Page 146 of Through the Flames
Injuries, exhaustion, and self-doubt were my constant companions.
Above all, though, I had to believe I belonged there, had to believe I wasn’t just chasing someone else’s dream. I had to believe I could make the jump from promise to presence on that court.
But with every match, every drill, every set, the line between fantasy and possibility blurred. My ranking climbed, my wins stacked up, and suddenly, the Australian Open was no longer just a lingering thought or fantasy.
It was a date on my calendar, circled and starred, demanding I chase it with everything I had.
Hunter was the first to believe it.
“You’ll win,” he told me one night after practice. His confidence was unwavering; it was as if the outcome were already set in stone.
“You don’t know that.”
His gaze cut into me, sharp and unflinching. “I do.”
And the terrifying part was, I almost believed him.
Forty Five
Ella
January
Australia was a blur of heat, noise, and adrenaline.
The sun felt sharper, the air hummed with energy, and the stadiums were bigger than anything I’d ever stepped into. Crowds thundered, cameras flashed, and every opponent came at me with the kind of hunger threatening to unravel me.
But I held on.
Every match was a test of endurance, focus, and willpower. My anxiety clawed at me, whispering that I’d choke, that I’d fail, that I’d prove every rumor and whisper back home right. But my racket answered louder.
Point after point, game after game, I clawed my way forward. I learned to read my opponent’s shoulders, anticipate her serves, and angle my footwork so I could chase down seemingly impossible shots without losing my balance.
Each rally was a battle of reflexes and patience.
Until suddenly, it wasn’t just another match. It wasthematch.
The motherfucking final.
The stadium was electric with anticipation, packed with thousands of spectators. My opponent was fierce and relentless with sharp, determined eyes. The kind of player who wanted to grind me into dust.
The first serve cracked like a gunshot. The rallies stretched on long enough to leave my lungs burning and my eyes stinging with sweat. I pivoted on my toes, lunged, and slid for low returns.
Flicking my wrist, I added spin and drove my forehand with all my weight behind it. The ball whizzed back and forth across the net, backhands and forehands exchanging blows like in a duel.
I gritted my teeth, forced my body through the ache, and answered. Forehand down the line. Backhand cross court. A slice to draw her in, then a drive to send her scrambling.
I visualized her movements, baited her into stepping too wide, and punished her for even the slightest misstep. Tennis became chess at full speed; every shot was a calculated risk.
The first set went 7–5, mine.
In the second set, she clawed back. 6–4, hers.
Fuck. It all came down to the third.
My legs screamed, and my chest heaved, as old fears spun through my mind:What if I choke? What if I fail? What if this is where it all collapses?
But then I thought of Hunter, of his faith in me,unyielding. The way he tracked me like I was the only thing that existed. The way he whispered,You’ll win, like it was a fact.
