Chapter 22
Leire stands at the mouth of the tunnel with her bag over her shoulder and her hands balled into fists to keep them from shaking.
She's made it to the final and she still can't quite understand how, because every match has felt like a journey into somewhere darker.
Kate is the other finalist—the redhead she spent the best nights of her life with, and the same woman she hasn't managed to speak to yet.
Since her conversation with Isaac, where she'd discovered, to her surprise, that her agent wasn't the kind of person she'd thought, she's tried to reach Kate several times.
She sent a few messages that Kate never opened, and she called three times without getting an answer once.
Leire understands—she knows it's Kate's way of protecting herself, and in some way she's wanted to give her space—but now, on the verge of playing the final, she realizes she's given her too much.
This is the last match, and when it's over, Kate won't have any reason to stay.
Just thinking about it makes it hard to breathe, and she regrets not going to her hotel, not waiting in the hallway outside her room, or even reaching out to Diane to beg her to intervene and get her a few minutes.
On the other side of the stadium, Diane is holding Kate's face in her hands.
"Look at me, sweetheart," the coach says, waiting a few seconds because Kate seems like a different person this morning.
She's been somewhere far away since she woke up, and at the same time hyper-aware of everything around her. Her eyes drift and then fix on Diane's, but the coach knows she isn't really seeing her—there's a curtain between them that Kate hasn't managed to get through yet.
"Focus, please," she urges, and she watches the moment Kate's pupils seem to shift slightly until they lock onto her. "I'll be right here, like always. You've already won, Kate—whatever happens out there, making it to the final with everything you've been carrying is already a victory."
Kate nods. Her eyes are bright and wet, but there's a determination in her gaze, a kind of cold calm, that leaves her coach in awe. For the first time in weeks, Diane sees no fear in her—just that still, icy resolve that sends a chill down her spine.
"Go on," Diane says, kissing her cheek and resting a hand at her waist to nudge her forward.
The PA calls her name and the whole stadium rises.
Since she announced her retirement the support has been overwhelming, and it gives her an extra jolt of energy she's going to need.
Her back doesn't hurt—not even a faint twinge—and if it does, her brain isn't processing that pain, because inside her chest there's another kind of pain, far more intense, that she's also choosing to ignore because it cost her so much to get here.
For her this isn't just the final of one of the most important tournaments in tennis—it's also her final with a sport that has been part of her for as long as she can remember, and her goodbye, for lack of a better word, to the woman on the other side of the net.
She hadn't expected to face Leire if she made it this far. Some part of her had assumed a divine force would spare her this match, but apparently her fate is to say a proper goodbye to Leire in the same place where she met her: a tennis court.
Kate walks out onto the court with a tight throat, waving to the crowd while she bites her lips to keep from falling apart before it even starts.
She knows they're not cheering only for the excitement of the final—they're cheering to say goodbye to her too.
She leaves her things at the bench and walks toward the net at the same time as Leire, who's already reaching a hand out before she arrives.
"Good luck," the Spanish woman says.
The handshake is firm and lasts a couple of seconds longer than it should.
Kate feels the tingle from the contact travel up her whole arm and detonate in the pit of her stomach—something very close to what Leire is feeling too, and she watches her exhale sharply before they let go and turn to take their positions.
During the first game, Leire double-faults twice in a row, which surprises everyone given that her serve has always been one of her strongest weapons—but it doesn't surprise Kate.
Her opponent's head is somewhere else entirely, unable to focus on the match without other thoughts pulling her away.
It's never happened to her before, but her mind seems to have hit the limit of what it can hold.
She can only keep track of that red ponytail moving on the other side of the net—and not to track her shots, but to watch her movements, every line of that body she won't see again.
Unlike Leire, Kate has managed to clear everything out of her head, letting herself push all the noise aside so she can play her last professional match at full capacity—savoring every movement, letting the crowd's roar raise the hair on her arms, drinking in every second of a match she knows she'll remember for the rest of her life.
Her opponent is irrelevant, even if that opponent is Leire; she's barely aware of each clumsy error the Spanish woman makes.
Kate is so locked in that she seems to know where the next ball is going to land before it even comes back.
Leire drops the first set almost without a fight. Her backhand—another one of her strengths—isn't doing her much good, because when she doesn't hit it long, the power she puts behind it isn't enough to make Kate work to get there.
Her concentration is so far gone that at one point during the second set she gets an easy ball—a short drop shot she just needs to nudge over the net; if she does, there's no way Kate can reach it.
But instead of watching where she should and calculating the right amount of force and distance, her focus scatters, and in the last second she looks at her ex-lover instead of the ball, hitting it with so little power that it barely grazes her racket before bouncing on her own side.
There's no celebration for the absurd point Kate just won.
She simply turns and walks back to the baseline to keep playing the same way, as if every decision she makes on the court is coming from the same place as the one to leave Leire—the one to stop living her life waiting for someone else to be brave enough to choose her.
She deserves to be happy, and if it's not with Leire she'll have to find her own way to get there.
As she bounces the ball to serve, she thinks, with a quiet clarity that surprises her, that despite the pain it caused, she did the right thing.
She feels light, as if her body is finally free of the invisible weight that had been pressing her feet into the ground and making it so hard to move forward.
She can see that the woman across the net isn't the best version of Leire—what she sees on the other side is a woman just trying to return the ball.
She's winning easily in the match that should be the hardest of her life, but tennis isn't only physical; it's deeply mental, and in this final, Kate's mind is back where it belongs and she's unstoppable.
The last point—the one that gives her the win—comes from a serve so powerful that the ball flies past Leire before she can even move.
The stadium explodes and Kate stands frozen at the baseline, racket in hand, staring at the other side of the court as if she can't quite believe it.
Then she lets the racket drop and brings both hands to her face, curling her body until she's crouching on the ground.
The tears hit her all at once—not just from joy, but from the sadness of knowing she just played the last point of her career.
The crowd keeps chanting her name, over and over, until it shakes through her whole body. Making a tremendous effort, she manages to stand, wipes her face with her wristband, and starts walking toward the net.
Leire is already there, waiting for her—face just as wet with tears, and not because she lost the match, but because she knows she's lost her.
They meet in the center, and what should be a ten-second handshake and a quick congratulations turns into something else the moment their fingers touch.
Kate feels the soft pull from Leire and lets her body move forward until they fold into each other's arms, like each of them has fallen into the other after being cut loose from the wire holding them up.
They're both trembling when Kate breaks again, and now she doesn't even know why she's crying—only that she needs to keep going, and that Leire's hands on her back and the nape of her neck give her the calm she's been looking for, as if that's the only place she feels safe, and also the only one she can't have.
"Congratulations, baby," Leire whispers against her ear, her voice so broken that Kate hiccups harder when she hears it. "You deserve this, you played so well and—" she stops, unable to think straight. "I need to talk to you, Kate, please. Just that—just talk."
Kate pulls back just enough to look at her. Her eyes are red and swollen, and she wipes them with her palms before finding enough stillness to answer.
"I don't think there's anything left to say, Leire. This is my goodbye to all of this," she murmurs, glancing toward the stands, "and to you."
She gives her one last smile and turns to walk back to her side, finding refuge in a hug with Diane before continuing with the ceremony.
"It's okay, sweetheart," Diane says—she's crying too—and Kate nods through a smile.
The ceremony is a blur for Leire. She picks up her runner-up trophy and holds it for the photo without really seeing it.
When the microphone is brought to her so she can say a few words, all she manages is to thank the crowd and her team in a voice that doesn't feel like her own, because the only thing in her head is Kate's last sentence, lodged in the center of her heart like a splinter.
She steps aside and lets Kate through, feeling a countdown start inside her—one that is pulling her away from this woman forever, and it terrifies her more with every second.
Kate lifts the trophy and raises it first to the crowd, then to Diane, who has been her greatest pillar in getting here. The stadium roars and gradually falls quiet as the microphone is brought to her. She looks at it like it might bite her.
"Thank you," she says, and has to stop to swallow.
"I'm not great at this kind of thing, so I'm going to try not to cry any more than I already have.
" A low rumble of support ripples through the crowd, giving her a few seconds to swallow again.
"This was my last match, and I'm leaving with a broken heart, because this has been my life for so many years and it feels like I don't know how to do anything else—but another part of me is leaving happy.
This sport gave me everything: joy, heartbreak, learning, and love too.
On a court like this one, I met the woman I'm in love with, and even though it didn't work out the way I hoped, I treasured every second I spent by her side.
A new chapter starts for me now, and I just want to say thank you for everything I've been given. "
Kate raises the trophy toward the crowd again, smiles at the applause, and turns to disappear into the tunnel and never come back—head down, shoulders caved in.
It's that image of her turning her back and walking away for good that trips something inside Leire, and suddenly she sees everything with a clarity that steals the air from her lungs: Kate is leaving.
This isn't another argument, or a rough patch in their relationship they'll work out later in a hotel room.
Kate is about to walk out of this stadium, and when she does, what they had will be over.
Everything Leire has spent years protecting—the contract, the brand, her identity—is nothing compared to the raw, physical terror rising in her throat at the thought of the rest of her life without Kate in it.
And for the first time, what terrifies her isn't being exposed.
It's staying silent and doing nothing to stop her.
Leire sets her trophy on the ground and takes three steps toward the presenter, pulling the microphone out of his hands while he stares at her, mouth open.
"I'm in love with you too, baby."
Her voice comes out loud and cracked, but clear enough that there's no way to misunderstand what she just said.
The stadium detonates around her, but Leire doesn't hear it, because the only thing she's doing is watching Kate, who has stopped dead at the entrance to the tunnel, her back to the court, like she's been frozen in place.
Leire's heart is pounding, her lips trembling, and she has to drag in short, sharp breaths just to keep breathing.
She lets go of the microphone when the presenter takes it from her hand, and she moves through the longest seconds of her life—the ones Kate needs to react, to understand that she really heard it, that it wasn't some cruel trick her mind invented to tell her the one thing she needed to hear.
Kate turns slowly, with a ringing in her ears that comes from inside her, not from the roar of the stadium.
Leire is there—exposed, waiting for her answer in the middle of a court where millions of people are watching through their screens—and yet she has never looked more certain of herself than she does right now.
Her shoulders are straight, her head is up, her gaze expectant, because the only thing that matters to her is what Kate thinks—not any of the rest of it—and all she can do is pray she hasn't come too late.
Kate smiles, and Leire lets out a sob of relief that everyone hears because the presenter is still standing beside her with the microphone open.
She bends forward for a moment, hands on her knees, trying to steady herself and make sure she isn't dreaming, but when she looks up, Kate is still there, watching her with a smile full of a pride that Leire should have given her years ago.
Both of them are still, and the stadium has gone completely silent, as if every person inside is holding their breath waiting for the next move—and the one who makes it is Kate, who simply turns slightly toward the tunnel but doesn't walk into it.
Instead, she reaches her left arm back and opens her hand, waiting for Leire to come to her.
Leire nearly trips over the presenter as she takes off running, catching Kate's hand before she's fully reached her, lacing their fingers together before they disappear into the tunnel side by side.