CHAPTER 3
ALEXANDRA
By the time I crawled through Manila traffic and humidity thick enough to chew, I was questioning all my life choices, including coming back at all.
My manager and my Coach had flown in ahead of me, of course. Probably sipping hotel coffee and plotting how to torture me in the clinic tomorrow.
The elevator dinged open, spitting me into a carpeted hallway that smelled faintly of lemon polish and money. I checked the room number my manager had texted and hauled my duffel down the corridor. Before I could even knock, the door yanked open.
“Finally,” Bobby said, leaning on the frame like he’d been waiting all year. “Took you long enough.”
Bobby had been my manager for as long as I’d been playing, though he often acted more like an older brother. He had a way of sweet-talking sponsors in one breath and barking me back in line the next. I trusted him with almost everything, even when he drove me mad.
Inside, Coach Kit looked up from the couch.
A former pro turned coach, he was sharp-eyed, steady, and carried the kind of silence that made you sit straighter without realizing it.
His plain polo and reading glasses didn’t hide the fact that he could still dismantle your game just by watching for five minutes.
He’d built a reputation for pulling players out of ruts and making them dangerous again, and now, apparently, it was my turn.
He gave me a small nod, then patted the seat beside him.
“You look tired,” he said, not unkindly. “But you’re here. That’s good.”
“You’re being soft today,” I teased lightly.
“Don’t get used to it,” he replied, though there was a ghost of a smile on his face. “You’re still rehabbing your shoulder, not retiring on a beach.”
Bobby plopped down on the other couch, tossing me a wrapped granola bar. “Fuel up. We’re heading into meeting mode soon. Got a bunch of things to run through; your last therapy schedule, some endorsement check-ins, and the potential plan for the next few weeks.”
“Can’t wait,” I said dryly, but peeled the wrapper anyway.
Coach Kit leaned back and studied me for a moment. “One step at a time, Alex. You don’t have to solve everything tonight. And remember, after an injury break, you’re still inside the top 100. Rank 42, if I’m not mistaken. It means the foundation’s still there. We just have to build on it.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “Just feels like I have a lot to catch up on.”
Bobby clapped his hands. “Well, lucky for you, we make a great catch-up team. You’re not alone in this.”
I nodded. It was easy to forget, sometimes, in the quiet stretches of pain and doubt, that I didn’t have to carry everything myself. I need to remind myself that I have an amazing team with me, though some of them I had to put on vacation mode for now.
Bobby leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, so here’s the gist of it, no pressure, just clarity. Tonight’s your last scheduled rehab session at the clinic. After that, we’ll give you a proper reassessment tomorrow.”
Coach Kit chimed in, “Depending on how things look, we’ll decide if you’re cleared to pick up the racquet again or if we need more time. And when you’re ready, we’ll slowly get you back on court. Controlled drills. Light footwork. We won’t rush this.”
I let it all sink in, the pacing, the caution. It wasn’t flashy. But it was a plan.
“And after tomorrow?” I asked.
“If recovery stays on track,” Coach Kit said, “we’ll aim for a return by the US Open. That’s our soft target, not set in stone. No one’s expecting you to light up a Slam right after injury. You focus on healing, the rest will follow.”
I frowned. “Wait, hold on. Are you saying I’m going straight into the US Open? No warm-up tournament? No tune-up before a Slam?”
Coach Kit chuckled. “Relax, Lex. We’re not dropping you in cold. If your shoulder looks good, we’ll test it in Cincinnati Open. If it holds, great. If not, we pull back.”
I leaned back on the couch, feigning disbelief. “So you two are planning my comeback tour without even asking if I remember how to hold a racquet?”
Coach Kit raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
I smirked. “Only if it comes with an ice pack.”
Coach Kit chuckled and shook his head. “Smart mouth’s working just fine. That’s a good sign.”
Bobby grinned, tapping something into his tablet.
“We’ll finalize everything after tomorrow’s reassessment.
For now, tonight’s rehab is the last big one, then check-ups in the afternoon.
If all looks good, we map out the next step.
And maybe, if you behave, I’ll sneak you a smoothie that doesn’t taste like punishment. ”
I snorted. “You spoil me.”
“One step at a time, Lex. You don’t have to race the clock. Just meet the moment when it comes.” Coach Kit pushed to his feet, stretching his back with a quiet groan.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the weight of their words settle. The rest of my team would be here tomorrow, grinding with me, helping pick up the pieces.
·····
The last rehab session had gone better than expected. Strength was creeping back into my arm, steadier with every controlled rep, and my shoulder wasn’t barking at me anymore when I reached or stretched.
The good news? Tonight’s session was enough for Bobby and Coach Kit to clear me for reassessment in London. My specialist there would have the final word, but at least I was moving forward.
And London meant one more thing. Wimbledon.
I’d been following every match from the sidelines, the draw unfolding round by round, and now it had come down to the dream final.
Simova vs. Smythe. World No. 1 vs. World No. 2.
It was the kind of matchup you dream of. A clash of titans, both in peak form and both with everything to prove. I’d watched Olivia Smythe for years; her game was surgical, all precision and discipline, like she mapped out every point ten moves ahead.
Now, she was chasing her first Wimbledon title. If she pulled it off, it would be historic, not just a personal milestone, but a win for her country.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Coach Kit had said in the car, raising a brow at me.
“I’m supporting women’s tennis,” I’d answered innocently.
Now, as we drove past the gates of the All England Club, I could already feel the hum of Championship energy in the air; the trimmed grass, the flags, the quiet electricity of history being made.
I adjusted my sunglasses and took a breath. I wasn’t playing yet, but being here, it still lit something in me.
The morning had been a blur of arrivals, greetings, and wandering through the grounds; now, after hours of waiting, the buzz of Centre Court pulled me in.
I found myself here, front row, a paper cup of strawberries and cream in one hand, waiting for the women’s final to begin.
I had on my sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, mostly for the sun, which was brutal this afternoon, but also for a bit of cover. People recognized me whether I liked it or not. I shared the same bone structure, same unmistakable profile as my brother.
I glanced across the court to Olivia Smythe’s player box, packed and beaming with quiet pride.
Her father sat upright, dressed in a crisp navy suit, beside her grandmother, who clutched a small Union Jack on her lap and had that unshakeable look of old school elegance.
Her team, all of them were there, a tight-knit unit buzzing with nerves and hope.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the players for the Wimbledon women’s singles final.”
I straightened in my seat, heart ticking a little faster as the gates swung open.
First came Carolina Simova, tall and composed, her signature fierce expression already locked in place. Her walk was purposeful, all muscle and discipline. The Czech fans scattered throughout the stadium cheered, flags waving as she gave a brief wave to the stands.
And then, Olivia.
The roar that followed was something else entirely. A home crowd in full force. The kind that shakes through your bones and makes your skin prickle.
She stepped out with a quiet confidence, her white kit perfectly tailored, ponytail braided, swinging with each stride.
As the match officially kicked off, the first few games were tight.
Olivia served first and held with ease, placing her shots like she was threading a needle.
Simova returned fire with a booming serve of her own and quickly leveled.
They traded games like boxers exchanging jabs, testing each other’s rhythm and finding cracks.
By the time the score tightened, Centre Court was buzzing.
Every point had to be earned; nothing came easy.
Olivia’s movement was mesmerizing; she seemed to glide across the grass without ever breaking stride.
Her anticipation was spot on. At one point, she read Simova’s drop shot before it even left her racket and raced forward to flick the ball just over the net for a winner.
The crowd gasped, then erupted into applause.
Still, Simova wasn’t backing down. She won the first set. Olivia didn’t flinch. She sat down calmly, as if the score didn’t matter. She took a sip from her bottle, adjusted her visor, and leaned forward, ready to start again.
This was the part that separated contenders from champions.
The second set was much closer. Olivia fought back hard, playing more aggressively, stepping into her shots, and charging into the net whenever she could. It paid off. She broke Simova’s serve early and then held her own with some of the sharpest serving I’d ever seen from her.
When Olivia closed out the second set, the crowd erupted. She gave only a small fist pump, but you could see the fire in her eyes.
Then came the third and final set, a real thriller.
Every point felt like a battle. Olivia stayed fearless, mixing sharp tactics with relentless movement, pushing Simova to the edge.
Eventually, the pressure cracked Simova; she double-faulted on a break point, giving Olivia the chance to serve for the championship.
Centre Court was electric. Every rally felt like it stretched time itself, the tension so thick you could almost touch it.
The scoreboard glowed:
C. SIMOVA63430
O. SMYTHE46540
This is it, just one point separating Olivia and her another Grand Slam Title.
She to serve down along the T and Simova sent the ball long.
Game, set, match: Smythe.
The stadium erupted in cheers. I didn’t even realize I’d stood up until I felt the breeze hit my face.
I clapped slowly, watching as Olivia dropped her racket and sank to her knees, overcome with emotion.
Her team jumped and shouted from her box.
Her dad wiped away tears. Her gran stood tall, clapping proudly.
For a moment, I just watched her, admiring her, respecting her, feeling something real twist in my chest. Then I sat back down, tugged the brim of my hat lower, and let out a quiet breath.
“Well damn, Smythe,” I whispered. “You did it.”
·····
I slipped out of the front row with the precision of a trained assassin.
I weaved through the rows and ducked behind one of the security barriers near the tunnel, taking a quiet side exit out of the stadium. I wasn’t trying to cause a scene or end up on an LED TV.
The last thing I needed was someone sticking a camera in my face just because I happened to look like the guy playing tomorrow’s final.
By the time I got to Archer’s team lounge, I could already hear familiar voices and the unmistakable sound of someone opening a snack bar with reckless enthusiasm.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Ninja herself,” Bobby called the moment I stepped in, all smugness and grin.
I arched a brow and dropped into the nearest chair. “You know I'm good at it.”
He turned to the rest of the team and said with mock seriousness, “Please, someone get her a medal. For stealth. And drama.”
“What are you even talking about?” I reached for a water bottle, confused.
Bobby grabbed his phone and wiggled it in the air. “You mean to tell me you don’t know you were seen on TV?”
I froze mid-sip. “I—what?”
“Oh yes,” he said, delight practically radiating off of him. He tapped the screen and held it out to me. “Feast your eyes.”
On his phone was a clip of me, clean and devastatingly undeniable. I was on screen, mid-match, yelling with wild enthusiasm, pumping my fist as I’d just won the point myself.
I was fully into it. 100% hyped for Smythe.
A groan escaped me as I covered my face with my hands. “Oh my god.”
Apparently, all it took was an eight-second clip of me fist-pumping and yelling when Olivia hit a winner. One tiny burst of emotion, and now the internet had decided I was officially a fan.
Great. I peeked through my fingers. “This never happened.”
Bobby snorted. “It did, honey.”
I muttered something about hiding in a supply closet until this all blew over, but hey, if there was someone worth accidentally fangirling over on live TV? Yeah. Olivia Smythe was a pretty solid pick.
Archie came into the lounge and burst out laughing the moment he saw me.
He shook his head, still grinning. “Nice to see you so... emotionally invested. Fist pumps? Yelling at a winner? Did someone forget she wasn’t coaching today?”
“Shut up.”
“So,” Bobby went on, “for damage control, quote unquote, because this isn’t even a scandal, it’s just a little.
.. narrative to balance. You might want to go equally feral for your brother tomorrow during the men’s final.
Just, you know, to show that you’re just like that when you’re hyped.
Fair and equal twin support and all that jazz. ”
Archie smirked. “Yeah, wouldn’t want the headlines saying you’ve switched favorites.”
I glared at both of them. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Me? Never,” Bobby said innocently. “I’m just doing my job, which apparently today includes managing your enthusiasm levels.”
I sighed dramatically and flopped back on the couch. “Fine. Tomorrow I’ll cheer so loud the entire Royal Box will hear it.”
“Good,” Archie said with mock pride. “That’s the energy I need.”
Bobby pointed at me. “And wear something with a Wilson-Cadiz logo, please. We don’t need you trending as Olivia Smythe’s secret fangirl again.”
I groaned. “I hate you both.”