Wait I just got an idea! Female tennis player x Declan Rice? She has been traveling to the states to support Declan on England's World Cup and has to leave to come back to play Wimbledon, upsetting both her and Declan. Declan decides to surprise her on the last day because she made it to the finals but she ends up getting hurt during her match and only realizes Declan is here when he rushes to her along the court. Let me know what you think ;)
GRAYCEE SPEAKS: the title is totally a diary of a wimpy kid reference... also I tried my best!!! I don't know much about tennis, so forgive me if there's any mistakes or inconsistencies.
there was a joke on the England squad that they saw you more than they saw their own families.
every few days, you'd appear in another stadium.
always wearing an England shirt far too big for you with RICE etched across the back.
no matter how late your own training sessions ran, no matter how many flights it took, somehow you always found a seat in the stands.
Declan would look for you before kickoff.
one glance into the crowd.
one small smile that no one else would've noticed unless they were looking for it.
"you've got your own tournament in two weeks," his mom reminded you after England reached the semifinals.
his dad laughed, "that's not resting"
Declan looked at you from across the breakfast table.
"you don't have to stay."
you looked at him like he'd said something ridiculous.
"I know... but what about Wimbledon?"
you reached under the table and quietly squeezed his hand.
"I'll leave when I have to."
England's elimination felt heavy.
your Wimbledon campaign started in 48 hours.
there weren't enough hours in the day for both.
that evening, the two of you sat outside the team hotel long before everyone else had gone inside.
neither of you wanted to mention the flight.
"my plane leaves at eight."
"I'll miss the third place match."
"you'll be exactly where you're supposed to be."
"I promised I'd be there."
"you crossed an ocean four different times. you watched training matches that lasted longer than the actual matches. you survived hotel coffee."
a small laugh escaped you, "it was terrible."
another quiet moment settled between you.
he didn't let you finish because he already knew. he wished it too. that the tournaments weren't at the same time. that one of you didn't always have a flight to catch. that loving someone in another sport didn't constantly mean saying goodbye.
the next morning, he walked you all the way to the airport.
neither of you made promises.
he simply wrapped his arms around you.
his forehead rested against yours for a second.
he kissed you once. softly. like he was trying to memorize it.
then you disappeared through security without looking back.
because if you had, you weren't sure you were going to get on the plane.
Wimbledon felt different.
not because the grass was greener.
not because centre court was louder.
because for the first time in weeks, he wasn't there.
after every match, your phone buzzed before you even reached the locker room.
your backhand was amazing today
don't pretend you didn't hear me yelling through the screen.
training before the third place match.
whenever you asked if he was sleeping enough, he'd always answer the same way.
you made the Wimbledon final.
your biggest achievement.
when the cameras asked who would be watching, you smiled.
"I think England has something else going on."
inside, it hurt more than you expected.
that night, Declan called.
"I'm sorry I can't be there."
you closed your eyes, "I know."
neither of you realized he was lying.
he barely made the flight.
the second England's final media obligations ended, he was already in the car.
one backpack. one passport. one plane. no interviews. no announcement.
he wanted to surprise you.
your coach was the only person who knew.
"don't tell her," he said over the phone.
he looked out the window.
"I want to be there this time."
the applause rolled across the grass as you walked onto the court.
you took your place behind baseline, bounced the ball, then served.
the match was everything a Wimbledon final should be.
lost the second in a tiebreak.
the third became a battle of exhaustion.
at 4-4, thirty-all, you chased the ball.
your foot slipped on worn grass.
a pain so sudden it stole the air from your lungs.
you hit the ground before you realized you'd even fallen.
centre court gasped as one.
the racket slipped from your fingers.
the chair umpire called for the physios.
the pain shot through your ankle again.
tears burned before you could stop them.
not because it hurt, but because you knew.
you knew what this meant.
for the rest of the season.
somewhere beyond the ringing in your ears, voices echoed.
your brows pulled together.
you turned your head just as someone dropped to their knees beside you.
hair still messy from sleeping on a plane.
he looked like he sprinted across the entirety of centre court.
his accreditation swung wildly against his chest as he reached you, stopping himself just short of touching your injured leg.
his hands hovered instead.
afraid of making it worse.
his eyes found yours immediately.
his voice was softer than you'd ever heard it.
you stared at him in disbelief.
"...what are you doing here?"
the smallest smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
"I thought I'd surprise you.
a tear slipped down your cheek.
"I thought you were still with England."
he gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face.
the tears came faster now.
because he'd crossed an ocean for you the same way you had crossed one for him all month.
your hand searched blindly until it found his.
he laced his fingers through yours immediately.
"I didn't even know you were here."
"I would've looked for you."
he squeezed your hand once. firm and steady.
the physios began examining your ankle.
his thumb absentmindedly brushed over your knuckles, giving you something else to focus on.
neither of you spoke again.
his flight, your hand in his, the way he'd forgotten every camera in the stadium the moment he saw you fall.
it said everything that mattered.
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