Chapter 42
US OPEN
The weather in New York has been a mess all week, so the tournament pushed the women’s final from last night to today. Classic.
I’m in the locker room alone, music pounding through my headphones.
Tim just left after the usual match breakdown and pep talk.
Before that, I met with my inner circle: Henry, Gemma, Drew, and my family.
I was too nervous for small talk, like I wasn’t about to enter a career-defining match. But of course, they noticed.
There’s a screen mounted in the corner showing the live tournament feed. Whatever’s on the jumbotron, I see too. Sponsor reels and crowd shots loop through the pre-match segment as I stretch and bounce on my toes, trying to shake off the anxious energy building in my body.
The Kiss Cam banner slides across the top of the screen. I don’t usually pay attention, but watching strangers make out could distract me from the fact that I’m about to walk out there and face Zoya freaking Kruschenko.
Kiss Cam starts making its rounds. I slide my headphones down to hang around my neck and grab the remote, turning up the volume to catch the reactions. The locker room is so well soundproofed I can barely hear what’s happening outside.
The camera zooms in on two random strangers awkwardly leaning away from each other. The crowd hoots, but the camera pans away when they refuse to kiss. It cuts to an old couple. They kiss. Just a peck. The whole stadium goes, “Awww.”
I chuckle.
Then—
It lands on Robbie and Gemma, their flustered faces dead center on the big screen.
My mouth hangs open with anticipation.
Gemma would never.
Robbie grins and turns to her. Gemma looks like a deer in headlights, stiff and stunned. Until she shrugs and kisses him.
The crowd loses it.
I audibly gasp and slap a hand over my mouth.
Their kiss continues, soft and lingering. And about fucking time.
Drew’s howling and clapping like a maniac behind them. Dad’s gone full catatonic. Henry’s shaking his head like he knew this was coming. And Tim, bless him, doesn’t know where to look.
But Mom’s seat is empty. Again.
Pressure builds in my chest.
No, no, no, no.
The Kiss Cam moves on to claim its next victims as I fumble for the remote and shut the TV off.
I pace, trying to shake off the hollow sting of Mom’s empty seat. It brings back the still-fresh memories of Wimbledon. I don’t think I’ve fully recovered from that day yet, but we were moving forward from it and making real progress.
Today might be harder than she thought it would be. Maybe she can’t stomach watching me play a match that could shatter her personal record of winning the US Open at nineteen.
A record I’d been quietly plotting to break for years. A personal, petty goal. But that was before Wimbledon.
Before she admitted to her jealousy.
Before she admitted that the drinking came from that place.
She’s been so supportive ever since, making up for lost time, going above and beyond to make me feel special. Like I truly matter. Like she loves me.
She wouldn’t leave … not after everything that’s happened. But I’d understand if she needed to. I just wish she’d tell me instead of disappearing without a word.
I’m spiraling.
It stops now.
It’s only been a few weeks since Zoya beat me at the Rogers Cup. The wound’s still fresh, and my ego’s still bruised.
I’ve had to talk it through with everyone in my team to believe I can do this today. Even if a huge part of me still thinks I’m not emotionally equipped to deal with an unfavorable outcome.
I want this too much.
I need this too much.
There’s more at stake than a trophy or a juicy check.
And that’s the problem. That’s the liability.
I don’t know how I’d carry on if I lost.
My hands are shaking. And as I stare at them, willing the tremble to stop, the locker room door creaks open.
Mom steps in. Calm. Elegant.
“Mom,” I breathe out, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders.
She’s here.
I meet her halfway and stun her with an unexpected hug.
She stiffens for a second, probably still registering that I’m the one initiating it.
I haven’t exactly been the warmest when it comes to physical touch.
I’ve been taking my time, waiting until I feel ready to explore the parts of our relationship that still need work.
But right now, I’m so happy and relieved to see her that it feels right.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she coos, squeezing me tighter as I bury my face in the crook of her neck.
The simple term of endearment, as conventional as it might be, feels real.
Earned.
“Don’t cry.”
“I didn’t see you in the box,” I say. “I thought you’d left.”
“Not a chance,” she says, rocking me gently. “Never again.”
She pulls back, just enough to look at me.
“Come sit. We don’t have much time before the match starts.”
We sit on the bench, and she reaches into her bag, pulling out a small black velvet jewelry box.
“I brought you the earrings I wore when I won my first US Open,” she says, placing them in my hand.
I flip open the lid. Two diamond studs catch the harsh locker room light, scattering thin, rainbow-colored rays across the inside of the box.
“They’re beautiful.” I glance at her. “Are you sure?”
“Wear them,” she says with a soft nod. “They’re yours now.”
I swallow and nod. “Thank you.”
She takes the box and gently swaps out my simple gold studs for the diamonds.
A soft knock at the door breaks the moment.
“We need you in five minutes, Miss Freeman,” a floor manager calls through. Crisp and efficient, like it’s just another match.
But it’s not.
Not for me.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” I mutter. “I’m not used to feeling this way. I don’t—”
“Yes, you can,” she says, calm but sure. “And you will.”
She cups my face.
“When I told you I’ve seen all your tapes,” she adds, her voice low, “I left out one little detail.”
I blink. “What?”
“I’ve been watching hers, too.”
I sit up straighter.
“Zoya likes to control the rhythm. Everyone knows that. Most players get so caught up trying to match her pace, and you’re great at it, but they forget the one thing that throws her off.”
I stare at her, waiting.
“She hates the net,” she finally says, giving me a classic Addison smirk. “She avoids it unless she has no choice. Pull her forward. Make her uncomfortable. That’s where you take her down.”
“Okay.” I nod a few times. “I can do that.”
“Don’t let her intimidate you,” she adds. “She’s good at the fearless act, but I promise you … she’s scared out of her mind. She’s got a title to defend. On your turf. And I’ve been doing the math …”
She pulls a deteriorated pocket notebook from her bag, flips it open, and thumbs through the pages.
“The 700-point drop for not defending her title leaves her stuck at No. 2 with 7,900 points,” she says, tapping her scribbles with a perfectly manicured finger. “You, on the other hand, would come out on top with 8,510.”
She looks up at me, flips her notebook shut, and smiles.
“I’d be number one?”
“Correct.” She tosses the notebook back into her bag. “How long you stay there depends on the rest of your season, but you’d get there. Way before I ever did.”
She exhales sharply and waves a hand in front of her face like she’s trying to keep the tears at bay. “Phew. Okay.”
“I’ve always sucked at math,” I say with a snotty chuckle, giving her a puzzled look as I hug her again.
I’ve been recently asking my team not to bring up rankings until I actually get there.
There was a time once when I got so obsessed with the scenarios and stressed out over numbers that I didn’t even calculate correctly.
But today … knowing I could reach the top? It makes me want to fight harder. Win harder.
“I know,” she deadpans. “Miss Annie keeps calling me, worried sick about your future.”
We laugh.
I settle into her arms for a moment, soaking up the strength and reassurance I didn’t know I still needed, wondering how I ever managed to function without her support.
Mom starts humming. It’s a song I know, one I haven’t heard in a while, but it brings back core memories from early childhood.
Ay, ay, ay, ay … canta y no llores.
Porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones.
Mom always struggled with the Spanish lyrics, so she would hum the melody, holding me close whenever I cried. I’d start singing it back, and all my toddler problems would melt away.
Another knock interrupts the moment.
A staff member peeks in through the door.
“Time to head out.”
FIRST SET
The stadium is buzzing with energy. I’m ready to step out, but I’m not alone. Mom stands beside me, proud and composed, like we’re heading into battle.
A tournament official nods, then leads the way. We follow her toward the light, the crowd’s roar building with every step, adrenaline pulsing through my body.
Arthur Ashe erupts when they see us.
“Freeman! Freeman! Freeman!”
Mom waves to the crowd, slow and regal, and they go wilder. Applause, whistles, people rising from their seats.
They love her. She hasn’t been forgotten.
But the Mexican flags waving among the American ones remind me they’re here for me, too. They’re chanting for the legend and the one following in her footsteps.
We reach the edge of the court.
The spotlight finds us both. And right before she steps away toward her box, she leans in. So close her lips brush my ear.
“Win.”
That’s it. That one word is the permission I didn’t know I was still waiting for.
A verbal blessing.
And for the first time all day, I want to be here. I want this. I’m ready. Not for the title. Not for the points.
For me.
Chad Armstrong is our assigned chair umpire for today’s match, not that I didn’t already know that. Talk about a full-circle moment.
“Don’t let him get under your skin,” Henry told me this morning as I drank my smoothie on the balcony. Easy for him to say when Chad Armstrong has a talent for acting like he’s the one people paid to see.
Smiling, I approach Chad, extending my hand.