CHAPTER 14
OLIVIA
The New York skyline stretched out beyond my hotel window.
We’d only just settled into the city, bags unpacked, routines reloaded, body clock readjusting.
The US Open is here, and Coach Dani had me on a strict conditioning plan to make sure I peaked at the right time.
But here I am, my eyes locked on the flatscreen across the room.
Alex’s Cincinnati Open final was about to start, the broadcast cutting between shots of the crowd and the players’ entrance, waiting for them to emerge.
It still didn’t feel real. A month ago, people were debating if she even had a comeback in her. Now? She was the story of the tournament. Every highlight, every headline, every breathless commentator painting her as tennis’s resurrection arc.
I was sprawled on the couch with Maddie and Claire, legs tucked under me, still a little sore from my own training earlier.
Maddie’s voice piped up, far too casual to be innocent. “You do know the internet basically lost its mind over your little lunch date with Alex, right?”
I shot her a look. She tossed her phone onto me, the screen already lit up with a compilation of posts. “Yeah. Pap shots, fan snaps, take your pick. And you know what the internet does best.”
I leaned closer. Tweets and edits whirred past: Cadiz and Smythe spotted laughing over lunch in Cincy. Comments underneath split between playful friend-shipping and not-so-subtle romantic hints.
My throat tightened as I stared at one photo, Alex mid-laugh, eyes fixed on me like no one else existed in the frame.
I shoved the phone back at Maddie, shaking my head. “It was just lunch.”
She smirked knowingly. “Mm-hm. Tell that to your fan club.”
Then the players emerged from the players’ entrance, game faces on. The camera followed them down the narrow hallway, shadows giving way to the blinding lights of the stadium. The crowd’s roar swelled the moment they stepped into view, a wall of sound that rattled even through the flatscreen.
“Your girl’s looking intense,” Maddie said, leaning forward with a mouthful of popcorn.
“She’s not my—” I started, then gave up, because Alex’s walked onto the court cut me off. Game face on, headphones still on, eyes locked straight ahead.
I noticed her shoulders taped up. I wondered if she’d been pushing too hard lately, maybe ignoring the aches just to make it this far.
Claire, who’d been watching with a quiet intensity, nodded knowingly. “That’s classic overuse,” she said, her voice low. “When you see tape like that, it’s usually about managing inflammation or protecting vulnerable joints.”
Maddie’s eyes narrowing at the screen. “Do you think she’s risking it, pushing through?”
Claire shrugged. “It’s a fine line. At this level, every player knows the risks. But sometimes, that mental toughness can carry them through the pain, until it catches up later.”
The camera panned to her opponent, young and sharp, the kind who would swing for the lines without blinking.
“Bet you twenty bucks she takes it in straight sets,” Maddie said, smirking like she was already counting her winnings.
Claire chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re underestimating the kid. She’s fearless. If Alex doesn’t control the pace, this could get messy.”
“Messy?” Maddie raised a brow. “We’re talking about a Cadiz. The twins thrive in messy.”
I kept my eyes on the screen as Alex bounced on her toes behind the baseline, rolling her shoulders. First serve, clean ace.
The next ball rally stretched longer, the ball whipping side to side, Alex mixing her topspin forehand with killer backhands to push the kid around.
For a while, Alex had everything humming; she’s in control of the match. The crowd roared when she pulled off a sliding backhand pass down the line. I couldn’t help but grin.
She wasn’t just hitting well; she was showing off the full range of her game.
“Oh my God,” Maddie breathed, shaking her head. “Maybe Alex is just a late bloomer, and she’s only now unlocking her tennis superpowers.”
Then the camera cut to Alex between points, hand brushing her shoulder, quick rotation as if loosening it up.
Claire’s voice dropped immediately. “Uh-oh. That’s not just a habit. Watch her follow-through and get a physio for that shoulder.”
My chest tightened. “She’s fine,” I said quickly, though my eyes stayed locked on the screen.
Two games later, she walked over to the chair umpire and gestured for the physio. The stadium fell quiet in that eerie, collective way crowds do when everyone senses something’s gone wrong.
The physio jogged out and dropped to one knee beside her.
Claire leaned forward, analyzing. “They’re checking the shoulder. Could just be precautionary, taping might be loosening, or it’s fatigue.” She glanced at me. “But she’s smart to stop it before it gets worse.”
I crossed my arms, as if holding myself together. “She’ll play through it. She’s stubborn like that.”
When the physio stood and Alex rotated her arm for the crowd, the applause was deafening.
“She’s staying in,” Maddie said with relief.
“Yeah,” Claire replied, “but she’s going to have to mix it up now. More precision and less brute force. She needs to out-think the match now.”
And sure enough, Alex started leaning on her slice serve, dragging her opponent chasing the ball instead of going for outright bombs.
“She’s adjusting,” I said quietly, more to myself than to them.
By the time Alex was ahead 5–3 in the second set, the stadium was already sensing the finish. She walked to the baseline for her final service game, shoulders relaxed despite the tape, face pure focus.
The last rally was classic Alex, deep forehand, then stepping in to put away a volley. Her opponent’s ball sailed long. Game, set, match.
The crowd erupted, and Alex’s fist pump was sharp, almost restrained, like she was already thinking ahead. I sat back, a slow smile spreading across my face.
“Straight sets,” Maddie said, smug. “Told you.”
Claire smirked. “I’ll give her credit, she handled that shoulder like a pro. Kept her head the whole way.”
I didn’t say anything right away, still watching the screen as Alex shook hands at the net, then waved to the stands. Even through the TV, I could feel that energy, the mix of relief, pride, and just a hint of fire that made her... her.
As the broadcast cut to the trophy ceremony, Maddie hopped up to grab more snacks while Claire started dissecting the stats like the analyst she secretly was.
I stayed on the couch, still holding my now-empty smoothie glass, letting the noise fade around me.
She’d done it, a championship win in Cincinnati, just weeks after her comeback.
The headlines were already writing themselves.
I exhaled slowly, stretching my legs out, and thought about how close New York suddenly felt.
ALEXANDRA
The applause hit me in waves as I stepped forward, trophy in hand, the ceramic still warm from the sun. The crowd’s cheers blurred into a single roar, the kind that rattles in your chest.
The runner-up stood beside me, still smiling despite the sting, and we exchanged a quick handshake. She’d played fearless tennis, but I’d been here before. I’d known when to hold back and when to hit through, even with my shoulder nagging in the background.
When the mic was passed to me, I kept it short, thanked the tournament staff, the ball kids, the fans, and my team. The usual.
Then came the press conference. Room packed, the air-conditioning was too cold, and every lens was trained on me like I was about to slip up.
“Alexandra, congratulations on the win. You were fantastic out there, and it’s your first tournament back after your injury. How does it feel, not only to make your comeback but to actually win it?”
I gave a controlled smile. “It feels surreal. A few months ago, I wasn’t even sure I’d be competing this season, let alone holding a trophy.”
“How’s the shoulder?” one of the reporters called out
I gave them the safe answer. “Just a little fatigue. We’ve been pushing hard, but my physio has been keeping it in check. I’ll be ready for the US Open.”
The next few questions were the usual and nothing I hadn’t heard a hundred times before. The standard post-final script.
Then one reporter cleared his throat, almost like he knew he was about to cause trouble.
“Some sources in the Philippine Olympic Committee have said that you’re being considered to represent the country in Triathlon at the Olympics next year. Have there been any discussions?”
My brain did a double-take. “I’m sorry, what?”
He repeated it, slower this time, like maybe I hadn’t heard him right.
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” I said, voice flat. “If that’s true, then I’d need to confirm it with my manager before saying anything else.”
Pens scratched faster. But then he pressed again. “But if the opportunity came and you had the time, would you go back to triathlon?”
I continued, still steady, “I’ve never made it a secret, and if I’m given the time to prepare properly, then yes, I’d compete again.”
The moderator tried to steer it back to tennis, but someone squeezed in one again. “Would representing the Philippines mean more to you than competing for another country?”
I tilted my head, keeping my voice calm but direct. “I’ve always represented the Philippines in triathlon, and I compete for Australia in tennis. I see it as a balance. I get that it’s unusual, but I grew up with both sports in my blood.”
Another reporter leaned forward. “So... you didn’t switch allegiance?”
The question landed sharper than it should’ve. I felt my jaw tense, just for a beat.
“There are no sides. This is just the first-time people are paying attention to both at once. Now…” I arched a brow, deadpan. “Can we go back to tennis?”
Someone at the back called out, “Alright then—biggest takeaway from today’s match?”