In Her Court
Description
She plays to win. He plays it cool. But neither expected to fall for their fiercest rival. Tori Martinez is a star libero on the Westridge University volleyball team, known for her unmatched reflexes, discipline, and ironclad focus. She's built her life around control-on the court, in class, and especially when it comes to avoiding cocky tennis golden boy, Ethan Harrington. Ethan has it all: charm, talent, and a family legacy built into the school's tennis program. But behind the perfect serves and effortless smiles is a young man crushed under the weight of expectations. When an economics project pairs him with the no-nonsense Tori, he's intrigued-and determined to break through her icy exterior. What starts as academic rivalry turns into unexpected chemistry, and one impulsive night threatens to upend both their carefully structured worlds. But with a championship on the line, a scout's visit that could change Tori's future, and secrets neither of them are ready to face, winning may come at a cost neither anticipated.
Chapter 1
May 30, 2025
TORI’S POV
Wham!
My palm smacked the ball clean over the net and straight to the floor on the other side, untouched. A perfect dig and spike combo. The squeak of sneakers and scattered applause followed, but all I heard was the thundering in my ears.
Everyone’s watching. Don’t screw this up, Tori.
Coach blew her whistle. “Nice read, Martinez. Reset!”
"Thanks, Coach," I said, trying to sound casual while my heart hammered against my ribs.
"Let's run that drill again. Positions, everyone!”
I jogged back to position, trying to ignore the tight coil of tension winding in my chest. It didn’t matter that I’d just nailed the play. It didn’t matter that I’d probably watched more films this week than slept. One bad move, one weak pass, and someone would decide I wasn’t worth the starting slot anymore.
And that would mean my scholarship was at stake.
My ponytail stuck to the back of my neck. Sweat dripped down my spine. I bounced on the balls of my feet, waiting for the next serve when the gym’s double doors swung open, and the athletic director’s voice cut through practice.
Coach Rivera's whistle dangled from her mouth as she met him halfway across the court. Their conversation was brief, with lots of hand gestures from Coach and head shaking from Peterson.
"Ladies, huddle up," Coach called, her voice tight.
We gathered around her, still breathing hard from the drills.
"Apparently," she started, not hiding her irritation, "the tennis team needs indoor practice space today. Something about court resurfacing."
"Are you serious?" I blurted. "We have regionals in two weeks!"
"I'm aware, Tori. But we've been told to share the space. Half-court practice for the remainder of the week."
I felt heat rising in my chest. "This is such bull—"
"Language," Coach cut me off. "I don't like it either, but we'll adapt. That's what champions do."
Maya nudged me. "Breathe, Tori."
But I was already seething. Of course, the women's volleyball team gets squeezed. Of course. Never the precious boys' basketball team or football team. Just us. Always us.
As if on cue, the tennis team started filing in, equipment bags slung over their shoulders. Leading the pack was Ethan Harrington, golden boy of Westlake High, with his perfect hair and perfect grades and perfect everything.
He leaned against the wall near our court, observing us with an easy smile that made me want to spike a volleyball directly at his face.
"Problem, Tori?" Coach asked, noting my expression.
"No, Coach." I tightened my ponytail.
For the next thirty minutes, I channeled my frustration into each serve, sending the ball whistling over the net with probably more force than necessary. I was aware of the tennis team setting up on the other half of the gym, their voices and laughter mixing with our focused calls.
"Nice form," came a voice from too close behind me.
I turned to find the famous jerk standing there, spinning a tennis ball on his fingertips. Ethan is the captain of the school’s tennis team. Notorious for being a champion, a playboy and a spoilt brat born with a silver spoon. With his personality, I view him as arrogant and pompous, even though our paths has never crossed until now.
"Excuse me?"
"Your serve. Good technique. You get a lot of power for someone your size."
I stared at him in surprise. "For someone my size?"
He backpedaled immediately. "I just meant it's impressive. The way you—"
"Don't you have your own practice to worry about?" I cut him off, grabbing another volleyball from the cart.
"Just being friendly, Martinez." That smile again. Like everything in life came so easily to him.
"Well, I'm trying to focus here." I turned my back to him, signaling the end of our conversation.
But he lingered. "You know, both our teams got screwed with this arrangement."
"Feels like my team got more screwed than yours," I muttered.
"Maybe." He shrugged. "But we could make it work. Coordinate drills so we're not sending balls into each other's spaces. I could talk to Coach Winters."
I glanced over my shoulder. "We don't need your help."
"Everyone needs help sometimes."
"Not from you."
He laughed, which only irritated me more. "You really don't like me, do you? Have I done something specific, or is this just a general disdain?”
I watch him and he shrugged, picking up a stray volleyball and spinning it on his finger.
I snatched the ball from him. “Maybe next time wait for an invite before taking over.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Ouch.”
I turned away before I said something I'd regret. Why does he always sound like he’s flirting even when he’s just breathing?
He laughed softly behind me. The sound crawled under my skin like static.
Practice ended with more drills and less dignity. I grabbed my bag and made a beeline to the locker room, my mind already switching gears. I had econ in twenty, and I was not about to let Harrington or his stupid cologne derail my afternoon.
Focus, Tori. One more class to go for the day, then recovery session, then film, and then dinner.
That’s how I liked my schedules; structured.
***
"Settle down, everyone," Professor Chen walked into the class, adjusting her glasses. "Today we're discussing price elasticity of demand, and then I'll be announcing your semester project partners."
My stomach dropped. Group projects were the worst—always carrying someone else's weight, coordinating around other people's chaotic schedules.
Fifty minutes later, as students began packing up their notebooks, Professor Chen raised her hand.
"Before you go, let me announce the project partnerships.”
The Professor began some groupings. She began reading names from her list. I half-listened until my name was called.
Tori Martinez.
I shot to my feet immediately.
“You'll be working with Harrington."
I froze. "Tennis Harrington?"
"Is there a problem?" she asked, eyebrow raised.
I cleared my throat, forcing my jaw to stay still. “No problem.”
“Good. The project is thirty percent of your grade,” she added, just twisting the knife. “And as I mentioned before, anyone who fails this class is immediately put on academic probation.”
Academic probation. The kiss of death for student-athletes and a bigger problem for me, a scholarship kid.
“No pressure,” came that infuriatingly smooth voice behind me. “We’re actually already sports facility roommates. Isn’t that right, Martinez?”
His cologne registering before I could stop myself from noticing it. I turned slowly to find Ethan Harrington standing too close with a mischievous smirk on his face.
In Her Court
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