinfectant rag.

The television in the corner replayed highlights—Marie's match, a brutal three-setter she had scraped through by sheer grit. Emily's gaze snagged on the way Marie had cradled her right shoulder between points, the subtle hitch in her service motion she had tried to mask. The commentators dissected her fatigue, her declining rankings, the way her signature power had dulled. Emily's fingers twitched at her side.

Marie's match replay still flickered behind her eyelids—each wince after a serve, the way she'd rolled her shoulder between points, flexing like she was testing the limits of her own body. It wasn't catastrophic. Not yet. But Emily knew the signs—the slight hitch in her follow-through, the way her elbow tucked in tighter than usual, compensating.

She flexed her own fingers absently against the pillow. If she could just work on her—her thumbs kneading into the knots along Marie's trapezius, the heels of her hands pressing slow circles into the tightness along her scapula—she could unravel the tension before it locked in.

Then what?

Her breath hitched. The thought of Marie's bare back beneath her palms, warm and slick with the post-match sheen of exertion, made her stomach coil tight. Would she breathe out when Emily found the right spot? Would her muscles twitch under the pressure, the way some players did when they finally let go?

Emily bit her lip, turning onto her side. The mattress dipped under her, the movement too loud in the silence.

It wasn't just that, though. She knew what the commentators didn't—Marie's game had changed. Less power, more precision. Adjusting because she had to. Not because she wanted to. No one else noticed the way she hesitated before stepping into her backhand now, the fraction of a second she lost in transition. No one else saw the way she clenched her jaw after a hard-fought point, like she was bracing for pain.

Emily's fingers curled into the sheet.

She had worked with plenty of athletes, knew how to read their bodies better than they did. And Marie's was screaming—at least to her. A slow, creeping kind of damage. The kind that could burn out a career if no one caught it in time.

She exhaled shakily.

If she only could get her hands on her…

***

The tournament gym the next morning buzzed with the low hum of players warming up—weights clanking, murmured conversations in half a dozen languages. Emily kept her head down until a sharp laugh cut through the noise. Her fingers froze.

Marie stood near the free weights, mid-conversation with her doubles partner. Her hair, pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, strands escaping around her neck. She stretched her arms overhead, the fabric of her tank riding up to expose a sliver of toned stomach. Emily's mouth went dry.

Their eyes met. For one dizzying second, Marie's gaze flicked over her—curious, assessing—then away, leaving the younger woman gasping like she had sprinted a mile.

Back in her massage room, her sanctuary, she pressed her palms flat against the massage table. Breathe.

"Hey." A voice at her elbow. Emily startled, nearly knocking over a bottle of oil. One of the junior physios grinned at her. "Have you seen, you're with Vogel today?"

Her pulse roared in her ears. "What?"

"Apparently, her usual therapist's out—she asked for whoever was free." The junior shrugged, already walking away. "Good luck. She's brutal on her shoulders."

Emily bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper. This wasn't happening.

But the schedule didn't lie. Vogel, M.–11:30. Treatment Room 3.

She wiped her damp palms on her scrubs and picked up her kit. Eleven steps down the hall. Each one felt like walking toward the edge of a cliff.

The door to Treatment Room 3 stood slightly ajar, a sliver of fluorescent light slicing into the dim hallway. Emily hesitated, her fingers gripping the strap of her massage kit until the leather creaked. From inside, she could hear the faint rustle of fabric, the dull thud of a water bottle hitting the table.

She swallowed hard and knocked.

"Ja, komm." That voice—husky, thick with an accent that curled around the edges like smoke—sent an electric jolt down Emily's spine.

Pushing the door open, she stepped inside. The room smelled of eucalyptus oil and sweat, the air thick with the kind of warmth that clung to the skin. Marie sat on the edge of the massage table, shirt already off, a towel draped loosely over her shoulders. The muscles in her arms flexed as she rolled her neck, her blonde ponytail slipping over one shoulder.

Emily unconsciously licked her lips.

"You're new." Marie's gaze flicked over her, lingering just long enough to make Emily's pulse stutter.

"Y-yes. Emily Whitaker." She barely recognized her own voice, thin and airless.

Marie nodded. No recognition, no sign she knew Emily had studied every interview, every match. Nothing.

"Light work today," the Swiss said, stretching her arms overhead with a faint wince. "Just need the shoulders loose. Practice in an hour."

"Right." Emily's fingers trembled as she unzipped her kit, lining up bottles with more precision than necessary. "Any—any specific trouble areas?" As if she didn't know!

Marie turned, presenting her back—tanned skin stretched over taut muscle, the ridges of her spine rising like a mountain range. "Left scapula's tight. Rotator cuff's been clicking."

Emily pressed her lips together. She knew. She had seen the hitch in Marie's serve, the way she favored her right side.

Warming the oil between her palms, she hesitated. Just do your job. Don't be pathetic.

Her first touch was feather-light, barely skimming Marie's skin.

The older woman scoffed. "I won't break, you know."

Heat flooded Emily's cheeks. She pressed in harder, thumbs finding the knots along Marie's trapezius—thick as rope, strained from years of serving at 120 mph.

Marie exhaled long and slow. The tension under Emily's fingers unspooled just a fraction.

"That's it," Marie muttered, shoulders dropping.

Encouragement. Emily's stomach twisted. She worked deeper, tracing the ridges of muscle, pressing into the tightness along Marie's scapula. Every twitch, every shift of Marie's body beneath her hands, sent a jolt of awareness through her.

Marie's skin was warm, damp from the gym, salt-tang blooming under the citrus of the oil. Emily bit her lip, focusing on the anatomy—the rhomboids, the deltoids, the way Marie's breath hitched when she hit a particularly stubborn knot.

"You're good." Marie's voice was rough, half-dropped into German cadence.

Emily's fingers faltered. She notices. She noticed you.

"Th-thank you," she whispered.

Marie craned her neck slightly, glancing back at her. "You've worked with tennis players before?"

"Yes."

A quiet hum. Marie's skin prickled with goosebumps as Emily's hands skimmed lower, working the lactic acid from her triceps. Every inch of her, carved from raw power, veins mapping the sinew of her forearms.

Emily's breath caught. She'd seen those arms a thousand times—on TV, in photographs—but here, under her fingers, they were alive.

Marie stretched, rolling her shoulders. "Less gentle now."

The command curled low in Emily's gut. Her touch turned firmer, digging into the muscle with pressured precision.

Marie groaned. The sound—deep, unrestrained—vibrated through Emily like a live wire.

"Fuck, that's—" Marie's head lolled forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "Right there. Again."

Emily obeyed, pulse hammering. She memorized the way her back arched under her touch, the way her muscles jumped when she hit the perfect spot.

Silence stretched, thick and syrupy, broken only by Marie's quiet breaths and the slick slide of oil.

Then —

"Harder."

Emily's throat tightened. She dug her thumbs in deep, following the tension up Marie's neck, pressing into the base of her skull. Marie hissed through her teeth, but didn't pull away.

"Scheiße—" The curse cracked out of her, rougher than Emily expected.

She froze. "Too much?"

Marie laughed—short, breathless—and turned her head just enough for Emily to see the smirk curling her lips. "Don't stop now."

Emily swallowed. Her fingers trembled as they ghosted back up Marie's spine, finding the tight cords of muscle twining through her shoulders. This close, she could smell the faint citrus of Marie's shampoo, the salty tang of exertion clinging to her skin.

Marie exhaled, long and slow, her body yielding under Emily's hands as if she were sinking into the pressure.

"You got magic fingers, wie in Engel," she murmured

Emily blinked, catching herself mid-motion as Marie's words replayed in her head. Without thinking, the words tumbled out. "It won't work like that."

Marie tilted her head slightly, glancing over her shoulder again, one eyebrow quirking. "No?"

Emily's pulse skittered. Too late to backpedal now. She pushed forward, hands still pressed against warm skin.

"Your shoulders—they're compensating. If I just ease the tension now, they'll seize worse later." Her voice steadied the longer she spoke, falling into the certainty of her own expertise. "You need deeper work. Different angles."

A slow, challenging smile curled Marie's lips. "I don't think so."

Emily didn't flinch. "Then you'll be sidelined by the quarterfinals."

The grin dropped. Marie turned fully now, swinging one leg over the edge of the table to face Emily directly. Up close, her eyes were sharp—bluish green like glacier water, cutting straight through her. "You've been watching me."

Emily's mouth went dry. Too close. "I—"

"Not denying it?" Marie smirked, leaning back on her palms.

Temper flared in Emily's chest—part embarrassment, part frustration. She straightened, wiping her hands on the towel. "I watch all the players. It's my job."

"Mm." Marie stretched her arms overhead again—deliberately, this time—shoulder rolling with that same muted wince. "Still think I'm wrong?"

Emily gritted her teeth. "Yes."

Silence. Marie studied her—long enough that Emily's fingers twitched at her sides. Then, with a low exhale, she turned back around, draping the towel loosely across her lap. "Prove it."

Emily's breath caught. No resistance. Just—trust.

She stepped closer, hands hovering for half a second before pressing in again. This time, she didn't hold back.

Her thumbs dug into the meat of Marie's deltoid immediately, searching for the knotted resistance beneath the surface. No gentle warm-up. No easing in. Just pressure—firm, unrelenting.

Marie sucked in a sharp breath.

Emily didn't stop. She worked in precise, brutal arcs, following the fibers of muscle where they strained tightest. Every press of her fingers mapped the damage—overworked, clinging to tension like a lifeline.

"Christ," Marie hissed, shoulders trembling under her hands.

"Breathe," Emily murmured.

Marie exhaled hard—then another, slower, as Emily found the exact stubborn ridge of scar tissue tangled near her rotator cuff. Her grip tightened on the table edge.

"Scheiße—"

"Told you," Emily whispered.

Marie laughed—breathless, almost pained. "Arrogant."

"No, right!"

Emily pressed deeper, feeling the moment the muscle finally gave—unwinding in slow-release beneath her fingertips. Marie's entire frame sagged forward, a ragged groan slipping past her lips.

"Fuck."

Emily's hands slowed, gradually lightening their pressure as she smoothed the oil one last time over Marie's shoulders. Her hands slowed, smoothing the last friction away. That was when she lost herself, her professional line.

Two fingers trailed a whisper-light path from the small of Marie's back up her spine and back down again, the lightest touch, a touch she knew could drive her wild. Emily's breath stalled as her mind got off track. That same touch, but with her tongue—warm, wet, tracing each knob of vertebrae, tasting salt and oil. Fuck.

Marie's shivered chuckle from the sensation woke her from her trance.

"There." Emily, in an attempt to ground herself again, cleared her throat. "I'd ice it after practice to keep the inflammation down."

Emily's breath caught, unprepared for the way Marie turned to face her fully, hair mussed from the treatment, her bare torso still glistening faintly with oil. The smirk on her lips was sharp, playful.

She rolled her shoulders experimentally, wincing before a slow smile spread across her face. "Good. Now I'll see if you're full of shit or not."

Emily's mouth moved before her brain caught up. "Oh, you'll see."

Too breathy. Too eager.

Marie's eyebrows lifted. A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy with something not quite professional. Then—Marie chuckled, low and knowing. "Confident, Engel."

Emily's cheeks burned. She ducked her head, busying herself with packing away the oil bottles, fingers clumsy against the sleek glass.

Marie stretched, unselfconscious in her half-nakedness, muscles flexing under tanned skin as she reached for her shirt. "If I feel like shit tomorrow, I'm blaming you."

Emily bit her lip. "You won't."

Marie smirked—one last lingering glance over her shoulder, in a sexy, flirty way—and then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

A giddy, terrifying certainty bloomed in her chest. She knew. Of course, she knew. She had spent two years parsing every micro-expression, every off-hand comment in a German interview, every lingering look at ball girls that was a second too long. The world might buy Marie Vogel's straight-seeming PR facade, but Emily knew the truth. She had always known.

***

Two days later, the words Vogel, M. — Post-match recovery. Treatment Room 2 glared up at Emily from the assignment sheet like a dare.

She nearly dropped her coffee.

The hallway outside the treatment rooms hummed with the usual post-match chaos—players debriefing, trainers strategizing, the sharp scent of menthol and sweat thick in the air. But none of it registered. Just the singular fact: Marie had asked for her this time. Not her usual therapist. Her.

Emily's fingers tightened around the strap of her kit.

She hesitated outside Room 2, pressing her ear to the door. Silence. No rustling, no inaudible murmur of conversation. Just the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Then —

"Draußen stehen oder reinkommen, Engel."

Emily's breath hitched. She got her own nickname from Marie fucking Vogel.

She pushed the door open.

Marie lay facedown on the massage table, the towel draped low over her hips—just enough to preserve modesty, not enough to hide the curve of her ass. Emily's throat went dry again.

She didn't move when Emily entered.

"Shoulder felt good today," Marie said, words slow with satisfaction. "So. Either you're lucky, or you know what you're doing."

Emily's pulse skipped. She set her kit down with deliberate precision, the clink of glass bottles the only sound in the room. "I know what I'm doing."

Marie peeked out from under her arm, one eyebrow arched. "Prove it."

The scent of the court clung to her—hot rubber, sun-warmed skin, the faintest hint of her sweet perfume. Emily's hands hovered over Marie's back before she even realized she had stepped closer.

Marie shifted, rolling onto her front with deliberate ease, arms folding under her head. "No oil today. Just hands."

A challenge.

Emily swallowed. She pressed her palms flat against Marie's shoulders, skin to skin. The heat of her hit Emily instantly again.

She dug her thumbs in along the ridges of Marie's trapezius, finding the tension with practiced ease. Barely there, a whisper of strain. Nothing like last time.

"Feeling good," Emily muttered.

Marie scoffed, but her shoulders loosened under Emily's touch. "We'll see."

Emily's lips twitched. She followed the slope of muscle down to Marie's scapula, tracing the familiar paths with her fingertips. No tightness. No hitches. Just smooth, responsive motion beneath her hands.

Marie exhaled long and slow. "Yeah. Like that."

Pride curled hot in Emily's chest. She worked silently, mapping the shifts in Marie's breathing, the faint twitches where her touch lingered too long.

"You watch my matches and not just a few."

Emily's fingers froze.

Marie turned her head just enough to glance back, eyes glinting. "Don't deny it."

Emily forced her hands to move again, pressing into the divot of Marie's spine. "I watch everyone."

A laugh—soft, disbelieving. "Bullshit."

Emily's hands slipped lower, skimming the dip of Marie's waist. "You're not that special."

Marie's breath caught. Not from pain.

Then—as fast as a match point—she rolled, catching Emily's wrist in one hand.

Emily gasped.

Marie's grip was firm, her palm rough with calluses. Up close, her pupils, blown wide, lips parted. "Liar."

The air between them crackled.

Emily's pulse roared in her ears. She didn't pull away.

Marie's thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist—slow, deliberate. "You watch me."

Marie's grip tightened around Emily's wrist, callused fingers pressing into her pulse point. That smile—crooked, predatory—played across her lips; she clearly liked to be admired.

Emily's breath stuttered. Marie's fingers still wrapped around her wrist before releasing her, turning back onto her stomach with a quiet hmph.

For a beat, Emily just stood there, pulse hammering where Marie had touched her.

"My lower back," Marie murmured, voice thick, muffled against the table. "It's stiff."

Emily's fingers twitched. She exhaled sharply through her nose and worked her hands down Marie's spine, past the familiar knots of her shoulders, lower. The towel still covered her, but the fabric had shifted, riding precariously low.

Marie shifted slightly under her touch. "Lower."

Emily hesitated, then pressed the towel down just a fraction, exposing the dimpled curve where back met hip. Her thumbs dug into the tight muscle there, slow and deliberate.

Marie sighed, body yielding under her hands. "Lower."

Emily's pulse spiked. She pushed the towel further, letting it slide down—and froze.

Marie wasn't wearing anything underneath.

Just the barest strip of fabric, barely there, her ass on full display—toned, sculpted, the kind of muscle born from years of explosive movement. Emily's throat clicked.

"Meine Schenkel," Marie murmured, shifting her weight slightly, hips pressing into the table. "Work them like you did my shoulder."

Emily's fingers curled against warm skin before she could stop herself. Her hands slid lower, tracing the smooth slope of Marie's thighs. Every inch of her was firm under Emily's touch, taut with power. She dug her thumbs into the thick bands of muscle, kneading in slow, deep circles.

Marie groaned—low, unrestrained, her back arching slightly. The sound went straight to Emily's core.

The sight punched the breath from Emily's lungs. Marie's ass was bare perfection—sculpted muscle glistening under the sterile lights. Emily's hands trembled against slick skin. Heat roared in her ears. Push in hard. Taste that salt-slick skin with my tongue. Bury my face there until she screams.

She dug her thumbs into the hard curve of Marie's thigh. Harder than needed. Marie's low groan vibrated up Emily's arms.

Professional. You're professional. She forced herself to focus, rolling Marie onto her side, working one leg at a time. The angle exposed more of her, the thin fabric riding dangerously high, every flex of muscle beneath her hands making Emily's teeth sink into her lower lip.

Marie's breath hitched as Emily dragged her thumbs up the inside of her thigh. "Fuck—"

Emily barely heard her over the blood roaring in her ears. 10 minutes went by, and Emily worked her body well.

"Feels much better now. My legs," Marie muttered, voice rougher now, "need to be in shape for my next opponent."

Emily's fingers didn't stop moving. "Yes," she murmured, her grip tightening slightly without meaning to. "You're 0-5 against her."

The words tumbled out before she could stop them.

Marie stilled.

Then, slowly, she turned her head.

Marie turned fully now, rising onto her elbows, as she tilted her head. "Am I?"

Emily's eyes snapped up from where they had been fixed on the floor, cheeks flushing at the sudden display—Marie's bare tits, the taut stomach, the way her thighs parted slightly as she shifted. She swallowed hard. "I… I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No, no, no." Marie's voice dropped to a purr, fingers drumming against the table between them. "What else do you know about how much I suck?"

"You—you don't suck." The words burned on her tongue.

Marie's lips curled.

Emily looked away, fingers twisting the hem of her shirt. "You just—play too flat against Kliradento. She likes pace. You should use more spin."

A beat of silence. Then Marie exhaled, low and amused. "Tactical analysis from my masseuse."

Emily flinched, shoulders hunching.

Marie shifted forward, hand catching Emily's wrist again before she could retreat. Her grip wasn't gentle this time. "Look at me," she murmured, thumb pressing into Emily's pulse point.

Emily's breath stuttered as Marie's fingers tightened around her wrist, pulling her closer until she stood between Marie's spread thighs. The heat of her skin seeped through Emily's thin shirt, and the hard ridges of Marie's muscles pressed against her.

Marie's gaze burned into her, sharp and assessing—not teasing, not playful. Something darker. Hungrier.

Emily's pulse skittered. "You just have to play like last year at the US Open," she blurted, voice too high, "but don't change it up when you're behind. Keep it controlled."

Marie didn't answer. Just stared. Her grip shifted, fingers trailing up Emily's arm, slow and deliberate.

A beat too long.

"Gosh, you are cute… Maybe I'll try that."

Before Emily could react, Marie tugged her forward, hips nudging against Emily's thighs. The contact sent shockwaves up her spine.

Marie's free hand slid around to the small of Emily's back, fingers kneading the curve of her ass. "You're a fan, aren't you?"

No time to answer.

Marie's mouth slanted over hers.

The kiss was soft at first—testing—but the grip on Emily's ass wasn't. Marie's palm pressed in, possessive, as she nipped at Emily's lower lip. A quiet groan escaped her, muffled between them.

Marie deepened the kiss, tongue swiping against Emily's with a low hum.

Only a short moment later, Marie broke away just enough to murmur against her lips, "Tell me again." Her other hand tightened. "How should I play?"

Emily gasped. "I—"

Marie kissed her again, harder this time, teeth scraping.

And Emily melted.

The Swiss broke the kiss first, lips lingering a hair's breadth from Emily's. Her thumb traced the hinge of Emily's jaw—once, twice—before pulling back. "I need to go now."

Emily swayed forward before catching herself, fingers still twisted in Marie's blonde hair. "Y-yeah. Press conference."

Heat flooded Emily's neck. She let go like she had been burned, stumbling back until her calves hit the supply cart. Bottles rattled. "No. I mean—you should—"

Marie slid off the table in one fluid motion, "Be in my box tomorrow."

"Your box?"

"Player's guest seat." Marie put her shirt over her head. Her voice emerged muffled. "Quarterfinals. Kliradenko match."

The name punched through Emily's daze. "But—"

"But what?" Marie asked, now fully dressed, hair wildly disheveled. She stepped close again, smelling of sex and spearmint gum. "Was that a yes?"

Emily nodded. Once. Sharp.

Marie's knuckle brushed her collarbone. "Gut." She turned, grabbing her bag from the corner. "We'll talk after."

The door clicked shut, leaving her standing there, her lips still burning from the kiss, that kiss.

***

The players' box felt like an oven under the midday sun, but Emily barely noticed. Every thwack of Marie's racket snapped her focus tighter—tennis had never sounded so sharp.

Marie moved differently. No wasted motion. Every backhand flick spun deeper; every serve ripped wider. The strategy Emily had blurted out like a secret confession, executed with ruthless precision.

Kliradenko scowled after the sixth straight missed return.

Emily's fingers dug into her thighs.

Across the court, Marie adjusted her wristband mid-game—an unnecessary pause, eyes flicking up toward the box. Straight at her. Blue-green and burning.

Emily's breath hitched.

Marie smirked. Then crushed the next serve down the line.

The crowd roared.

Set point. Marie prowled the baseline, bouncing the ball twice before stilling. A breath. Then, crack.

Ace.

Kliradenko's racket clattered to the clay. Marie didn't cheer. Just strode to the net, shook hands, and turned—head tilting up again, gaze locking onto Emily like a target.

Marie's chest rose with one deep, steadying breath—then she was gone, swallowed by the tunnel.

The stands emptied around her, but Emily stayed frozen, replaying the match shot by shot. The way Marie had stared at her before every pivotal serve. As if she weren't just playing to win.

***

The stadium lights cast long shadows across the empty practice courts. Emily lingered near Court 18, twisting her silver ring until the metal bit into her skin. Marie's words looped in her head—We'll talk after—but three hours had bled into humid night air with no sign of her.

Then, a tennis ball thumped against the baseline, startling her.

Marie stood at the net post, racket slung over her shoulder like a weapon. Sweat plastered stray blonde hairs to her temples. "You move like you've never held a racket, Engel. Get one."

Emily's throat tightened. "It's late."

"And I'm wired." Marie tossed a spare racket. It hit the clay near Emily's feet, kicking up red dust. "Give me a rally. Ten minutes."

Her tone left no room for refusal. Emily picked up the racket, its grip still warm. She took position across the net, knees trembling.

A flick of Marie's wrist sent the ball arcing over the net. Emily caught it on reflex, fingers denting the neon felt.

"Serve."

Emily stared. "What?"

Marie finally met her eyes, smile sharp. "Serve to me."

The racket trembled in Emily's grip. She'd never played competitively, but the weight felt familiar—like kneading muscle, reading tension. She tossed the ball.

Thud. A middling topspin.

Marie snorted, returning it with a lazy backhand. "Try harder."

Emily's next shot rocketed deeper. Marie's eyebrows lifted as she sprinted, lashing a cross-court winner that sent Emily scrambling.

"Weak backhand," Marie called.

"I'm a masseuse," Emily snapped, stung.

"Excuses."

Emily gritted her teeth, slamming the next serve. Marie met it at full stretch, the crack of strings echoing. For nine minutes, they traded strokes—Marie pushing her wider, angling shots just out of reach until Emily's breath came in ragged hitches.

Marie closed in without warning, vaulting the net. Emily stumbled back, damp shirt clinging to her ribs.

"Your footwork's shit." Marie's thumb smeared grit from Emily's cheek.

"We're done?" Emily rasped.

Marie's hand slid to her nape, grip firm. "Not even close."

"Could have used your magic hands after the game today," she said, close enough that her sweat-glazed skin glistened under the floodlights. "Though I doubt my shoulder would have gotten much attention," Her gaze dropped to Emily's mouth. "We'd have ended up working on a... different kind of tension."

Heat bloomed low in Emily's belly. She tightened her grip on the racket.

Marie wiped her forearm across her brow. "You are good and you know a lot about me, I can tell, and that turns me on."

The words hung between them. Emily froze. Silence swallowed everything but the buzz of lights and her own thudding pulse. She couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Just stared as Marie stepped closer.

The scent of exertion coiled around them—salty, musky, radiating from every acre of Marie's skin. Her thumb hooked into Emily's waistband.

"I need a full-time physio." Marie's knuckle grazed warm skin above Emily's hipbone. "Travel with me. Tournaments. Hotels. Private sessions." Her lips brushed the shell of Emily's ear.

Emily's breath caught.

Marie pulled back, blue-green eyes challenging. "Offer's open now. Or don't." She turned toward the dim corridor leading to the locker rooms.

Emily followed, holding her hand. Her racket clattered on the clay. The lockers gleamed under fluorescent strips—narrow, impersonal rows. Marie kicked a bench aside with her heel. Backing Emily against cold steel.

Fingers tangled in Emily's hair. "Still quiet." Marie's nails scraped her scalp, forcing her head back. She bit the tendon in her neck. Sharp. Hungry. A stinging promise. "I don't fuck fans, that's a rule."

Emily gasped. Marie's tongue claimed her mouth. Not tender. Demanding the moans couched inside Emily's silence.

Her strong hands shoved Emily's thin t-shirt upward. "But I do make exceptions on my team." She said, not losing eye contact as she planted the lightest of kisses down Emily's body.

Marie's teeth found her stomach, nipping below the navel, sucking marks against pale skin where no one else could see. Emily writhed. Her back arched. Steel dug into her spine.

Marie's hands wandered down. Tugged Emily's shorts downward. "Say yes."

A ragged moan escaped. "Yes."

Tease. Wet heat. Marie's fingers traced her folds through soaked cotton. "Louder."

"Yes, please—"

Marie crushed her lips again. Hard. Demanding. Emily gasped into the kiss, hands scrambling over the hard planes of Marie's back, nails scraping sweat-slicked skin. Fingers dug into Emily's hips, pulling them flush. Heat radiated between them like a furnace.

"Shower," Emily breathed against Marie's lips, the word torn from her throat between frantic kisses.

Marie didn't hesitate. She whirled them toward the tiled stalls, fingers already yanking at Emily's drenched shirt. Cool air hit Emily's flushed skin for just a heartbeat before Marie shoved her toward the farthest stall. Clothes ripped away—Emily's shorts tangled around her ankles for a second until she kicked free. Marie's tennis skirt hit the floor with a wet slap.

Emily stumbled backward under the showerhead's sudden torrent. Freezing water sluiced over her shoulders, shocking her gasping spine against icy tiles. Marie followed, naked and magnificent, stepping into the spray with a furious hiss. Water sluiced down the sculpted valleys of her collarbones, over the swell of her breasts, beading on tight nipples. It traced the cut muscles of her stomach, lower, gleaming on the soft skin.

Fuck. Emily's mouth dried even as water streamed down her face. She stared, transfixed. Marie's pussy was pure power—plump lips already parted, slickness glistening in the fluorescent light like the court after rain. Water ran in rivulets through the soft furrow, teasing what lay beneath. Emily's thighs clenched. Every fantasy she'd ever scribbled in her journal was a cheap imitation of this. The reality of it, so close and wet, was raw and hungry.

Marie gripped Emily's jaw, thumb pressing into her cheekbone. "What? Why do you stop?"

Emily couldn't answer. Words were dead. Her gaze raked lower again, devouring—how the muscles of Marie's quads flexed as she shifted her weight. How the soft puff between her legs hinted at deeper wetness that water couldn't wash away. She memorized the shape, the flare of her hips framing that perfect triangle of her sex. Tremors started low in Emily's belly. Want, raw and shameless.

Marie's grin turned feral. She stepped deeper into Emily's space, eyes locked as her fingers slipped between her own thighs. Water plastered blonde hair to Marie's temples as she spread herself—just a fraction—two fingers sliding through slick heat. An offering. A challenge.

Emily shuddered.

Marie's other hand seized Emily's wrist, dragging it down between their slick bodies. "Show me," she rasped. "Now."

Her grip forced Emily's fingers against her slick pussy. Hot. So fucking hot against Marie's hot skin. Emily moaned as her middle finger slid through swollen lips, sinking into tight, clenching pressure. Marie's breath hitched sharply, and her head thudded back against the tiles. Her eyes rolled open, locked on Emily.

Then Marie's own hand darted between Emily's legs. No finesse. Just hard, deliberate pressure. Her fingers found Emily's clit through sopping curls, thumb circling hard and fast. Emily cried out, hips bucking.

"Tighter," Marie gasped, grinding against Emily's invading hand. Her own fingers plunged deep into Emily's slickness, knuckles pressing against her G-spot. "Like that—Ja—just like that; "

Emily surged forward, capturing Marie's lips as her finger curled inside her, rubbing against pulsing walls. Marie's answering groan vibrated against her mouth as her thumb returned in rough circles on Emily's clit. Water blinded them, streamed over eyelashes, down necks. Emily rocked her hips against Marie's thrusting hand, losing rhythm against the ruthless friction. She drove her own finger deeper into Marie, feeling her clench, hearing the ragged edge of her breath turn into broken groans. Thunder pulses between her legs. The sharp smell of chlorine and female arousal coated the steam. Thrust. Counter-thrust. Sharp gasps swallowed by the drumming water.

Marie slammed her hips forward, taking Emily's finger impossibly deeper, nipping her lower lip with a choked-off curse.

Marie's pussy clamped around Emily's fingers, slick heat pulsing as her back arched off the tiles. Water sluiced between their bodies when Marie gasped into Emily's mouth—a broken, guttural sound Emily swallowed whole. Her own climax detonated an instant later, ripped from her by Marie's relentless thumb. Lightning seared up her spine, thighs shaking so hard Marie's grip alone held her upright.

Silence swallowed the hiss of water. Only their ragged breaths echoed off the tiles. Marie's forehead rested against hers, wet blonde strands plastered to Emily's cheeks.

The words came like gravel. "I could not stop thinking about you, Engelchen," Marie breathed, lips brushing Emily's, "since that first touch of yours." Her knuckles grazed Emily's jaw. "Your magic hands on me."

Emily froze. Marie's confession—raw, unexpected—lodged like a stone in her throat. Emily stared at her, replaying her one-sided relationship with her, the shoebox hidden under her bed… The used wristbands she had bought on the internet… The hours replaying match footage just to watch Marie's shoulders flex. Marie didn't have a fucking clue, but it didn't matter, not anymore.

A ghost of a smile touched Emily's lips. She eased Marie's hand from between her legs. Without a word, she untangled herself and slid down the wet tiles. Cool air prickled her knees against the tiles as she dropped between Marie's thighs. Hazel eyes lifted, tracing water droplets sliding down toned abs.

Emily's lips curved higher. Not triumphant—hungry.

Marie stared down, chest rising fast, her cute ice melting smile starting to form…