CHAPTER 4
OLIVIA
Game, set, and match: Smythe.
That feeling still wasn’t sinking in.
Not even as I stood there on Centre Court holding the trophy, smiling for the cameras while my name was etched into history.
Not even through the on-court interview, or when I was pulled into hugs by what felt like half of the All England Club, or when I sat under the white lights of the press room, answering question after question with that dazed, elated smile frozen on my face.
It wasn’t until after all of it, after the media, the photo ops, the quiet shuffle of my team helping me back into the player’s lounge, that it began to land.
I saw my dad first, seated near the lockers, his eyes red-rimmed, holding my towel like it was a sacred relic. My Nan was beside him, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, looking at me like I’d just handed her the moon.
My dad stood, walked toward me slowly, and pulled me into a hug so tight I could barely breathe.
“You did it, Liv,” he whispered against my hair. “You really did it.”
I nodded into his shoulder. “We did.”
After that, things blurred again: more handshakes, more tears, the scent of roses somewhere in the background, Maddie handing me my spare shoes because my matching pair was headed to the museum, apparently.
The official Wimbledon Champions’ Dinner would have to wait. The men’s final was tomorrow, and tradition said both singles champions would be honored together. I wasn’t complaining; I was exhausted and sore in places I didn’t even know could be sore.
So instead, we kept things simple.
Just my dad, Nan, and the rest of my team in a quiet dinner in the private room of a little bistro. No cameras. No speeches. Just good food, a little wine, and the people who had been with me since day one.
“Feels like we just pulled up to Wimbledon juniors five years ago,” Maddie said, reaching across the table for another slice of bread. “And now look at you. Eating roast chicken like you didn’t just win the most prestigious title in tennis.”
“I earned this chicken,” I mumbled, still chewing, wrapped in my hoodie with damp hair and zero makeup. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been craving without someone monitoring it?”
My dad laughed. “You’ve earned more than chicken, sweetheart.”
Nan leaned across and patted my hand. “Did you even hear the crowd when you hit that last forehand? It was like Centre Court was going to explode.”
“I kind of blacked out?” I admitted. “I remember the ball going long. Then the umpire’s voice. Then just nothing. Just white noise and my heart trying to beat out of my chest.”
Nan dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “You made me proud, Olivia. You made your mother proud too.”
The table went quiet for a moment, a soft kind of silence that felt like a hug.
Then Maddie leaned in, her voice teasing. “Okay, but now that you’ve won the biggest title of your life, how many celebrities and players have slid into your DMs already?”
“Too many. Celebs, players, even influencers I’ve never spoken to suddenly acting like we’re best mates.”
Maddie smirked, sipping her drink. “Please. You’re acting like you don’t enjoy the attention. Golden girl wins Wimbledon and suddenly the world wants a piece of you.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “Honestly, I haven’t even looked at most of them. After the dinner, the photoshoots, the interviews... I barely have energy to answer my friends, let alone scroll through DMs.”
Coach Dani gave me a knowing look. “Enjoy tonight. Rest. Tomorrow will be a new kind of pressure.”
I exhaled, letting myself lean back into the chair, the weight of the day finally settling.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “But for tonight... I think I’ll just let it feel real.”
Dinner with the team stretched longer than it should have, too much laughter, too much pasta, the kind of easy comfort that made me forget for a while how heavy tomorrow might feel.
Later that night, tucked under a ridiculous number of pillows in my hotel suite, I found myself wide awake.
Nerves maybe, or adrenaline that hadn’t quite faded.
Out of habit more than anything, I pulled up the replay of my match, letting the commentary and crowd noise fill the quiet.
I watched the points play out, the angles I’d hit, the mistakes I wanted back.
The camera panned across the crowd between games, and oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.
Alexandra Cadiz. Standing. Clapping. Looking like she’d just watched her own tennis match.
I actually froze. Then rewound. Watched it again and again. Because surely I was imagining it. But no, there she was, that calm, unreadable Alexandra Cadiz face, except this time, there was a flicker of something else. She wasn’t doing the polite, camera’s-on-me clap. She looked… invested.
By the third replay, I wasn’t even watching the match anymore. Just her.
I reached for my phone, half-buried in the sheets, completely forgotten until now. The screen lit up the second I touched it, buzzing like it had been dying to tattle on me. Notifications were pouring in faster than I could blink: tennis blogs, edits, interviews, congratulations, absolute chaos.
And threaded through all of it were screenshots of Alex in the stands.
Someone had already made a fan edit. With a nickname. A ship name, for god’s sake.
I groaned into my pillow, face on fire. Winning a final was one thing. Realizing Alexandra Cadiz had been watching and clapping like she actually meant it was something else entirely.
Why was she even there? Alex wasn’t the type to just wander into the stands for fun. She was private, guarded, the kind of player you only ever saw behind headphones.
So what was she doing on her feet for me? Did she actually want me to win? Was it respect? Pity? Something else I couldn’t name?
The Cadiz family had always been a pedestal in my mind. To have one of them in the crowd for me… it pressed on something I didn’t even know was there.
And I hated how much I liked it.
·····
The curtains hadn’t done their job. Sunlight cut across my face, dragging me out of what little sleep I’d managed.
I lay there for a while, tangled in sheets and last night’s thoughts, unwilling to move, unwilling to face what today meant.
The chaos after the win had been exactly as expected: content requests, statements, plans.
Everyone wanted a piece of me, though to their credit, they gave me just enough space to breathe.
By the time lunch was over, the next obligation loomed: the formal photo session with the Venus Rosewater Dish.
I slipped into a soft, blue dress that fell just below the knee, elegant and timeless.
My hair was styled in loose waves, makeup was light but camera-ready.
When I held the trophy again for the official portraits, the weight of it settled differently.
No longer heart-pounding disbelief, but something steadier, calm pride, a quiet confirmation that this wasn’t a dream. It was real.
Later that afternoon, we returned to the hotel to rest and regroup before the Champions’ Dinner tonight. While I sat in the players’ lounge with my team, still in my robe and slippers with curlers in my hair, the men’s final was about to begin.
“Alright,” Maddie said, plopping down next to me with a bowl of popcorn. “Place your bets, does Archer Cadiz win it in four or five sets?”
“Three sets,” Coach Dani replied without hesitation. “Harris’s return game is solid, but Archer’s been locked in all tournament.”
The camera panned over the players’ box, where Alex was already seated in a white blouse with the Wilson-Cadiz logo embroidered on the sleeve, the collar casually open to reveal the elegant line of her neck and collarbones.
Her legs were crossed beneath tailored trousers, poised without even trying.
Her hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, and a pair of dark sunglasses framed her face.
And then the camera widened, landing on the rest of their box.
Seated beside her were their parents. Miguel Cadiz, tanned and broad-shouldered, his smile easy and his energy unmistakably warm.
While the others in the box looked composed and refined, he radiated something lighter.
He looked like the kind of man who offered high-fives to ball kids and snuck extra snacks into his coat.
Beside him sat Amelia Wilson.
“Damn,” Coach Dani muttered with a half-smile. “Wilson sure doesn’t age. She looks like she could be out there winning titles herself.”
Maddie leaned in, whispering, “That’s genetics I wouldn’t mind borrowing.”
She looked exactly how a tennis legend should look.
She wore a navy flowy and open but formal dress, her posture impossibly straight, her expression cool but warm at the edges.
I grew up watching her on replays; her one-handed backhand was iconic, her pressers ice-cold, and her game was the blueprint.
“Here we go,” Coach Dani said. “Let’s see if Archer can bring it home.”
It was a brutal high-level match. Rallies that twisted and stretched for twenty, thirty shots. Harris played with grit and fearlessness, throwing everything he had at Archer, but Archer was locked in.
By the end of the third set, Archer was ahead, two sets to one, and the match hung in a balance. The fourth set stretched on, both players locked in, holding serve, refusing to give an inch. The lounge had gone completely still. Even the staff had drifted to the doorway, eyes glued to the screen.
The scoreboard flashed: 6–4, 3–6, 7–6, 6–5. In favor of Archer Cadiz.
The camera cut to Archer’s face, calm, focused, every bit the Cadiz composure. He bounced the ball once, twice, then sent a serve rocketing straight down the middle. Harris barely moved.
An ace.
Game, set, and match: Cadiz.
Archer fell to his knees on Centre Court, eyes wide, then pressed both palms to the grass in quiet disbelief. Across the screen, Alex was already on her feet, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, clapping and beaming like she was the one who just won.
“Back-to-back Wimbledon Grand Slams,” Dani said, shaking her head with a grin. “That boy’s a beast.”
I chuckled under my breath, still watching the screen.
“Okay,” Maddie said, popping a strawberry into her mouth, “Don’t forget we’ve got a Champions’ Dinner to attend. And you, our reigning queen, will be dancing with Mr. Golden Boy over there.”
“Do we really need to dance?” My stomach is doing an immediate somersault.
Maddie wiggled her brows. “You know it’s tradition, Liv. Women’s champ dances with the men’s champ. It’s already Wimbledon lore.”
Coach Dani laughed. “Just don’t step on his foot. Man just won the tournament.”
“Great,” I said, sinking deeper into the couch. “No pressure or anything.”
“You’ll be fine,” Maddie grinned. “You already survived one final. What’s one dance with tennis royalty?”
I tried to play it cool, “I mean… I just don’t want to embarrass myself out there.”
Maddie smirked. “Relax, Liv. It’s your first Wimbledon Champions’ Dinner; you’ve earned this. Nobody cares if you trip over a hem or hold the fork wrong.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help wondering how the night was going to go.