They don't play to win. They play to hurt.
Sterling Academy's irresistible reputation all came crashing down last year when a list of the 'top thirty girls too...' had been anonymously published.
Now recovering from the pits of hell the media dragge...
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PART 3: INTERACT.
"I'M ABSOLUTELY OVERJOYED that we have even numbers for today's round of tennis matches," Mrs DuVall grins, fixing the white visor that's keeping the scorching sun away from her oddly wrinkle—free face.
Mrs DuVall is a short and petite woman with hair so blonde it deserves a warning with how much sun it reflects off.
"It's so devastating that Charles was unable to join though," Mrs McAllister frowns from beside me as she mentions the eldest and only DuVall boy. Charles is fraternal twins with Chloe — Cassie's older sister and the only reason I'm here today.
Well, her boyfriend is the only reason I'm here. Chloe just happens to be the reason why he's here as well. It's a domino effect.
"Oh I know," the older blonde woman huffs out, placing her hand right above her white tennis skirt. "Charles is quite taken nowadays with his travels. He's found a love in Charleston."
"Ah, has he now? I hope she's a respectable young lady."
"Oh you know our little Chuck, he's our only one who seems to fall for the well—bred."
Oh, and that's my cue to leave. I go to turn around but Mrs McAllister grips my arm, not too tight bu with enough pressure that I know to stay.
"And what do you mean by that, Camilla?" There's a tenseness in her tone that warns the other woman to not give an equally as fucked up answer as to what she's just said.
"Oh you know what I mean, Monet. I'm hardly a racist, I love Damien but it's just that he doesn't come from a respectable family is all."
It takes more than I thought to bite my tongue. 'You stupid woman, he comes from the family you're talking to now!' I have the urge to yell but don't because Mrs McAllister doesn't know that.
"He's a good boy, Camilla."
"I never said he was bad, he's just not up to par with the other boys that my daughter could be with. I mean just look at him," the older woman reaches her arm out into the direction of the boy.
All three of us turn to look now, Damien's standing by both fathers — Mayor McAllister and Vice Mayor DuVall. The latter is having a puff from a cigar that's so giant it's only a quarter of an inch fatter than his beefy fingers.
The younger boy's shifting ever so uncomfortably in his black polo shirt that's distinctively different from the rest of the men and even Atlas who have somehow synced with wearing all white.
Damien is taller than his biological dad and the blond man, he's also fitter than two. His chiselled body is barely concealed and really only exposed further by the tight—fitted top. Damien also scarily resembles Atlas, but I get how you could miss the resemblance if you weren't specifically looking out for it. It's like completing a puzzle that has multiple ways you can finish it, so everyone gets a slightly obscure end but it's still the same at the end of the day.
