I laughed, shaking my head. “No, not yet. We want to be careful. The media will have a field day the second they catch wind of us. Right now… this is ours.”
Maddie’s tone softened, but I could still hear her manager-brain ticking away. “Good. That’s the right call.We’ll control the narrative when the time comes, not let them run wild with it. I’ll keep eyes on socials, make sure nothing leaks before you’re ready. You just focus on tennis and her.”
Her. The word sat warm and solid in my chest.
I let myself relax for the first time in days, feeling the tension in my shoulders melt. For now, it was just me and Alex, just us and the quiet warmth of being together. Nothing else mattered.
When I hung up, I walked into the living room. The telly was on low, football highlights rolling across the screen, Dad’s idea of background noise. He’d just set a mug of tea by Nan’s elbow when he caught me with that twinkle in his eye.
He folded his arms, leaning back in his chair with mock seriousness. “You know, Bianca tells me things.” His brows lifted in that way that meant he was about to enjoy this far too much. “Care to explain about the thing with Alexandra Cadiz?”
I groaned, dropping onto the arm of the sofa. “Of course she told you. She can’t keep anything to herself.”
I pressed my lips together, trying to swallow the heat climbing up my neck, then finally exhaled. “We are… dating.”
Nan’s knitting needles froze mid-click, suspended in the air like she’d caught a particularly good plot twist. Dad’s grin widened though he tried, very poorly, to reel it in.
“It’s new,” I added quickly, words tumbling over each other. “And we’re keeping it private. For now. The media would turn it into whatever story sells best. And I want this to just… be ours first. Just ours.”
Dad’s expression softened, his eyes flicking briefly back to the TV before settling on me with that quietly perceptive look he saves for moments that actually matter.
“That sounds smart to me,” he said, voice low, thoughtful. “You don’t owe the world an explanation before you’re ready.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Not everything has to be a headline. Some things… the good things… deserve to stay close for a bit.”
Nan reached for my hand, squeezing gently. “If she makes you happy, that’s what matters. Don’t let anyone take that away from you.”
I swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in my eyes. “She does. She makes me feel… me. Not just the player, but me.”
Nan smiled, a little wistful now. “Your mum would’ve liked her, you know.”
My throat tightened. “You think so?”
“Oh, I don’t think. I know.” Nan said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “She would’ve been proud you chose someone who makes you light up the way you just did talking about her.”
Dad chuckled under his breath. “And she’d have warned Alex that no one takes better penalties in the garden than you, even when you’re wearing sandals.”
Nan gave my hand another squeeze, then picked her knitting back up as if nothing earth-shaking had just been said. “Now, go on and grab a biscuit before your father eats them all.”
That made me grin, because it was exactly the sort of thing Mum would’ve said to end a heart-to-heart.
ALEXANDRA
After weeks of racing, I finally got my first ever Championship Finals win in Triathlon. The T100 Finals podium felt surreal, one of those “don’t pinch me, I’ve earned this” moments. Singapore gold, San Francisco bronze, London silver, Australia gold, Dubai silver, and now the crown jewel: Qatar, where I crossed the line drenched in adrenaline and disbelief and won gold with absolute grit.
But even with the medal weighing warm against my chest and the trophy solid in my hands, my mind was already somewhere else. Or rather on someone else.
Her.
She’d been showing up to my races lately, slipping into crowds where she didn’t think I’d spot her. Her next tennis tournament wasn’t until January, which meant she finally had a rare month off. A break from the grind. She could have spent it in London with her family, or flown anywhere in the world to disappear for a bit, but instead she was here. Watching me.
And there she was, waiting just beyond the cameras, doing her best impression of someone casually supporting the sport, when really her eyes gave her away. They were saying exactly what I needed to hear:You did it, idiot.
The thing about the T100 series was that it loved me. World Triathlon Championship Series, on the other hand, loved humbling me. Always inside Top ten, decent, fine, whatever, you don’t exactly frame a “Congratulations on 8th place” certificate. Luckily, Olivia had made sulking into something almost…fun.
Dinner with her after races became our ritual. Sometimes it was post-podium champagne in paper cups. Sometimes it was sneaking into a ramen shop where she’d steal half my egg because mine looks better.
And once, in Madrid, it was us hiding behind a potted plant while Maddie hissed, “For God’s sake, can you twonotlook like you’re on a date in public?” Spoiler: we could not.
Because here’s the problem: Twitter threads asking why Britain’s golden girl of tennis was suddenly a triathlon fan.
