I won my match because of it. I could see her in the stands, unapologetic and loud and entirely Alex.
The next morning, quarterfinals day, the world tilted forward again. I went through my routine on autopilot: early stretch, light hit, footwork drills just enough to wake my legs without draining them. Told myself to breathe. By the time I walked back onto the same stadium court, heart steady, focus narrowing, I already knew where to look.
There she was again.
Same spot in the stands, same impossible confidence. This time, Alex was holding up a fresh monstrosity of a banner, bigger than the last, hand-painted and unapologetic:
Complete with her own terrible doodle of a crown slapped onto a stick figure version of me. I shook my head, laughter threatening to break through my focus, and for a split second, tennis felt lighter.
I braced myself for whatever she’d unveil next. God only knew what she was planning, but whatever it was, it had me playing freer and looser, like she’d found a way to sneak joy onto the court with me.
And it wasn’t just the banners. No, Alex had apparently committed to a full one-woman romcom marathon. Which was almost the most ridiculous part of all, because Alex Cadiz doesn’t watch romcoms. Ever. And yet here she was, bringing them to life.
A tiny bouquet of roses was left with Maddie in the locker room.
A handwritten note folded into a paper plane that actually landed on my practice court;For luck, she’d scribbled, complete with a doodle of me mid-serve.
It shouldn’t have worked. It was cheesy, maybe even stupid. But knowing she’d sat through movies she didn’t care about, just to figure out how to show up for me like this, knowing she was willing to look ridiculous if it meantmaking me smile, did something to my chest I wasn’t prepared for.
By my semifinal, Alex never missed with the banner. And somehow, that steadied me. If she was out there making a fool of herself for me, then maybe I could survive whatever came next.
And now, here I was.
Olympic final.
My opponent wasn’t just any opponent. Katarina Novak. The woman built like the ball machine itself. A pure baseliner, clay court predator. The kind who didn’t blink, didn’t sweat, didn’tstop. I’d seen her dismantle players, strip them of hope until they looked like tourists holding rackets.
The first set was war. I tried to yank her wide, drag her into the net, but she swatted my plans like flies. At 4–4, I forced myself to breathe, to trust the one thing I had that she didn’t: variety. Slice. Spin. Angles. A drop shot that made the crowd gasp. 6–4, mine.
I wanted to scream in triumph, but Katarina barely flinched. And then she tore through the second set with a brutality that felt personal. She pinned me to the baseline, smothered me, hammered backhands into my body like she was chiseling stone. 6–3, hers.
By the third set, my lungs burned. My calves twitched with every changeover. My thoughts kept splintering,don’t miss, don’t choke, stay in this, for God’s sake, stay in it.
I thought of Alex, too. Somewhere in the crowd, with her banner. I didn’t dare look, but I felt her there, like gravity tugging me upright when everything in me wanted to crumple.
At 5–4, we are deuce. I stood at the baseline, ball in hand. She bounced on her toes like she could go anotherfive hours. My chest was a drum, thumping so loud I thought the umpire might call a let just from the sound.
Toss. Trust. Hit.
The serve flew, not perfect but deep enough. Her return clipped the net, catching the top of it, and floated up just long enough for my body to react before my brain did. I stepped into it and drove the ball hard across the court, sending it clean into the open corner she couldn’t reach.
Championship point.
The stadium held its breath. I tossed again. She lunged for the ball as she stretched every inch of her endless frame, but the ball soared wide past the line, and it was out.
My racket slipped from my hand, and I was running before I knew where.
Straight into my box. Bianca, Nan, Dad, my team, all a blur of hands and tears and laughter. Arms around me, kisses pressed into my hair, everyone shouting something different, none of it really landing because my head was spinning with gold.
Before I could think, I crashed into her too, wrapping her up in the same breathless, bone-deep hug.
I pulled back just enough to breathe. “You again? Don’t you have a life?”
Her grin was lopsided and absolutely hers. “Apparently, it’s following Olympic champions around. Just met one today.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume I want you following me around.”
She murmured, leaning in just enough that I caught the faint warmth of her voice. “I was hoping that maybe, when all this chaos settles… maybe we could… go out?”
