𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 | 𝐋𝐍𝟒

𝐗𝐋𝐗𝐕

A/N: ‼️PLEASE COMMENT YOUR THOUGHTS ‼️

••••••

The 18th October 2024
Wuhan - China

The final ace came off her racquet like a gunshot. Clean, fast, untouchable. The crowd roared, but Milaine didn't lift her arms in celebration.

She just stood there for a second, the vibration still tingling down her strapped shoulder, her breath sharp in her chest.

She walked forward, shook hands with her opponent, Barbora Krejčíková, and the umpire, then did the routine: bag slung over her shoulder, a brief wave to the fans, cameras flashing, the bracelet of tape around her upper arm and shoulder glinting under the lights.

It wasn't a secret anymore. Everyone had seen the brace. Everyone had questions.

Earlier in the week, she'd brushed the Media off. "It's just support" she'd said into the microphones. "I can play perfectly. No problem."

Now, as the twinge spread again through her joint, she wasn't so sure.

By the time she pushed open the door to her changing room, the adrenaline had already drained from her veins.

Her whole team was there.

Willem stood first, clapping his hands together. «Good work today» he said with the usual calm encouragement.

«Solid serving. Kept your composure. That's what matters.» He gave her a short nod. «And—Sabalenka won her quarterfinal too. You'll see her in the semis.»

Milaine just nodded back. A tiny dip of her chin. No flicker of emotion. She dropped her bag on the bench and sat heavily, like gravity had doubled in the room.

Viv crossed her arms, studying her with quiet suspicion before deciding against saying anything. Not now.

Omar knelt beside her, already reaching for the straps of her brace. His hands were steady, professional, gentle.

«Alright, let's take a look.» He peeled back the Velcro with care.

«Tell me if this hurts» he murmured as he began working his fingers along the line of her shoulder.

Her body flinched slightly under his touch. «Mm. A little» she admitted flatly.

He adjusted, kneading lighter, searching. «And here?»

She shook her head. He nodded, focused, and continued his methodical work.

Inès didn't bother with saying anything, she just slipped quietly onto the bench beside Milaine, close enough their knees brushed, and slid her hand into hers. Her fingers were cool, soft, unmoving. She just held it.

For a while, the only sounds were Omar's murmured check-ins, the rustle of tape, and Milaine's muted breathing.

Then, softly, Inès tilted her head toward her, concern obvious on her face. «Does it hurt?»

Milaine's lips barely moved. «Winning makes it better.»

Something flickered across Inès's face—sadness, tenderness, something she swallowed down before it showed too much. She lifted Milaine's hand, kissed the back of it once, deliberately, like a vow.

«I love you so much» she whispered.

Milaine's throat tightened. She blinked at the floor, her chest rising unevenly. She'd never had this—this kind of friendship, this kind of care that wasn't attached to business or blood.