Bailey Dofen’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Every few seconds—*ping.*  

Another notification. Another photo. Another “exclusive” headline.

**“Athlete and Heir—The Kiss That Stopped the Court!”**  

**“Bailey Dofen’s Secret Love Serve!”**

She exhaled, scrolling through them like she was grading bad homework.  

Across the living room, Kaiylin was eating cereal out of the box.

“You’re trending again,” Kaiylin said, mouth full.  

“Fantastic,” Bailey muttered. “Every athlete’s dream.”  

“Want me to comment something supportive?”  

“No.”  

“How about sarcastic?”  

“No.”  

“How about—‘they look good together’?”  

Bailey looked up sharply. “Delete your account.”  

Kaiylin grinned. “So that’s a yes?”

Bailey threw a cushion at her. “You’re fired.”  

“You don’t pay me.”  

“Exactly. Unpaid and unemployed.”  

Across town, Man Olid was also surrounded by chaos—his PR manager, two phones, and what looked like a nervous intern.  

The man himself, however, looked annoyingly calm.

“Sir, should we deny the rumors?” the PR manager asked.

“They’re not rumors,” Man said.

The intern nearly dropped his tablet. “Wait—they’re *true?*”

Man shrugged. “Unless I hallucinated kissing her.”

“Sir!” the manager groaned. “We can’t *say* that!”

“Then don’t,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Say nothing. Let them talk.”

“That’s not strategy.”

“That’s peace.”

The intern whispered, “He’s so chill it’s terrifying.”

That afternoon, Bailey arrived at the training center to find her locker covered in printed headlines.  

Her teammates had taped them everywhere—with doodles, hearts, and dramatic captions.  

“Love on the court!” one said.  

“Shuttlecock of destiny!” said another.  

Bailey stared for a full five seconds, then turned slowly.  

“Who did this?”

Everyone pointed at everyone else.  

Kaiylin was filming from the corner.  

“Smile for your fans,” she said.  

“I’m going to strangle you,” Bailey said.  

“Not in front of the camera,” Kaiylin warned. “We need your wholesome image.”

Bailey groaned and started ripping the papers down.  

Halfway through, she stopped—because one of them had his handwriting on it.

*“Still proud of you. Even when you threaten violence.” – M.”*

Her lips curved before she could stop them.

Later that night, she found him waiting outside the gym.  

Casual clothes, no cameras, two cups of coffee.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said automatically.  

“You always say that.”  

“Because it’s true.”  

“And you always let me stay.”  

She hesitated, then took one of the coffees. “You’re getting predictable.”  

“I’m getting committed,” he said. “Different spelling.”  

She tried not to smile. Failed. “You really think you’re funny.”  

“I know I am. You just pretend not to laugh.”  

“I’m saving your ego.”  

“Impossible. It’s indestructible.”

They sat on the steps outside the court, sharing coffee and quiet.  

The night smelled like rain and the faint rubber scent of the gym floor.  

“So,” she said. “The internet’s having fun with us.”  

“They’ll move on.”  

“To what?”  

“Probably a cat with a TikTok account.”  

She chuckled. “Optimistic.”  

“I’m realistic,” he said. “You’re the news for now. But we—” he gestured between them “—we’re not headlines. We’re practice.”  

She tilted her head. “Practice?”  

“Yeah. For patience, for listening, for… love that doesn’t need a press release.”  

Her chest warmed. “That almost sounded deep.”  

“I’ve been rehearsing.”  

“Since when?”  

“Since you kissed me and ruined my concentration.”  

She laughed. “Please, you didn’t have concentration to begin with.”  

He glanced at her sideways. “You look happier.”  

“I’m not.”  

“You are.”  

“I’m not.”  

“You smiled twice in five minutes. That’s a record.”  

She sipped her coffee. “Stop keeping track.”  

“Can’t. It’s addictive.”  

She shook her head, but her eyes softened.  

“Man.”  

“Yeah?”  

“Thanks for not making this worse.”  

He smiled. “I’m learning.”  

“Finally.”  

“Don’t sound so surprised.”  

“I’m reserving judgment.”  

He nudged her shoulder lightly. “Careful, that sounded almost affectionate.”  

“Don’t ruin it.”  

They stayed like that for a long time—  

two people sitting on gym steps, surrounded by quiet and half-spilled coffee,  

the world outside buzzing with noise they didn’t care to join.  

When he finally stood, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  

“Practice or trouble?”  

“Both.”  

She smiled. “Bring coffee again.”  

“Already planned.”  

And as he walked away, she thought—not for the first time—that maybe the noise wasn’t something to fear anymore.  

Maybe, just maybe, it was finally the sound of her life starting to make sense.