From across the court, one of the boys, Luca, pointed at us with a grin way too cheeky for a nine-year-old.
“See? I told you she has a crush on Coach Olivia!” he blurted. “I saw her watching one of Olivia’s matches on her laptop in the lounge. She had her earbuds in and was smiling the whole time!”
The court went silent for a beat, then exploded into giggling and teasing from the other kids.
Olivia’s eyes widened a fraction, clearly trying to hide a smile.
I scrambled up, dusting off my shorts. “Okay, wow, what a wild story! Very imaginative. You’ve got a future in fiction writing, Luca.”
I was saved by the sharp whistle from Coach Kit, cutting through the chaos like a siren.
“Cadiz! Time’s up. Let’s get to work!”
“Oh, sorry, I should leave now,” I muttered, flashing Olivia a half smile as I jogged backward toward the other side of the court.
As I joined Coach Kit near the baseline, I could still hear the kids giggling behind me. Olivia was laughing too, quietly but clearly.
My heart hadn’t slowed down since the fall.
Trouble. Definitely trouble.
•••••
Coach Kit didn’t hold back.
The warmth and laughter from earlier vanished, replaced by drills, footwork, sprints, and relentlessgroundstroke sequences that had me sweating buckets within the first fifteen minutes.
Cincinnati Open was coming, and there was no room for half steps or distractions, especially ones with bright hazel eyes and a British accent.
By the time we wrapped, I was drenched, shaky, and sore in all the ways that meant we’d actually done something. I thanked Coach Kit, grabbed my gear, and limped.
A long, hot shower helped, but not enough to fight the weight settling into my limbs. Still half-damp, I pulled on a hoodie and shorts, shoved my damp hair into a bun, and grabbed my book off the side table.
Then I walked across the courts until I reached my favorite place in the grounds.
The giant tree in the corner still offered the best kind of shade, even in the heat of the afternoon. Years ago, probably when Olivia left the Academy, I’d strung up a hammock between two sturdy branches and claimed the spot for myself. When I wasn’t hitting or lifting or forcing protein down my throat, I was usually here, resting, reading, or just staring up through the leaves.
I crawled into the hammock, let the fabric cradle me, and cracked open the book on my stomach.
But I didn’t read. Not really.
My eyes drifted toward the court. Olivia and the kids weren’t there anymore, probably finished long before I wrapped up with Coach Kit. The place looked quieter now and stripped of laughter and bouncing balls.
That moment, her breath near mine, the way she looked at me like I wasn’t just Amelia Wilson’s daughter, kept playing in my head on a loop I couldn’t stop.
I shut my eyes and pressed the book tighter against my chest, telling myself it was all in my head. It was probably just my imagination running wild, the result of waiting for this moment for so long.
Eventually, I reached for my phone, the sun warming my legs through the hammock netting as I unlocked the screen. Out of habit, I opened Instagram and started scrolling. Mostly noise, tournament updates, training clips, influencers I didn’t even remember following, everyone curating their lives through filters and hashtags.
Without thinking too hard, my thumbs moved on their own to the search bar.Olivia Smythe.
I had followed her once before, from afar, when admiration and a little obsession collided. But now? Now, after actually talking to her, after standing a few feet apart, laughing, and seeing her smile in a way that felt hers entirely… it felt different. Necessary, even.
This time, I tappedFollow,and waited, heart thumping, for the small confirmation that somehow made it feel like a quiet step closer.
CHAPTER 10
OLIVIA
