She's back ~ L. Hamilton

125.| Chosing ourselves

Li VS. Wade

2024 US Open

Final

It's 5-4, in the deciding set. If Nicki breaks wades serve on this last game, she will set a new record.

I am sitting in the players' box. Lewis is next to me. Nicki's parents are on the other side of us. Her new girlfriend, who cannot stand me, is sitting with a tight smile on her face in the corner.

Lewis leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

"Remind me," he murmurs, "when this is over—we need to talk about the kitchen."

I blink, dragged for half a second out of the match. "The kitchen?"

"Yeah," he says, completely serious. "I was thinking we knock out that wall. Open it up a bit. You hate how closed-off it is."

I huff out the smallest laugh, shaking my head. Of course he's thinking about renovations right now. Of course he is.

"Lewis," I whisper, looking at him, "she's at championship point."

"Mm," he says, squeezing my hand anyway. "Still knocking the wall down."

I don't respond, but my fingers tighten around his.

Our house.

Not his. Not mine.

Ours.

It still feels strange sometimes, in the quiet moments. The way his trainers are always by the door. The way my rackets are leaning against the kitchen counter. The way neither of us ever really leaves anymore.

I watch as Nicki returns Wades heavy forehand with a slice. I nod.

The Ricciardo Slice was the first thing I taught her.

"You need to improve your volleys, your short game. That's how I almost beat you back in New York," I said, on our first day on the courts together.

"I don't need a volley game when my baseline game is as good as it is," she said.

"You will never win Wimbledon again with just your baseline game, and you know it. You're gonna give up one-fourth of all Slams a year because you don't want to perfect your volley?" I said. "Now, come on, de nuevo!" Nicki frowned but then did what I told her to. Just like she did when I made her start going easier on her ankle so she could extend her career a few years. She gets pissed and mouths off, but I can tell she's always listening to me, even if she doesn't act like it.

It makes me laugh how often my uncle must have seen my own frown, knowing I'd still do what he said.

And now, here we are, coach and player, at the 2024 US Open, me sitting here in the stands, helpless to do anything but hope she can harness all the new skills we've worked on.

My God, how hard it must have been for my uncle to do this.

To sit here, a ball of nerves, knowing that all of the control was in my hands. He could not think for me on the court, he could not hit the ball for me. He just had to have faith that I could play the way he'd taught me.

What a gift it is, to be able to guide someone to a point and then let them finish it themself. To give someone all the knowledge you have and then pray they use it right. It's a skill I am learning, one I am determined to perfect.

Nicki's now at break point. Which means she is at
championship point.

She looks up at me. I nod at her. She nods back, a small smile erupting across her face.

If she takes the next point, she'll win the US Open and hit a record breaking twenty-seven Slams, a feat that, just a few short years ago, was unheard of.

But that's Nicki for you. Unstoppable. Raising the bar for absolutely everyone.

Wade tosses the ball into the air and sends it screaming over the net. Nicki starts backing up, stepping into position.

"She's got it," Lewis says, quietly under his breath. I stare straight ahead, bouncing my knees. He grabs my hand to calm me.

His thumb brushes over my knuckles, absent, grounding.

There's something steady about him now. Not calmer—he's never been calm—but... different.

Lighter, maybe.

Abu Dhabi flashes through my mind before I can stop it.

The lights. The final laps. The way the world seemed to hold its breath.

Daniel.

Again.

Lewis had been so close. So close it almost felt cruel. And then it was gone. Just like that.

Same as me.

Different sport. Same ending.

Second.

Again.

The headlines had been brutal for about a week.

And then—because the world loves a narrative—it turned into something else.

The second greatest of all time.

Both of us.

That was what they called us. 'The second greatest couple of all time'

I glance at him now.

He's not tense the way he used to be. Not carrying it the same way. His shoulders aren't tight, his jaw isn't locked in that constant fight against the world.

Instead, he just... watches.

Present.

Here.

His fingers tighten slightly around mine.

He doesn't wish it had gone differently.

Not really.

And, Neither do I.

Because losing meant the noise stopped.

The pressure. The constant chase. The obsession with proving something to people who were never going to be satisfied anyway.

It meant mornings in our kitchen arguing over coffee instead of training schedules.

It meant late nights on the couch, his feet in my lap, some terrible show playing that neither of us is actually watching.

It meant this—sitting side by side, hands intertwined, caring about something that isn't just ourselves for once.

It meant we got to choose each other.

Not in between everything else.

But first.

Always first.

I tighten my grip on his hand, just slightly.

He glances at me for a second, a small smile tugging at his mouth, like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

Of course he does.

He always does.

I sit forward, praying with all my might, as Nicki pulls back and swings-