45. Ella
Forty Five
Ella
January
Australia was a blur of heat, noise, and adrenaline.
The sun felt sharper, the air hummed with energy, and the stadiums were bigger than anything I’d ever stepped into. Crowds thundered, cameras flashed, and every opponent came at me with the kind of hunger threatening to unravel me.
But I held on.
Every match was a test of endurance, focus, and willpower. My anxiety clawed at me, whispering that I’d choke, that I’d fail, that I’d prove every rumor and whisper back home right. But my racket answered louder.
Point after point, game after game, I clawed my way forward. I learned to read my opponent’s shoulders, anticipate her serves, and angle my footwork so I could chase down seemingly impossible shots without losing my balance.
Each rally was a battle of reflexes and patience.
Until suddenly, it wasn’t just another match. It was the match.
The motherfucking final.
The stadium was electric with anticipation, packed with thousands of spectators. My opponent was fierce and relentless with sharp, determined eyes. The kind of player who wanted to grind me into dust.
The first serve cracked like a gunshot. The rallies stretched on long enough to leave my lungs burning and my eyes stinging with sweat. I pivoted on my toes, lunged, and slid for low returns.
Flicking my wrist, I added spin and drove my forehand with all my weight behind it. The ball whizzed back and forth across the net, backhands and forehands exchanging blows like in a duel.
I gritted my teeth, forced my body through the ache, and answered. Forehand down the line. Backhand cross court. A slice to draw her in, then a drive to send her scrambling.
I visualized her movements, baited her into stepping too wide, and punished her for even the slightest misstep. Tennis became chess at full speed; every shot was a calculated risk.
The first set went 7–5, mine.
In the second set, she clawed back. 6–4, hers.
Fuck . It all came down to the third.
My legs screamed, and my chest heaved, as old fears spun through my mind: What if I choke? What if I fail? What if this is where it all collapses?
But then I thought of Hunter, of his faith in me, unyielding . The way he tracked me like I was the only thing that existed. The way he whispered, You’ll win , like it was a fact.
Finally, I believed him.
Game after game, I pushed myself. Every serve was like a bolt of lightning, and every return was sharp and precise. I read the spin on her serves, faked my direction, and hit deep shots which forced her to stretch across the court. Then, I angled my winners into the corners.
5–4. My serve. Match point .
I bounced the ball three times, my heart hammering, tossed it and swung.
The racket cracked, and the ball screamed down the line, kissing the corner, just out of her reach.
Winner!
Game, set, match.
“Come on!” I screamed, dropping to my knees.
My racket clattered to the court as tears spilled hot and fast. The cheer of the crowd melded into a single hum, my name reverberating back in waves. Cameras flashed, hands clapped, voices screamed, and all I could do was laugh through the tears.
I’d done it.
A fucking grand slam.
I wasn’t just a player; I was a motherfucking champion.
I fought to create the life I wanted and fought for those who believed in me — and I won.