Bobby snorted. “It did, honey.”
I muttered something about hiding in a supply closet until this all blew over, but hey, if there was someone worth accidentally fangirling over on live TV? Yeah. Olivia Smythe was a pretty solid pick.
Archie came into the lounge and burst out laughing the moment he saw me.
He shook his head, still grinning. “Nice to see you so... emotionally invested. Fist pumps? Yelling at a winner? Did someone forget she wasn’t coaching today?”
“Shut up.”
“So,” Bobby went on, “for damage control, quote unquote, because this isn’t even a scandal, it’s just a little... narrative to balance. You might want to go equally feral for your brother tomorrow during the men’s final. Just, you know, to show that you’re just like thatwhen you’re hyped. Fair and equal twin support and all that jazz.”
Archie smirked. “Yeah, wouldn’t want the headlines saying you’ve switched favorites.”
I glared at both of them. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Me? Never,” Bobby said innocently. “I’m just doing my job, which apparently today includes managing your enthusiasm levels.”
I sighed dramatically and flopped back on the couch. “Fine. Tomorrow I’ll cheer so loud the entire Royal Box will hear it.”
“Good,” Archie said with mock pride. “That’s the energy I need.”
Bobby pointed at me. “And wear something with a Wilson-Cadiz logo, please. We don’t need you trending as Olivia Smythe’s secret fangirl again.”
I groaned. “I hate you both.”
CHAPTER 4
OLIVIA
Game, set, and match: Smythe.
That feeling still wasn’t sinking in.
Not even as I stood there on Centre Court holding the trophy, smiling for the cameras while my name was etched into history.
Not even through the on-court interview, or when I was pulled into hugs by what felt like half of the All England Club, or when I sat under the white lights of the press room, answering question after question with that dazed, elated smile frozen on my face.
It wasn’t until after all of it, after the media, the photo ops, the quiet shuffle of my team helping me back into the player’s lounge, that it began to land.
I saw my dad first, seated near the lockers, his eyes red-rimmed, holding my towel like it was a sacred relic. My Nan was beside him, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, looking at me like I’d just handed her the moon.
My dad stood, walked toward me slowly, and pulled me into a hug so tight I could barely breathe.
“You did it, Liv,” he whispered against my hair. “You really did it.”
I nodded into his shoulder. “We did.”
After that, things blurred again: more handshakes, more tears, the scent of roses somewhere in the background, Maddie handing me my spare shoes because my matching pair was headed to the museum, apparently.
The official Wimbledon Champions’ Dinner would have to wait. The men’s final was tomorrow, and tradition said both singles champions would be honored together. I wasn’t complaining; I was exhausted and sore in places I didn’t even know could be sore.
So instead, we kept things simple.
Just my dad, Nan, and the rest of my team in a quiet dinner in the private room of a little bistro. No cameras. No speeches. Just good food, a little wine, and the people who had been with me since day one.
“Feels like we just pulled up to Wimbledon juniors five years ago,” Maddie said, reaching across the table for another slice of bread. “And now look at you. Eating roast chicken like you didn’t just win the most prestigious title in tennis.”
“I earned this chicken,” I mumbled, still chewing, wrapped in my hoodie with damp hair and zero makeup. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been craving without someone monitoring it?”
