EPILOGUE
HENRY
THE APPLAUSE HITS before the final point even lands. It crashes in sharp, thunderous waves before I register the ball flying long.
I drop my racket, a personalized neon green Neel Ultex model that hits the stores next month as a limited edition, and just stand there. Chest heaving. Arms at my sides. Staring up at the pale gray London sky.
The Wimbledon crowd rises to its feet.
No fist-pump. No roar. No falling to the grass like I always imagined. I’m frozen. Silent. Stunned. Because two years ago, I wasn’t sure I’d ever set foot on a court again, not as a player. And definitely not at a Grand Slam.
And now, I’ve secured three Grand Slam titles and a string of other ATP trophies since my debut at the Australian Open last year. And yeah, the shoulder held up. Better than anyone expected, including me.
Roland Garros, 2012.
Australian Open this year.
Today, Wimbledon.
After today, my trophy will sit next to Belén’s Venus Rosewater Dish after her win yesterday. It still doesn’t feel real. It’s like being in a dream, terrified to blink and see it all vanish.
A hand claps my back, snapping me out of it. The sound of the crowd floods back in.
“Well done, Mitchell,” Theo says, breathless and grinning. “Nice to see you finally live up to the hype.”
I laugh, still dazed, and lean in for the handshake. “Thanks for the match,” I say, my grip firm and my voice steady.
Still holding my hand, Theo jerks his chin toward my box and winks.
At her.
“You’re shameless,” I mutter, clapping his back.
“And you’re lucky.” He walks off, and I finally let myself look up.
Belén.
My chest cracks open the moment I spot her. She’s on her feet, hands over her mouth, eyes glassy and shining. It’s all pride, joy, and a love so consuming it doesn’t fit inside my body.
It hits me like a freight train.
She did this. She brought me back. Pulled the fight out of me when I thought I had none left.
My knees give out.
The numbness that’s been paralyzing me since the final point shatters with no resistance. Like it was only waiting for her.
My dream girl. My fire. My fucking everything.
But she can’t rush down to me. Not yet. Not at Wimbledon.
So I wait, like I waited yesterday after her win. After the trophy. After the press.
Pressing my hands into the grass, I bow my head in part out of gratitude, part disbelief, and part surrender.
Still kneeling, I lift a finger to the sky, hoping I made him proud. Wishing he were here to see it, the past be damned.
I spring to my feet, fist clenched in front of my face, and let out a deep, guttural roar. The crowd erupts with me, and the cheering becomes a tidal wave that crashes through my body.
Jogging to the chair umpire, now on the ground, I point at Belén and tap my chest a few times, right above my heart.
He grabs my hand, shakes it with a smile, and congratulates me. I nod in return as the court transforms into the stage for the trophy ceremony.
Back at the hotel, I’m still riding the high, but I’m spent after handling media obligations, photos, doping control, and the official press conference. Drew’s already calling meetings about million-dollar campaigns and brands trying to ride the momentum.
I need a second.
I need her.
Belén opens the door before I knock. I texted her on the way up.
She’s glowing. Damp hair. Fresh face. Still wrapped in the echo of everything we just lived.
“Am I in the right room?” I ask, brows raised, resisting the urge to grab her by the waist and lock ourselves inside this room for the rest of the week. “I was told there’d be a private singles afterparty.”
She laughs, bunches my shirt into her fist, and pulls me inside.
“You’re right on time,” she whispers in my ear. “The mixed doubles group just left.”
I snort at her shamelessness, grab her face, and kiss her hard. She jumps. I catch her strong thighs as she wraps her legs around my waist.
“I’m filthy,” I say, breathless, as she bites my lower lip.
“Let’s fix that. We have a dinner to attend.”
She kisses me again as I set her down. Every sound she makes threatens to cancel the Champions’ Dinner altogether.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I ignore it.
Twice.
Three times.
She breaks the kiss, lips pink and swollen, looking dazed.
“Might be important,” she says. “I’ll meet you in the shower.”
I watch her walk away, her tiny pajama shorts coming off, my heart restarting when I see she’s wearing nothing underneath.
Blinking, I pull out my phone.
Rafa Nadal: Solid match. Big year.
Rafa Nadal: Keep going.
Rafa Nadal: See you tonight at the Champions’ Dinner.
How did this become my reality?
I stumble toward the bathroom, tossing my phone on the marble counter, peeling off my sweaty clothes, and leaving a trail behind me.
“Hey,” I say behind her, stepping under the hot water. I brush her hair aside, press a kiss to her neck, and slide my hand down her body.
She gasps. Low and shaky. It turns into a moan when my fingers find that sweet spot between her legs.
I might lose it.
“God … how did I get so fucking lucky?”
“I love you,” she says, leaning back into me, her fingers wrapping around my length.
I love you.
I fucking adore you.
Marry me.
Not tonight. But someday.
I don’t say any of it. I’ll show her.
I’ll worship her until this entire facility runs out of hot water and the All England Club’s driver starts tapping his watch in the hotel’s motor lobby.
“More,” she begs. “Henry …”
“Take what you need,” I rasp, her touch unraveling me. “Greedy, little necia.”
Four days later …
We’re at my mom’s place in Jersey, finishing lunch. It’s a small but charming apartment in a quiet street. She’s been living here since she moved back almost two years ago. Having her closer is a blessing. Makes seeing her easier, even with all the travel.
“Pie?” she says, pulling out her famous cherry cheesecake.
“Do you really have to ask at this point?” Belén says with a laugh, standing to grab plates and a knife. It’s become one of her favorite desserts.
I watch them eat while contemplating a second slice, but I’m too restless. My foot’s tapping. Belén’s about to notice.
So I stand.
I carry my plate to the sink and start doing the dishes, anything to stop the anxiety buzzing in my chest.
“You guys want to go out for a ride?” I ask casually, not bothering to look at their reaction.
“A ride?” Belén replies, suspicious and teasing. I can picture the raised brow.
“Where to?” Mom says, half-excited, half-suspicious.
“Just around the neighborhood,” I shrug, failing to come up with a better answer.
“Okay,” Belén says.
“Leave those,” Mom chides, bringing more dishes over. “I’ll do them later.”
“I’m almost done.”
I rush, and then the three of us head out.
“Okay, so where are we going?” Mom says, buckling in the backseat of my car. “Do you know anything about this?”
“I was about to ask,” Belén says. “But Henry’s not so subtle.”
I laugh. They’re not wrong.
We drive past the Freeman residence.
“Are we going to my parents’?” Belén frowns.
“We aren’t.”
Two blocks later, Belén takes the bait.
“Oh, my gosh!” she gasps. “Stop, stop, stop!”
I park in front of the big red FOR SALE sign stuck to the front yard of my old parents’ house.
Mom sighs and clicks her tongue. “My friends said that house has been passed down more times than the White House.”
Of course she’d make a joke. It’s how she processes.
I get out, pull the dangling plaque off the wooden sign, and turn back. Belén’s wide-eyed as I knock on my mom’s window, asking her to step out. She does. Belén follows quickly, fumbling with her seatbelt like she’s afraid to miss the show.
“What are you doing?” Mom asks, voice shaky.
She knows. She just doesn’t want to believe it.
Hurrying, I dig up the key from my pocket and hand it over to her.
“What’s going on, Henry Mitchell?” Mom’s voice rises a few octaves. Belén gasps in the background.
“This place has always been home,” I say. “And now it’s yours again.”
Mom cries out and covers her mouth, overwhelmed with joy, shock, and something deeper.
I hug her. Pull her in. Let her melt in my arms as she digests the news.
Belén stands nearby, crying, waiting.
“Get over here!” Mom yells, and we all laugh as Belén rushes in.
“You shouldn’t have,” Mom starts, her brain rationalizing the moment. “I don’t know what it cost, but—”
“Dora …” Belén cuts in. “Let him.”
She looks at me.
“He let me help him once,” she reminds her. “Now it’s your turn to let him do this for you. You dreamed this place. You and Mitch built it from scratch. It’s yours.”
My eyes sting around the edges.
No one deserves this more than my mother. It was the second thing I bought once the money started coming in.
The first was an engagement ring for Belén. The biggest, most beautiful one I could afford.
I’ve been holding on to it.
Treasuring it.
Waiting to catch a glimpse in her eyes that lets me know she’s ready, because I already am. And when she is, I’ll be waiting. Ring in hand. No backup plan. No fears or doubts.
Just the two of us.
Not against the world anymore, but building one of our own.