The June sun beat mercilessly on the clay courts of Roland Garros. Lucas Moreau, eighteen years old, knees bent, waited for the next serve. His orange ball boy polo was already soaked with sweat, and the match had only started twenty minutes ago.
Run. Pick up. Throw. Repeat.
This had been his routine for three months now. Three months chasing after champions' balls, wiping their footprints off this ochre clay that had witnessed the birth of so many legends. So many of them, except one.
"Ball!" shouted the player on court, an American ranked 15th in the world.
Lucas sprinted, picked up the yellow ball, and threw it with precision. The player caught it without even looking at him. To them, ball boys were invisible. Orange ghosts who existed only to serve.
If only they knew, Lucas thought as he returned to his position.
"Hey, Moreau!"
The voice came from the stands. Lucas gritted his teeth. He knew it all too well.
"Yeah, you! The cheater's son!"
Laughter erupted from the crowd. Tom Beaumont, sitting in the VIP box, was pointing at Lucas with his usual smug smile. Son of the French Tennis Federation director, Tom had everything Lucas had lost: money, prestige, and above all, the right to play.
"You're pretty good at picking up balls! Too bad your father wasn't as good at picking up his bribes!"
More laughter. Even some players were smiling. Lucas felt his cheeks burn, but he kept his eyes fixed on the court. Reacting would mean losing his job. And he needed those 50 euros a day. His mother was counting on him.
The match continued. Serve after serve, point after point, Lucas ran, invisible and humiliated. His hands trembled slightly when he threw the balls. Not from anger, but from pure frustration.
Dad, if you could see me now...
Three years. Three years since that cursed day when Alexandre Moreau, world number 5, had been accused of match-fixing. The "evidence" had been damning: suspicious transfers, encrypted messages, bookmaker testimonies. In forty-eight hours, his father's career had crumbled. In a week, he was dead. Heart attack, the doctors had said. Broken heart, Lucas knew.
"Game, set and match! Thompson!"
The match was over. Lucas and the other ball boys ran to collect the last balls while the players shook hands at the net.
"Good work, guys," the umpire said out of politeness.
Lucas left the court with his head down. He still had two matches to cover today. Two matches of enduring the looks, the whispers, the snickers.
In the ball boys' locker room, the atmosphere was light. The others talked about the players, the spectacular shots, the celebrities spotted in the stands. Lucas remained silent, staring at his locker where a dog-eared photo was taped: him and his father, on this same center court, the day of his Roland Garros victory in 2019.
"Moreau! The supervisor wants to see you!"
Lucas's heart stopped. No, not this. Not today.
The supervisor's office was freezing despite the heat outside. Mr. Dupont, stern-faced and in his fifties, didn't look up from his papers.
"Sit down, Lucas."
"Sir, if this is about the incident with Tom Beaumont..."
"It's about everything, Lucas." Dupont sighed. "Complaints are piling up. Your presence... disturbs people. The sponsors don't like the association with your name. You understand?"
Lucas understood. Oh, he understood perfectly.
"You're firing me."
"I'm releasing you from your obligations. Effective immediately. Here's your check for the week." Dupont pushed an envelope across the desk. "I'm sorry, kid. Really. But the orders come from above."
From above. From Beaumont senior, obviously.
Lucas took the envelope without a word. 350 euros. A week's rent. Not even enough for his mother's medication.
"You can collect your things and leave through the service entrance," Dupont added. "To avoid... complications."
The service entrance. Like a criminal.
Lucas left the office on shaky legs. In the empty locker room, he stuffed his few belongings into his bag. His father's photo. His notebook where he recorded the champions' playing patterns, out of habit. His old Stan Smiths, the only reminder of his former life.
He was almost at the exit when he heard footsteps behind him.
"So, the ball boy gets fired?"
Tom Beaumont, flanked by two friends, blocked the hallway. 300-euro Babolat racket casually resting on his shoulder, Rolex on his wrist, shark smile on his lips.
"Let me pass, Tom."
"Oh, but you're in a hurry? Got a tournament to play?" Tom sneered. "Oh right, that's true. Cheaters' sons aren't allowed to touch a racket."
Something broke inside Lucas. Three years of silence. Three years of humiliation. Three years of bowing his head.
"My father was innocent."
"Your father was a fraud. Like you." Tom approached. "Except at least he had talent before getting caught. You? You're nothing. You'll never be anything. Can't even keep a job as a ball boy."
Lucas's fists clenched. Tom noticed and smiled wider.
"Go ahead. Hit me. Give me a reason to have you permanently banned from every club in France."
Lucas closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Thought of his mother. Unclenched his fists.
"That's what I thought," Tom spat. "A coward, like your father."
The three boys stepped aside, laughing. Lucas passed between them, head held high despite the shame burning his insides.
He was almost outside when he tripped. Tom's foot, obviously. Lucas sprawled on the ground, his bag opening, spilling his belongings on the floor. His father's photo slid to Tom's feet.
"Oh, look at this." Tom picked up the photo. "The cheater and his son. Touching."
"Give it back."
"You want it?" Tom waved the photo. "Come and get it."
Lucas got up. A cold rage filled him. Not the hot kind that drives you to violence. No, something deeper. More ancient.
"Give. It. Back."
"Or what? You'll beat me at tennis?" Tom burst out laughing. "Oh wait, you can't even hold a racket!"
With a theatrical gesture, Tom tore the photo in two. Then in four. Then in eight. The pieces flew like confetti.
"Oops."
The world seemed to slow down. Lucas watched the paper fragments fall to the ground. The last intact memory of his father, destroyed. Like everything else.
His knees hit the floor. He picked up the pieces, one by one, under the laughter of Tom and his friends.
"Pathetic," Tom said as he walked away. "By the way, Moreau? My father told me he kept your father's racket. The one he used to fix his last match. It's in his office, as a trophy. I think he'll have it framed."
The footsteps faded away. Lucas remained alone, on his knees, clutching the photo pieces.
A tear fell. Then another. For the first time in three years, Lucas Moreau cried.
That's when it happened.
A sudden warmth flooded his chest. As if something was lighting up inside him. His tears stopped instantly. The hallway, though well-lit, seemed to darken around him.
Then, before his eyes, letters appeared. Floating in the air. Golden. Impossible.
[TENNIS SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
Lucas blinked. The letters remained.
[Conditions met: Maximum humiliation reached][Determination verified][Heritage recognized]
"What the..."
New lines appeared:
[Welcome, Lucas Moreau][Son of Alexandre Moreau, Fallen Champion][The Tennis Progression System has been unlocked]
[Current Status: Novice][Level: 1][Ranking: Unranked]
[Current Stats:]
Serve: 3/100Forehand: 5/100Backhand: 4/100Volley: 2/100Mental: 15/100Stamina: 20/100
Lucas rubbed his eyes. Was he hallucinating? Stress, maybe? But the numbers stayed there, floating, real.
[First mission unlocked: "Rebirth"][Objective: Hit 100 balls with a racket][Reward: +5 stat points to distribute][Deadline: 24 hours]
A racket? But he wasn't allowed to...
[System message:]"Your father was innocent, Lucas. This system is his last gift. His last chance for redemption. Through you."
"Do you accept to become the player he knew you could be?"
[YES] / [NO]
Lucas stared at the words, heart pounding. His father? Innocent? This system...
His trembling hand rose toward the [YES].
The moment his finger touched the option, an electric shock ran through him. Not painful. Invigorating. As if every cell in his body was awakening.
[System integrated][Tutorial available][Warning: This system will remain secret. Only the user can see the interface.]
[Good luck, Champion.]
The letters disappeared. Lucas remained alone in the hallway, the photo pieces in one hand, the other still raised.
Then, slowly, a smile appeared on his lips. The first real smile in three years.
"Tom Beaumont," he murmured as he stood up. "You just made the biggest mistake of your life."
He carefully put the photo pieces in his pocket and left the stadium.
He had 24 hours to find a racket.
The game had just begun.