The score is 4–1 in Francesca's favor. The crowd is riled up by the sheer power radiating from Sarka since she got serious; in a single minute she put a game on the board without letting Francesca return one of those killer serves. The talented blonde braces for another thunderous serve from her muscular rival, thinking: Calm, Fran. Calm. You just need to get used to her power. Get the serve back and you'll win—just calm down. Repeating calm in her head sparks a flicker of the waterfall training. She shakes it away. Sarka fires; as the ball kisses the strings, the racquet is ripped from Francesca's hands yet again.
Francesca: "Damn it—fifth time!" She picks it up.
Sarka — setting to serve: "This is the difference between someone like you and someone who actually worked to deserve what she has."
Francesca resets, alert for the blast. Each time she's been disarmed it was off the frame; she understands she'll have to be faster than the ball itself if she wants to send those shots back.
It's 4–2, Francesca. Another minute and the European athlete has taken two games in just two minutes, earning real respect from the crowd. Near courtside sit Francesca's father and Sarka's coach.
Alexandre: "Wow—she's very good."
Coach: "And these are just points off serve. In rallies, her true level comes out."
Alexandre: "I'm not worried. Francesca will adjust to the pace and surpass her."
Coach: "Ha! You wish. She's the European champion, in case you forgot."
At the same time, through the general entrance come the Sejuk firstborn and the blonde's best friend.
Gregorio: "Thanks for the ride, Jerome."
Jerome: "No big deal—and if you'd come alone, your fangirls would've swarmed. They were hounding you. I don't need those hyenas ruining my sister's debut."
One looks every bit the bad boy—leather jacket, dark shades; the other, brown-haired in a white hoodie with a dunking silhouette. Late, they find seats beside a dark-skinned man in a beige jacket, worn jeans, red cap, and black sunglasses.
Gregorio: "Hey, are these free?"
Jayden: "Yes."
Francesca is still struggling to return the missiles. A thousand thoughts ricochet through her head: Nothing works. Even reading her eyes for direction, I can't return it—the racquet just flies. As the short-haired girl readies another serve, Jayden's words flash through her mind: "You've got too much fire." The ball rockets in. Francesca closes her eyes for a heartbeat, exhales, and—just like in training—quiets the fire to reach the ball. But she can't steer it, and it sails wide. 15–0 Sarka.
Points tally for the Russian. Wearing that pure, unbothered smile, she readies again. Since Francesca at least matched the ball's speed this time, she thinks: Good—that was progress. Now I just have to send it back in.
It's 4–3, Francesca. Sarka keeps launching indefensible bullets, stress prickling Francesca's skin—then, in a blink, she regains calm, eyes hard on the toss. She reaches it and sends it out—but this time over the net. A tiny smirk tugs at the mouth of the man in the red cap and black glasses.
Jerome — whispering: "Is that guy okay?"
Gregorio — whispering: "Who?"
Jerome: "The one next to us—looked like he smiled."
Jayden: "Something bothering you, kid?"
Jerome — startled: "No, no! I just… like your glasses. Same as mine."
Jayden: "Ah."
The awkward moment dissolves under fresh applause—another point for Sarka.
4–4. In just four minutes, the European champion has shown how little raw "talent" means by itself. Francesca realizes the key is to fuse everything she knows about tennis with what the warrior taught her—steps and style. A ball to her left; the blonde reaches it and needles it to the corner. Like the monster she is, Sarka tracks it down and wins the point. The crowd murmurs—most now expect the younger Sejuk to lose; her rival seems superior.
Three minutes later it's 5–4 Sarka. Applause swells for the Moscow girl; few believe Francesca can turn it around.
Coach: "I'll admit it, Alexandre—your daughter is skilled."
Alexandre — deflated: "Why say that?"
Coach: "When I told Sarka she'd face a Sejuk, she was excited. When she learned it was your daughter, she got angry—she loathes anyone who claims equality just because they were born in a legend's shadow."
Alexandre — dryly: "No kidding. I understood what she said before the match."
Coach: "True. But your girl has closed the gap during play—made Sarka take her seriously. She might even be enjoying this. Tell me—who wins?"
Alexandre — solemn: "My daughter's a natural talent—but Sarka reached professional level at thirteen. Honestly…" he draws a long breath "…she…"
At that moment, the man in the red cap points to one of the boys beside him. "Who do you think will win?"
Gregorio — grinning: "Well, in my opinion—"
Jayden: "Not you. Leather jacket."
Jerome: "Me? I dunno—it's just an exhibition match, my father's whim, nothing official… but if I have to pick… my sister…"
The Sejuk men answer in unison:
Alexandre: "…will lose."
Jerome: "…will win."
Sarka readies another serve. As the ball leaves her hand, a memory floods Francesca's mind—her park duel with the warrior, his exact words:
Jayden: "I've never played, but this looks a lot like what I do every day…"
Gregorio and Jerome lean forward, waiting for the champion's cannon. They both swear they hear a faint whisper: "Pathetic will win." They dart a look at the man in the red cap—but he's gone. Before they can process it, the entire crowd gasps and they whip back to the court.
This time Francesca not only returns the serve—she drags Sarka into a rally. Determination burns in both girls' eyes. With every strike, the audience can feel their wills colliding. When the exchange ends, shock flashes across the European's face; satisfaction, across Francesca's. She's finally on the board in open play.
It's a war. Each girl pours her soul into every shot. At 5–5, Francesca serves at 40–30.
Francesca: "Thank you for facing me. It's been a true honor to stand at your level."
Sarka — furious: "Я не проиграю дочери папы." (I won't lose to a daddy's girl.)
Francesca — resolute: "Take this."
As she tosses the ball, Francesca remembers drilling her aim on the practice target—how, when she locked onto center, everything slowed to a crawl. In this serve, she finally fuses everything her master gave her with tennis—not just a more powerful surgical shot, but its evolution.
Score: 6–5. Victory to Francesca.
The match over, the players shake hands to a roaring ovation. Alexandre rushes the court to hug his daughter. Jerome and Gregorio arrive to congratulate her.
As Sarka climbs into the car for the airport, Francesca—Gregorio at her side—halts her.
Francesca — a bit shy, avoiding eye contact: "Wait…"
Sarka — annoyed: "What do you want, daughter of—" she spots Gregorio "Oh… hi."
Gregorio — awkward grin: "Heh… hi."
Francesca — elbowing Gregorio: "You're very good. I'd like a rematch—official, next time."
Sarka — confident: "Я разорву тебя на части в следующий раз." (I'll tear you to pieces next time.)
They shake on it, closing the day. The week passes with Francesca refining her style. The day before, the man had given her a karate-like uniform and a small map to a cabin in the forest. She follows a narrow trail, headband in hand. After a long walk, the cabin finally comes into view.
As she arrives, the warrior drops from a nearby tree: "Today we train in the backyard," he says—then simply melts away, making Francesca grimace.
Francesca — annoyed: "How is it that this sort of thing doesn't surprise me anymore…" She ties the blue band across her forehead. "…Alright—let's go."