Anthologies {MIKHAIAH AU}

love all pt 1

The phrase "love all" is used at the start of a game to indicate that both players have a score of zero. It sets the stage for the match, emphasizing that neither player has an advantage at that point.

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The sunlight beat down on her smooth caramel skin, highlighting the sharp focus etched into her features. Beads of sweat glistened as they trailed down her forehead, slipping along the curve of her neck. She gripped the tennis racket tightly, her brown eyes locked on the player across the net. Her tired stance should've dulled her beauty—but no. Aiah looked like she had stepped straight off the cover of a Sports Illustrated magazine, her tennis outfit hugging her in all the right places, the sun setting her skin aglow.

Mikha knew she should stop staring. Knew she should focus on the lesson, the drills, anything. But the image of Aiah swinging her racket, her lean muscles flexing in perfect rhythm, was impossible to ignore. She was beautiful. And not just in a "pretty face" kind of way—there was something magnetic about her presence, the way she moved, the way she spoke. Calm. Assured. Effortless.

As the server tossed the ball in the air, Aiah bounced lightly on her heels, poised like a cat ready to pounce. The ball soared toward her, and her racket swung back in a perfect arc, her biceps taut with the motion—

"Hoy! Baka matunaw!" a sharp whisper cut through Mikha's thoughts, followed by an elbow digging into her ribs.

Mikha blinked, startled out of her daydream, and turned to her best friend with a face already burning. "I wasn't staring!" she protested, too loudly. She ran a hand through her long red hair, as if fixing it might somehow restore her dignity.

Colet snorted, unimpressed. "Right. And I'm sure you weren't thinking of proposing, either. Tang ina, Mikhs. Pass sa halata."

Mikha groaned, tugging at the hem of her shirt. "I'm not obvious!"

"Yeah, sure. You're the picture of subtlety. That's why you look like you've been hit by a love spell every time she talks to you," Colet teased, gesturing at Aiah, who was now walking back toward the baseline. "Do you even know what she just said?"

"I do!" Mikha lied, straightening up defensively.

Colet raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? What's the score?"

Mikha opened her mouth—and immediately closed it, lips pressing into a grimace. "Shut up, Col," she muttered instead.

"Uh-huh," Colet said, laughing now. "Ten grand a month for lessons you don't even listen to. At least kunwari try to pay attention. Kahit konti lang!"

Mikha buried her face in her hands. "I hate you."

"No, you love her," Colet quipped, smirking.

Mikha peeked through her fingers at Aiah, who was now leaning against the net, her hair loose from its ponytail and tumbling down her shoulders. Mikha's heart skipped, tripping over itself like an amateur on the court. God, it wasn't fair. Who looked like that? And worse, who acted so casually about it?

She sighed, resting her chin in her palm. It wasn't just Aiah's looks, though they were enough to leave Mikha starry-eyed. It was everything—the way she carried herself, like she knew exactly what she was doing without needing to show off. The way she smiled, disarming and genuine, even when Mikha fumbled a serve for the tenth time in a row. The way her voice, smooth and warm, could make even the driest explanation of tennis rules sound like poetry.

This was getting out of hand. Mikha knew it. She was here to learn tennis—not to moon over her coach like some lovesick idiot. She didn't even know if Aiah swung that way. Hell, Aiah probably thought she was just another beginner who couldn't tell a forehand from a backhand.