Shadow

The serve machine fires at 115 miles per hour.

I split-step, read the spin, return crosscourt. Clean. Automatic.

Another ball. Another return.

This is meditation. This is therapy. This is the only place my mind goes quiet.

Three Grand Slam finals. Two wins. One devastating loss.

Three years since someone broke my serve in a championship match.

Eight weeks until the WTA Finals.

The machine keeps firing. I keep returning.

In the periphery, something moves.

A shadow at the edge of the court.

I don't look. Not yet. The ball machine doesn't care about distractions. Neither do I.

Return. Reset. Return.

But the shadow doesn't move. Doesn't announce itself. Just... waits.

The machine runs empty. Silence fills the indoor court.

I wipe sweat from my forehead with my wristband.

Turn.

The shadow has a name.

The shadow has gray-blue eyes and a jaw I used to trace with my fingertips at three in the morning.

The shadow is standing at the baseline with his hands in his pockets like he didn't destroy everything five years ago.

"Cami."

His voice. The same. A little deeper maybe. But the same.

I hate that my body still recognizes it. That something in my chest clenches at a single syllable.

"I was hoping we could talk," he says.

I grip my racket tighter.

"I was hoping you'd stay gone."

Gavin Archer.

Former ATP number 15. Former everything to me.

Currently standing on my court like he has any right to be here.

"I know." He doesn't move closer. Smart. "I know this isn't..."

"What are you doing here?"

Flat. Professional. The voice I use for press conferences and people I don't trust.

He's both now.

"Your management called me."

I go still.

"They wanted to discuss..."

"Coach Thompson retired three days ago." I hear myself say it. "The search committee is handling replacements."

"I know. I'm one of the candidates."

The racket in my hand feels wrong suddenly.

Too light. Too familiar.

Like holding a piece of a life I thought I'd buried.

"No."

Simple. Final.

"Cami..."

"No." I walk past him toward my bag. "Find another player. Another tour. Another continent."

He doesn't follow me. Doesn't push.

That's new.

The Gavin I knew would have chased. Would have explained. Would have used that devastating charm until I forgot why I was angry.

This Gavin just stands there.

Watching me walk away.

"I'm not the same person," he says. Quiet. Honest.

I stop.

Don't turn around.

"Neither am I."

My hand trembles when I unzip my bag. I grip the zipper tighter to hide it.

"Good luck with the search," I say.

And I leave him standing on the baseline.

Where he always belonged.

Behind me.

My phone buzzes before I reach the parking lot.

David Chen. My agent. My supposed ally.

Need to talk. Dinner tonight? The Archer situation requires discussion.

The Archer situation.

Like he's a problem to be managed. A variable in a spreadsheet.

Not a six-foot-two reminder of everything I lost.

7pm. Don't be late.

I send it before I can think better of it.

Then I sit in my car for ten minutes.

Hands on the wheel.

Engine off.

Breathing.

Five years.

Five years since Barcelona called and he answered.

Five years since I asked him to stay and he chose tennis over me.

Five years of building a career that doesn't need anyone.

That doesn't need him.

I was twenty years old.

Ranked 47th in the world.

Completely, stupidly, devastatingly in love.

He was twenty-four.

Rising star. Easy smile. The kind of talent that made people pay attention.

And he looked at me like I was the only person in any room we entered.

One year.

Twelve months of tournament hotels and late-night calls and a future that felt inevitable.

Then Spain called. A training opportunity. Career-defining.

"Come with me," he said.

"I can't. The US Open qualifying..."

"I know. I just... I need to do this."

I asked him to stay.

He didn't.

And now he's standing on my court, telling me he's changed.

Like that erases anything.

I start the car.

Drive to my apartment.

Don't think about his face.

Don't think about the way he said my name.

Don't think at all.

It's easier that way.