The All England Club had RSVP’d us as a family, which apparently translated to:no, Alex, you don’t get a choice not to come. Mom declared me a “full gremlin” when she caught me on the carpet in sweatpants earlier, and by the time she finished lecturing me about eye contact and posture, I was in a dress I didn’t pick, headed to a dinner I didn’t want, with Dad on deck as my “human shield.”
So now here we are, sweeping into the venue like we’d rehearsed it. I stepped into the venue beside my parents and a step behind Archer, who was already being swept into a conversation with the men’s doubles champions.
I nodded politely to a few former players I recognized. Even shared a quick exchange with the doubles winner I’d hit with before.
Somewhere behind me, my parents were swept into conversation. I turned to say something, then stopped. Just like that, I was standing on my own, the noise carrying on without me, the room still moving while I stayed fixed in place.
I let my gaze drift, not really landing on anything. I shifted my weight, adjusted my grip on nothing in particular, doing that familiar thing where I tried to take up less space. If I stayed still enough, maybe no one would expect anything from me. Social energy was a finite resource, and I’d already spent most of it just showing up.
Just as I turned toward the drinks table, Mom sidled up beside me, her champagne glass delicately balanced in one hand.
“Oh,” she said with an unmistakable edge of teasing, “I think your friend just arrived.”
“You know I don’t have any friends on the tour.” I glanced at her, suspicious.
She simply raised her brows and tilted her head toward the entrance.
I followed her gaze, and there was Olivia Smythe.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. The red dress hugged her like it had been designed with only her in mind, catching the light every time she moved. Her hair framed her face in soft waves, her skin still holding that post-Wimbledon glow, like victory hadn’t drained her but made her untouchable. She wasn’t just beautiful, she was devastating, the kind of beautiful that made the whole ballroom tilt toward her without her even trying.
My stomach did a weird turn. Fantastic.
“Mom, she’s not my friend,” I muttered under my breath.
“Oh?” she said, arching a brow. “That’s strange, because I’m pretty sure I saw a clip of you fist-pumping in the stands like her personal hype squad during the final.”
“Not you too!” I dropped my head into my hands.
“Maybe you should try congratulating her,” Mom said with a teasing lilt in her voice. “I think she’d love to meet her bench cheerleader.”
She clinked her glass lightly against mine before walking away, clearly pleased with herself.
Oh, please, I want to go home now.
I lingered at the table for about 5 minutes, swirling the wine in my glass. Then the music softened, and the lights in the ballroom shifted to a golden hue. A gentle voice hummed through the speakers:
“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats as we begin the evening’s program.”
Ushers began moving through the crowd, gesturing people toward their assigned tables. I followed, weaving through clusters of tuxedos and gowns until I slipped into the empty chair beside Mom.
The emcee’s voice carried across the room, smooth and practiced.
“Tonight, we celebrate the champions of Wimbledon, your men’s and women’s singles, doubles, mixed doubles, juniors, and wheelchair athletes. Each one of them embodies excellence, discipline, and heart.”
Polite applause echoed through the hall. I clapped along, though my focus wandered. It was hard not to admire the lineup of winners around the room. All earned. I knew that better than most.
Then came the part everyone was waiting for.
“And now, please welcome your Gentlemen’s Singles Champion, Archer Cadiz, and your Ladies’ Singles Champion, Olivia Smythe.”
Archer and Olivia are stepping into the spotlight.
Olivia’s dress shimmered under the lights. Archer offered his hand with a dramatic little bow, and she took it with a graceful smile. The music shifted into a soft waltz. They began to dance.
It was all... very charming. The golden boy and Wimbledon’s newest queen. The crowd was eating it up.
I took a long sip of wine. Honestly, I would’ve much rather been back in my hotel room, hair up, hoodie on, watching bad reality TV or reading a fantasy novel I’d never finish.
