CHAPTER 8
OLIVIA
The sun had come out over Hampstead Heath like it was trying to do us a favor. Aunt Caroline spread the tartan blanket with military precision while Nan supervised, muttering about the “newfangled” electric kettle we’d left behind at home and how it never boiled water quite like the old one did.
It was the first proper weekend of my break after Wimbledon, and being back home in London felt strange in the best way, familiar and a little too easy after the chaos of the tour.
Bianca had arrived last night, coming through the front door with her suitcase in hand, looking every inch the polished intern in her blazer and trousers, and for a moment, it had felt like I was greeting a stranger.
We’d stumbled through small talk, stiff smiles, and then we hugged.
Awkward. Like walking over a bridge we’d both been circling for too long.
And now here we were, sitting on the same blanket, part of the same noise.
I stretched out on the blanket, sunglasses sliding down my nose, hair still damp from my morning shower. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe. Just me and my family, all loud and chatty and wonderfully chaotic.
Bianca sat across from me, arranging paper plates like she was managing a corporate buffet.
She was chatting with Auntie Caroline about Birmingham and some uni course she was eyeing for autumn.
I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I caught the phrase “corporate sustainability consultancy,” which sounded like three buzzwords holding a staff meeting.
“Remember when Liv used to make us play doubles against the shed?” my cousin Freya said, laughing as she nudged me. “She’d scream if you missed the ‘line call.’”
I rolled my eyes. “You say that like I wasn’t preparing you for Wimbledon.”
“You made me cry!” Freya cackled.
“Character building,” I said, stealing a sausage roll off her plate.
“Character building?” she repeated, scandalized. “You made me run suicide drills between the rose bushes. I was ten.”
“That was a generous interpretation of a drill. You tripped over your Crocs and fell on the lawn.”
“Oh my days, I still have a scar on my knee!” she said, yanking up her trouser leg to show a faint mark. “Permanent reminder of my trauma.”
“You’re welcome,” I said with a smirk. “Some people pay thousands for Wimbledon memorabilia. You got yours for free.”
The blanket erupted with chuckles. Aunt Caroline clucked her tongue.
“Honestly, you lot were a health hazard. I remember coming over once, and Olivia had chalked a scoreboard on the shed wall. It was like stepping into the All England Club, if it had been run by very determined children with no adult supervision.”
Dad chuckled from his spot by the thermos. “You were always bossing everyone about, Liv. Whistle around your neck, shouting about footwork.”
“That was one time,” I protested. “And the whistle was a freebie from a cereal box. Very official.”
“Next time you give a speech at Wimbledon, mention that,” one of the cousins teased. “True humble beginnings.”
I leaned back on my elbows, letting the chatter ripple over me like soft wind. Someone passed around a tin of shortbread, the pieces clattering as we picked through them. Nan sat beside me, shawl still draped tight even though the sun was warm. She patted my leg, tea balanced in her other hand.
“Good to have you home, love,” she said gently. “It’s not the same without you.”
My chest ached in that quiet, tender way. “It’s good to be home.”
She gave me a knowing nod. “Don’t stay away too long next time. These people miss their champion.”
“They mostly just miss my bossiness,” I teased, and Nan rolled her eyes.
“Your mum would’ve loved this. All of us together like this.”
That sentence alone made the air feel a little tighter in my chest. I nodded, staring down at my tea.
“She really would’ve,” Dad murmured. “Especially seeing her girls like this, grown, doing well. She’d be proud of both of you.”
“Well, she didn’t get to see us together much, did she?” Bianca said, too casually,
The words cut in so quickly, I almost missed them. I looked up slowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She blinked, as if it hadn’t even occurred to her that she’d said anything. “Nothing. Just... never mind.”
“No, say it,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “You’ve obviously been dying to.”
The chatter dimmed around us. Auntie Caroline suddenly remembered she had to check on the pork pies. Nan turned to my cousins and asked them if they wanted a walk. Subtle exits, one by one. Like veterans of the battlefield.
Bianca took a breath, then looked right at me. “You left, Liv. You got on a plane and left me with all of it. Mum’s chemo. The school called every week asking why I was late. But it’s fine, right? Because you were chasing your dream.”
I stared at her, heartbeat thudding. “I was a kid, Bee. I didn’t ask to leave. I went because Mum and Dad thought it was best. You think I had any idea what was happening back here?”
“Well, I did,” she snapped. “I didn’t get to go live some glittery tennis dream in Brisbane. I was here. Watching her fade. Alone.”
My stomach turned. “You weren’t alone.”
“I was,” she said, quieter now. “I just didn’t have the luxury of pretending I wasn’t.”
There it was. The thing we’d both danced around for years, finally dragged into the light and left bare on the picnic blanket.
I swallowed, the back of my throat burning. “I didn’t choose to leave you.”
“But you stayed gone,” she said.
“I didn’t stay gone to hurt you,” I said quietly, trying to keep my voice even. “I was chasing something we all thought was a good idea.”
“You were chasing something you wanted,” she snapped. “And you didn’t even look back.”
I felt my stomach twist. “You think I don’t carry that? You think I didn’t miss everything too? Miss her?”
She crossed her arms. “You missed it all from a tennis court. We were here, picking up the pieces.”
I looked at her and for a second, I saw it. Not anger, not just bitterness, but hurt. She’d carried it for years like a splinter she couldn’t dig out.
But something in me flared too.
“You think tennis was easy after that?” I said, my voice cracking around the edges. “You think I just skipped off to tournaments and forgot about home? About Mum?”
Bianca said nothing, but her eyes didn’t soften.
“Tennis became the only thing that made sense,” I went on.
“It was the only way I could survive the guilt. I chased something we all thought was the dream. And then she got sick, and I wasn’t there.
So I threw everything into tennis because that’s what she wanted for me. That’s what she was proud of.”
I swallowed hard.
“I didn’t know how else to keep going. I couldn’t grieve properly. Tennis became my therapy, my excuse, my punishment...everything.”
Bianca blinked at me, her expression unreadable now.
“All I’ve thought about for years is tennis,” I added. “Tennis was what Mum wanted for me. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like she’s still alive.”
And maybe it was saying those words out loud, or maybe it was just years of holding it all in when suddenly, the tears came. Hot and silent at first, blurring my vision. Then a sob ripped through me before I could stop it.
I turned away, wiping at my face like it might make me smaller, invisible. But I could feel everyone looking now.
“I didn’t come back for this,” I whispered. “I came back to try. But it’s never enough, is it?”
No one said anything.
I stood abruptly, my legs shaking as I grabbed my hoodie from the picnic blanket. “I just need air,” I muttered.
“Liv...” Dad started, but I didn’t let him finish.
I was already walking across the field, fast. Then jogging. Then running.
I didn’t know where I was going. I just needed to go.
To get away from the pressure, the ache in my chest, the stares.
I needed to outrun the shame that clung to me like sweat.
I’d thought I could handle being back. Thought I could be strong enough to face it. But the truth was, I was running again.
Same as always.
Running from the mess I left behind. From the guilt I couldn’t fix. From the part of me that still didn’t know how to be Olivia Smythe without a racquet in her hand.
By the time the air cooled around me and the sharpness in my chest dulled, I was sitting on a bench at the edge of the park, trainers damp from the grass, face tight from dried tears. I’d exhausted myself.
I pulled out my phone and hovered over Maddie’s contact. Then pressed call before I could talk myself out of it.
She picked up on the second ring. “Liv?”
“Hey,” I said, voice raspy. “Can you book me an earlier flight to Brisbane?”
There was a beat of silence. “You okay?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I think I just need to get back. I need to run toward something again.”
Maddie exhaled, all softness. “Say no more. I’ll sort it. Pack your things, and I’ll text you your flight details in an hour.”
“Thanks, Maddie. Really.”
Once we hung up, I opened a new message thread and hovered over Amelia Wilson’s name. Just seeing it there made my heart skip.
I’d never messaged her directly before. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Then, slowly, I began.
I read it over four times. Then hit send before I lost my nerve.
She replied in less than five minutes.
I stared at the message, frozen for a moment. We exchanged a few messages after that, then I packed up my things and got ready for my flight.
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After a long flight, I finally stepped off the plane into the quiet buzz of the Brisbane airport.
I’d slept through nearly eighty percent of the journey, tucked into a soft first-class seat with a blanket up to my chin and noise-cancelling headphones that felt like a cocoon.
For a moment, the world outside tennis had paused.