I clutched the rail tighter, blinking through another squeeze that built like a slow wave before it peaked, and then ebbed away.
No one noticed.
Everyone was too focused on the court.
Third set.
Jordan was in his element now, dominating baseline rallies, chasing down impossible balls, hitting angles that had the commentators roaring.
He clenched his fist and shouted after a break, turning to Chris with a nod.
I could barely hear it. I was gripping the rail now, my breathing measured and shallow.
Maggie reappeared just as the set ended.
“Okay.” She leaned in, her voice urgent but steady. “Car’s ready. Medics are prepped at the side gate.”
I barely nodded. Another contraction hit sharp and all-encompassing. My face must’ve betrayed me this time, because I winced, hand clenching into the fold of my dress. But I managed not to make a sound.
Jordan’s head turned sharply toward me. I tried to compose myself, but his expression changed instantly.
He knew.
He knew something was wrong.
Fourth and final set.
I tried to watch, really watch, but the pain was distracting now. The rhythm of contractions was coming faster. Harder. Still around twenty minutes apart, but my body was gearing up. Ready or not.
He served for the match.
Match point.
I heard the crowd hold their breath, as I did, and then explode as he landed the final shot.
He’d won.
Jordan threw his arms into the air, spinning to look at Chris, fists clenched in triumph. The court erupted. Reporters swarmed the baseline.
I couldn’t stop it now.
I let out a low, involuntary gasp. The pain was getting too much. That was the one I couldn’t hide.
Maggie sprang into action.
“That’s it,” she said firmly, leaning down to Chris. “You’ve got ten minutes to get him off court. She’s in labour.”
Chris turned around, caught sight of me, and went sheet-white.
“Oh shit.”
Down on court, Jordan grinned wide as a mic was shoved into his face.
“Jordan Taylor, you’ve just won the Rome Masters, how does it feel?”
Before he could answer, a loud whistle cut through the stadium.
“Oi, Jordo! Make it quick, your missus is in labour!” boomed Chris’s unmistakable Aussie drawl.
