The grass at Wimbledon is different. It's not the grinding, dusty red of Paris; it's a slick, emerald stage that punishes hesitation. The air smells of clipped lawns and expensive perfume, but as I stand in the tunnel of Centre Court, all I can smell is the rubber of my grip and the salt of my own skin.
My father is in the front row of the players' box. He's wearing a crisp white shirt, his shoulders squared. He isn't looking at the exit anymore. He's looking at the trophy—the gold Cup sitting on its pedestal.
Then, there's Luke.
He walks out ahead of me, the crowd erupting. He's the darling of the All England Club. He's "The Prince." I'm the "Street Fighter."
We meet at the net. The umpire flips the coin.
"I told you I'd see you here," Luke says, his voice low, steady. He isn't smiling today. His eyes are like blue ice. "But this isn't a dirt court, Roki. You can't just slide and survive. On grass, if you blink, you're dead."
"I don't blink, Luke," I say, staring straight through him. "I haven't since I was nine."
The match begins, and I immediately realize Luke wasn't exaggerating.
The ball stays low. It skids. It doesn't bounce—it hisses.
Luke's serve is a surgical instrument. He isn't trying to overpower me like Ivanov did; he's picking me apart. He hits the lines with such regularity it feels like he's cheating.
3–0, Luke.
I'm chasing ghosts. My shoes, which gripped the clay so well, feel like ice skates on this surface. Every time I try to plant my feet for a big forehand, Luke has already redirected the ball to the opposite corner.
"Deuce," the umpire calls.
I'm serving. My heart is starting to do that old familiar drumbeat—the one that says time is running out. I bounce the ball. One. Twice. Three times. I toss it. I strike.
Luke is already there. He chips the return back, a short, nasty slice that dies just over the net. I sprint, my lungs burning, and I barely get my racquet under it. I flick it up, a desperate lob.
Luke doesn't even wait for it to land. He leaps—a perfect, athletic silhouette against the London sky—and smashes it into the open court.
Game, Luke Caine. He leads 4–0.
I walk to the changeover bench. My hands are trembling. Not from the "Green Mask" or the debt—those are gone. This is different. This is the realization that for all my struggle, for all my "grit," there is a level of pure, natural talent that I might not be able to touch.
I look at my father. He doesn't look worried. He looks... calm. He makes a small gesture with his hand—a loosening motion.
Soft wrists, I remember. The shot that felt wrong but worked.
The Adjustment
I stand up. The crowd is already whispering about a "straight-sets blowout." Luke is bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking like he could do this all day.
He serves to my backhand. It's a kicker, jumping away from me.
Old Roki would have tried to muscle it back. New Roki? I let my grip loosen. I let the racquet head do the work. I don't hit the ball; I guide it.
It's a return that skims the tape, dropping like a stone in Luke's feet.
He lunges, surprised. He hits it long.
15–0.
"Okay," I whisper, wiping the sweat from my eyes. "Now we're playing."
The first set ends 6–2 for Luke. He takes it easily. But as we switch sides, I catch him looking at me. He isn't relaxed anymore. He's noticed that I'm not running side-to-side anymore.
I'm moving forward.
"Don't get comfortable, Prince," I mutter as I pass him. "The match hasn't even started yet."
The second set is a bloodbath of holding serves.
Neither of us gives an inch. Luke is a machine of precision, but I've become a wall of intent. My father used to say that "one cannot win with defense alone," but on grass, defense is about survival until you find the opening to kill.
5–5 in the second set.
The sun is starting to dip, casting long, distorted shadows across the court. It makes the ball harder to track, turning the yellow felt into a flickering blur.
Luke is serving. He's starting to sweat—really sweat. His pristine white shirt is sticking to his back. I see him shake his out his right arm. Fatigue? No. Tension.
For the first time, Luke Caine is feeling the weight of the "better one."
I win the first point with a blistering passing shot. I win the second with a drop-volley that makes the crowd gasp.
0–30.
Luke steps to the line. He looks at me. The "small smile" is gone. In its place is a raw, jagged competitiveness I haven't seen in him before. He tosses the ball... and he double faults.
The silence on Centre Court is deafening.
Luke stares at the service line like it betrayed him. He's never double-faulted at a moment like this. The "Golden Boy" is cracking.
I take the break. I serve out the set.
7–5, Roki.
One set each.
As I sit down, the umpire announces a brief delay to close the roof. The lights come on, bright and artificial, turning the stadium into a pressure cooker.
I look at the clock. It's 8:45 PM.
I think back to being nine years old, watching my father watch the clock. I used to hate that ticking sound. But now, as the roof slowly slides shut, sealing us in this arena, I realize something.
I'm not trapped in here with the world #1.
He's trapped in here with me.
I look over at Luke. He's staring at his strings, trying to find his rhythm again. I stand up before the umpire even calls "Time," and I walk to the baseline.
"Let's see how you handle the dark, Luke," I whisper.
The third set is about to begin.