OLIVIA
“Again,” Coach Dani called out, her voice cutting through the summer heat like a whistle.
I exhaled, adjusted my grip, and tossed the ball. The serve came off clean and fast. Coach didn’t even nod. That meant it was good, but not perfect.
“Olivia, you’re world number two, not some junior on court four. You want to win this grand slam? That second bounce needs to be on the line. Let’s go.”
She was right. I wanted Wimbledon more than anything, and being number two in the world just meant the pressure was heavier now. Every practice had to matter.
I grabbed another ball, wiped the sweat from my brow, and served again, this time sharper, with more bite.
“Better,” Coach Dani said, finally nodding. “But remember, this isn’t clay. Don’t overspin it.”
We drilled for another hour. Backhands on the run, transition volleys, a brutal set of crosscourt rallies that left my lungs burning. Even with two rounds of Wimbledon already behind me, there was no easing up.
Two Grand Slam titles, and somehow it still felt like I had to prove myself. Maybe that’s what happens when you turn pro at seventeen, when you tear through juniors with every title you can carry and the world starts calling youthe next big thingbefore you’ve even finished growing up. Expectations become oxygen. Every win just resets the bar higher.
Coach Daniella knew that better than anyone. She was once world number one herself, a cold-blooded killer on court. She took me on and now, years later, we’ve built something stronger than headlines or rankings.
“You’re peaking at the right time,” She said, walking over.
I collapsed onto a bench, water bottle pressed against my cheek.
“But don’t get sloppy. The top seed’s got a point to prove, and you’re not a surprise anymore, Olivia. You’re the threat.”
I gave her a tired smile, peeled off my wristband, and grabbed my towel, ready to head back to the locker room.
I spotted the small crowd waiting just beyond the fence, camera crews, reporters, and a few local kids holding up Sharpies and tennis balls with hopeful eyes.
Dani caught my hesitation and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll stay and pack up the gear. Go play sweetheart of the tour for ten minutes.”
I laughed under my breath. “Ten minutes? You’re generous today.”
She rolled her eyes but gave me a half-smile. “Media love you, Liv. Use it.”
I slung my towel over my shoulder and made my way over. A ripple of excitement moved through the kids when I was close to the fence. Phones came up, tennis balls and visors were pushed forward.
“Can you sign this, Olivia?”
“Selfie, please?”
I smiled, taking my time with each one, scrawling signatures, leaning in for quick photos, crouching down to chat with the youngest ones. A shy girl in the back hesitated, clutching a cap to her chest until I waved her over. She handed it to me with trembling hands, and I signed carefully before giving her a wink.
Turning back toward the court, I saw Coach Dani and my team getting my stuff out. She looked up just as I returned, her expression unreadable, as always.
“Good?” she asked.
I nodded. “Good.”
She handed me a fresh towel and motioned toward the locker room. “Ice that shoulder. And maybe don’t charm the press so much; they’ll start thinking you’re not human.” She said with a grin.
“Too late. Half of them already have me penciled in to win this thing.” I laughed, tucking the towel over my shoulder as I walked into the locker room.
•••••
“Did you hear Alexandra might be out until the US Open?”
I was two seconds away from collapsing on the bed when Maddie, my manager, burst into my hotel room like she was delivering breaking news to the BBC.
