CHAPTER FOUR: BETWEEN SERVES AND SMILES

The gym was quieter now. No whistles blowing. No shoes squeaking. Just the soft hum of the lights above and the faint rustle of shuttlecocks being returned to their tubes.

Xianne sat cross-legged near the bench, her hoodie sleeves pushed up as she tied the strings of a junior player’s shoes. Jasper stood nearby, tossing a shuttlecock in the air with lazy precision, watching her with a quiet smile he didn't even realize he wore.

It had been a few weeks since the tournament. Their team didn’t take home the trophy, but they came close. And even though Xianne wasn’t part of the official lineup, she never let herself disappear in the shadows. She cheered, coached from the sidelines, and brought homemade snacks wrapped in cling film and love.

“Coach said we’re training juniors today,” Jasper said, walking over and gently nudging her sneaker with his. “Think you can keep up with the chaos?”

Xianne grinned up at him, brushing her ponytail over her shoulder.  “Please. I am the chaos.”

They shared a laugh—easy, familiar. The kind that echoed more than just humor. The kind that lingered.

The juniors came in waves—tiny voices and bouncing energy. Xianne and Jasper worked together as if they’d always done so. She knelt beside a girl struggling with her grip, adjusting her fingers gently. Jasper demonstrated footwork with exaggerated steps, making the kids laugh. At one point, they both dove for the same shuttlecock, colliding and landing on the mat in a tangled, laughing heap.

“Your fault,”  Jasper accused, lying flat on the floor.

“Yours,”  Xianne countered breathlessly.

They lay there for a moment, laughter fading into soft breathing. Their eyes met. The world felt still for a second too long. Until one of the juniors yelled,  “Coach! They’re doing something weird again!”

They both jumped up, cheeks pink, brushing imaginary dust from their clothes.

Later, when the kids had gone and the sun was dipping low through the high windows, Jasper and Xianne sat on the bleachers sharing a sports drink and a bag of chips. He handed her the bottle cap, twisted into a tiny ring.

“For the real MVP,”  he said, placing it in her palm.

She looked at him—eyes full of surprise, then quiet affection.  “I didn’t even play.”

“But you stayed. You helped. You mattered,” he replied, tapping her forehead gently with one finger.

Her heart did a somersault.

The silence stretched, comfortable. No need to rush it. No need to define whatever it was that bloomed between rallies and rests. It was enough to know that when he looked at her, he saw her—not just the athlete who didn’t make the cut, but the person who never gave up.

When it was time to go, they walked out side by side, shoulders brushing now and then. The sky above them blushed with fading gold, and laughter still danced between them like a familiar song.

It wasn’t love. Not yet.

But maybe it was on its way.

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