CHAPTER 2
OLIVIA
“Again,” Coach Dani called out, her voice cutting through the summer heat like a whistle.
I exhaled, adjusted my grip, and tossed the ball. The serve came off clean and fast. Coach didn’t even nod. That meant it was good, but not perfect.
“Olivia, you’re world number two, not some junior on court four. You want to win this grand slam? That second bounce needs to be on the line. Let’s go.”
She was right. I wanted Wimbledon more than anything, and being number two in the world just meant the pressure was heavier now. Every practice had to matter.
I grabbed another ball, wiped the sweat from my brow, and served again, this time sharper, with more bite.
“Better,” Coach Dani said, finally nodding. “But remember, this isn’t clay. Don’t overspin it.”
We drilled for another hour. Backhands on the run, transition volleys, a brutal set of crosscourt rallies that left my lungs burning. Even with two rounds of Wimbledon already behind me, there was no easing up.
Two Grand Slam titles, and somehow it still felt like I had to prove myself.
Maybe that’s what happens when you turn pro at seventeen, when you tear through juniors with every title you can carry and the world starts calling you the next big thing before you’ve even finished growing up.
Expectations become oxygen. Every win just resets the bar higher.
Coach Daniella knew that better than anyone. She was once world number one herself, a cold-blooded killer on court. She took me on and now, years later, we’ve built something stronger than headlines or rankings.
“You’re peaking at the right time,” She said, walking over.
I collapsed onto a bench, water bottle pressed against my cheek.
“But don’t get sloppy. The top seed’s got a point to prove, and you’re not a surprise anymore, Olivia. You’re the threat.”
I gave her a tired smile, peeled off my wristband, and grabbed my towel, ready to head back to the locker room.
I spotted the small crowd waiting just beyond the fence, camera crews, reporters, and a few local kids holding up Sharpies and tennis balls with hopeful eyes.
Dani caught my hesitation and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll stay and pack up the gear. Go play sweetheart of the tour for ten minutes.”
I laughed under my breath. “Ten minutes? You’re generous today.”
She rolled her eyes but gave me a half-smile. “Media love you, Liv. Use it.”
I slung my towel over my shoulder and made my way over. A ripple of excitement moved through the kids when I was close to the fence. Phones came up, tennis balls and visors were pushed forward.
“Can you sign this, Olivia?”
“Selfie, please?”
I smiled, taking my time with each one, scrawling signatures, leaning in for quick photos, crouching down to chat with the youngest ones.
A shy girl in the back hesitated, clutching a cap to her chest until I waved her over.
She handed it to me with trembling hands, and I signed carefully before giving her a wink.
Turning back toward the court, I saw Coach Dani and my team getting my stuff out. She looked up just as I returned, her expression unreadable, as always.
“Good?” she asked.
I nodded. “Good.”
She handed me a fresh towel and motioned toward the locker room. “Ice that shoulder. And maybe don’t charm the press so much; they’ll start thinking you’re not human.” She said with a grin.
“Too late. Half of them already have me penciled in to win this thing.” I laughed, tucking the towel over my shoulder as I walked into the locker room.
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“Did you hear Alexandra might be out until the US Open?”
I was two seconds away from collapsing on the bed when Maddie, my manager, burst into my hotel room like she was delivering breaking news to the BBC.
“Which Alex?” I asked, towel still draped around my neck. “You do realize there are at least six of them on tour, right? Half of them I’ve never even met.”
“Cadiz,” Maddie said, sinking into the armchair with her phone.
Oh, Alexandra Wilson-Cadiz. You can’t play tennis without knowing that name.
The Wilson-Cadiz family isn’t just famous; they’re basically sporting royalty.
Their legacy stretches across disciplines, their trophies could fill a small museum, and their surname alone could make a press room collectively hold its breath.
We’re the same age, twenty-three and already seasoned by the circuit.
She and her twin brother, Archer, are both out here on tour.
Archer’s already tipped as one of the best of his generation in the men’s, while Alex…
well, she’s the one the media can never quite pin down.
Too composed to give them what they want.
She’s fierce, but not in the headline-making way.
She plays like she’s got a secret she’ll never tell.
They’re the children of Amelia Wilson—yes, that Amelia Wilson.
My idol long before I ever dreamed of stepping on a professional court.
Dad and I used to stay up past midnight in Berkshire just to watch her matches live.
When I was five, I remember turning to him and whispering, I want to be like her.
From that night on, he started searching local clubs, junior programs, scholarships, and anything to get me on a court.
Then, somehow, Wilson opened an academy in Brisbane for kids who couldn’t otherwise afford elite training, and I was one of the lucky few from the UK to get in. She didn’t just give me tennis, she gave me the chance to dream.
So when I hear “Wilson-Cadiz,” I think of Amelia; the door she opened brought me here. Their whole family, in a way, is stitched into the fabric of my career.
Maddie’s voice tugged me back. “It’s rough for Alex. People already compare her to Archer nonstop. An injury on top of that? Must be brutal.”
I stayed quiet for a moment, picturing Alexandra the few times I’d seen her at events, hoodie up, headphones on, eyes sharp but far away. Always alone. Always carrying the weight of that last name.
Maddie softened. “That’s why you need to be careful. Shoulders are fragile. One bad strain, and it’s months gone. No matches, no points, no nothing.”
I exhaled, the dull ache in my whole body reminding me she wasn’t wrong.
“Liv,” Maddie said, pointing at me like a coach driving home match point. “Golden girl doesn’t burn herself out. Golden girl rests, ices, and gets ready for tomorrow.”
I gave her a crooked smile. “You make it sound like I’m running myself into the ground.”
“You are,” she shot back without hesitation. “People are already whispering your name like you’re the favorite for this Slam. Do you know how rare that is? You don’t need to chase it any harder; you just need to protect it.”
That landed heavier than I expected. I sank back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. “Feels like someone else will catch up if I stop for even a second.”
“They won’t,” Maddie said firmly. “Not if you’re smart. Let them chase you for once.”
I huffed a laugh, though it caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. Easy for her to say, she wasn’t the one out there with every headline already sharpening its teeth, waiting for me to stumble.