CHAPTER 7
ALEXANDRA
The night played on repeat in my head, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Olivia. I didn’t mean to replay it all, but it was like the moment had wedged itself under my skin, impossible to shake, no matter how many miles I tried to bury it under.
And on top of that, I kept waiting for an email or a call from Wimbledon, convinced I’d wake up to a notice that I’d been fined, suspended, maybe even quietly blacklisted from the sport I’d fought for.
But when the message finally came, it wasn’t what I expected.
Turns out, the balcony door really was due for replacement. The venue team even apologized, said they’d prioritize fixing it so something like that wouldn’t happen again, not just for me but for anyone.
No scandal. No headlines. No whispers. Just quiet.
And that’s how it stayed. Quiet.
I’d been back in Brisbane for a while now, ever since the champions’ dinner wrapped up and all the chaos faded. What followed was the quiet, the kind that only home could hold.
I rolled out of bed, dragging a hoodie over my tank top and tying my hair up with the nearest elastic I could find.
In the kitchen, soft lights glowed from under the cabinets. My mom stood by the island counter in a sleek robe, talking quietly with our cook, who was plating grilled tomatoes and longganisa. My dad was by the coffee maker, mug already in hand.
“Morning,” I croaked, rubbing my eyes.
I sipped the water gratefully, letting the early morning calm settle into my bones. It felt like Brisbane again. Like home.
“You’re up early,” I said, still blinking the sleep from my eyes.
She chuckled, stirring something on the stove. “It’s nearly noon, love. You’re the one who slept half the day away.”
I smiled into my glass, shaking my head. “Guess I needed it.”
She nodded toward the kitchen door. “The guest speaker is at the airport right now, boarding the plane. She's arriving a day early. I’m just finalizing her schedule with the staff before everything gets hectic tomorrow when she gets here.”
I poured myself a glass of water and leaned against the counter. “Big name?”
Mom shrugged, a little too casually. “Let’s just say she’s someone with experience. Should be good for the juniors to hear from her.”
I frowned, curious. “Have I met her?”
Her smile was way too controlled. “Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll find out soon enough.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why so mysterious? You usually tell me everything. Is it someone I’d embarrass myself around or something?”
Dad chuckled behind his mug. “Let her have her moment. You know your mom likes the drama of a reveal.”
“Alright, well, whoever she is, I hope she’s got good jet lag tolerance. Brisbane at 7 a.m. isn’t exactly a gentle welcome.”
Mom just gave me a knowing look and turned back to the stovetop, humming to herself like she hadn’t just dropped a hint with a thousand layers.
Dad raised an eyebrow from behind his coffee mug. “Back already? Didn’t think we’d see you in court shoes so soon.”
I shrugged, but there was a quiet pride building in my chest. “The doctor cleared me the other day. Full movement, no inflammation, no structural issues. I’m good to go.”
Mom turned around fully now, eyes bright. “Really?”
I nodded. “No hard hitting for a bit, but I’m allowed full court drills again. Coach Kit wants to ease me back into rhythm before we head to Cincinnati Open.”
“That’s good pacing, you’ll build momentum without burning out,” Dad said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “You’ll be back to full swing in no time. Just remember, don’t get ahead of your body.”
“I know, I know,” I said, sliding into my seat. “Believe it or not, I’ve learned my lesson.”
Dad took a sip of his coffee, eyes still half on the newspaper spread open across the table.
“So, what’s the plan for today?” I asked, leaning against the counter.
He glanced up at Mom before answering. “Hitting the road again. Long-distance triathlon in three days with my team.”
“Can I come watch?” I asked, perking up a little.
That made him look at me properly, one eyebrow raised. “Watch? Since when do you wake up early for anything triathlon-related?”
I smirked, trying to look casual. “I just… I don’t know. I kind of miss the energy of race day.” I paused, fiddling with my glass. “And maybe I miss riding my bike a little, too.”
Dad chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, so that’s the real reason. You want to steal one of my athletes’ bikes and show them how it’s done?”
I laughed softly. “Not exactly. I just.... actually, do we still have mine somewhere in the garage?”
Dad’s mouth tugged into a small smile. “Of course it is. I’ve been taking care of it from time to time. I've been cleaning it, checking the tires, making sure the gears don’t seize up.”
I leaned back in my chair, pretending to be casual. “Sounds like you’re telling me to ride.”
He narrowed his eyes playfully. “Don’t start. Watching is one thing, competing is another. And you’re still in recovery.”
“Right, right,” I said, drawing out the words. “But if I’m just, say… testing the bike around the block…”
“Testing becomes training, and training becomes racing,” he warned.
Mom looked up from her coffee. “Oh, let her ride a little. It’s not like she’s signing up for the Ironman tomorrow.”
Dad shook his head. “You know how she is. One lap becomes ten. Next thing you know, she’s sprinting out of the water trying to chase down my teammates.”
I grinned. “What, scared I’ll beat them?”
He laughed. “Scared you’ll beat yourself up before you’re ready.”
Mom glanced between us with a knowing smile. “Well, maybe if her training goes well, you could let her test her old bike. Just for fun.”
I pointed at her. “Yes. That. Listen to Mom.”
Dad sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We’ll see. And that’s not a yes, it’s a maybe. I still have to talk to Coach Kit about that. You’re getting ready for your tennis season.”
I gave them both a small smile and pushed off from the counter. “Alright, I’d better get ready before I lose track of time.”
Upstairs, I showered quickly, letting the warm water shake off the last of the grogginess. I went downstairs, and we ate together quietly, the soft hum of the morning settling around us.
As I finished the last bite, I stood and grabbed my keys.
Tossing my bag into the passenger seat of my car, slid into the driver’s seat and pulled out of the driveway.
The streets were still quiet as I drove toward the academy, the kind of soft morning light that made everything look half-awake.
By the time we pulled in, I could already see Coach Kit and the rest of the team gathered by Court 3, a cart of fresh balls by his side.
He had his arms crossed, a clipboard in one hand, and glasses on. The posture said everything.
“Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence,” Bobby called out, already tossing cones onto the court.
“You’re lucky it’s your first day back,” Coach Kit said, but there was a small smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Otherwise, I’d make you run a lap for every minute that you’re late.”
I raised a hand in mock surrender. “Traffic teamed up on me.”
“Alright,” Coach Kit clapped his hands. “Warm-up, mobility drills, and then we’ll walk through today’s plan. Light footwork, short court rally, then we’ll assess where we’re at.”
I nodded, taking a deep breath. Back to work. Back to the grind.
Training that morning was focused and efficient. We kept it light: rhythm drills, mobility work, and short court rallies to rebuild my timing. No heavy hitting yet, just movement and feel. By noon, we wrapped up, everyone drenched and hungry, but satisfied.
I grabbed my bag and headed across the academy grounds, toward the admin building where Mom usually set up during busy weeks.
Sure enough, she was out back near the garden courtyard, seated at a table with her iced coffee, a tablet in front of her, and a few folders spread around.
Two junior staffers were mid-discussion beside her.
She looked up as I approached. “You’re done early,” she said, flipping through one of the documents spread across the table.
“Yeah, Coach Kit said we're done for the day,” I replied, dropping my bag by the bench and leaning over to peek at her notes. “Everything still running smoothly?”
Mom’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Mostly. Except Archer just called. His flight got pushed.”
I blinked, straightening. “So no guest speaker?”
“Well,” she said, arching a brow, “We still have one. But it’ll just be her.”
I tilted my head. “That’s still better than nothing. Anything I can do to help?”
She handed me a checklist, the paper already marked up with her neat, looping handwriting. “You can start with the seating assignments. And later, I’ll need a second pair of eyes on the press kits. The sponsors love details, and I don’t want any typos sneaking in.”
“Consider it done,” I said, scanning the list. “Let’s just hope your one speaker has enough charisma for two.”
Mom gave me one of her secretive smiles, the kind she used when she was hiding something fun but wasn’t ready to give it away. “Oh, I think she will.”
I narrowed my eyes at her because that smile always meant trouble. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said lightly, slipping another document into the folder like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Only that your father and I are heading to the airport later. We’ll pick her up ourselves.”
I raised a brow. “The headmistress of this academy and the great Miguel Cadiz, reduced to glorified chauffeurs? She must be someone important.”
“Important enough,” Mom said smoothly, which only made me more suspicious. She had that gleam in her eye, the one she usually reserved for big reveals.
I leaned closer, trying to read her expression, but she just busied herself with another stack of papers. “You’re not going to tell me who it is, are you?”
“That would ruin the surprise,” she said, far too pleased with herself.
Mom was clearly enjoying herself too much, and I knew I wouldn’t get anything else out of her. So I took the checklist, promised to deal with it after lunch, and made my way out.
By the time I got back home, the sun was still blazing, pouring through the wide windows and making the house feel like a sauna. I kicked off my shoes the second I walked through the door, dropped my bag somewhere near the stairs, and made a beeline for the couch.
The cushions swallowed me whole as I flopped down. I grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV, more out of habit than interest.
I meant to pay attention, maybe study the match, but my eyelids grew heavier with each rally.
The rhythm of the ball, the commentators’ voices, the steady whoosh of the AC, it all blended.
My last thought before sleep tugged me under was of Mom and Dad at the airport, greeting this supposedly “important” guest.
Then I was gone, out cold on the couch.