Serve Me Chaos
Description
A fallen star and a rising talent are forced into each other's orbit, bound by a shared past, buried truths, and the weight of everything they're not allowed to want. He's fighting for a second chance; she's trying to find her own voice in a world that keeps speaking for her. Caught between loyalty and longing, legacy and desire, they'll have to decide if what's between them is worth risking everything-including their reputations, their futures, and the only family they've ever known.
Chapter 1
Aug 13, 2025
POV Marina
“Keep your damn wrist up, Marina!”
My father’s voice cracked across the court like a whip, echoing louder than the crowd’s cheers.
I’d just aced match point, sent the ball slicing across the baseline with surgical precision, ending the quarterfinal in straight sets. The stadium roared. Cameras flashed. My opponent trudged to the net, shoulders sagging.
But Vincent Chen didn’t clap, smile, or even nod. He stood stiffly behind the guardrail, arms crossed and eyes cold. He wasn’t just my father—he was my coach. Tall and rigid in a perfectly pressed tracksuit, with slick black hair and a face that looked like it was carved from stone, he radiated silence. To him, every match was a checklist, and every mistake was a strike on a ledger that never forgave.
“You lost your backhand timing on the third game,” he said as I walked off the court, sweat dripping down my spine.
“Dad, I won,” I said, breathing hard.
He didn’t even blink. “And still almost blew it with two unforced errors in the second set.”
I kept walking. My legs trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the way his voice coiled in my head, tightening with every step. Stay sharp. Don’t celebrate. It’s not over until the last point. The words didn’t need to be spoken aloud anymore; they lived in me now, automatic as breath.
Backstage, under the harsh buzz of press lights and the flicker of camera flashes, I became who I was trained to be, flawless, composed. Perfect. I always was.
“Marina, you’re playing the best tennis of your life,” one reporter called out, voice bright with praise. “Is this your year?”
I smiled, even though my skin felt too tight, like I’d been stitched into a version of myself I couldn’t escape. “I’m just focusing on one point at a time,” I said, smooth and practiced.
A chuckle from the back of the room, low, amused, needling. “Some critics say you’re robotic. Any thoughts on that?”
I tilted my chin, let the smile sharpen until it felt like it could cut glass. “Robots don’t choke under pressure.”
They laughed, scribbled notes, snapped more photos. But none of them saw the tremble in my fingers, just out of frame. None of them heard his silence in my ears, louder than the applause.
I left the press room thirty-two minutes later, every word delivered perfectly, every muscle still clenched. Ten minutes after that, I was on the cold tile floor of my hotel bathroom, hugging my knees.
My chest wouldn’t open. My throat was closing, like I’d swallowed something too big to breathe around.
I yanked the drawer open and pulled out the small blue bottle hidden behind my toothbrush. Lavender oil. I dabbed it on my wrists, under my collarbone, behind my ears.
“Breathe,” I whispered, pressing my back against the bathtub.
“In… one, two, three. Out… one, two…”
But the shaking wouldn’t stop. Lavender. Deep breaths. A glass of water. Cold towel across my face.
I crawled into bed, sweat sticking my hair to my forehead. The oils helped. Enough to knock me out. Enough to fake peace.
It had started at thirteen, just after my first national title. That was the year my dad stopped hugging me after matches. Started filming every practice. Started calling me “project.”
He didn’t believe in therapy. “Mental weakness is a luxury,” he told me once. “You want to be average, go cry to a counselor.”
So I taught myself to hide it. Like everything else.
When I woke up, the room was dim. The headache was still there. And the feeling hadn’t gone. That scraping emptiness in my chest like I was missing something vital.
I reached for my phone, fingers still unsteady. The world outside buzzed with praise and noise, but inside, everything had narrowed to a sharp, pulsing ache I couldn’t name.
There was only one person I could text—someone who wouldn’t ask questions, or suggest meditation apps, or tell me to “open a dialogue” with my father like this was some after-school drama. He wouldn’t offer advice. He’d offer escape.
I opened our thread and typed a single word:
Come.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then:
Ten minutes. Be naked.
It was Dominic Rivera. A six-foot-four distraction with caramel skin, tattooed biceps, and eyes that said he didn’t care about anything but the moment. He played basketball, some second-league team, nothing serious, but he moved like a showoff. Like he knew girls watched him walk.
A flicker of breath caught in my throat. Half laugh, half exhale. Relief, maybe. I just needed to be somewhere else. Someone else. If only for a while.
We met when I was sixteen. My dad took me to some golf charity thing. Dominic’s dad played in the same Sunday foursome. I used to sit in the cart with a book, sipping lemonade. Dominic was older, cockier, always tossing golf tees at me and asking if I wanted to sneak off. I never said yes.
Until last year. Now, he was a secret. A pressure valve.
When the knock came, I didn’t hesitate. I opened the door.
Dominic stood there in joggers and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still wet, curls falling into his eyes.
He smirked. “No hello?”
“Get your clothes off,” I said flatly.
He blinked, then grinned. “Damn. You always this romantic?”
“Dominic.”
“Fine, fine,” he said, walking past me. “But you could at least tell me where to throw my shirt.”
I didn’t answer. I was already pulling him by the waistband toward the bed.
“Wait,” he laughed, breathless. “Should I stretch first?”
“Shut up.”
We didn’t talk after that. He kicked the door shut behind him, dropped his shirt in the hallway like he knew the rules of this game by heart, and maybe he did. Maybe I’d taught him too well.
“God, you’re tense,” Dominic murmured, his voice low as his hands slid under the hem of my hoodie. “Is this how you always celebrate a win?”
“Shut up,” I breathed, grabbing his jaw and pulling him into a kiss before he could say something stupid again. His mouth tasted like cinnamon gum and something reckless.
Later, the room was quiet.
The sheets were tangled at the foot of the bed. Dominic lay beside me, shirtless, thumbing through his phone. I stared at the ceiling, letting the hum beneath my skin settle.
My body had stopped trembling. My heart had stopped racing. But that didn’t mean peace. Just pause.
Then Dominic snorted under his breath.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered. “Guess who’s back in your arena.”
That got my attention.
I turned my head toward him. “What are you talking about?”
He turned the phone to me. A headline blinked at the top of the screen.
Breaking: Former Prodigy Eli Santiago Joins Madrid Training Block via Wildcard.
I stared. The name felt like a slap. I hadn’t heard it in years.
Dominic’s jaw tightened. “Of all the washed-up has-beens they could’ve picked…”
My stomach flipped. I grabbed the phone, reread it.
Disgraced. Wildcard. Eli Santiago.
A name that came with history.
“Are you okay?” Dominic asked, frowning.
I didn’t answer. I just sat there, wrapped in his arms, eyes hard. Of all people. Eli Santiago.
Serve Me Chaos
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