“Alright,” Maddie said, plopping down next to me with a bowl of popcorn. “Place your bets, does Archer Cadiz win it in four or five sets?”
“Three sets,” Coach Dani replied without hesitation. “Harris’s return game is solid, but Archer’s been locked in all tournament.”
The camera panned over the players’ box, where Alex was already seated in a white blouse with the Wilson-Cadiz logo embroidered on the sleeve, the collar casually open to reveal the elegant line of her neck and collarbones. Her legs were crossed beneath tailored trousers, poised without even trying. Her hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, and a pair of dark sunglasses framed her face.
And then the camera widened, landing on the rest of their box.
Seated beside her were their parents. Miguel Cadiz, tanned and broad-shouldered, his smile easy and his energy unmistakably warm. While the others in the box looked composed and refined, he radiated something lighter. He looked like the kind of man who offered high-fives to ball kids and snuck extra snacks into his coat.
Beside him sat Amelia Wilson.
“Damn,” Coach Dani muttered with a half-smile. “Wilson sure doesn’t age. She looks like she could be out there winning titles herself.”
Maddie leaned in, whispering, “That’s genetics I wouldn’t mind borrowing.”
She looked exactly how a tennis legendshouldlook. She wore a navy flowy and open but formal dress, her posture impossibly straight, her expression cool but warm at the edges. I grew up watching her on replays; her one-handed backhand was iconic, her pressers ice-cold, and her game wastheblueprint.
“Here we go,” Coach Dani said. “Let’s see if Archer can bring it home.”
It was a brutal high-level match. Rallies that twisted and stretched for twenty, thirty shots. Harris played with grit and fearlessness, throwing everything he had at Archer, but Archer was locked in.
By the end of the third set, Archer was ahead, two sets to one, and the match hung in a balance. The fourth set stretched on, both players locked in, holding serve, refusing to give an inch. The lounge had gone completely still. Even the staff had drifted to the doorway, eyes glued to the screen.
The scoreboard flashed: 6–4, 3–6, 7–6, 6–5. In favor of Archer Cadiz.
The camera cut to Archer’s face, calm, focused, every bit the Cadiz composure. He bounced the ball once, twice, then sent a serve rocketing straight down the middle. Harris barely moved.
An ace.
Game, set, and match: Cadiz.
Archer fell to his knees on Centre Court, eyes wide, then pressed both palms to the grass in quiet disbelief. Across the screen, Alex was already on her feet, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, clapping and beaming like she was the one who just won.
“Back-to-back Wimbledon Grand Slams,” Dani said, shaking her head with a grin. “That boy’s a beast.”
I chuckled under my breath, still watching the screen.
“Okay,” Maddie said, popping a strawberry into her mouth, “Don’t forget we’ve got a Champions’ Dinner to attend. And you, our reigning queen, will be dancing with Mr. Golden Boy over there.”
“Do we really need to dance?” My stomach is doing an immediate somersault.
Maddie wiggled her brows. “You know it’s tradition, Liv. Women’s champ dances with the men’s champ. It’s already Wimbledon lore.”
Coach Dani laughed. “Just don’t step on his foot. Man just won the tournament.”
“Great,” I said, sinking deeper into the couch. “No pressure or anything.”
“You’ll be fine,” Maddie grinned. “You already survived one final. What’s one dance with tennis royalty?”
I tried to play it cool, “I mean… I just don’t want to embarrass myself out there.”
Maddie smirked. “Relax, Liv. It’s your first Wimbledon Champions’ Dinner; you’ve earned this. Nobody cares if you trip over a hem or hold the fork wrong.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help wondering how the night was going to go.
CHAPTER 5
ALEXANDRA
