Every game was a deuce. Every point was a twenty-shot rally that ended with one of us face-down on the grass.
2–2. 3–3.
My legs weren't just burning; they were numb. I was playing on muscle memory and the echoes of my father's "look" from when I was nine. I could see him in the box, leaning so far forward he was nearly over the railing. He wasn't watching a tennis match. He was watching his son fight for every inch of a life he had almost gambled away.
Luke was serving at 4–4. He hit a 128 mph ace. Then another. Then a double fault.
He didn't even flinch at the mistake. He just walked back, tossed the ball, and hit a third ace. It was mechanical. It was terrifying. He had found a gear I didn't know he had—a place where the pressure didn't exist because he had simply accepted it.
5–5.
The clock on the wall ticked past 10:30 PM. The crowd was silent now, drained by the sheer intensity. The only sounds were the thwack of the ball and the squeal of our shoes.
I held my serve to make it 6–5. I had a match point on his serve. One point to end it all. One point to take the trophy and go home.
Luke served. I returned it deep, a heavy forehand that skidded off the baseline. He lunged, barely getting it back. I had the open court. I swung—a cross-court winner—and the ball clipped the top of the net.
It hung there. For a second, time actually stopped.
The ball rolled... and fell back onto my side.
The crowd gasped. I dropped my head. Luke didn't celebrate; he just took a deep breath and held his serve.
6–6. The Tiebreaker.
A fourth-set tiebreaker at Wimbledon when you're up 2 sets to 1 is a mental graveyard. If I win, I'm the champion. If I lose, the momentum shifts so hard I might never recover.
1–1. I hit a service winner. 2–2. Luke hits a drop volley that dies in the grass. 3–3. Change of ends.
As we passed each other at the net, our shoulders brushed. Luke looked at me. His eyes were bloodshot, his face streaked with sweat and green grass stains.
"I'm not going away, Roki," he rasped.
"I know," I said.
The points became marathons. At 5–5, we had a thirty-two-shot rally. I moved him left, then right, then deep. I hit a smash that he somehow lobbed back while falling over. I hit another smash. He returned it again. Finally, I missed a simple volley into the net.
6–5, Luke. Set point.
I served a wide ace. 6–6. I hit a forehand winner. 7–6. My second match point.
I stepped to the line. I could feel the trophy. I could feel the weight of it. I tossed the ball—and my toss was too far back. The "wrong" sound again. The ball hit the tape and fell wide.
Fault.
The "Green Mask" flashed in my mind. The debt. The clock. My father's anxious eyes. I tried to shake it off, but the ghost was back. My second serve was soft. Luke ate it for breakfast, screaming a return down the line.
7–7.
Chapter 12: The Prince's Revenge
The tiebreaker stretched on, past the point of reason.
8–8. 9–9.
The exhaustion was so deep now that I was seeing double. I looked at the ball and saw two yellow blurs. I looked at Luke and saw a giant.
At 10–10, Luke did something I didn't expect. He served-and-volleyed on a second serve. It was a suicide mission, but he executed it perfectly. He met my return at the net and angled it away with a touch so delicate it felt like an insult.
11–10, Luke.
He was serving for the set. He didn't hesitate. He didn't bounce the ball three times like I do. He just stepped up, tossed it, and fired a flat serve out wide.
I dived. I felt the grass scrape my hip raw. My racquet tip grazed the ball, but it wasn't enough. It flew off into the stands.
"Game and fourth set—Caine," the umpire announced. "Twelve points to ten."
The stadium exploded. Luke fell to his knees, not in celebration, but because his legs had finally given out. He stayed there for a long time, forehead pressed against the turf.
I stayed on the ground, too, staring at the ceiling lights. The "lightness" I had felt was gone, replaced by a crushing, familiar weight. I had let him back in. I had let the clock start ticking again.
I looked over at my father. His face was unreadable. He wasn't looking at the clock anymore, though. He was looking at the way I was getting back up.
I wiped the blood and grass from my leg. My hands were shaking again, but not with fear.
The fifth set was coming. And in the fifth set at Wimbledon, there are no tiebreakers. You play until someone breaks.
"One more, Roki," I whispered to the empty air. "Just one more."