DEATH IS LIFE | SCREAM

18 Under Pressure

TATUM STOOD AT THE BASELINE OF THE COURT, gripping her racket so tightly her knuckles turned white. The afternoon sun bore down on her, casting long shadows as she waited for the next ball. Her muscles felt tight, her mind on edge. The steady thwack of the ball machine sounded like a countdown in her head, each one pushing her to hit harder, faster. When the ball came, she swung with all her might. Too hard.

"Out!" Coach Daniels shouted again, blowing his whistle.

Tatum groaned, running a hand through her sweat-slicked hair. She'd been at it for almost an hour, and her shots weren't getting better—they were getting worse. Every ball was either too far or not far enough. She wasn't hitting with her usual precision.

"Take a breath, Tatum," Coach Daniels said, walking over. "You're playing sloppy."

"I know!" she snapped, her frustration clear. She felt like she was slipping back instead of moving forward. "I just need to—"

"You need to slow down." Daniels cut her off, his tone firm but not unkind. "You're pushing too hard. I know you want to get back to where you were before the injury, but you're rushing it. You can't force your body to do what it's not ready for."

"I don't need to slow down," Tatum muttered, gripping her racket tighter. She was sick of hearing that. Everyone kept telling her to take it easy, like she was fragile. It was driving her insane. She wasn't weak. She didn't need to hold back.

"Tatum." Daniels sighed, taking a step closer. "I've seen this before. Athletes coming back from injury and trying to push through too fast. It always leads to setbacks or worse injuries. You're going to make mistakes if you don't ease into it."

Tatum glared at him, eyes flashing with anger. "I don't have time to ease into it. I need to get back on top now."

Daniels shook his head. "You're not listening. Your footwork is off, your timing is rushed, and your shots are all over the place. This isn't about strength. It's about control."

Control. That word stung more than any critique about her form. Control was something she prided herself on. Not just on the court but in every aspect of her life. She had worked hard to be disciplined, to keep everything in check, and now it felt like it was slipping through her fingers. She wanted to scream. Instead, she clenched her teeth and nodded.

"Fine," she muttered, though she had no intention of slowing down.

Later that day, Tatum stormed into the fencing gym, her frustration from tennis still simmering beneath the surface. She didn't bother to stretch or warm up properly, just grabbed her epee and marched onto the mat. Her opponent, a junior fencer who was good but not great, stood across from her, looking a bit nervous at Tatum's intensity.

"Ready?" Coach Delgado called out, standing to the side. Tatum barely acknowledged him, just threw on her mask and raised her blade.

The match began, and Tatum went in hard. Her lunges were aggressive, her parries rough, but her strikes lacked precision. She was fighting with brute force, relying on her raw athleticism instead of the technique she was known for. The first couple of points were messy. She scored, but each touch felt unclean, like she was just flailing rather than fencing.

"Stop!" Coach Delgado barked after another wild lunge sent her opponent scrambling back.

Tatum yanked off her mask, breathing heavily, her heart pounding in her chest. "What now?" she snapped, her patience hanging by a thread.

"What are you doing out there?" Delgado asked, walking toward her. "That's not fencing. You're swinging that blade like it's a baseball bat."

"I'm just trying to get back to it," Tatum said, defensive.