“Which Alex?” I asked, towel still draped around my neck. “You do realize there are at least six of them on tour, right? Half of them I’ve never even met.”
“Cadiz,” Maddie said, sinking into the armchair with her phone.
Oh, Alexandra Wilson-Cadiz. You can’t play tennis without knowing that name. The Wilson-Cadiz family isn’t just famous; they’re basically sporting royalty. Their legacy stretches across disciplines, their trophies could fill a smallmuseum, and their surname alone could make a press room collectively hold its breath.
We’re the same age, twenty-three and already seasoned by the circuit. She and her twin brother, Archer, are both out here on tour. Archer’s already tipped as one of the best of his generation in the men’s, while Alex… well, she’s the one the media can never quite pin down. Too composed to give them what they want. She’s fierce, but not in the headline-making way. She plays like she’s got a secret she’ll never tell.
They’re the children of Amelia Wilson—yes,thatAmelia Wilson. My idol long before I ever dreamed of stepping on a professional court. Dad and I used to stay up past midnight in Berkshire just to watch her matches live. When I was five, I remember turning to him and whispering,I want to be like her.From that night on, he started searching local clubs, junior programs, scholarships, and anything to get me on a court.
Then, somehow, Wilson opened an academy in Brisbane for kids who couldn’t otherwise afford elite training, and I was one of the lucky few from the UK to get in. She didn’t just give me tennis, she gave me the chance to dream.
So when I hear “Wilson-Cadiz,” I think of Amelia; the door she opened brought me here. Their whole family, in a way, is stitched into the fabric of my career.
Maddie’s voice tugged me back. “It’s rough for Alex. People already compare her to Archer nonstop. An injury on top of that? Must be brutal.”
I stayed quiet for a moment, picturing Alexandra the few times I’d seen her at events, hoodie up, headphones on, eyes sharp but far away. Always alone. Always carrying the weight of that last name.
Maddie softened. “That’s whyyouneed to be careful. Shoulders are fragile. One bad strain, and it’s months gone. No matches, no points, no nothing.”
I exhaled, the dull ache in my whole body reminding me she wasn’t wrong.
“Liv,” Maddie said, pointing at me like a coach driving home match point. “Golden girl doesn’t burn herself out. Golden girl rests, ices, and gets ready for tomorrow.”
I gave her a crooked smile. “You make it sound like I’m running myself into the ground.”
“You are,” she shot back without hesitation. “People are already whispering your name like you’re the favorite for this Slam. Do you know how rare that is? You don’t need to chase it any harder; you just need to protect it.”
That landed heavier than I expected. I sank back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. “Feels like someone else will catch up if I stop for even a second.”
“They won’t,” Maddie said firmly. “Not if you’re smart. Let them chase you for once.”
I huffed a laugh, though it caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. Easy for her to say, she wasn’t the one out there with every headline already sharpening its teeth, waiting for me to stumble.
CHAPTER 3
ALEXANDRA
By the time I crawled through Manila traffic and humidity thick enough to chew, I was questioning all my life choices, including coming back at all.
My manager and my Coach had flown in ahead of me, of course. Probably sipping hotel coffee and plotting how to torture me in the clinic tomorrow.
The elevator dinged open, spitting me into a carpeted hallway that smelled faintly of lemon polish and money. I checked the room number my manager had texted and hauled my duffel down the corridor. Before I could even knock, the door yanked open.
“Finally,” Bobby said, leaning on the frame like he’d been waiting all year. “Took you long enough.”
Bobby had been my manager for as long as I’d been playing, though he often acted more like an older brother. He had a way of sweet-talking sponsors in one breath and barking me back in line the next. I trusted him with almost everything, even when he drove me mad.
Inside, Coach Kit looked up from the couch. A former pro turned coach, he was sharp-eyed, steady, and carried the kind of silence that made you sit straighter without realizing it. His plain polo and reading glasses didn’t hide the fact that he could still dismantle your game just bywatching for five minutes. He’d built a reputation for pulling players out of ruts and making them dangerous again, and now, apparently, it was my turn.
He gave me a small nod, then patted the seat beside him.
“You look tired,” he said, not unkindly. “But you’re here. That’s good.”
“You’re being soft today,” I teased lightly.
“Don’t get used to it,” he replied, though there was a ghost of a smile on his face. “You’re still rehabbing your shoulder, not retiring on a beach.”
Bobby plopped down on the other couch, tossing me a wrapped granola bar. “Fuel up. We’re heading into meeting mode soon. Got a bunch of things to run through; your last therapy schedule, some endorsement check-ins, and the potential plan for the next few weeks.”
