CHAPTER 13
OLIVIA
I’d barely kicked my shoes off before Maddie’s voice floated from the bed.
“So… mind explaining what I just saw?”
I raised an eyebrow, unzipping my jacket. “What do you mean?”
“You were actually smiling with Alex in the gym,” she said, casual, but that smirk made it clear she was enjoying this far too much. “Alex… smiling? That’s the first genuine smile I’ve ever seen from her.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re making things up.”
“I’m making observations,” she countered. “Friendly ones.”
“It’s called sportsmanship, Maddie. You should try it.”
She snorted and went back to scrolling, but I could still feel her grin from here. I ignored it, instead, I reached for my phone, telling myself I was just checking the schedule.
Then, checking the schedule quickly turned into me just scrolling through the afternoon and evening, letting myself relax for once. I flipped between Instagram, TikTok, and random articles, laughing at memes and watching challenges I didn’t understand but secretly enjoyed.
That’s when I remembered the parking disaster outside the players’ hotel earlier.
I’d snapped a quick photo of it and couldn’t resist sharing.
Sliding into my Instagram story, I posted it on my stories because, honestly, it was too funny not to.
Cincinnati Open really does expose tennis players who shouldn’t be trusted behind the wheel.
I wasn’t that bad at parking, thank you very much. But somehow, watching everyone else struggle made me feel a little superior and amused all at the same time.
Then a reply came in. Alex was somehow teasing me about that park story, we went back and forth for a while, the kind of light, easy exchange that made me forget how late it was.
I didn’t even notice how much time had slipped until the screen dimmed in my hand and my thumb hovered over the keyboard with nothing else to say.
I set my phone down on the nightstand, the glow fading from the room. That’s when Maddie’s voice cut through the quiet, startling me. I hadn’t even realized she’d been here the whole time, camped out across the room for most of the afternoon and well into the night.
“Uh-huh. Sportsmanship, right?”
I threw a pillow at her.
She caught it easily, grinning. “You’ve got that look, Liv.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re not as indifferent as you want me to believe.”
I didn’t dignify it with an answer. I should be thinking about my match prep, my recovery, my game plan. Instead, I was lying here wondering if she’d gone to sleep smiling... and why it mattered so much if she had.
Maddie let out a soft chuckle, finally deciding she’d overstayed her commentary. “Alright, I’ll leave you now with whatever you're thinking about.”
As the door clicked shut, the quiet settled back in. I closed my eyes, trying to push everything aside, but part of me already knew that the memory of Alex, her smile, her teasing, and the way our conversation had felt effortless would follow me well into tomorrow and probably beyond.
And it did.
The next morning, I found myself half-dressed for training but rooted to the spot in front of the hotel TV. Alex’s match had just started, and I told myself I’d only watch a few games while finishing my smoothie.
That turned into watching the whole thing.
She won in straight sets, but it wasn’t the type of win where you lean back smugly and think, job done. Her movement was sharp in bursts but not as clean as I’d seen it before; there were a few rallies where she looked... frustrated, like she was still trying to find the groove she wanted.
Still, she fought for every point.
When the match ended, I lingered on the screen a moment longer than necessary, watching her do the usual handshake and wave to the crowd. She smiled, not the easy one I’d seen in our last interactions, but the polished, camera-ready kind.
I switched off the TV before I could think too much about it and grabbed my racquet bag. Training wasn’t going to wait, and the last thing I needed was Maddie catching me watching Alex play like it was some guilty pleasure.
Down in the training courts, Dani was already there, tossing balls into a hopper. She clocked me immediately. “Morning, Liv. You’re late.”
“I’m not late,” I said, pulling my jacket tighter. “I was... watching a match.”
She arched a brow. “Let me guess. Cadiz?”
I tried for a shrug, aiming for casual. “It was on. She played fine.”
“Fine?” Dani scoffed. “She won, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, but she’s still not quite there,” I said before thinking. “Her timing’s off on the return, and her first serve percentage dipped in the second set.”
Dani gave me a look that said she’d caught more in that comment than I’d intended. “Funny. You don’t talk that closely about other players.”
“I’m just... observant,” I muttered, pulling my visor lower.
She smirked. “Observant, right. Let’s put that focus to good use then. Baseline drills.”
·····
I managed to win matches like it was nothing or at least that’s how it looked on paper. The stats said I was cruising, the commentators said I looked sharp, the fans cheered. But in reality, the more matches I won, the more that dull ache in my wrist began to make itself known.
By the time I reached my round-of-16 match, it had transformed into a sharp, stubborn throb with every forehand. I strapped it tight, iced it until the skin went numb, and repeated the lie I’d been feeding myself: it’ll loosen once I warm up.
Midway through the second set, I mis-timed a return and felt a sharp throb enough to make my breath hitch, but not a full-on snap.
I forced my expression to stay neutral, though my fingers flexed around the racquet handle like they were testing if it still worked.
Not now. Not like this. I can push through.
Within moments, the physio was on the court, ice pack pressed against the sore spot, gently manipulating it while I bounced on the balls of my feet. “Try a few more points,” she said cautiously.
I nodded, willing myself through a couple of games, telling myself it might just hold. The adrenaline helped, and I kept playing, but each movement sent a sting through my body that I couldn’t ignore. How do you fight when your own body is turning against you?
By the end of the set, I knew. I raised my hand to signal the umpire, my heart sinking. “I… I can’t continue.”
The words felt bitter, like swallowing glass. They flashed across the scoreboard, and the polite applause from the crowd cut sharper than the pain itself. I forced myself upright, shoulders squared, and walked to the net.
My opponent was already there, racquet tucked under her arm, concern softening her usually composed face. She extended her hand, and I took it. “Take care of yourself,” she murmured, and it hit harder than the injury, a reminder of all the matches I still wanted to fight through.
Then came the walk back. Hated packing my bag under the weight of her concerned glance, hated the way every step toward the exit seemed to echo in slow motion.
Back in the tunnel, my team was already waiting. Dani had that measured calm that told me she was thinking three steps ahead, while Claire, my physio, looked like she wanted to drag me straight to the treatment table.
“Sit,” Claire said, motioning to the bench. She didn’t wait for me to argue before gently taking my wrist and rotating it, testing the range.
I winced. “It’s fine—”
“It’s not fine,” Dani cut in, arms crossed. “We’re shutting it down for now. No racquet for at least 3 days.”
“Your wrist is telling you it’s had enough. We need to rest it for the U.S. Open,” Claire, my physio, said, pressing along the joint with careful, precise fingers.
I watched her thumb move in small circles over the swollen spot, the ache flaring under the pressure. It wasn’t pain that made me flinch so much as the confirmation, the silent admission that my body had limits, even when my stubbornness refused to see them.
After Claire massaged the sore points on my wrist, I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over my shoulders until the ache dulled enough to be tolerable.
I flopped onto the hotel bed with my phone, scrolling aimlessly until the screen blurred. Notifications stacked at the top, messages from friends and a couple of tennis players that I’m close with. They all sat there unopened, little red dots waiting for my attention.
But then another one lit up against the gloom of the room. Instagram DM from Alex Cadiz. My stomach did something stupid before my brain even opened it. And without thinking twice, I tapped hers first.
I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t fight my smile.
The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly, and for a second, I wondered if she’d been waiting for me to reply all day.
I snorted softly, thumb hovering before I typed.
Another pause, then her next message blinked onto the screen.
I stared at her last message longer than I should have. My first instinct was to type I’m fine, because that’s the automatic response. But my wrist was still throbbing, and if I were truly fine, I’d still be out there playing.
My chest tightened at that. Alex had always had this way of tossing out concern like it was nothing, light and casual. Like she meant it more than she wanted me to believe.
I stared at the screen, biting down a laugh.
There was a small pause before the typing dots appeared again.
Lunch. One word, and somehow it carried more weight than it should have. I told myself not to overthink it, it was all for a wager after all.
I chewed my lip. I knew how much the next few days would matter for her ranking, for her momentum. But she was still insisting on me.
The typing dots vanished after that, and I just stared at the last message, the quiet between us humming louder than any notification. She made it sound so easy, rearranging her day just to see me, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like I was worth the effort.