𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 | 𝐋𝐍𝟒

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈

12th July- Wimbledon
The night before the finals

The streets around the All England Club were unusually still, the summer evening casting soft shadows along the ivy-covered buildings. A short walk from the stadium, was a small, elegant restaurant — just far enough to give the customers some privacy, yet close enough that the energy of Wimbledon still present.

Inside, at a round table nestled near the windows, Milaine sat surrounded by her closest people. No cameras, no press, just laughter, warmth, and the quiet hum of cutlery and clinking glasses.

Her mom was there, Next to Milaine sat Denis — her little brother, though tonight he was her biggest cheerleader. His hand hadn't left hers since they sat down, fingers wrapped tightly around hers, like if he held on tightly enough, he could carry some of the pressure for her.

«You're gonna win this, Milly» Denis said for what felt like the tenth time that night. His voice was soft, but sure. «You are. I just know it.»

She smiled, the kind that made her eyes almost close, her genuine smile, her thumb brushing his hand gently. «You're gonna jinx me, you know.»

«Impossible» he replied. «You're unjinxable.»

Across the table, Carlos Alcaraz grinned, his curls slightly damp from his earlier match. He'd just come off a hard five-set semifinal win and should have been tired, but instead he looked energised — eyes dancing with excitement, maybe for the final ahead, or maybe for the relaxed moment they were sharing.

Aryna Sabalenka was next to him, a cocktail already in hand. She was still in her player's hoodie, blonde hair tied up, laughing loudly at something Milaine had said. She'd lost to Milaine in the semi-final just the day before, but there wasn't a single note of tension between them — only friendship..

«You still owe me for emotional damage» Aryna announced, poking Milaine with her straw. «That tiebreak ruined my will to live. You win tomorrow? You're covering my drinks in Saint-Tropez for the whole week.»

Milaine chuckled. «I can do that»

«Good, And i will be the life of the party» Aryna smirked.

They'd all been talking about it — this trip to Saint-Tropez, their little escape after Wimbledon. Milaine and Carlos had made a pact: if they both won their finals, they'd pay the entire bill..

Carlos raised his glass — just sparkling water, but with a dramatic gesture. «To future Wimbledon trophys and cocktails in Saint-tropez»

Milaine clinked her glass against his. «To me winning and you choking.»

«Rude» Carlos muttered.

They all laughed.

Milaine leaned back, a plate of seabass half-finished in front of her, wine untouched. She didn't need her team right now. She didn't need to talk tactics or visualize anything. This was enough. Being here. With them.

She could feel the weight of the final tomorrow, of Centre Court, of Emma Raducanu waiting on the other side of the net — the hometown hero, the darling of British tennis.

Milaine respected her deeply. Loved her game. Knew how hungry Emma was to win on home soil. But Milaine was hungry too. Not out of desperation. Not even out of revenge for Rome. Just... readiness. This time felt different.

«Milly» Denis whispered, tugging her hand slightly, his eyes wide. «You know you're gonna win, right?»

She looked at him — truly looked — and felt something settle deep inside her chest. «Yeah» she said quietly. «I think I do.»