CHAPTER 17
OLIVIA
Quarterfinals. Gone.
I sat on the bench in the locker room. My racquet bag slumped at my feet like it had given up too, strings frayed from the fight I’d just lost. I pressed the towel against my face, willing away the sting of sweat and something far heavier and disappointment that sat in my chest like a stone.
I’d fought. God, I had fought. But my game… it hadn’t been there.
Lately, I didn’t know what was happening.
My serve, the one thing I’d always been able to lean on had started flickering in and out like a faulty lightbulb.
Tonight, it had abandoned me completely.
Double fault after double fault, and unforced errors piling up until I wanted to scream.
Every time I missed, it chipped away at me, point by point, until doubt was louder than the crowd.
My opponent had been sharper, she’d beaten me fair and square. But what stung most wasn’t her shots. It was the way I’d gone down, nowhere near my best, watching the match slip through my fingers because I couldn’t hold my nerve.
When I finally lowered the towel, the room felt too quiet, the air thick with the silence that follows a loss. I hated it, the emptiness, the way time seemed to slow, the way every sound echoed louder than it should.
Dad had texted already. Nan too, with about five heart emojis in a row. I hadn’t answered either. Not yet. Because right now, pride was the last thing I could feel.
This wasn’t new. Loss was part of tennis. I’d told myself that a hundred times. But quarterfinals at the US Open, it had meant something. I’d been climbing my whole career.
I forced myself up, dragging heavy legs toward the locker-room showers. By the time I toweled off and changed, I’d pieced together the mask I needed to wear, the professional smile, the calm tone, the illusion of control.
After media, I slipped quietly back into the hotel. My team was already waiting, Coach Dani, arms crossed, her expression unreadable, and my analyst, with his ever-patient eyes. We gathered in one of the conference rooms, the weight of the match still hanging in the air.
Dani leaned forward first. “Liv, talk to me. What’s going on out there? That serve isn’t you. Your game’s been flat for weeks.”
I let out a breath. “I don’t know. Double faults piling up, timing off, nothing feels right. It’s not physical, I think it’s in my head. Every time I toss the ball, I panic.”
My analyst leaned forward. “That’s a feedback loop. The nerves affect your mechanics, and the misses make the nerves worse. But it’s fixable, with rhythm work, breathing triggers, and a new pre-serve routine. We’ll sort it out.”
Dani’s voice was steady. “Your game hasn’t vanished, Olivia. What we need is to sharpen your serve again, make it solid, automatic, so your nerves don’t have room to creep in.”
My throat tightened. “It feels like I let everyone down.”
Dani shook her head. “No. You fought with what you had. That’s sport. One match doesn’t define you. Rest tonight.”
One by one, they left me with soft goodnights and quiet encouragements. When the door finally clicked shut, the silence pressed in heavy. I changed into a hoodie, crawled under the hotel duvet.
Restless, I reached for my phone and hit Dad.
“Hi, Liv. You alright?”
The lump in my throat swelled. “Not really Dad. My serve was all over the place. I just… I feel like I’ve disappointed everyone.”
“Liv,” he said firmly but gently, “You haven’t let anyone down. Do you hear me? Not once. Not today, not ever. Losing a match doesn’t erase who you are or what you’ve built.”
Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. “But it feels like I’m unraveling. Like my serve is slipping through my fingers. If I can’t hold onto that, then what do I have left?”
There was a pause on the line, and then Dad spoke with that steady, grounded certainty I’d leaned on my whole life. “You’re not unraveling, love. And sometimes, when you reach one, the answer isn’t to push harder forward, it’s to go back. Back to the place where you first found your footing.”
“You’re saying I should go back home?” I asked.
“Wilson Academy,” he said. “That’s where you turned your serve around as a girl. That’s where you built the foundation of the player you are today. Maybe it’s time to strip it back to the basics again. Go to the root of it all, reset yourself where it all began.”
The place where I grew from a girl with promise into a player with belief.
“Do you really think it would help?” I asked, voice small.
“I do,” Dad said without hesitation. “Because Wilson isn’t just about mechanics.
It’s about who you were before the pressure, before the rankings, before the weight of expectation.
You need to remember that girl, Liv. The one who picked up a racquet because she loved the game, not because she had to win. ”
I wiped at my eyes, the tears coming freely now. “It sounds so simple when you say it.”
“That’s because it is,” he replied, soft but unwavering. “The sport feels complicated because you’ve climbed so high, and the air is thin up there. But the game? The game is the same as it’s always been. Sometimes you just need to step down, breathe easier, and rebuild your climb.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “You’ve thought this through more than I have.”
“Only because I know you,” he said warmly. “I know that look you get when your serve is slipping. You carry it in your shoulders, like the world’s going to end. But you forget that you’ve built yourself back up before. You’ll do it again.”
Silence stretched between us, filled with the comfort only he could give.
“Thank you Dad.” I whispered.
“Always love,” he said. “Now, rest. Tomorrow you can decide how to take that first step. Tonight, just be my Liv again. No rankings, no press, no expectations. Just my daughter, who’s still the fiercest fighter I’ve ever seen.”
I closed my eyes, letting his words wrap around me like a blanket. For tonight, I wouldn’t think about the match, the serve, or the weight of what came next. I was too tired, in body and in heart. All I could do was allow myself to stop, just for one night and breathe.
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We stayed in New York one more day, mostly to rest and let the sting of the loss settle. The thought of Wilson Academy kept circling in my head, the way Dad’s words had planted it there like a seed.
When I finally brought it up with Dani over breakfast, she didn’t look surprised. She simply nodded, stirring her coffee. My Agent, also said that it's a good plan.
“It makes sense,” he said. “Players do this all the time, go back to where it started, sharpen one weapon, tune things up. If Wilson Academy is where you feel your serve can reset, then that’s where you’ll go. But you’ll treat it as a partnership. Your team stays intact.”
I exhaled, a small knot in my chest loosening. “So you think it’s the right move?”
“I think it’s your move,” He said gently. “And if you believe that’s where you can find your edge again, then I think Coach Dani will back you.”
Maddie, who had been listening quietly, set her phone down on the table with a decisive nod.
“Then let’s not waste time. I’ll reach out to Amelia Wilson today. We’ll pitch it as a short-term training partnership, just to tune the serve and the nerves. Amelia will understand, especially since the academy’s been doing this with pros lately.”
My agent leaned forward, tapping his phone. “Alright then, let’s map this out properly. The next two weeks before the Asian swing are open, right?”
Dani nodded. “Yes, but if we’re committing to this, she needs at least a solid two to three weeks at Wilson to make it worthwhile. Anything less, and it’s just a cameo.”
Maddie flipped open her planner, scribbling quickly. “So… we could block out three weeks at the academy, pitch it as a special training residency. If it clicks and Liv finds her rhythm again, we’ll regroup for the next tournaments.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, a little overwhelmed but relieved to see it coming together. “Three weeks? You think Amelia will agree to that?”
Maddie glanced up, smiling with quiet certainty. “If it’s you asking? She’ll say yes. And if she knows it’s about sharpening your serve? She’ll probably roll out the red carpet.”
“Alright then,” I said quietly, more to myself than anyone else. “Wilson Academy it is.”