Dylan

The gym bag, with my knee brace dangling from it—the only witness to my fall that cost me a spot on the national team—feels like a burden. Discipline should have triumphed over talent, but the system failed. To drown my sorrows, I head to the coast, hoping to find peace.

But peace doesn't come. On the third day, my feet carry me to the beach court. It's chaos: no referees, no scoreboard, just the dull slap of the ball. And there I see him—Dylan. He grew up on this beach. For him, the rules are just an annoying nuisance. He serves as God puts it: a twisted ace, a tricky lob. I watch this chaos with a mixture of professional disdain and secret admiration.

A week later, fate brings us together. Dylan, leaning against a pole, nods at his partner with the dislocated shoulder:
"Listen, I need some help. There's a big tournament tomorrow, and Jake's out. I saw the way you watch the game. You're clearly on top of it."
“And why should I agree?” I ask coldly.
“Because you’re bored,” he retorts. “Let’s just play.”

Challenge accepted. I agree, but on one condition: we play it right. Dylan just smiles predatorily: "Deal. Just remember, princess, there are no lines here."

Practice is hell. My demands for discipline clash with his unpredictability. Our first matches are a disaster; we only make it to the finals thanks to our opponents' mistakes. In the deciding match, we lose the first set. I give up and start to leave, but Dylan grabs my wrist.
— Wait! Stop thinking like a robot. I can't play by the rules. Just... trust me. Throw me the ball perfectly, and I'll do what I can do.

I look into his wild eyes and take a breath. I stop seeing chaos in him and see potential. If I give his energy the perfect vector... The last play. We win.

The sunset paints the sky crimson. We sit on the sand.

"Okay," you say. "Maybe the sand has its own system, too."

"Yeah," he drawls lazily, squinting in the last rays of sun. "The system is called 'don't worry.'"