The Fault Line
The Duplan Residence, Cantonments — Saturday 7:45 a.m.
The living room of the Duplan house glowed with quiet wealth, white marble floors, a sweeping chandelier, and the faint scent of the Duplan’s flower fragrance that clung to the air.
Ama stood by the window, her tennis bag slung over one shoulder, dressed in a pleated white skirt and a sleeveless top that showed the tone of discipline and fitness in her arms. She looked young and vibrant, but her eyes carried the familiar focus of responsibility.
At the grand piano, Yvonne Duplan flipped through a stack of business folders.
Ama: “Mama, promise me you’ll handle the Foundation’s affairs while I focus on the tournament. Just for a week. That’s why I called daddy to convince you.”
Yvonne (without looking up): “Handle? Or babysit?”
Ama: “Mama, please. I need to focus on this tournament. It’s important.”
Yvonne finally looked up, her expression softening, but only slightly.
Yvonne: “Everything with a Duplan name is important, Ama. Including you. Don’t let anyone forget which of us built it.”
Ama smiled faintly, though her jaw tightened. She knew what her mother meant: play well, win beautifully, but never outshine the family name.
As Ama turned to leave, Yvonne added,
Yvonne: “And Ama… don’t get distracted. You have a week to practice hard. The world’s watching.”
Ama didn’t answer. But her mother’s voice followed her out.
⸻
La Palm Royal Beach Tennis Courts — Midmorning
The salt breeze from the ocean brushed against Ama’s face as she entered the courts. The rhythmic thwack of balls against rackets filled the air. She was ready to lose herself in the rhythm, until she froze.
On the far court, Kwesi Biney stood shirtless, sun catching the sheen of sweat on his back as he guided a player’s swing. His voice, low, calm, sure, carried across the court.
The player turned.
Aida Tetteh.
Ama’s old rival. Gorgeous, predatory, and once the reason headlines screamed Duplan Defeated.
Aida’s laughter rang out as Kwesi stepped behind her, adjusting her grip. His fingers brushed her wrist, deliberate and sensual.
Ama’s chest tightened at the sight of two annoying adversaries. She told herself it didn’t matter. She was here to train, not to watch. But her eyes betrayed her, following every movement between them.
Kwesi: “Loosen your wrist, Aida. You’re fighting the ball instead of flirting with it.”
Aida (smirking): “Flirting works better when you’re watching.”
She served, he ball cracked through the air, landing cleanly on the line. Kwesi applauded.
Ama dropped her bag, her pulse sharp.
⸻
She claimed the next court without a word, tossed a ball, and served.
Hard.
The sound cut through the air like a gunshot.
Every serve after that was stronger, faster as if each swing was aimed not at the ball, but at the laughter drifting from the next court.
Coach (nearby): “Ama, easy! You’re overhitting!”
Ama: “No. I’m just remembering how to win.”
Sweat quickly glistened on her temple. Her muscles burned, her heart raced, not from exhaustion, but from something she refused to name.
When she paused for water, her gaze slipped again toward Kwesi and Aida.
Aida was leaning too close now, whispering something that made him laugh, a low, rare laugh that twisted something deep in Ama’s chest.
Then Aida turned and caught Ama’s eyes. She smiled slowly and triumphantly.
Ama didn’t flinch. She raised her racket, tossed a ball, and sent a serve that hissed through the air, bang!, clipping the backline of Aida’s court. The ball skidded to a stop by Kwesi’s feet.
Kwesi picked it up, eyes meeting Ama’s across the netted distance.
For a long, electric second, neither looked away.
Kwesi (quietly, to Aida): “Take five.”
He walked toward Ama’s court, the afternoon sun haloing his shoulders.
Kwesi: “That was dangerous.”
Ama (coolly): “Accurate.”
Kwesi: “You’re pushing too hard.”
Ama: “And how is that your business?”
Their eyes locked, a collision of unfinished history and pride.
Aida watched from the sidelines, her lips curling into a mischievous smile.
After about a 3-hour-long training session and provocations from Kwesi and Aida, Ama packed her bag and turned to leave. The sun was still up and hot, casting everything in golden rays. Behind her, she heard Aida’s voice, soft, teasing.
Aida: “Duplan will be defeated again. I’ll get into her head, Kwesi.”
Kwesi (smiling faintly): “Yeah, they sponsor and we win it.”
Ama paused, just for a heartbeat. Then walked on.
But as she reached the gate, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: “Careful who you compete with in the coming tournament, Ama. Some rivalries don’t end on the court.”
Then a click.
She looked back at the courts. Aida was still laughing with Kwesi.
Ama’s heartbeat quickened.
It wasn’t jealousy or just pure dislike now.
It was instinct.
Something dangerous was unfolding, and she was right in the middle of it.
to be continued….
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LOVE AND TENNIS. Episode 6 | By Kafui Avaworyi | Crowdpen
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