She's back ~ L. Hamilton

93. | She's Back

ℝ𝕚𝕔𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕠 𝕍𝕤 𝕋𝕙𝕪𝕞𝕖
𝕎𝕚𝕞𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕕𝕠𝕟 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟛
𝔽𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕝

I am standing at centre court. The grass, which just three short weeks ago was a lively green, is now pale and bone dry.

I breath in deep and take in the distinct and glorious sight of the Wimbledon final court.

I hold back the smile on my face.

Thyme is standing on the opposite side of the net, fixing her sweatband. Her long black shines in the sun; her long limbs hover delicately at the baseline.

She smiles at me. It's not so much a friendly gesture as a baring of teeth.

I adjust my necklace. The now famous R logo that I never take off, the one that Daniel has tattooed on his hand, I close my eyes.

Then I toss the ball into the air and open up the court with a flat first serve that fires right over the net, wide to her backhand.

We rally for the point until I hit a slice that she can't return.

First point mine.

I look up to the stands at Daniel and Marge. This time their caps simply had my face on them, and they were wearing proper clothes, after they had gotten into trouble for their shirts after the last game because it didn't match the dress code.

And then I look left, over into the royal box, I see Princess Kathrine, Dutchess of Wales.

Once my eye lands on her, it is hard to look away. She is wearing a pale yellow dress and blazer, and she is, as always, the most elegant woman I've ever seen.

I know that so many people across the world feel a kinship with her. But right now, mine feels especially sharp. I want to win, today, with her here. I want to say to her, They can't make us go away just because they are done with us.

I refocus as I set for my next serve.

I take a breath. Before I even know what I am doing, my left arm tosses the ball as my right arm comes up to meet it.

The ball goes screaming past Thyme's racket and bounces just inside the sideline. An ace.

I don't bother to smile at Thyme, to even give her the satisfaction of my satisfaction. I show nothing, as it this is nothing.

Beating her is nothing to me.

But the truth is, I can feel the hum beginning in my bones.

I take the set.

At the end of the second set, we go to a tiebreaker.

The championship and the record are in the palm of my hand.

But I can feel myself tightening up as victory gets closer; the hum starts to fade into the background.

Thyme takes the tiebreaker.

Third set, 5-4. I'm up, but it's Charlie's serve next.

For a moment, as Thyme begins her toss, I have this flash of wanting it all to be over, wanting to see how it all ends.

Will I do it?

If I win, do I feel at peace knowing Nicki and I are tied again?

Does elation run through me as I look around and understand that at age thirty-seven, I am now the oldest woman to ever win Wimbledon?