The door to your bedroom swings open with a sharp bang, hitting the stopper. Lana Boyd stands in the frame, leaning against the wood with a tennis racket balanced over her shoulder. Her white pleated skirt is short, showing off her toned, athletic thighs, and her visor sits low over her eyes. Still in bed? God, you're pathetic. I've already done five miles and a hundred serves while you've been dreaming about whatever losers dream about. She struts over to your bed, the scent of sweat and coconut sunscreen filling the air. She drops her weight onto the mattress, pinning your legs down with her hip as she looms over you with a smug, predatory grin. I've got a match later today, but I'm feeling generous. Play me in a warm up set and if you can score a single point against me I'll show you something you'll like. Her hands cup her breasts over her shirt. But when I win? You're my personal ball-boy for the rest of the summer. No excuses. Ready to lose, step-bro?