Reporters laughed as he joked about British weather, his pre-match obsession with sour candy, and his inability to cook pasta without burning the water.
Then someone asked about me.
“My sister?” he said, with a proud smile. “Yeah, Alex is tough. She’s got more fight in her pinky finger than most of us do in our whole bodies. I told her I’m playing this one for her. She’s probably somewhere rolling her eyes at me for saying that, but yeah, she’s watching. And she’ll be back. Just wait.”
I smiled faintly, my heart warm and heavy all at once.
I kept scrolling.
The next clip was from earlier today, Olivia Smythe stepping off the court after her training session. Hair in a ponytail braid, white towel around her shoulders, signature smile softening her serious post-practice glow.
Olivia Smythe. Britain’s golden girl and the kind of player who makes the sport look unfair. Once she turned pro, she never once stumbled, just kept collecting titles, magazine covers, and hearts like it was her part-time job.
The crowds adore her and even the ball kids look starstruck when she smiles at them. Who can blame them? She’s got this easy charm that makes you forget she’s probably planning her next straight-sets demolition.
In the video, Olivia answered questions with the same confidence she had always shown, laughing softly and brushing strands of hair behind her ear. Her voice was charming and thoughtful, carrying that English accent I love hearing.
I stared at the screen longer than I meant to. Longer than I should’ve. Because even now, after all these years, after tournaments and injuries and everything I’d built myself into, one look at her and I was right back where it started.
I’d been carrying a crush on Olivia Smythe since we were nine years old.
That summer, she was just a tiny kid with an oversized sun visor and two ponytails, running drills at Mom’s tennis academy in Brisbane. I wasn’t playing tennis then; I was cycling and tagging along with my dad and his friends while Archie trained in tennis with Mom.
I remember it like a snapshot. I was so bored that I climbed a tree near court three, trying to spy on my brother's drills from a higher view. But then, naturally, I got stuck.
I panicked. Of course I did. My foot was wedged, and I was too scared to jump. The coaches were too far away, and Archie was too locked into training to notice.
And then she showed up.
Little Olivia, clutching a banana and a water bottle, looked up at me like I was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever seen.
“You need help?” she asked, tilting her head just a little, her accent wrapping around the words in that annoyingly cute way that makes it impossible for me to say no.
I nodded, humiliated and desperate.
She dropped her snack, climbed the fence next to the tree, and helped me find a foothold to get down. She wasn’t strong, but she was clever.
When I finally landed on the ground, she dusted the leaves off her shorts and smiled like it was no big deal.
From that moment on, I couldn’t stop watching her.
She trained with a kind of joy I’d never seen before. She wasn’t the loudest, the fastest, or even the strongest at first, but she was focused. She was in love with tennis. And soon, I was too. Or maybe I was just in love with the way she loved it.
When we were twelve, her family left Australia and went back to Berkshire. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. One day, she was on court five hitting forehands; the next day, she was gone.
That was the summer I picked up a racquet. I convinced my mom I wanted to play tennis too. She agreed, and I started training with her, slowly learning the game from the bottom of the junior ranks. At the same time, I was still competing and racing in triathlons with Dad, alongside my best friend Cassandra, one of his international athletes.
Balancing both was brutal. And yet, while I stumbled through the basics of tennis with Mom, I was peaking in triathlon and winning races, collecting medals, andstanding on podiums. By all logic, that should’ve been enough.
Triathlon had been my home, but I wanted to chase Olivia, so I left triathlon behind, and I chose to focus on my tennis.
I thought maybe if I played long enough, if I got good enough, I’d see her again.
And now I do. All the time. On posters. In interviews. In the court. But I don’t think she remembers me.
To her, I’m just another name in the draw. But to me, she’s still the girl who got me down from a tree and gave me a reason to climb up.
CHAPTER 2
