“Can’t wait,” I said dryly, but peeled the wrapper anyway.
Coach Kit leaned back and studied me for a moment. “One step at a time, Alex. You don’t have to solve everything tonight. And remember, after an injury break, you’re still inside the top 100. Rank 42, if I’m not mistaken. It means the foundation’s still there. We just have to build on it.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “Just feels like I have a lot to catch up on.”
Bobby clapped his hands. “Well, lucky for you, we make a great catch-up team. You’re not alone in this.”
I nodded. It was easy to forget, sometimes, in the quiet stretches of pain and doubt, that I didn’t have to carry everything myself. I need to remind myself that I have an amazing team with me, though some of them I had to put on vacation mode for now.
Bobby leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, so here’s the gist of it, no pressure, just clarity. Tonight’s your last scheduled rehab session at the clinic. After that, we’ll give you a proper reassessment tomorrow.”
Coach Kit chimed in, “Depending on how things look, we’ll decide if you’re cleared to pick up the racquet again or if we need more time. And when you’re ready, we’ll slowly get you back on court. Controlled drills. Light footwork. We won’t rush this.”
I let it all sink in, the pacing, the caution. It wasn’t flashy. But it was a plan.
“And after tomorrow?” I asked.
“If recovery stays on track,” Coach Kit said, “we’ll aim for a return by the US Open. That’s our soft target, not set in stone. No one’s expecting you to light up a Slam right after injury. You focus on healing, the rest will follow.”
I frowned. “Wait, hold on. Are you saying I’m going straight into the US Open? No warm-up tournament? No tune-up before a Slam?”
Coach Kit chuckled. “Relax, Lex. We’re not dropping you in cold. If your shoulder looks good, we’ll test it in Cincinnati Open. If it holds, great. If not, we pull back.”
I leaned back on the couch, feigning disbelief. “So you two are planning my comeback tour without even asking if I remember how to hold a racquet?”
Coach Kit raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
I smirked. “Only if it comes with an ice pack.”
Coach Kit chuckled and shook his head. “Smart mouth’s working just fine. That’s a good sign.”
Bobby grinned, tapping something into his tablet. “We’ll finalize everything after tomorrow’s reassessment. For now, tonight’s rehab is the last big one, then check-ups in the afternoon. If all looks good, we map out the nextstep. And maybe, if you behave, I’ll sneak you a smoothie that doesn’t taste like punishment.”
I snorted. “You spoil me.”
“One step at a time, Lex. You don’t have to race the clock. Just meet the moment when it comes.” Coach Kit pushed to his feet, stretching his back with a quiet groan.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the weight of their words settle. The rest of my team would be here tomorrow, grinding with me, helping pick up the pieces.
•••••
The last rehab session had gone better than expected. Strength was creeping back into my arm, steadier with every controlled rep, and my shoulder wasn’t barking at me anymore when I reached or stretched.
The good news? Tonight’s session was enough for Bobby and Coach Kit to clear me for reassessment in London. My specialist there would have the final word, but at least I was moving forward.
And London meant one more thing. Wimbledon.
I’d been following every match from the sidelines, the draw unfolding round by round, and now it had come down to the dream final.
Simova vs. Smythe. World No. 1 vs. World No. 2.
It was the kind of matchup you dream of. A clash of titans, both in peak form and both with everything to prove. I’d watched Olivia Smythe for years; her game was surgical, all precision and discipline, like she mapped out every point ten moves ahead.
Now, she was chasing her first Wimbledon title. If she pulled it off, it would be historic, not just a personal milestone, but a win for her country.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Coach Kit had said in the car, raising a brow at me.
“I’m supporting women’s tennis,” I’d answered innocently.
