"Loosen up—we won today because of you!" I gave Miriam a forced smile, arms still clasped tightly. We were on a yacht to celebrate the basketball victory that got us to the finals, but how could I relax? If my father—our coach—could see us now, drinking and having fun instead of training our asses off, he'd have a heart attack.
My father was always a firm man with sky-high expectations for me. You'd think he'd pick one of my brothers to be his basketball star, but only I inherited the height and social charm to be team captain… even if I didn't feel like it tonight, after caving to the team's demands and joining the party.
I wasn't the sort of girl easily led astray by others' whims, but they *did* deserve it tonight. I'd made so many mistakes that nearly cost us the game. My only redemption was a last-minute three-point shot I hit on luck—enough to make everyone proud… except Dad.
I was starting to get too much attention from boys at the party—some eyeing me like they wanted to chat me up—so I raised my arms to tie my long blonde hair into a ponytail, hoping to look less approachable. I veered toward an empty corner of the yacht to steal a moment of peace.
I was wearing a long yellow hoodie with our basketball logo: *"The Rimcatchers"* (Miriam's pun on "dreamcatchers" and "basket"). She'd called it clever, and the team agreed. Too unserious for my taste, but I respected their wishes. Winning mattered. Aesthetics came second.
The fresh breeze made me sigh, unclenching my shoulders after hours of dribbling, sweat stinging my eyes, sneakers squeaking against the court. Even the cold whispers of evening felt welcome now. My mind began to mirror the calm of the fading afternoon as I stared up at purple-orange skies, tracing shadows of birds gliding lazily through hazy clouds.
Miriam and Jasmine shattered the calm.
"Captain… we've got bad news," Jasmine began. "Miriam just talked to Coach. He heard the music and yelled that he wants to speak to you."
"I pretended I couldn't hear him and shut my phone off," Miriam added.
"You did *what*?!" I nearly shouted, panic rising. My father wasn't just strict—he was relentless. If he sensed defiance, who knew what he'd do?
"Shit, shit, shit! He knows we're skipping training! I need to go *now*!" My eyes darted to the emergency lifeboat, but Jasmine cut in:
"Melissa… I get you're scared, but don't leap into a damn lifeboat and drown just to avoid his tantrum! He'll get over it."
I froze, unsure. "Just… give me space. Don't worry—I won't try anything," I lied, stepping away. I needed to think alone. I hated disappointing him, but his demands were suffocating. It wasn't always my fault. He'd have blamed me if I'd been born an inch shorter or a pound heavier. Thank God I could eat endlessly without gaining weight—if I hadn't, he'd have stationed a watchdog to track every calorie.
I crept down the stairs, lingering near the lifeboat—if only to feel less trapped, to pretend escape was an option. *What's Father going to do?* I bet he's cursing the day I was born, hating himself for how much he loves me. The thought almost made me smile.
*He loves me, at least.* But would he if I lost the finals? He'd poured years into this moment. Costing him victory over a stupid party might break him entirely. *What have I done…* I stared at the crashing waves, leaning over the rail, wishing I could vanish—just for a while.
My chest already felt breathless; I couldn't drown more than this. Lost in thought, my weight shifted. I tipped forward, balance gone, my leg hooking the rail as the rest of me lurched toward the abyss. I wanted to scream, but silence choked me as I stared down.
"Looks like you're in quite the predicament."
A man's voice cut through the air. I strained to see who stood near my dangling leg, twisting awkwardly, pain searing through my thigh. "Please—pull me up! My leg's slipping!" My hands clawed at the yacht's cold metal, face pressed against its curve.
"Is that so?" he replied, unnervingly calm. "Your leg seems strong. You could hang there a while longer."
*What an asshole.* I'd never expected cruelty. Was this really the time for games? "Just help me! If I fall, I'll die!"
"Oh, don't be dramatic, *belladonna*. You'd just get wet—maybe catch a cold." His hand closed around my ankle. Instinct screamed to kick his smug face, but I froze. He was my only lifeline. *What if he touches my ass? Do I scream? Let go and risk the sea?* Vulnerability coiled in my gut.
My savior—or tormentor—had a mocking tone and a grip like iron. *What if he does something nasty to me then tosses me into the depths, burying his dirty secrets with me?* I braced for the worst, yet something in his steady voice, his unyielding hold, made me cling to reckless trust. Better than clinging to nothing.