O. SMYTHE
4
6
5
40
This is it, just one point separating Olivia and her another Grand Slam Title.
She to serve down along the T and Simova sent the ball long.
Game, set, match: Smythe.
The stadium erupted in cheers. I didn’t even realize I’d stood up until I felt the breeze hit my face. I clapped slowly, watching as Olivia dropped her racket and sank to her knees, overcome with emotion. Her team jumped and shouted from her box. Her dad wiped away tears. Her gran stood tall, clapping proudly.
For a moment, I just watched her, admiring her, respecting her, feeling something real twist in my chest. Then I sat back down, tugged the brim of my hat lower, and let out a quiet breath.
“Well damn, Smythe,” I whispered. “You did it.”
•••••
I slipped out of the front row with the precision of a trained assassin.
I weaved through the rows and ducked behind one of the security barriers near the tunnel, taking a quiet side exit out of the stadium. I wasn’t trying to cause a scene or end up on an LED TV.
The last thing I needed was someone sticking a camera in my face just because I happened to look like the guy playing tomorrow’s final.
By the time I got to Archer’s team lounge, I could already hear familiar voices and the unmistakable sound of someone opening a snack bar with reckless enthusiasm.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Ninja herself,” Bobby called the moment I stepped in, all smugness and grin.
I arched a brow and dropped into the nearest chair. “You know I'm good at it.”
He turned to the rest of the team and said with mock seriousness, “Please, someone get her a medal. For stealth. And drama.”
“What are you even talking about?” I reached for a water bottle, confused.
Bobby grabbed his phone and wiggled it in the air. “You mean to tell me you don’t know you were seen on TV?”
I froze mid-sip. “I—what?”
“Oh yes,” he said, delight practically radiating off of him. He tapped the screen and held it out to me. “Feast your eyes.”
On his phone was a clip of me, clean and devastatingly undeniable. I was on screen, mid-match, yelling with wild enthusiasm, pumping my fist as I’d just won the point myself.
I was fully into it. 100% hyped for Smythe.
A groan escaped me as I covered my face with my hands. “Oh my god.”
Apparently, all it took was an eight-second clip of me fist-pumping and yelling when Olivia hit a winner. One tiny burst of emotion, and now the internet had decided I was officially a fan.
Great. I peeked through my fingers. “This never happened.”
