I blinked hard, breathing through the weight of it all.
Then I leaned forward, elbows braced on my knees, hands resting just beneath the curve of my bump.
“Come on, love,” I whispered under my breath. “Show them.”
And with the very first point, he did.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Jordan
There was always a split second,right before I walked out, where the world held its breath.
Where the tunnel thudded like a heartbeat. Where I could hear the squeak of rubber soles ahead of me, the thrum of applause waiting on the other side of the gate.
It was a moment I used to crave, used to live for. But this time, it wasn’t nerves I felt. Not even adrenaline. It was something else. Something heavier. I clenched my jaw and closed my eyes. I took one deep breath.
Let’s go. Let’s give ’em a show.
And then the roar hit.
I stepped into the light.
The sun slammed into me like a spotlight, baking down across the court. A stadium full of strangers was on its feet, clapping, shouting, chanting. For me. For the comeback.
And all I could think was,where is she?
Every match started the same way now. Not with the warmup or the coin toss. With her. It was my ritual that once I found her, I could breathe again. It was stupid, maybe—but it worked.
She was there beside Chris and Maggie, my parents just a rowbehind. The blue dress skimmed over her bump, sunlight catching in her hair. When her hand drifted to her stomach, I felt the breath catch in my throat.
Because I remembered her sitting in the Wimbledon stands, quiet and alone in the early days. Watching me lose in America, silently carrying something inside her I hadn’t even known about. I remembered the hurt in her voice when she said she wasn’t sure I wanted any of this.
Now she was here. Wearing my ring. Carrying my child. Still showing up, still choosing me even when she’d had every reason not to.
I felt the air shift around me, bringing me back to the reason I was here. The grip of my racket, the bounce under my shoes, it all came flooding back.
But this time, I wasn’t playing for redemption. I was playing for her. For us. For that little life she was holding under her palm. I nodded once, eyes locked on hers. Gave her a wink. Then turned, racket in hand, and stepped to the baseline.
The first point felt like electricity.
Ace.
Down the T.
Clean.
The familiarity in the sound of the ball hitting the service box, the way it sang, sent something sharp right down my spine.
The crowd roared, but I barely heard them.
Because I was already lining up the next one.
I didn’t look up at her again right away. I knew if I did, I might fall apart.
Instead, I sank into the rhythm. Serves. Rallies. Footwork. Reset.
The heat rolled off the court in waves, the sun bouncing off the surface like it wanted to burn us both alive. I was staring down Tyler Reed yet again. He was younger, fast, left-handed, and relentless. But I was sharper. Quicker. I’d lived this. Every movement, every strike, I felt it down to my bones. I was back.
