𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 | 𝐋𝐍𝟒

𝐗𝐋𝐈𝐕

US Open – Practice Courts, New York City
Friday Evening – 29th august

•••••

The golden hour draped the court in warm hues, casting long shadows as the sun dipped low behind the city skyline. The hardcourt was nearly empty, save for the muted rhythm of a ball being struck, again and again.

Milaine's footwork was sharp, her breath steady, yet there was a tension in her shoulders that hadn't eased since the start of the session. Willem, standing just behind the baseline with his arms crossed, didn't miss a thing.

«You're falling a little early into your backhand» he called, calm but firm. «Reset the stance — stay compact on the left side.»

Milaine didn't reply. She just nodded and wiped sweat from her brow, taking a ball and bouncing it once, twice, before launching into the next rally with her usual precision. The sound of the ball cracking off her strings echoed faintly through the nearly abandoned practice courts.

Just a few feet away, Omar sat cross-legged beside a small folding table. He scribbled notes onto a tablet, occasionally glancing up with a clinical sharpness that came from years of watching for signs — slight winces, hesitation, asymmetry. Her shoulder had held up through Wimbledon and the Olympics, but the scar of the injury still haunted them both.

Beside him, Ines perched like a bored crow in expensive sunglasses, legs crossed, cigarette in one hand, a camera in the other. She had came all the way from Paris to New York to support her new found best friend who also happened to be the WTA no 2... Her platinum blonde hair was up in a messy bun, and she wore a linen set that didn't look remotely practical for a tennis court. She zoomed in on Milaine mid-serve and snapped.

«That one's going in Vogue Sport» she muttered to herself.

«You should eat something that's not a cigarette» Omar said dryly, sliding a protein bar across to her without looking up.

Ines raised a brow. «Is that your way of flirting?»

«No» he said. «It's my way of keeping you from passing out before the match.»

Milaine was not at ease.. Everyone in ger team could tell .. Even Ines sensed it..

The court beneath her feet wasn't just a surface — it was a battlefield haunted by ghosts of the past. She hadn't set foot at the US Open since 2019. The year she'd stunned the world by beating Serena Williams in the final at just eighteen.

The year she lifted her first Grand Slam trophy while scanning the stands for a father who never showed up. Johan Vanboven had died in a helicopter crash just hours before her final. She'd found out minutes after winning.

Every inch of this court — the lights, the sound of sneakers squeaking on blue — it all brought that day back. And yet here she was. At last. Back in New York.

«Again» Willem called.

She adjusted her grip, blinked the past away, and served.

A few minutes later, footsteps approached from the side of the court. She didn't stop until she heard Viv's voice.

«Don't freak out, yeah? I brought company.»

Milaine turned mid-stride to see her manager step into view, flanked by three figures. At the front was Jannik Sinner, tall and unmistakable in his hoodie and backwards cap, flanked by his coach Simone Vagnozzi and his physio. Jannik gave a small, polite wave. Milaine nodded back.

She already knew they were playing mixed doubles together — it had been arranged weeks ago — but this was the first time she'd seen him off-camera. They'd exchanged smiles here and there on tour, a few polite greetings. Nothing more.