I nodded, willing myself through a couple of games, telling myself it might just hold. The adrenaline helped, and I kept playing, but each movement sent a sting through my body that I couldn’t ignore. How do you fight when your own body is turning against you?
By the end of the set, I knew. I raised my hand to signal the umpire, my heart sinking. “I… I can’t continue.”
The words felt bitter, like swallowing glass. They flashed across the scoreboard, and the polite applause from the crowd cut sharper than the pain itself. I forced myself upright, shoulders squared, and walked to the net.
My opponent was already there, racquet tucked under her arm, concern softening her usually composed face. She extended her hand, and I took it. “Take care of yourself,” she murmured, and it hit harder than the injury, a reminder of all the matches I still wanted to fight through.
Then came the walk back. Hated packing my bag under the weight of her concerned glance, hated the way every step toward the exit seemed to echo in slow motion.
Back in the tunnel, my team was already waiting. Dani had that measured calm that told me she was thinking three steps ahead, while Claire, my physio, looked like she wanted to drag me straight to the treatment table.
“Sit,” Claire said, motioning to the bench. She didn’t wait for me to argue before gently taking my wrist and rotating it, testing the range.
I winced. “It’s fine—”
“It’s not fine,” Dani cut in, arms crossed. “We’re shutting it down for now. No racquet for at least 3 days.”
“Your wrist is telling you it’s had enough. We need to rest it for the U.S. Open,” Claire, my physio, said, pressing along the joint with careful, precise fingers.
I watched her thumb move in small circles over the swollen spot, the ache flaring under the pressure. It wasn’t pain that made me flinch so much as the confirmation, the silent admission that my body had limits, even when my stubbornness refused to see them.
After Claire massaged the sore points on my wrist, I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over my shoulders until the ache dulled enough to be tolerable.
I flopped onto the hotel bed with my phone, scrolling aimlessly until the screen blurred. Notifications stacked at the top, messages from friends and a couple of tennis players that I’m close with. They all sat there unopened, little red dots waiting for my attention.
But then another one lit up against the gloom of the room. Instagram DM from Alex Cadiz. My stomach did something stupid before my brain even opened it. And without thinking twice, I tapped hers first.
I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t fight my smile.
The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly, and for a second, I wondered if she’d been waiting for me to reply all day.
I snorted softly, thumb hovering before I typed.
Another pause, then her next message blinked onto the screen.
I stared at her last message longer than I should have. My first instinct was to type I’m fine, because that’s the automatic response. But my wrist was still throbbing, and if I were truly fine, I’d still be out there playing.
My chest tightened at that. Alex had always had this way of tossing out concern like it was nothing, light and casual. Like she meant it more than she wanted me to believe.
I stared at the screen, biting down a laugh.
There was a small pause before the typing dots appeared again.
Lunch. One word, and somehow it carried more weight than it should have. I told myself not to overthink it, it was all for a wager after all.
I chewed my lip. I knew how much the next few days would matter for her ranking, for her momentum. But she was still insisting on me.
The typing dots vanished after that, and I just stared at the last message, the quiet between us humming louder than any notification. She made it sound so easy, rearranging her day just to see me, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like I was worth the effort.
The door clicked open without a knock, and Maddie was holding two bottles of coconut water. She kicked it shut behind her with the heel of her trainer, sunglasses still perched on her head even though the sun had long set.
“Brought you hydration and unsolicited opinions,” she said, tossing one onto the bed.
I caught it with my good hand. “Should I be worried?”
“Depends.” She plopped down in the armchair. “One: your wrist needs a break, which means no racquet for three days maximum. Two: You just landed another endorsement. That energy drink company finally sent through the contract.”
My brows lifted. “Seriously?”
