𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 | 𝐋𝐍𝟒

𝐗𝐋𝐕

A/N: ‼️PLEASE COMMENT YOUR THOUGHTS ‼️

••••••

The quarterfinals of the US Open.
Arthur Ashe was buzzing, the air heavy with humidity and tension.

Milaine walked out first, head high, ponytail swinging against the sharp line of her new bob, her warmup jacket zipped to the chin. To the crowd, she looked calm—deadly calm.

But inside, her pulse was already climbing.

Paula Balosa was waiting on the other side of the net, the Spanish fighter with a reputation for grinding rallies until her opponents snapped in half. On paper, it was fire against fire.

But tonight, at least in the first set, Milaine was the one setting the court on fire.

Her groundstrokes were clean, her footwork lethal, her eyes locked with that icy, predatory focus people in tennis only ever whispered about. She broke early, she held steady, and within forty-five minutes she had the first set in her pocket:

6–4.

Not flawless, but ruthless. Killer's work.

And somewhere in the crowd—front row, barely hiding under a cap—Lando was watching her like he'd been starved.

He knew she had skipped dinner with Mick and Ines last night. He knew she had chosen instead to hole herself up in her hotel room with him and Noel, their strange little family.

Takeout containers, red wine for him, sparkling water for her. Her head on his shoulder while she absentmindedly scratched the dog's ears. He hadn't said it out loud, but he'd felt it:

she'd chosen him.

And that thought was still alive in him now as he watched her tear through the first set like it was personal.

But then the match tilted.

The second set wasn't Milaine's. Her serve faltered, the errors crept in, and suddenly it was Paula with the upper hand. Milaine's racket slapped against her thigh after every miss. The crowd murmured as the scoreboard told the story she didn't want to face:

2–6. Set gone.

The third set was a disaster from the start.

0–3 down.

Her body was there, but her head? No. It was trapped somewhere else—2019, the trophy, her father, the phone call that shattered everything. The ghosts were louder than the crowd.

At the changeover, she collapsed onto her bench. Sweat dripping down her temples, towel pressed hard into her face, she started muttering. At first it was just a few words, half-breathed, but then she didn't stop.

Talking to herself, snapping her hand in the air as if gesturing to someone who wasn't there. Her lips were moving fast, words spilling, sharp enough for the microphones to catch fragments:

«Come on, Milaine—enough. You don't fold here. You don't—»

People stared. Cameras zoomed. Commentators hesitated, then whispered about her "unusual focus." But it wasn't focus.

It looked like madness.

And when she got up, she wasn't done. She walked to the baseline, racket in hand, and for a split second—before she crouched to receive—she turned her head to the back wall, lips moving again, like she was giving it one last piece of her mind.

The crowd buzzed with confusion. Ines clapped her hands like a lunatic, Mick leaned forward with wide eyes, Willem and Omar shifted nervously. Viv massaged her temples in annoyance, knowing very well she would have to clean the mess Milaine was making right now, since surely everyone would be talking about it in a few minutes...