My throat tightened as I stared at one photo, Alex mid-laugh, eyes fixed on me like no one else existed in the frame.
I shoved the phone back at Maddie, shaking my head. “It was just lunch.”
She smirked knowingly. “Mm-hm. Tell that to your fan club.”
Then the players emerged from the players’ entrance, game faces on. The camera followed them down the narrow hallway, shadows giving way to the blinding lights of the stadium. The crowd’s roar swelled the moment they stepped into view, a wall of sound that rattled even through the flatscreen.
“Your girl’s looking intense,” Maddie said, leaning forward with a mouthful of popcorn.
“She’s not my—” I started, then gave up, because Alex’s walked onto the court cut me off. Game face on, headphones still on, eyes locked straight ahead.
I noticed her shoulders taped up. I wondered if she’d been pushing too hard lately, maybe ignoring the aches just to make it this far.
Claire, who’d been watching with a quiet intensity, nodded knowingly. “That’s classic overuse,” she said, her voice low. “When you see tape like that, it’s usually about managing inflammation or protecting vulnerable joints.”
Maddie’s eyes narrowing at the screen. “Do you think she’s risking it, pushing through?”
Claire shrugged. “It’s a fine line. At this level, every player knows the risks. But sometimes, that mental toughness can carry them through the pain, until it catches up later.”
The camera panned to her opponent, young and sharp, the kind who would swing for the lines without blinking.
“Bet you twenty bucks she takes it in straight sets,” Maddie said, smirking like she was already counting her winnings.
Claire chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re underestimating the kid. She’s fearless. If Alex doesn’t control the pace, this could get messy.”
“Messy?” Maddie raised a brow. “We’re talking about a Cadiz. The twins thrive in messy.”
I kept my eyes on the screen as Alex bounced on her toes behind the baseline, rolling her shoulders. First serve, clean ace.
The next ball rally stretched longer, the ball whipping side to side, Alex mixing her topspin forehand with killer backhands to push the kid around.
For a while, Alex had everything humming; she’s in control of the match. The crowd roared when she pulled off a sliding backhand pass down the line. I couldn’t help but grin.
She wasn’t just hitting well; she was showing off the full range of her game.
“Oh my God,” Maddie breathed, shaking her head. “Maybe Alex is just a late bloomer, and she’s only now unlocking her tennis superpowers.”
Then the camera cut to Alex between points, hand brushing her shoulder, quick rotation as if loosening it up.
Claire’s voice dropped immediately. “Uh-oh. That’s not just a habit. Watch her follow-through and get a physio for that shoulder.”
My chest tightened. “She’s fine,” I said quickly, though my eyes stayed locked on the screen.
Two games later, she walked over to the chair umpire and gestured for the physio. The stadium fell quiet in that eerie, collective way crowds do when everyone senses something’s gone wrong.
The physio jogged out and dropped to one knee beside her.
Claire leaned forward, analyzing. “They’re checking the shoulder. Could just be precautionary, taping might be loosening, or it’s fatigue.” She glanced at me. “But she’s smart to stop it before it gets worse.”
I crossed my arms, as if holding myself together. “She’ll play through it. She’s stubborn like that.”
When the physio stood and Alex rotated her arm for the crowd, the applause was deafening.
“She’s staying in,” Maddie said with relief.
“Yeah,” Claire replied, “but she’s going to have to mix it up now. More precision and less brute force. She needs to out-think the match now.”
And sure enough, Alex started leaning on her slice serve, dragging her opponent chasing the ball instead of going for outright bombs.
