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Hearing him say that he wanted me makes my heart swell. I tried hard to convince myself I was doing the noble thing by letting him go, but sitting here now, I realize I might have just been scared of needing someone that much.

I reach out, finally closing the small gap between us and resting my hand on his charcoal sleeve. “I’m here now, Max,” I say, my voice steady even as my heart hammers against my ribs. “I’m done pretending this doesn’t matter to me. And I’d like us to give this a real chance.”

Max closes his eyes for a second, as if he’s been waiting weeks to hear those words. The tension in his shoulders gives way to a look of relief. He covers my hand with his. His palm is warm and solid, anchoring me to the bench, to the moment, to him.

“Katie,” he whispers, a lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to ask. I want this too.”

The knot I’ve been carrying since the airport in Orlando finally begins to unravel.

There’s a beat before he continues. “But we’re going to have to figure it out, yeah?”

I lean my head onto his shoulder as he squeezes my hand. Together, we watch the sunlight shift across the ancient stone, simply enjoying the moment.

Because tomorrow . . . everything gets harder.

Twenty-Two

The following morning, my alarm blares at five-thirty a.m. It’s later than I used to wake up in Florida and should feel like a luxury. Should being the key word. I’ve been here a few days and my internal clock is refusing to cooperate with this new time zone.

As I roll over and out of bed, my every muscle below my waist aches. I’ll be waddling my way to practice. Scratch that. Crawling sounds more realistic.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hide from the morning for just another minute. Instead, my mind drifts back to yesterday. To the dappled sunlight filtering through the ruins, the steady warmth of Max’s hand covering mine, the lingering saltiness of the almonds, and the Lord of the Rings soundtrack drifting from his phone.

Then my second alarm screeches, completely shattering the memory.

My eyes open. It’s 5:40. I have to move if I want any hope of the hot water shock-starting my muscles into cooperation. Practice starts at 7:00 a.m. on the dot. I can’t be late on day two.

Unfortunately, luck is not on my side.

“You’re late,” Drew says, not looking up from his clipboard as I gingerly make my way onto court two at 7:03.

“I’m sorry,” I pant, dropping my bag with a heavy thud. “I thought I’d allowed enough time. The District Line was⁠—”

“Save the explanation. We’re already behind.” He finally looks at me. “Since you haven’t warmed up yet, we’ll start with your conditioning assessment. You’ll complete a shuttle run. Baseline to net. Sideline to sideline. Thirty seconds on, thirty off. Ten reps.”

Running on these legs? My stomach sinks. Then I spot the clipboard and realize that this isn’t a punishment. It was probably always the plan. I’d known a conditioning assessment was coming. I’d just hoped it wouldn’t be first thing this morning.

“Ready?” Drew asks.

I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod.

I asked for this. London isn’t a vacation. It’s work. I’m here to be hammered into a better player. No matter what.

“Go,” he says, clicking his stopwatch.

The first three reps are a blur of pain. Every time I plant my foot at the baseline to pivot toward the net, a sharp, white-hot pull radiates through my glutes. I keep my mouth shut. Complaining won’t make the next rep any easier.

This isn’t just a conditioning test. It’s Drew seeing how I respond when everything hurts.

“Time,” he calls out after the tenth rep. “Grab a drink.” He waits until I take two quick gulps before he continues. “Head to the baseline. We’re moving straight to hitting drills. Consider this a simulation of how you’ll feel in a third-set tiebreak.”

If only he knew.

Coral Bay feels like another lifetime ago. Only two weeks ago, every match felt like a verdict on whether I belonged out here. Now, for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m fighting alone. I have a team in my corner.

Adala and Drew may not shower me with compliments, but every drill, every correction, and every impossible standard they are holding me to tells me the same thing—they believe I’m capable of more than I’ve shown them.

I grab my racquet and force myself to take deep, measured breaths, trying to settle the fire in my lungs. My hands are shaking slightly, but I tighten my grip, blinking away the sweat stinging my eyes.