Nobody Is Jealous Of You

“Madge! Daniel!” Mrs. Duval’s voice sliced through the house. Breakfast waited, and in the Duval household, no one touched a fork until every invited guest was seated.

Madge shoved her face into the pillow. Her body begged for rest. Saturdays were sacred, a day to let exhaustion settle. But tradition trumped exhaustion, and Mrs. Duval’s bellows weren’t about to lose a fight.

She swung her legs over the bed, muscles stiff from the late-night training session. Two days of reckless eating gnawed at her mind. Junk food slowed movement, dulled reflexes. And on the court, that meant death. Tiger Eye wouldn’t take dead weight.

The Academy bred champions, fed the League its fiercest competitors. Players clawed their way in, knowing the name alone guaranteed prestige, sponsorships, better draws. It was everything.

Madge had tasted it once. At thirteen, she won her heat, outplayed every opponent, claimed her rightful place. But a scholarship only covered so much. Her parents’ pockets weren’t deep enough to bridge the gap.

Opportunity slipped through her fingers.

She trained harder. Stayed sharp. When money stopped being an obstacle, she went back. Older, stronger, smarter. But she wasn’t the only one who wanted it. Teagan Haase—light-footed, quick-wristed, ruthless—stole the final match. A knife disguised as a drop shot sent Madge home.

Teagan became Tiger Eye’s pride. Madge returned to the Underground tour. She fought to stay relevant, but something cracked. Her game suffered.

Mr. Duval, her coach and father, saw it unravel. Encouragement turned to silent patience. And then the real blow landed.

Cancer came for him.

Treatment drained their savings. Tennis took a backseat. Nine months later, Mr. Duval was gone.

Madge grieved on the court. She stopped playing for sport and started playing for survival. Every match, every point, every swing became a war. The Underground tour hardened her. Her ranking climbed. When she broke the threshold, the League welcomed her as an independent.

But Tiger Eye was the goal.

“Madge!” Mrs. Duval’s voice carried more urgency this time.

She yanked her curls into a ponytail and took the stairs at an unhurried pace. Breakfast could wait. Whatever had her mother in a frenzy would still be there when she arrived.

The dining room bled into the lounge, where Mrs. Duval stood glued to the television, eyes wide, gasping under her breath.

Madge reached for the Coco Pops, then changed her mind and scooped eggs onto a plate. She dropped into a chair, angled her head past her mother, and caught sight of the headline blazing across the screen:

 

FALL FROM GRACE: TENNIS GOLDEN GIRL AILIS ACKER DROPPED FROM TIGER EYE IN DRUG SCANDAL

 

The fork stalled halfway to her mouth.

Ailis Acker. Gone.

Madge’s teeth clicked against the last bite of omelette. “What happened?”

Mrs. Duval turned up the volume. “Reports say she’s been taking a banned substance. They haven’t clarified which one.”

Images of Ailis flashed across the screen—trophies, podiums, victory smiles. A carefully crafted legacy, now tainted. Madge narrowed her eyes. The media spun their usual tale. Damsel in distress? Femme fatale? No. This was a doping scandal.

“Poor girl,” Mrs. Duval murmured as footage rolled of Ailis pushing through a mob of reporters, retreating into her Helix convertible.

Madge arched an eyebrow. “She still looks pretty wealthy to me.”

Designer sweats, Dior shades, a ballerina bun secured like she had nowhere better to be than a photoshoot. The media vultures swarmed. The public fed on the spectacle.

“They haven’t proven anything yet,” Mrs. Duval said, finally stepping away from the screen.

“They found the drugs in her apartment?” Madge asked, chewing slow.

“Details are murky, but someone tipped the press—”

“A tip?” Madge scoffed. “That’s their smoking gun?”

“The source is credible.”

Madge snorted. “Credibility is flexible.”

Her knife scraped against the plate. A habit. Fork in one hand, knife in the other. It forced patience, precision.

“Could be anyone in her camp,” she continued. “Someone looking for a payday.”

Madge’s tone played at indifference, but deep down, she willed it to be true. If Ailis fell, a spot at Tiger Eye opened. Her misfortune was opportunity. And this time, Madge wasn’t knocking. She was breaking the door down.

The screen flickered to new footage—bottles, vials, pills. The list scrolled: nandrolone, ephedrine, octopamine, meldonium, cocaine.

Madge let out a low whistle. “If I were Ailis, I’d be checking my inner circle. Someone wanted this story out.”

“They also found diuretics,” Mrs. Duval added, pouring coffee.

 

“What’s di-di-diuretic?” Daniel dragged himself in, voice hoarse.

Madge barely looked at him. “Flushes the system. Cleans out evidence before a drug test. Still banned.”

She tapped the screen. “But Ailis? She’s meticulous. Too careful to be this messy.”

Daniel slumped into a chair, drowning pancakes in syrup. “So someone planted it?”

Madge exhaled. “The story’s too perfect.”

“What’s her team saying?”

“They’re denying everything. One of her coaches claims it’s an act of revenge.”

“Figures.” Daniel licked syrup from his fingers. “She’s been raking in millions—”

Madge cut him off with a glare. “She’s been winning. There’s a difference.”

Mrs. Duval sighed. “Prize money, trophies, a pretty face—it doesn’t rewrite the rules.”

Outside Ailis’s family estate, the media circus swelled. Cameras zoomed in on her mother, Angela Acker, peeking through the curtains. A woman cornered, waiting for the storm to pass.

“They say Ailis is heading home for crisis talks.”

Daniel smirked. “If she’s innocent, I’ll play her victory party.”

No one acknowledged the joke.

The screen cut to a press conference. A woman took centre stage, poised in a cream suit that complemented her bronze skin. Sharp eyes. Sharper presence. Madge leaned forward. Serena Steele. President of Tiger Eye. Titan of the sport. Every female player had two role models. One was Serena Steele. The other, a matter of taste.Serena’s voice filled the room. “We have heard the allegations. We have seen the reports. But as an institution, we—”

Daniel groaned. “They’re going to let her slide.”

Madge hushed him, eyes locked on the screen.

The phone rang. Daniel swore under his breath and stomped to the kitchen.

Serena continued, “These accusations do not reflect the values of—”

“Madge,” Daniel called. “Some guy named William Vane. He wants to talk to you.”

The fork froze in her hand.

William Vane —a former tennis player, more known for injuries than skill—now one of Tiger Eye’s top scouts. Madge lunged for the phone. A breath, then another. Daniel, already unsettled by her energy, shoved it into her chest.

 

“Hello.” She forced her tone into something neutral. “Yes, speaking. This is Madge Duval.”

Daniel groaned and walked off. Mrs. Duval studied every shift in Madge’s expression—the arch of her brows, the press of her lips. Madge gave little away. A nod. A curt “yes.” A clipped “no.” Then she slammed the phone onto the hook and leapt, fists pumping the air.

“I’m in! I’m in! I’m in!”

When her breath caught up, she collapsed into her chair, grinning. Daniel and her mother waited.

“A spot opened up,” she said.

Their heads snapped to the screen. The camera crew erupted—Ailis had just arrived at the residence.

“William saw my last audition—”

“Two years ago?” Daniel cut in.

She nodded, too wired to let him slow her down. “But he and the others have been watching me on tour. Winning Halo and Albatross back-to-back helped. Especially since I took down their ‘golden girl’ in both finals.”

Sarcasm dripped from her voice. The thrill of acceptance tangled with something heavier. Tiger Eye had been the dream, but reality came with a price. Her mother, reading the shift in her face, straightened.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be taken care of.”

Daniel scoffed. The usual speech about money was burned into his memory—especially whenever he mentioned the Noval School of Music summer programme he’d been interested in.

“Don’t they offer aid?” Daniel asked.

“I missed the deadline. Mid-semester entry.”

Mrs. Duval waved off the concern. “I banked on that. We’ll find you a sponsor.”

Madge gave her a look. Sponsors didn’t appear out of nowhere. If they did, every top-ranked player would be the highest-paid athlete in their sport.

Mrs. Duval barely blinked at the scepticism. “I didn’t want to say anything, but Sapphire reached out a couple of weeks ago.”

Madge stiffened. A billion-dollar sports brand. Not known for tennis, but for selling the athletes in it.

“After Albatross, an executive called—”

“Someone we know?” Daniel smirked. “Like the guy buying you dinner?”

Mrs. Duval shut it down. “Strictly business.”

“They want you,” she continued. “They see potential.”

Madge frowned. “Sapphire backs models more than players.”

The screen proved her point. Ailis Acker’s face dominated magazine covers.

“Those girls want to be on tennis Maxim covers, I don’t.”

Her mother dismissed the concern. “Plenty of athletes would kill for this.”

Madge rattled off names, ticking them on her fingers. “Ailis. Geneviève. Saoirse. Carmen. Besides Ailis—barely—the rest would turn tournaments into fashion week if they could. And what do they have to show for it? I play to dominate, not to be some poster Baywatch girl.”

 

Madge had a point, but she missed the bigger picture: they needed the money. Mrs. Duval stepped out and returned with a brown envelope. She dropped it in front of Madge.

“Open it.”

Madge tore it apart. A thick contract spilled out. The name Sapphire blazed on the first page. Her stomach clenched.

“They already made an offer?” She flipped to the last page. Only one thing missing—her signature. “How long have you had this?”

Mrs. Duval leaned in. “Like I said it’s been weeks. Since Albatross. I waited for the paperwork before telling you. Didn’t want to jinx it. But Madge, they’re serious about you. Maybe this time, they’re investing in talent, not trends. Maybe they believe you’ll be the difference.”

Madge’s fingers twitched over the pages. She rebelled under pressure—it never ended well. Mrs. Duval softened her voice, careful. “To reach the top, you need backing. No one gets there alone. Sapphire wants to help.”

Silence stretched. Tiger Eye was the dream. She needed the money. And—

“A B minus average, or else—”

“They drop the sponsorship,” Mrs. Duval cut in. “They want a return beyond tennis. This is different.”

The game was about to change.

--

 

Ailis slipped past the flashing cameras and ducked into her parents’ house, slamming the door behind her. A sharp breath left her lungs as silence finally settled. She moved toward the living room, expecting to find both parents, but before she got two steps in, her mother ensnared her in a tight embrace.

Ailis stiffened. The gesture felt foreign, but her attention snagged on the stranger seated across the room.

The woman radiated wealth. The tailored grey pencil skirt traced her curves in an understated but deliberate way. The bold tangerine ruffled blouse, however, clashed violently with the circus of bangles stacked on her left arm. A disaster in theory, yet somehow, she made it work.

Not a fan, then.

She barely acknowledged Ailis’s arrival, too absorbed in nibbling one of her mother’s homemade pecan chocolate cookies. The lavender-scented air mixed with the chocolate, making Ailis crave one herself, but her mother refused to let go.

Her father entered, newspaper in hand, reading glasses perched on his nose. He eyed the mother-daughter hold with a grimace before leaning down to kiss Ailis on the forehead. Then, without ceremony, he dropped into his usual seat, the old rocking sofa.

“Angela, let her go,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”

Reluctantly, Mrs. Acker released her grip, worry flickering in her gaze. Ailis squeezed her shoulder before turning to the stranger.

“So, who is she? And where’s my team?” she asked, sinking onto the opposite sofa, finally swiping a cookie.

The woman set her tea cup down with practiced care. “Miranda Bardic.” She leaned forward, extending a hand.

Ailis shook it, her eyes shifting to her parents for answers. Her mother hesitated, glancing at her father, the air thick with an unspoken debate.“Who exactly are you, and what are you doing here?”

Mrs. Acker jumped in. “Miranda is a fixer—”

“I prefer consultant,” Miranda corrected, her tone mild but firm. The distinction mattered.

Ailis studied her, suspicious. The woman had the demeanour of someone who had already made up her mind.

“I run a crisis management company called Bardic Associates,” Miranda continued. “You won’t find it online. If you need me, you need to know someone who knows someone. And considering you’re the media’s latest feast; your parents clearly have the right connections.”

Ailis turned to her father. “And my team?”

Mr. Acker folded his newspaper. “We wanted you to form your own opinion of Miranda first. No second voices muddying things.”

Translation: her team couldn’t be trusted. Normally, she’d push back. But something about Miranda kept her curious. Miranda’s gaze sharpened. “Are you guilty?”

The air shifted. Ailis noted the subtle probe, the attempt to gauge her reaction. She met Miranda’s eyes, unflinching. “No. I don’t take PEDs.” Mrs. Acker exhaled sharply, unaware her hand had been pressed to her chest until she finally let it drop. “But,” Ailis continued, “the drugs were in my apartment. The pictures were real. My bathroom. My medical cabinet. But I was framed.”

Miranda tilted her head. “Do you know someone who does use?”

Ailis hesitated. A calculated pause. She had seen plenty—tennis stars, trust-fund brats, influencers who thought themselves invincible. Sex, drugs, alcohol, all before the next training session.

“I have friends who dabble.”

“So, these drugs could belong to one of them?”

Ailis nodded.

“Could one of them have framed you?”

A shrug. Noncommittal.

“Have you ever taken drugs?”

Ailis felt her parents’ silent scrutiny. She leaned back, feigning nonchalance. “I’ve never failed a drug test.”

Miranda smirked. “That’s not what I asked.”

Ailis tucked her hair behind her ear—a nervous habit, except there was no loose strand to play with. “Once.”

Miranda raised a brow.

“Weed and lean. Three years ago. Off-season. I was injured, depressed, thought I’d blow off steam.” Ailis folded her arms. “Never again.”

Mrs. Acker shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting away. Mr. Acker didn’t react. Miranda, however, seemed pleased.

“You believe me, right?” Ailis challenged.

Her mother nodded. Her father remained silent. Miranda’s expression gave nothing away.

“I’m on your payroll, so yes, Ailis. Everything you tell me builds your defense,” Miranda pressed.

Ailis rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “I know that, which is why I’m telling the truth.”

“But without proof, it means nothing.”

Miranda let the weight of that settle. “If the drugs aren’t yours, how did they end up in your bathroom?”

Ailis inhaled, taking her time.

“I lost back-to-back finals. One was a Grand Slam. Albatross, a wildcard, Madge Duval beat me.” She flicked a glance at her mother, who had lived through that aftermath—tears, tissues, a night of frantic kickboxing.

“I needed a break. My team vetoed it, so I took one. Palm Springs. Two weeks. Dimitri had my keys. He threw one party.”

Mrs. Acker sucked in a breath, shaking her head. The name alone was enough to set her off.

“So this Dimitri,” Miranda mused, “boyfriend?”

“Dimitri Gavan,” Mrs. Acker enunciated with barely concealed disdain.

Ailis braced herself.

“He’s an illustrious player,” she defended.

Her mother’s mouth twitched. Mr. Acker took a more measured approach. “He’s a top-ranked player. Dominant. But with a mean streak.”

“What do you mean by that?” Miranda prodded. Her parents saw Dimitri as reckless. Arrogant. Dangerous. Ailis found him… different, intriguing, mercurial to say the least. Her fascination addictive.

Miranda picked up on the tension. “Okay, so this Dimitri guy—he parties?”

Ailis scoffed. “He hosts. Big difference. He barely stays. Sometimes it’s business, sometimes it’s favours.”

“And this party at your place?”

“Three, maybe four months ago.” Ailis tapped her fingers against the armrest. “Strange that the pictures surfaced now.”

Miranda’s eyes glinted with something unreadable. “Who was there?”

Ailis gave a slow blink. She had played this game long enough to know Miranda was reeling her in.

“Players,” Ailis said, brushing off the question.

“Academy? Tour? Both?”

Silence.

“Ailis.” Miranda’s voice lowered. “I need a narrative. Without one, the media controls the story. And if I’m right, they’ll have more than just pictures by the end of the week.”