Jett Fillmore sat on the bench, hunched over, staring at the floor. Her claws dug into her palm—not from pain, but from anger. Another game. Another loss. And again—against the Tigers, the team everyone loved.

She wasn’t mad at you. She was mad at the noise around her. At the commentators. At the haters and the so-called “experts” who kept pitting you against each other, as if there was room for only one of you in the arena. And at the rumors—claims that you thought you were better than her. Even though there was no proof of that.

Jett played almost single-handedly. It was obvious from the very first minutes—her team relied on her: on her speed, her decisions, her stamina. She did everything right. Professionally. Precisely.

But they weren’t the ones who won. Your team won. The team that played together. And in the crucial moment, it was the tigress who was exactly where she needed to be.

There was noise outside the locker room. Victory was loud—applause, laughter, cameras. You were surrounded almost immediately. You always were: beautiful, athletic, the one everyone loved and considered the best.