08:50
Court 2, Westend Club, Westend, Frankfurt, Germany
Liora came close to the net, pulling a thin yardstick from her bag as though the fate of the match depended on it. She knelt, measured the centre height, and adjusted the vertical tape with slow precision. "You might be thinking I'm wasting time, Mr Clark," she said coolly, her accent laced with a German bite. "But it's not. A net even half an inch too high or low can change everything."
Sohel twirled his racket in his hand, testing its weight with a few shadow swings. "Who knows? Maybe it does."
Liora tugged at the central tape one last time, then tapped the rope with her racket three times, almost ritualistically. The sound carried a sharp thrum across the silent court. Sohel's eyes caught the detail: no crank handle to adjust net height. Instead, the ropes vanished into the turf, disappearing into mechanisms beneath the surface. Everything here was curated, controlled. Just like her.
"Good," she said finally, standing tall. "Will you spin?"
Sohel spun the racket in his palm, asking, "Rough or smooth?"
"Skin," replied Liora without hesitation. "Skin, Mr Clark. I'll serve."
Skin? Sohel had never heard of it. A local rule? A private joke? He shrugged inwardly. Focus on the game.
He crouched into position, every muscle wired. Yet in the first thirty seconds, she dismantled him. First point. Then the second. By the third, his frustration was already visible. "Thirty," she announced casually, as if officiating her own match. Within moments, she closed the game. One to nothing.
Sohel exhaled, jaw tight. He had read dossiers of corrupt CEOs, traitors, and even fanatics who detonated bombs in cities. But this woman—she cheated with the elegance of someone who had never been told no.
Liora fetched a chilled bottle from a small court-side fridge, sipping delicately before nodding toward Sohel. "Water?"
He accepted, more to buy himself a pause than out of thirst. When he returned, she smacked the net twice with her racket before resuming position. A ritual. A charm. Or maybe just a way to taunt him.
Sohel served. Twice the ball kissed the net and fell back, useless. His irritation grew with each rally.
It wasn't just her skill—though she was formidable. It was her arrogance. Every close call, she declared, "Out!" Her tone was absolute, like a judge passing sentence. Once, Sohel clearly saw the ball land three inches inside, the mark burnt into the artificial turf. He pointed it out with his racket.
"Old mark", she dismissed coldly, grinding her shoe over the evidence. "Here. Serve again."
The sheer shamelessness of it made his blood boil. Words bounced uselessly against her walls of confidence. Shameless people, he reminded himself, cannot be defeated by reason.
Still, Sohel pressed harder, finally clawing his way toward advantage. He was on the cusp of taking the set when Liora abruptly raised a finger and walked off court. "Sorry. Important call."
She returned one minute later, slipping her phone back into her bag. "Where were we? Was it my serve?"
Sohel narrowed his eyes. "No. Mine. Forty–thirty. Five–four."
"Ah, yes. Forgive me. So forgetful of me." Her smile was all teeth. "Tell me, Mr Clark. What do you say we raise the stakes?"
Sohel cocked his head. "How much?"
"A thousand euros."
It wasn't the money. SNA would cover expenses. It was her smug tone that needled him. He smashed his next serve harder than intended, the ball rocketing—only to strike the net and tumble back.
During the break, both players sat. Sweat streaked Sohel's temple. Liora sipped water with infuriating calm. "You're a competitive man, aren't you, Mr Clark?"
Sohel smirked through his annoyance. "Why? Getting scared?"
Her laugh was sharp. "Oh no, not fear. Thinking, perhaps, we should raise it further." She rose, plucking a second racket from her bag and testing its strings against the first. "What about ten thousand euros?"
Sohel leaned back. He wasn't rattled by the number. What annoyed him was her demand: "Cash only." That was her slip. No one so wealthy cared about cash unless they had something to hide. He masked his anger with a smirk and agreed.
And then something shifted. Perhaps fatigue, perhaps arrogance. But in the next set, Liora faltered. Her serves lost bite. Her footwork grew sloppy. The sun bore down, draining energy from both of them.
Sohel pressed his advantage. Each rally brought her closer to unraveling, until finally, he landed the last decisive point. The ball whistled past her, skimming the baseline with perfect accuracy.
"Game", he declared flatly.
Liora froze, disbelief flooding her features. "Impossible!" she snarled, hurling her racket at the net with a violent clang.
Sohel walked to the net, voice calm but edged with challenge. "Calm down, Ms Schmidt. This isn't the behaviour expected of a lady like you." He extended his hand across the tape.
She met it, grip fierce, eyes burning with something more dangerous than simple frustration. Hatred.
"We'll meet again, Mr Clark," she said softly, venom dripping beneath the warmth of her words. "Very soon. Maybe luck won't be on your side next time."
She pivoted sharply, collected her bag, and stormed toward the clubhouse. Sohel watched her go, his hand lowering slowly, the ghost of her fire still lingering in his chest.
He hadn't won a match. He'd declared war.
Sohel lingered on the baseline for a moment longer, the racket hanging loose in his hand. The court around him was silent now, save for the hum of the lights and the faint thud of another ball game far in the distance. He tilted his head back, letting the sweat drip freely, watching the slow drift of a cloud against the morning sun. The turf smelt of rubber and dust, a sterile battlefield dressed in green.
He crouched to gather the scattered balls, one by one, their fuzzy surfaces rough beneath his fingers. Liora's racket still lay where she had thrown it, tilted against the net like a fallen weapon abandoned in retreat. He nudged it aside with his shoe, exhaling through his nose.
Control. That was what she lived for. And for the first time in a long time, someone had taken it from her.