Chapter Text
The First Time She Loses Without Playing
Bonnie arrives at the indoor stadium an hour earlier than she needs to.
She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t like being late. That it’s habit. She prefers time to warm up, to settle her nerves, to stretch properly before anything important happens.
But she knows the truth.
She’s afraid that if she arrives on time, she’ll lose her nerve and turn around.
The stadium is already awake when she steps inside. The lights are harsh and white, buzzing faintly above polished wooden floors marked with crisp court lines. The air smells like disinfectant, sweat, and the faint sweetness of energy drinks. Somewhere, a shuttlecock snaps sharply against a racket *pak* followed by the squeak of shoes.
Bonnie pauses just inside the entrance, fingers tightening around the strap of her duffel bag.
This place feels different from the provincial courts she’s used to. It’s bigger, louder, and less forgiving. Here, no one looks surprised to see talent. No one claps for effort alone.
Here, effort is assumed.
She scans the courts, heart beating faster as she searches for familiar faces. She spots a few athletes from other provinces — girls she’s competed against before, girls who nod politely or avoid eye contact altogether. No one approaches her. She doesn’t expect them to.
Then the atmosphere shifts.
It’s subtle, the way weather changes before a storm. Voices lower. Movement slows. A few heads turn toward Court One.
Bonnie follows their gaze.
That’s when she sees her.
Emi.
She’s in the middle of a warm-up rally, her posture relaxed in a way that makes Bonnie’s shoulders tense instinctively. Emi moves like she belongs here — like the court was built around her rather than the other way around. Her footwork is precise, economical. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
The shuttlecock doesn’t just fly when Emi hits it. It obeys.
Bonnie’s breath catches without her permission.
She’s watched Emi play before, of course. Everyone has. On her phone late at night, lying on a thin mattress in her dorm room, screen brightness turned down so her roommate won’t complain. Highlight reels. Match replays. Interviews she pretends not to care about.
But this — this is different.
In person, Emi doesn’t look larger than life.
She looks inevitable.
Bonnie edges closer to the court, drawn forward like she might miss something crucial if she blinks. She watches the way Emi’s grip shifts almost imperceptibly between shots, the way her eyes track the shuttle with calm intensity. When Emi scores a point, she doesn’t smile. When she misses, she doesn’t curse or flinch.
She just resets.
That’s what winning looks like, Bonnie thinks, something heavy and sharp settling in her chest.
Around her, people whisper.
“National team.”
“Still number one.”
“Her family depends on her, you know.”
Bonnie doesn’t join in. She doesn’t clap when the rally ends either. Applause feels intrusive somehow, like touching something sacred with dirty hands.
She imagines herself on that court — under those lights, with that many eyes watching — and the image is so vivid it almost hurts. Her fingers twitch around the strap of her bag, muscle memory firing without a racket in her hand.
You’re not supposed to want this, a quiet voice in her head says. Not like this.
Bonnie knows where she stands.
She’s from a province people forget exists unless they’re filling out tournament brackets. Her training court back home has cracked flooring and flickering lights. Her coach does his best, but there’s only so much he can do with borrowed equipment and secondhand shuttlecocks.
She’s twenty minutes slower than the national players on recovery drills. Her footwork is clean but not elegant. Her stamina comes from stubbornness, not conditioning.
She knows all of this.
And still — she wants.
The rally ends again. Emi nods once toward her coach, expression unreadable, and turns slightly.
For a brief, terrifying moment, her gaze lands on Bonnie.
It’s nothing. Just a glance. Professional. Neutral.
But Bonnie freezes like she’s been caught doing something wrong.
Emi’s eyes slide past her, already moving on, already focused elsewhere.
Bonnie exhales slowly, heat creeping up her neck.
Of course, she tells herself. Why would she notice you?
The thought doesn’t sting the way she expects it to. Instead, it sharpens something inside her.
Resolve, maybe. Or pride.
When training wraps up, Bonnie leaves the stadium without talking to anyone. Outside, the sun is already sinking, Bangkok traffic roaring in the distance. Her legs feel heavy, her mind louder than the city around her.
Back in her dorm room that night, she showers quickly, the water lukewarm and unreliable. She eats instant noodles straight from the pot, barely tasting them. Her roommate is out, thankfully, which means Bonnie doesn’t have to pretend she’s fine.
She opens her laptop and logs into a small, anonymous forum meant for athletes who can’t sleep.
She’s lurked there for weeks. Never posted. Never thought she had anything worth saying.
Tonight feels different.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard.
Then she types.
Username: shuttle_hope
Has anyone ever looked at someone and thought — that’s where I need to be, even if it scares me?
She stares at the post for a long moment after hitting send, half-expecting regret to crash over her.
It doesn’t.
Minutes pass. Then more.
Just as she’s about to close the tab, a reply appears.
Username: nightcourt
All the time. The scary part isn’t wanting it. It’s being afraid of what happens if you lose it.
Bonnie leans back against her pillow, heart thudding softly.
She doesn’t know who nightcourt is. She doesn’t know why their words feel like they’ve reached straight into her chest.
She smiles anyway.
Just a little.