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ACROSS THE COURT¹

Lando Norris, brilliant and cocky, pushed you to your limits on court and off, and when your federation paired you for mixed doubles at the Australian Open, rivalry turned into something dangerously close to desire.

pairing. tennis player! Lando Norris x tennis player! fem! reader.

warnings. non-f1 au; tennis au. romance, angst, sports drama 21,3k words; out of 36,9k, part one of two. rivals/enemies to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity. set in Melbourne, Kimi as Toto’s son. tennis/grand slam inaccuracies, medical injury, implied mental struggles, high ambitions, pet names (baby, darling), alcohol use; profanity. part two here.

soundtrack. love all, an official playlist.

THIS IS PART ONE OF ACROSS THE COURT. FIND PART TWO HERE.

ONE DAY, IT WOULD GET BETTER. That’s what you kept telling yourself, over and over, like a quiet promise whispered into the dark. You said it in the mornings, when your knee throbbed before your feet even touched the floor. You said it after long matches, when the ache in your body made it hard to breathe.

Maybe one day the pain would ease. Maybe your body would stop reminding you of every match you’d played through when you should’ve rested, every time you’d ignored what it was trying to tell you. Maybe one day you’d wake up and feel like yourself again.

You were ranked sixth in the world now. People smiled when they said it, like it was something to be proud of—and it was, you knew that. But your eyes always drifted to the names above yours, to the top five, to the players who seemed just out of reach. It was right there, close enough to taste, and yet every time you stretched for it, it slipped through your fingers like a damn mist.

You’d made it to the Australian Open. That should’ve felt like a win. But as you stood there, sweat drying on your skin, your muscles tight and your thoughts heavier than they should be, all you could think about was how much it had taken to get here. How much it still cost. And how long you could keep pretending that none of it mattered.

There wasn’t supposed to be space for doubt here. Not with Max. Not when you were training with your mixed doubles partner—the one person who was supposed to match your pace, your drive, your hunger to win. On paper, it made sense. Two top-ranked players, both sharp, both relentless. It should have been easy. It should have worked.

But lately, training with him felt less like a partnership and more like something you had to survive. He kept hitting balls at you with that same ruthless precision, never easing up, never checking in. Normally, you could keep up without thinking. Today, though, your timing was off. Your legs felt heavy. Your body wasn’t listening the way it used to.

“You’re late on it,” Max said, his voice flat, eyes already on the next shot.

Like you didn’t already know.

You exhaled slowly, biting back the sting in your chest. “Thanks for the reminder,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you bent to pick up another ball. The words came out sharper than you meant them to, but you didn’t take them back. You were too tired to pretend it didn’t bother you.

He looked at you then—just for a second. His expression was tight, unreadable, the kind of glance that didn’t ask questions or offer anything close to concern. Just a flicker of irritation, like your mistake had thrown off his rhythm. Like you were a problem to work around, not a person trying to hold it together.

“Again,” he said, already tossing the next ball into the air.

You didn’t argue. You adjusted your grip, shifted your stance, and forced your body to move faster. Your knee screamed in protest the moment you pushed off, a sharp, familiar pain that you’d learned to ignore. You chased the shot anyway, stretched too far, and barely managed to flick the ball back over the net.

Max sighed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough. Just enough to land like a slap, quiet and cutting.

“Keep up,” he muttered, already turning his back, like the drill was more important than you were. Like you weren’t standing there, trying not to fall apart.

You swallowed hard, the words burning at the back of your throat. But you didn’t say them. You just nodded, even though he wasn’t looking. Even though it didn’t matter. Quitting wasn’t an option. Slowing down wasn’t either. You told yourself you could handle it. That you’d get through this. That you always did.

Even if it was getting harder to believe.

After a few more shots, Max stopped. No warning, no signal—just stopped. The balls rolled to a quiet halt at your feet, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the drill ever had. It wasn’t just the end of a session. It felt like something else. Like he’d made a decision. Like he’d given up—not just on the practice, but maybe on the partnership. Maybe on you.

He finally turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “Look, Y/n,” he said, voice clipped. “The Open starts tomorrow. You need to get your shit together.”

Your chest tightened, but you kept your voice steady, even though it cost you. “Yeah. I’m trying, Max.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. Didn’t soften. He just grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stood there for a beat too long. Then he said, “Good,” like it was final. Like that was all there was left to say.

And then he walked off the court, leaving you standing there alone, staring at the baseline, your racket hanging loosely at your side. The ache in your knee pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but it was the quiet that hurt more. You’d been trying. You were always trying. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being enough—and you didn’t know when that happened. Or how to fix it.

“Y/n!”

You turned at the sound of your name, and there she was—Lily. Your doubles partner, your best friend, the one person who could still make you smile without trying. Just seeing her standing there, sun in her hair and concern in her eyes, made something in your chest loosen. That was the thing about Lily. She didn’t need to ask if something was wrong. She already knew.

She walked over and handed you a water bottle, shaking her head with a small, crooked grin. “You look awful.”

You let out a tired laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I feel like that too,” you said, taking the bottle and pressing it to your forehead before unscrewing the cap.

Lily didn’t say anything right away. She just watched you, her expression softening as she took in the slump of your shoulders, the way you were holding your weight off your left leg. “What happened?” she asked gently. “Is it about Max?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual, like it didn’t matter. “Just him being grumpy, as usual. Nothing serious.”

“You can’t take him seriously. You know that,” Lily said, shaking her head like it was obvious, like Max’s mood didn’t still cling to your skin.

You didn’t answer. Just stared down at the court, jaw tight, the silence between you stretching a little too long.

Lily didn’t push. She never did. Instead, she shifted gears, her voice lighter. “Come on. Oscar’s on Court Four,” she said, her eyes brightening as she mentioned him—her boyfriend, her mixed doubles partner, the one person who always seemed to make her laugh, even on the worst days. At least someone had figured out how to make it work.

You glanced up. “With… Norris?”

The name came out sharp, bitter on your tongue. Lando Norris. Just saying it made your shoulders tense.

That man was everything you couldn’t stand. Ranked fourth in the world. Always smirking. Always talking. Loud, cocky, flirty—and somehow, impossibly, good. The kind of good that made it hard to ignore him, no matter how much you wanted to.

You grimaced, the thought of sharing a court with him making your chest tighten. But Lily didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She reached for your arm and tugged gently, already pulling you toward the other courts.

“Come on,” she said again, smiling like she knew something you didn’t. “It’ll be fun.”

You weren’t so sure.

You followed her anyway, even though every step felt heavier than the last. Training had wrung you out, left your limbs sluggish and your knee aching with that familiar, stubborn throb. It wasn’t sharp enough to stop you—never was—but it lingered, a quiet reminder of everything you’d pushed through to get here. Walking toward Court Four felt like walking straight into something you weren’t ready for. Something you didn’t want to face, but couldn’t avoid either.

You sank onto the edge of the stands, letting your bag drop beside you with a dull thud. Your eyes drifted to the court before you could stop them. Oscar and Lando were already mid-rally, moving like they shared a brain. Their rhythm was easy, practiced. The kind of chemistry that didn’t need words. Every shot was clean, every return precise. It looked effortless. Like they’d been doing this forever.

Your gaze caught on Lando for a moment too long. His curls were damp with sweat, pushed back from his forehead, his movements sharp and sure. He looked like he belonged out there—confident, focused, completely in control. You clicked your tongue softly and looked away, annoyed at yourself. Idiot.

They noticed you then. Both of them paused, rackets dropping slightly as they turned. Lando’s eyes found yours instantly, like they always did. Like he’d been waiting. You rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate, making sure he saw it.

“Hey, baby!” Lily called out, her voice bright as she waved at Oscar, completely unfazed by the tension simmering beside you.

Oscar lit up the moment he spotted Lily, lifting a hand in greeting before jogging over to the stands. He looked so at ease—sweat-slicked and flushed from the rally, but smiling like the world hadn’t asked anything of him today. Like he hadn’t just spent an hour under the sun, chasing points. That kind of ease made something twist in your chest, sharp and quiet. You didn’t want to name it.

Lando followed behind him, slower, spinning his racket in one hand like it was second nature. He stopped a few steps from the bench, his eyes flicking over you in quick, practiced glances—your stiff posture, the way you leaned ever so slightly off your left leg, the tension in your jaw. He didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t have to. You could feel the weight of his attention, and it made your skin prickle.

“Didn’t think you’d come watch,” he said, voice light, almost teasing.

You didn’t bother softening your tone. “Trust me, I didn’t plan to.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath, clearly unfazed. “Nice to see you too.”

Lando’s smile tugged wider, just enough to be annoying. “Rough session?”

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. But it wasn’t the truth either. And from the way Lando’s eyes lingered on yours, you had a feeling he knew that.

Lando leaned against the fence, casually tossing a ball from one hand to the other. The sun caught the edge of his , casting a flicker of light across the court. “So,” he said, voice light, almost lazy, “Open starts tomorrow. Last meeting with the coaches, final schedule, all that fun stuff.”

You tilted your head slightly, keeping your tone as even as you could manage. “Yeah. I know. Don’t need another reminder.”

He didn’t flinch. Just kept that same maddening smirk on his face. “Just making conversation,” he said, like it was nothing. “I’d hate for you to forget.”

Your jaw tightened. The way he said it—like he was amused, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin—made your pulse tick faster. “I can handle it,” you said, arms folding across your chest. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant coaching tips to function.”

He raised an eyebrow, the ball still spinning lazily in his hand. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were the only one capable of surviving a Grand Slam.”

You opened your mouth, the retort already forming—sharp, fast, something that would land clean and cut deep. He’d done this too many times. Pushed just far enough to make you snap. And maybe that was the point.

But before the words could leave your mouth, Lily’s voice cut through the tension—sharp, bright, and unmistakably hers.

“Enough,” she said, stepping between you with a look that was half exasperation, half amusement. “We’re here to watch, not start a war. Save the drama for the court.”

You and Lando both froze, glancing at her like kids caught misbehaving. Her eyes were wide, but there was steel behind them—serious now, even if her tone still carried that familiar edge of teasing. She looked between you, arms crossed. “Seriously. You two look ridiculous. Stop glaring at each other like you’re about to throw rackets. The tournament hasn’t even started yet.”

You muttered something under your breath—something unkind, probably—but the heat in your chest had already started to cool. Lily had a way of doing that. Of stepping in just before you said something you couldn’t take back. You leaned back on the bench, jaw still tight, but your hands unclenched. For now, at least, you could sit still and watch instead of letting the frustration boil over.

Even if Lando was still standing there, smirking like he’d won something.

────────────

There were only thirty minutes left until the final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers. You stood near the edge of the room, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for one familiar face. But Toto wasn’t there. No clipboard in hand, no calm voice cutting through the noise, no steady presence to anchor you. Your stomach tightened. He was never late. And that kind of silence didn’t feel like a good sign.

Without thinking, you turned and made your way down the hallway, pushing open the door to his office with more force than necessary. “Toto?” you called, stepping inside.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Kimi.

You blinked, caught off guard. Kimi—Toto’s son. The boy who used to sit on the sidelines with toy cars while you learned how to serve. The one who used to fall asleep in the stands with his head on your shoulder, juice box still in hand. He was taller now, older, but still Kimi. Still the kid who felt like your little brother.

“Kimi!” you shouted, a grin breaking across your face as you jogged over and pulled him into a tight hug. “What the fuck!”

He laughed, hugging you back without hesitation. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it!” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“Plans changed,” he said with a grin. “I couldn’t miss my big sister playing at a Grand Slam.”

You laughed again, the sound lighter than it had been all day. You squeezed him once more, holding on for a second longer than you needed to. Somehow, just seeing him—his familiar face, his easy smile—made the pressure in your chest ease. Not all the way. But enough to breathe again.

“I’m so glad you came,” you said, and you meant it—but your mind was already drifting, scanning the room again. “Do you know where Toto is?”

Kimi shrugged, leaning back against the desk. “He said he’d be back in five minutes. That was a while ago, though. Haven’t seen him since.”

You let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down your face, the weight of the day pressing harder against your shoulders. Of course. The final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers was about to start, and the one person you needed most—your anchor, your constant—was nowhere to be found. Just your luck.

“Anyway,” Kimi said, nudging your arm with his elbow, trying to pull you back to the present. “How’s Australia treating you so far?”

You snorted. “Horrible,” you muttered. “It’s too hot. Lily and Oscar are being disgustingly cute, and Max is acting weirder than usual.”

Kimi grinned, arms folding across his chest like he’d been expecting that answer. “That’s why I’m here,” he said, eyes warm. “To make it better.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

The door creaked open behind you, and you turned just in time to see Toto step inside. His face was unreadable—calm, composed, but set in that way you’d come to recognize over the years. The kind of look he wore when something was wrong and he hadn’t figured out how to say it yet. Your stomach dropped before he even spoke.

“Kimi,” he said, voice low but steady, “can you give us a minute?”

Kimi hesitated, glancing between the two of you. His brow furrowed, like he didn’t want to leave, like he could feel the shift in the air too. But after a beat, he nodded. He gave you one last look—quiet, reassuring, the kind that said I’m still here—before slipping out and closing the door behind him.

Toto crossed the room and sank into the chair across from you as you sat down too. He didn’t waste time. Just leaned forward, eyes fixed on yours.

“We’ve got a problem, kid,” he said.

And just like that, the room felt smaller. Heavier. Like the walls had moved in a little closer, waiting to hear what came next.

“What is it, Toto?” you asked, the words catching in your throat as a knot began to form in your stomach.

Something was off. You could feel it in the way he looked at you—steady, serious, like he was bracing for impact. And suddenly, you were too.

He didn’t waste time. “Max doesn’t want to play with you anymore.”

The words hit harder than you expected. For a second, you just sat there, blinking, like maybe you’d misheard him. Like maybe if you stayed quiet long enough, he’d take it back.

But he didn’t.

What the fuck.

Everything you’d been working toward—the endless drills, the long hours on court, the pressure you’d carried like a second skin—suddenly felt like it had been for nothing. Max, the one person who was supposed to be in this with you, had walked away before the match even started. Just like that.

You sank back in your chair, hands gripping the edge like it might keep you grounded. But your chest was tight, your thoughts spinning too fast to catch. Anger flared first, hot and sharp. Then disbelief. Then something colder, heavier—exhaustion that settled deep in your bones.

“What?” you said again, the word sharper this time, cutting through the silence like glass. As if saying it out loud might change something. As if it might make this feel less real.

But it didn’t.

“He and Horner told the ITF he can’t play with you anymore,” Toto said, his voice low, steady in that way that only made it worse. He let out a slow breath, like he hated saying it out loud. “No explanation beyond that.”

You stared at him, the words echoing in your head, refusing to settle. So that was it. That’s why Max had been so off yesterday—the clipped tone, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the drills that felt more like punishment than practice. It hadn’t just been a bad day. It had been a warning. You just hadn’t seen it.

Your stomach twisted. “What the fuck,” you muttered, dragging a hand through your hair, fingers catching in the tangles. “Is it because of my knee? Or—” your voice sharpened, rising with the heat in your chest, “—because he couldn’t handle playing with someone just as good as him?”

The words hung in the air, bitter and raw. You didn’t know which answer would hurt more.

Toto shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. “You know how he is.”

“No,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. “No, I don’t, Toto. Not at all.”

Your voice cracked at the edges, tight with disbelief. “I’ve trained. I’ve pushed through every session, every drill. I’ve done everything he asked—everything—and he just walks away? Just like that?”

Toto didn’t flinch. His voice stayed calm, steady in the way it always was when everything else felt like it was falling apart. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, firm. “This isn’t on you. Sometimes people—”

“Sometimes people?” you cut in, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “He’s my partner. He’s supposed to show up. He’s supposed to work with me, not—” your voice caught, your throat tightening, “—not bail when it gets hard.”

You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your palms against your face like you could hold it all in. The anger, the confusion, the ache in your chest that had nothing to do with your knee. It wasn’t just about the tournament. It was about trust. About being left behind by someone who was supposed to be in this with you.

And now, you were alone.

“Look, kid, we have to go to the meeting,” Toto said, already reaching for his jacket. “The ITF will definitely bring it up.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. The last thing you wanted was to sit in a room full of officials and coaches, all of them dissecting what had just happened—your partner’s betrayal dressed up as a scheduling change, a strategic shift, a footnote in someone else’s press release. You could already feel their eyes on you, waiting to see how you’d react. Waiting to see if you’d crack.

“But Toto—”

“No arguments,” he cut in, his voice firm but not unkind. “We’ll find someone for you. Or you play singles and women’s doubles. That’s still a full load.” He paused, meeting your eyes. “Not everyone has to play all three categories.”

But that wasn’t you.

You weren’t here to do the bare minimum. You weren’t here to coast. You were known for showing up in every bracket, every match, every damn point. You and Lily were ranked number one in women’s doubles. You’d clawed your way to the top of singles. And mixed doubles? That was supposed to be the final piece. The one you’d been grinding for. Giving it up wasn’t just a change in schedule—it was surrender. And surrender had never been part of your game.

If Max didn’t want to be your partner? Fine. You didn’t want him either.

You wouldn’t beg. Not for a spot. Not for a second chance. And definitely not for someone who didn’t even have the decency to say it to your face. He could walk away. You’d find another way forward.

Or you’d win without him.

You followed Toto down the hall, each step heavier than the last. The glass-paneled doors of the meeting room loomed ahead, silhouettes shifting behind them—coaches, officials, players. The hum of low voices filtered through the glass, a quiet storm already in motion. Your stomach twisted.

Inside, the room was a square of tension and strategy. Lando and Oscar sat with their coach, Zak, deep in conversation. Across from them, Max and Horner had already taken their seats, their expressions unreadable. Lily was there too, waiting for you and Toto, her posture relaxed but her eyes tracking everything.

As you slid into your seat beside her, she leaned in just enough for her voice to reach you. “What took you so long?” she murmured, offering a small, knowing smile.

“Business,” you said, keeping your tone even, your face unreadable.

Your gaze swept the table, instinctively searching for the cracks. Lando’s eyes found yours almost immediately—sharp, steady, like he was trying to read something off your skin. You met his stare for a beat, then rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how close you were to unraveling.

Max didn’t even glance your way.

He sat stiffly, arms crossed, gaze fixed on some distant point on the table. Like you weren’t even there. Like none of this mattered. And somehow, that burned more than anything he could’ve said.

The room held its breath.

For a moment, no one spoke. Just the quiet rustle of papers, the creak of a chair shifting, the low hum of tension pressing in from all sides. It was the kind of silence that made your skin prickle, your nerves coil tighter with every second it stretched.

Then, finally, an ITF official cleared his throat. “Let’s begin,” he said, voice clipped and professional. “Today’s focus is the upcoming Australian Open. We’ll review schedules, training adjustments, and—” his eyes flicked toward you, just for a beat, “—mixed doubles pairings.”

Your stomach dropped.

There it was. The thing you’d been dreading. The thing everyone in the room knew was coming. You straightened in your seat, spine stiff, jaw set. You kept your face neutral, your hands still, even though every part of you wanted to get up and walk out. Run, maybe. Anything but sit here and let them talk about you like a problem to be solved.

Across the table, Lando shifted in his chair, slow and deliberate. His gaze never left yours. There was something in it—sharp, unreadable. Not quite smug, not quite concerned. Just… watching. Measuring. You felt the familiar flicker of irritation rise in your chest, tangled with something else. Something quieter. Something you didn’t want to name.

Max didn’t look at you. Not once.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said. You didn’t need words to feel the wall he’d built between you—cold, final, impenetrable.

The meeting began with the usual rhythm of formality—schedules, regulations, court assignments. The kind of logistical noise that could lull you into a daze if you let it. ITF officials took turns reading from their notes, outlining start times, warm-up slots, dress codes. The words blurred at the edges, a steady drone of structure and protocol.

Beside you, Toto leaned in every so often to murmur reminders—small things, practical things—but your mind kept drifting. To Max, silent and distant across the table. To Lando, still watching you like he was waiting for something. To the quiet truth that tomorrow, every person in this room would be watching your next move.

Then the tone shifted.

“Let’s move on to women’s doubles,” one of the officials said, tapping a finger against the chart projected on the screen.

The room stilled, just slightly. Eyes flicked toward the display.

“Here we have the rankings,” another added, gesturing toward the list.

Your name appeared at the top. And right beside it: Lily Zneimer.

“Y/l/n and Zneimer,” the official announced, voice even but unmistakably clear. “Ranked number one in women’s doubles. The pair has demonstrated exceptional synergy and dominance throughout the past season. They are expected to perform at the highest level.”

You felt the words land in the room like a quiet drumbeat. Not boastful. Not dramatic. Just fact.

You turned your head slightly, catching Lily’s eye. Her smile was small, tight at the corners, but proud. The kind of smile that said we earned this. The kind that made you want to reach under the table and squeeze her hand, just to say I know. I feel it too.

Even here, surrounded by the best of the best, the words carried weight.

You were the best.

And no one could take that from you.

The praise for you and Lily still lingered in the air, a faint echo of something steady and earned. But it didn’t last.

One of the ITF officials cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet. “And now, on to mixed doubles,” he said, his voice noticeably tighter. “There’s an issue we need to address regarding pairings.”

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

Beside you, Toto went still, his posture sharpening in that subtle way that told you he already knew what was coming. Across the table, Max shifted—arms crossed, jaw set, his gaze fixed on the far wall like it held something more interesting than the fallout he’d just detonated.

You didn’t need him to look at you. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the cold wall he’d built between you. It was already there yesterday, in the clipped words and the silence between drills. You just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Lando noticed it too. You could see it in the way his eyes flicked between you and Max, sharp and calculating. Like he was watching a match unfold before the first serve had even been hit.

The official continued, reading from the paper in front of him like it was just another line item on the agenda. “Max Verstappen has informed the ITF that he will not be participating in mixed doubles with Y/n Y/l/n. No further explanation has been provided.”

The words landed like a slap.

Lando’s gaze snapped to you, unreadable. Oscar’s followed, his brow furrowed. And Lily—Lily turned to you with wide eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. “What?”

Before you could speak, one of the officials cut in, his voice brisk. “Mr. Wolff, have you started looking for a replacement?”

Toto didn’t flinch. “We’re exploring options, yes,” he said, calm as ever. “But you need to understand—we’re not just filling a slot. We have to find someone worthy to play alongside Y/n.”

Your jaw tightened at the word worthy. It wasn’t meant as a slight, not from Toto. He was defending you, holding the line. But still, the word scraped something raw. Like your value needed to be justified. Like you were a risk now, a question mark.

You stayed quiet, letting Toto’s steadiness anchor you. If he hadn’t been there, you might’ve said something you couldn’t take back.

The official didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Wolff,” he said, his tone turning sharp, almost smug. “We’ll find the perfect match for Miss Y/n.”

Your hands curled into fists beneath the table.

Perfect match, you thought, the words sour in your mouth. As if Max had been perfect. As if this wasn’t a mess of his making. As if you were the one who needed fixing.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay still. The insult was subtle, but it landed all the same. You weren’t the one who walked away. You weren’t the one who quit.

But now you were the one being discussed like a problem to solve.

The official cleared his throat again, the sound slicing through the room like a blade. “We’ll continue discussing logistics,” he said, tone clipped, “but please remember: we need all players ready and committed by tomorrow’s first practice session.”

He turned his gaze toward you and Toto, eyes steady, voice firm. “Miss Y/n, Mr. Wolff, a replacement for mixed doubles must be confirmed before then.”

The words landed with finality, like a door clicking shut.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, spine straight, hands folded tightly in your lap. The pressure was familiar—this was the sport, after all—but today it felt different. He wasn’t just talking about logistics. He was talking about your future. Your reputation. Your ability to adapt, to survive, to prove that you weren’t the one who broke the partnership.

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The next day, you stepped onto the court with Lily, racket in hand, and for the first time in what felt like forever, something inside you loosened. Just a little. The weight in your chest didn’t vanish, but it shifted—less like a stone, more like something you could carry.

The sun hung high overhead, warm but not punishing, casting long shadows across the court. The ball moved between you in a steady rhythm—clean, sharp, familiar. Back and forth, like breath. Like memory. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the thud of sneakers on clay, the soft grunt of effort, the satisfying pop of the ball off your strings. No Max. No ITF. No headlines or whispers or meetings. Just this.

“Nice shot!” Lily called, laughing as you sent a cross-court winner skimming past her reach. She jogged after the ball, scooping it up with practiced ease and tossing it back without missing a beat.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you win today,” you said, grinning as you twirled your racket in your hand.

“You wish,” she shot back, eyes gleaming. Then she returned the next ball with a speed that made your legs scramble and your breath catch.

And for a while—an hour, maybe two—you weren’t thinking about the mess waiting outside the court. You weren’t thinking about Max’s silence or the way the ITF official had said perfect match like it was a threat. You were just here. With Lily. Your partner. Your friend. Laughing, sweating, pushing each other to move faster, hit harder, stay present.

You both paused at the baseline, breath catching in your chests, sweat cooling on your skin. Lily tossed you a bottle of water with a flick of her wrist, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she watched you.

“So,” she said, voice light but laced with curiosity, “about mixed doubles… who would you want to play with if Max is out?”

You took a long sip, letting the water cool your throat while your mind spun. The question was simple enough, but the answer wasn’t. Not anymore. Anyone else felt like a gamble—an unknown rhythm, a new language you’d have to learn mid-match. And after everything, you weren’t sure how much more risk you could take.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, leaning on your racket. “It has to be someone I can actually work with. Someone who won’t make everything harder than it already is.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Oh, come on. There’s got to be someone out there who’s good—and maybe even tolerable.”

You let out a dry laugh, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Tolerable? That narrows the list down to zero.”

She grinned. “What about Sainz?”

Carlos Sainz. You blinked. The image of him flashed in your mind—perfect hair, perfect smile, that infuriatingly smooth confidence.

“Definitely not,” you said, shaking your head. “He looks like he spends more time on his hair than his serve.”

Lily burst out laughing, tossing the ball lightly toward you. “Fair. Noted. No Sainz.”

You caught the ball with one hand, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded. Just a little.

Before you could answer Lily, a shadow fell across the edge of the court. You turned to see Toto standing there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low and clipped. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

You frowned, the shift in his tone enough to make your pulse skip. You set your racket down slowly, brushing the sweat from your brow. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Just tilted his head toward the far side of the court, away from Lily, away from the easy rhythm you’d just found again. “Come with me,” he said. “It’s important.”

That word—important—landed like a stone in your gut. When Toto said it like that, it never meant something small. Never meant something you could brush off.

You glanced at Lily, and she gave you a quiet nod, her expression soft with understanding. No questions. Just support.

You followed Toto without a word, each step across the court making your chest feel tighter, your breath a little shallower. The sun felt hotter now, the air heavier.

You followed Toto through the maze of courts and corridors, the noise of bouncing balls and shouted drills fading behind you. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back, just kept walking with that purposeful stride that always meant something was coming. Something big.

He stopped near a shaded corner of the facility, tucked behind a row of benches and a half-empty water cooler. It was quiet here—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your skin prickle.

His face gave nothing away.

“So?” you asked, trying to sound steady, though your foot tapped against the concrete, betraying you.

“I have news,” he said, voice low and even.

You swallowed, the tension in your chest winding tighter. “Good or bad?”

Toto looked at you for a long beat, unreadable. “Depends,” he said finally.

And just like that, your pulse kicked up, sharp and fast. Because when Toto said depends, it never meant simple.

“So, basically, the ITF found you a partner,” Toto said, his voice even, like this was just another update. Nothing special. Nothing explosive.

For a second, your heart lifted. That sounded like good news. A solution. A way forward. Maybe this whole mess was finally turning around.

“Who?” you asked, eyes flicking up, hope creeping in before you could stop it.

“Lando.”

Your brain stalled.

Your jaw actually dropped, like in a bad movie. “Norris?!” you blurted, too loud, too fast. It felt like the words had been yanked out of you before you could catch them. No. No way. This had to be some kind of fever dream. Any second now, you’d wake up in your hotel bed, drenched in sweat, heart racing, and laugh at how ridiculous it all was.

But Toto didn’t blink. “Lando Norris,” he said again, calm as ever, like he was telling you the weather.

You just stared at him, frozen. Your thoughts were a mess—half-formed, tangled, loud. Of all the people. Him? The cocky, smug, insufferably talented top-four player who never missed a chance to get under your skin? The one who always had something to say, always with that smirk, always acting like he knew better?

You could barely stand him on a good day. And now you were supposed to play with him?

Your mind spun, trying to make sense of it. Trying to find the part where this made any kind of sense. But it didn’t. It just didn’t.

“No. No, no,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Panic rose fast and hot in your chest, tightening everything. “I’d rather die than play with him.”

Toto didn’t flinch. “And the best part?” he said, voice flat. There wasn’t even a hint of amusement in his face.

You let out a single, sharp laugh—dry, disbelieving. “What? It can’t possibly get worse than this.”

He didn’t blink. “Zak and Lando already confirmed it.”

You stared at him, your breath catching.

“They’re waiting for your confirmation,” he added, calm as ever.

Your mind reeled. What the fuck.

This wasn’t just a hypothetical. This wasn’t a joke or a bluff or some cruel twist of fate waiting to be undone. It was real. Lando—Lando—had said yes. Zak too. They’d already agreed. And now it was on you.

You felt the ground shift beneath you, the weight of it all pressing down. You weren’t just being asked to tolerate him. You were being asked to trust him. To share the court. To rebuild something with someone who’d spent the last year getting under your skin every chance he got.

“No, Toto. I won’t confirm.”

The words came out fast, sharp, before you could stop them. Your voice was too loud, too final, but you didn’t take it back. You couldn’t. As soon as you said it, your body seemed to catch up with everything you’d been holding in. Your knee throbbed. Your shoulders ached. Even your head pulsed with a dull, relentless pressure. Like your body had finally decided it was done carrying the weight of all this—of Max, of the meetings, of the expectations pressing in from every side.

“Find me someone else,” you said, quieter now, but no less certain. Even though deep down, you already knew. There wasn’t anyone else. Not really. But saying it out loud would make it real, and you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

Toto exhaled, and for the first time, the edge of frustration cracked through his calm. “I can’t, kid,” he said, voice low. “There is no one better than him.”

You flinched, the words landing harder than you expected. “Yes, there is,” you snapped. “What about Leclerc? Sainz?” You could still hear Lily’s voice from earlier, teasing, hopeful.

But Toto just shook his head. “Leclerc’s already paired with Mleux. And Sainz doesn’t play mixed doubles. Never has.”

And just like that, the list was gone. The excuses ran out. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, like the air before a storm.

You looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight. Because the truth was settling in now, slow and unwelcome.

It was Lando… or no one.

And you weren’t sure which was worse.

“Toto, this won’t work,” you said, shaking your head, voice low and frayed at the edges. “We hate each other.”

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you with that steady, unshakable calm he always carried, like nothing you said could surprise him. “Y/n,” he said, “you don’t need to love each other.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “We can barely stand being in the same room.”

Toto didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He just let the silence stretch for a moment before answering, voice quiet but certain. “You’re both the greatest,” he said. “That’s what the ITF sees. Not your arguments. Not your egos. Your results.”

You swallowed hard, the truth of it landing like a weight in your chest. Because that was the part that stung the most—he was right. On paper, it made perfect sense. Two top players. Two names that carried weight. Two people who knew how to win.

“They don’t care how you feel,” Toto added, softer now. “They care about what you produce on court.”

You closed your eyes, just for a second. Long enough to feel the exhaustion settle in your bones. It wasn’t just about Max or Lando anymore. It was everything. The pressure. The expectations. The constant need to prove yourself, to hold it all together, to pretend like none of it touched you. But it did. And it was catching up.

“What if I say no?” you asked, your voice low but sharp, like you were daring him to give you a way out. “What if I decline the partnership?”

Toto didn’t even blink. “You’ll be disqualified from the Grand Slam.”

The word slammed into you. “WHAT?!” It tore out of you before you could stop it, loud and raw and full of disbelief.

But even as it echoed in the quiet space between you, you already knew. Of course they’d do this. Of course the ITF would back you into a corner, smiling politely while they took away your choices one by one. They didn’t want your comfort. They wanted your compliance. Walk away, and you’d lose everything you’d worked for. Stay, and you’d have to do it with him.

“That’s what the ITF told me,” Toto said, softer now. “That’s why Lando already confirmed. He didn’t have a choice either.”

The fight drained out of you all at once, like someone had pulled the plug. The anger, the panic—it all gave way to something heavier. Something quieter.

So this wasn’t arrogance. This wasn’t Lando going behind your back or trying to one-up you. He hadn’t chosen this any more than you had. He was stuck too. Just like you.

Now you couldn’t even hate him for it.

“Y/n,” Toto said, his voice firm, steady, and final. “Either you put your ego aside and play this Grand Slam with Norris—prove to Max that you can win without him—or you get disqualified completely.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, the words sinking in like slow poison. They didn’t hit all at once. They settled, heavy and cold, curling around your ribs and tightening your chest until it was hard to breathe.

“It’s all or nothing,” he added, softer now, but no less certain.

And just like that, every exit you’d been clinging to vanished. All the ways you’d tried to delay, to deflect, to pretend there might be another option—they were gone. There was no middle ground. No loophole. No one coming to save you from this choice.

You looked down at your hands, still trembling faintly from the morning’s practice. Callused fingers, taped knuckles, wrists that had carried more weight than they should’ve. You’d built your whole life with these hands. Match by match. Win by win. Loss by loss. And now, they were shaking.

You looked up at Toto. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disappointed. He was just… steady. Concern flickered behind his eyes, but it didn’t soften the truth. He was here to help you stand, but he wasn’t going to carry you.

Winning without Max Verstappen. Winning with Lando Norris.

You let out a breath, shaky and uneven, like your body was trying to make space for the decision already forming in your chest. This wasn’t just about tennis anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. This was about pride. About survival. About proving—to Max, to the ITF, to yourself—that you were still standing. That you could still fight.

And somewhere deep down, you realized the choice had already been made.

“Fine,” you said at last, lifting your head. The word came out steady, clear, even though your insides still felt like they were shaking. “Tell the ITF I’ll do it. I confirm.”

For a moment, Toto didn’t speak. He just looked at you, something shifting in his expression—less relief, more recognition. Like he saw the cost of what you’d just agreed to. Like he knew exactly how much it had taken to say it out loud.

His voice was quiet when it came. “That’s my girl.”

────────────

You stayed on the court after Lily left, even though the sun was starting to dip and the shadows were stretching long across the baseline. She and Oscar had plans—dinner, a movie, something that sounded like a life untouched by chaos. You waved her off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes and told her you’d be fine. A lie, but an easy one. One she didn’t press.

You weren’t supposed to be alone for long anyway. Zak, Lando, and Toto were on their way. A meeting, they’d said. A conversation about your “future partnership.” The phrase alone made your jaw clench. You could think of a hundred better ways to spend a Monday afternoon than waiting for the guy you could barely stand.

So you stayed busy.

You picked up a ball and hit it across the court. Then another. And another. No rallies. No rhythm. Just you and the silence and the sting in your arm as each shot landed harder than the last. Your breath came faster. Your muscles burned. But you didn’t stop.

Anger bled into every swing. Not just at Max, or the ITF, or Lando. At the whole damn situation. At how unfair it all felt. You were ranked sixth in the world. Sixth. And still, somehow, you were the one being forced to prove yourself. To adapt.

And now you were supposed to play mixed doubles with someone who lived comfortably in the top five. Someone who made it all look effortless. Someone you’d spent your whole career trying to catch—and never quite reaching.

The thought lodged in your chest like a splinter. No matter how many hours you trained, how many sacrifices you made, it always felt like you were one step behind him. Always chasing. Always just short.

Your knee twinged as you lunged for another shot. You ignored it. Hit harder.

If this was what it took to prove you belonged—next to him, not beneath him—then fine.

You’d burn yourself out trying.

Better that than letting anyone think you weren’t enough.

“You should take a break,” a voice said, low and familiar.

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice. Kimi.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the court, your grip tightening around the racket. You tried to make your voice sound firm, unshakable. But even to your own ears, it rang hollow.

“You say that a lot,” he said, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t sharp, just steady. Observant. His gaze moved over you—your stiff shoulders, the way your weight shifted to protect your knee, the tension you couldn’t quite hide.

You clenched your jaw. “Because I am fine. Don’t read too much into it.”

Kimi didn’t flinch. “That’s what you said last year,” he said gently. “And the year before that.”

You let out a breath, sharp and frustrated. “Things are different this time.”

“Are they?” he asked, voice calm, even. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks the same. You’re not just angry about Max. Or the ITF. You’re still carrying that injury. Still pushing through it like it’s not there. Still trying to outrun something that’s already inside you.”

You looked away, blinking hard. Because he was right. And hearing it out loud made something twist in your chest. You hated how much it stung. Hated how much it felt like truth.

Kimi crouched down a little, bringing himself to your eye level. He didn’t touch you, didn’t crowd you. Just looked at you with that quiet steadiness of his. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re strong. One of the best I’ve ever seen. But even the strongest players need to breathe. You don’t have to prove everything all at once.”

You stared at the ground, your fingers clenched around the racket handle like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You didn’t know if you wanted to yell at him or lean into his words and let them hold you up.

“Just… think about it,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “Before you meet them.”

You watched him walk away, and couldn’t help the thought that slipped in, uninvited and sharp.

He sounded just like Toto.

You stood there for a moment after Kimi left, the court stretching out around you, suddenly too wide, too quiet. The silence pressed in, broken only by the steady thud of your heartbeat and the echo of his words in your head. Take a break. As if it was that simple. As if stopping didn’t feel like surrender. Like letting go of the only thing holding you together.

You bent down, picked up a ball, and served it hard. Too hard. It clipped the net and rolled back toward you, slow and mocking. You stared at it, chest rising and falling faster than it should have. Your knee pulsed with pain—a sharp, familiar warning you’d been ignoring all afternoon.

You dropped onto the bench, elbows on your knees, racket dangling from your fingers. For a moment, you let your head fall forward, eyes closed. Just a breath. Just a pause. The anger that had carried you through the day began to slip away, leaving something heavier in its place. Not rage. Not even frustration.

Fear.

Fear that Max had been right to walk away. Fear that this new pairing—this forced partnership with Lando—wasn’t a second chance, but a spotlight. One that would show everyone just how far you’d fallen. How much you were still hurting. How much you were still trying to pretend you weren’t.

You glanced at your phone. 6:56 p.m.

Time to go.

You wiped the sweat from your face with a towel, grabbed your bag, and started walking. Out of the facility, down the quiet path toward the café where Toto, Zak, and Lando would be waiting.

The café wasn’t far—just a short walk from the courts, tucked behind a row of hedges like a secret only the players knew. It was the kind of place where people pretended, for an hour or two, that their lives weren’t ruled by rankings and press conferences and the weight of expectation. Just coffee, quiet, and the illusion of normal.

You pushed the door open and stepped into the cool hush of the room. The air smelled like espresso and something sweet, and the low hum of conversation wrapped around you. Relief and dread twisted together in your chest, tight and tangled.

They were already there.

Toto saw you first. He lifted a hand in a small, steady wave—reassuring, grounding. Zak sat beside him, posture easy but eyes sharp, already reading you like a stat sheet. And then there was Lando.

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, cap turned backwards like always. He looked relaxed. Effortless. Like this wasn’t a meeting about a forced partnership or a career-defining gamble. Like he hadn’t been dragged into the same mess you had.

Of course he looked fine.

You hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and dropped your bag beside the empty chair across from him. You didn’t sit. Didn’t look at him. Just stood there, letting the silence stretch a little too long.

“Sorry,” you said finally, voice flat. “Training ran late.”

Lando’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Yeah. I can tell.”

You turned then, sharp and fast, eyes narrowing. The look you gave him was a warning—don’t.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his gaze didn’t waver. Still watching you. Still too calm. Still too curious.

“I’m glad you came,” Zak said, turning toward you with that smooth, practiced tone of his.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Zak Brown. The most infuriating man on the planet—second only to the player sitting across from you. There had always been something about him that rubbed you the wrong way. Maybe it was the way he smiled like he already knew the outcome. Or maybe it was the fact that, years ago, he’d told Toto you were too “unruly” to manage. You’d been seventeen. Fiery. Determined. And apparently, too much.

You kept your expression neutral, fingers tightening around the strap of your racket bag like it might anchor you to the floor. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this still grated.

“Thanks,” you said, voice even, polite. Controlled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Zak smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that said he was already five steps ahead, already moving the pieces into place. “Good,” he said. “Let’s talk about this partnership, shall we?”

You nodded once, slowly, and finally took your seat. The chair felt too stiff. The air too still. Across from you, Lando hadn’t said a word.

Toto leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice low and steady. “Let’s be clear,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “This partnership isn’t about liking each other. It’s about results. The ITF made the call. Now it’s our job to make it work.”

You didn’t look up. Just stared at your hands, fingers curled tight around the strap of your racket bag like it might hold you together. “I get it,” you said quietly. The words came out flat, thin. Even you could hear how hollow they sounded.

Across from you, Lando shifted in his seat. You didn’t have to look to know he was watching you. You could feel it—like a weight pressing against your skin.

“Funny,” he said, voice light, almost amused. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “I highly doubt that.”

He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, that faint smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. Like this was all a game to him. Like none of it mattered.

Zak raised a hand before either of you could say more, his voice cutting clean through the tension. “Enough,” he said, sharp but calm. “We’re not here to rehash old drama. We’re here to make a plan—practice schedules, match strategy, communication on court. Every detail matters if you two want to win.”

You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, heart still pounding. You weren’t sure what was worse—Lando’s smirk, or the fact that Zak was right.

Toto leaned back slightly, his voice calm but clipped. “We don’t have much time. You play singles tomorrow. There won’t be much time. You need to train together in the meantime.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound sharp in your throat. “Oh, yes. Waited for that my whole life.”

Across the table, Lando’s smirk bloomed before he even opened his mouth. “Excuse me?” he said, voice light and needling. “That sounded suspiciously like complaining.”

You snapped your head toward him, eyes narrowing. “Well, it is complaining,” you said, the words landing hard. “I didn’t spend years clawing my way up the rankings just to be forced into a partnership with someone I can’t even stand.”

Lando leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his expression shifting from amused to something sharper. “Oh, come on. You act like I begged for this. The ITF picked me. I didn’t pick you.”

“That makes it worse!” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t ask for Max to walk away either, but here we are!”

He raised an eyebrow, tone cooling. “So what?” he said. “You’re mad at me for being good at my job?”

You shot him a look that could’ve burned through concrete. “I’m mad?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’re cocky, infuriating, and you walk around like the world owes you something.”

Lando didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened, like he was enjoying this far more than he should. “That’s rich coming from you,” he said, eyebrow arching. “Don’t act like you’re some saint, Y/n. You’ve got an ego the size of Australia.”

Your hand slammed down on the table before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp and sudden. Zak flinched. “Better an ego than being a pain in everyone’s ass every time you show up,” you snapped, heat rising in your chest.

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms folding behind his head like he had all the time in the world. “Pain in the ass, huh?” he said, grin widening. “You’ve clearly spent a lot of time thinking about me.”

You leaned forward, eyes blazing. “I’ve spent way too much time thinking about you already,” you shot back, the words landing harder than you meant them to.

The silence that followed was thick and electric, both of you breathing hard, neither willing to back down.

Toto cleared his throat, voice low but firm. “Enough,” he said, cutting through the tension like a blade. “If you two can’t start with some professionalism, this partnership won’t survive a single training session.”

“Training starts in fifteen minutes,” Toto said, standing up. Zak followed him out without a word, leaving you and Lando alone.

You didn’t move. Neither did Lando. You just stared at each other, locked in a silent standoff, the air between you charged and unyielding.

Zak exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is going to be… interesting,” he muttered.

The silence that followed was thick—awkward and bitter, stretching too long to ignore. You shifted in your chair, arms crossing tightly over your chest, gaze fixed on the table. You refused to look at him. Not yet.

Lando leaned back, the edge in his posture softening. His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. “Look,” he said, voice lower now, less sharp. “I didn’t want this either. I didn’t ask to be your partner.”

Your arms tightened around yourself, a reflex you couldn’t stop. “Glad we’re being honest,” you said, the words clipped, brittle.

He let out a breath, then shrugged. “But… I did save us both from getting disqualified. So… you’re welcome, I guess.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Thanks for that,” you said, the sarcasm barely masking the exhaustion underneath.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even peace.

But it was something.

A crack in the wall, maybe.

Fifteen minutes later, the court was already a disaster.

“You call that a forehand?!” Lando shouted across the net, his voice echoing through the empty stands. A teasing smirk tugged at his lips as the ball zipped past you, just out of reach.

You spun around, breathless, glaring. “It’s fine! You just aim like a toddler!”

He laughed—loud, unbothered, infuriating. “Fine? That’s hilarious!” He tossed another ball into the air and hit it with ridiculous ease. “Seriously, Y/n, do you even know which way to swing that thing?”

“Shut up!” you snapped, stepping into the next shot and yanking it back over the net with more force than necessary. The ball cracked against the baseline, but you barely registered it. Your pulse was too loud in your ears.

Toto’s voice boomed from the sidelines. “Enough! Both of you!”

Zak’s voice followed, sharper, clipped. “Focus. This isn’t a playground—it’s training.”

You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring across the net at each other.

And yet, neither of you moved to apologize.

You and Lando barely registered the shouting from the sidelines. Too caught up in your own storm, too busy hurling balls across the net like weapons, swinging with more spite than strategy, arguing over every single point like it mattered more than the match itself.

“Your backhand is worse!” Lando shouted, his voice echoing across the court.

You didn’t miss a beat. “You wish you could even touch mine!”

He scoffed, sending another ball flying your way. “In your dreams!”

You lunged, returned it with a sharp crack. “Only when they’re nightmares!”

Toto’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. “Stop shouting!” he barked, marching toward the net, his patience clearly fraying. “You’ll wear yourselves out before the first match!”

Toto’s whistle cut through the chaos like a blade. The ball skidded to a stop between you and Lando, the silence that followed almost louder than the shouting had been.

“Enough,” Toto said, rubbing his temples like he could physically press the headache away. “We’ll deal with the attitude later.”

You scoffed under your breath, turning away. Lando muttered something low and sharp that you didn’t quite catch—but you didn’t need to. You could feel the heat still radiating between you.

Toto pointed between you both, his voice firm. “Tomorrow, you each play singles. Y/n, your match is first. After that—no excuses. You train together again.”

Zak crossed his arms, his tone clipped. “And not just drills.”

Toto nodded. “You’ll train against Oscar and Lily.”

That made you look up.

Lily and Oscar. Calm, in sync, terrifyingly efficient. They moved like they shared a brain, like they’d been playing together since birth. Watching them was like watching choreography—fluid, precise, unshakable.

“They’re one of the best doubles pairs here,” Toto continued. “If you want to survive mixed doubles, you’ll learn from them. Communication. Movement. Trust.”

Lando let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “So we get destroyed on purpose.”

“Exactly,” Toto said, not missing a beat. “And you’ll thank me later.”

You didn’t respond. Neither did Lando.

But for the first time all day, neither of you had anything to argue about.

────────────

You sat alone in the locker room, the silence pressing in around you like a second skin. The hum of the stadium was distant, muffled by thick walls and the weight of your own thoughts. Your elbows rested on your thighs, head in your hands, leg bouncing restlessly. You hadn’t moved in minutes. Maybe longer.

The Australian Open. The one that always slipped away. You’d won everything else—Wimbledon, the US Open, Roland Garros. But Melbourne had always found a way to break your rhythm. A bad draw. A rolled ankle. A match point that vanished in the heat. It had become a ghost you couldn’t shake. And now, here you were again. Minutes from walking out. Minutes from trying—again—to rewrite the ending.

You told yourself this time would be different. You were stronger now. Sharper. You’d survived heartbreak, injury, Max leaving, the ITF’s games. You were still standing. That had to count for something.

Still, your chest felt tight. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

A soft knock broke through the quiet.

“Come in,” you said, voice low, not bothering to lift your head.

The door creaked open. “Just checking on you,” came a voice you knew by heart.

Kimi.

Of course it was him.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He never did. He just knew. Always had. Like he could feel it in the air when you needed someone to show up.

Kimi stepped closer, his presence calm and steady in the way it always was. “You got this,” he said simply.

And somehow, that meant more than any speech ever could. Because if there was anyone who still believed in you—truly, without conditions—it was Kimi. He didn’t need you to win to believe in you. He just did.

You looked up at him, your voice soft. “Thanks, Kimi. I hope so.”

He gave a small nod, then added, “Lily couldn’t make it. She’s got training. But she told me to tell you she’s wishing you luck.”

You tried to smile. “I’ll see her after the match,” you said, but the words felt thinner than you meant them to. The thought of training with Lando later, of facing Lily and Oscar on the other side of the court—it crept in like a shadow, dulling the edges of your focus.

Kimi opened his mouth to say something else, maybe to ground you again, maybe just to stay a little longer.

But the loudspeaker crackled to life, cutting him off.

“Welcome to the first women’s singles match of this year’s Australian Open! Y/n Y/l/n versus Alexandra Saint Mleux!”

The words echoed through the locker room, sharp and final.

It was time.

You stood slowly, gripping your racket like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. You gave it a few light swings, trying to shake the tension from your arms, but your muscles still felt tight, coiled like springs. From somewhere beyond the locker room walls, the roar of the crowd filtered in—louder than you expected. It hit you in the chest, sudden and real, and your stomach twisted.

Kimi stood just off to the side, arms folded, calm as ever. He gave you a small nod, his voice low and steady. “Focus,” he said. “You know what to do.”

You nodded back, not trusting yourself to speak. Then you turned and walked down the long hallway toward the court, each step echoing in the narrow space. You passed Toto near the entrance, his expression unreadable but his voice warm.

“Good luck, kid,” he said. “Remember Mleux’s weaknesses.”

You managed a quiet, “Thanks,” as you stepped past him and into the light.

The sun hit you like a wave—bright and hot, wrapping around your skin. The stadium opened up in front of you, vast and humming with energy. The crowd’s cheers rolled over you in waves, and your heart kicked up, faster than it should’ve been. You blinked against the brightness, against the noise, against the weight of it all.

This is it, you thought. This is finally your Australian Open.

You walked to your baseline, the court beneath your feet familiar and foreign all at once. You took a deep breath, let it fill your lungs, and exhaled slowly. The racket settled into your hands like it belonged there.

You bounced lightly on your toes at the baseline, trying to shake the nerves from your limbs. Your eyes stayed locked on the other side of the net, where Alexandra stood like a statue—calm, composed, her expression unreadable. She looked like she was waiting for a warm-up rally, not the start of a Grand Slam match. Of course she did. That was her thing. Ice in her veins. No cracks in the armor.

The umpire’s voice broke through the hum of the crowd. “Time.”

You inhaled slowly, steadying your breath. The racket felt solid in your hand, familiar. You tossed the ball into the air, eyes tracking it as it rose against the bright sky.

Focus.

The ball met your strings with a clean, satisfying snap. It flew wide and fast, clipping the line. Ace. The crowd erupted, a wave of sound crashing over you, and for a moment, it lit something in your chest. A spark. A reminder. You were here. You were ready.

The next point didn’t come as easy. The rally stretched long—baseline to baseline, shot for shot. You felt your knee twinge, a dull ache that flared with each push off your right foot. You ignored it. There was no space for pain today. You moved sharper, hit deeper, pulling from every drill Toto had hammered into you. Attack her backhand. Drag her wide. Don’t let her settle.

Point by point, the match found its rhythm. Brutal. Demanding. Sweat rolled down your spine, your grip tightening with every swing. The world narrowed to the ball, the lines, the breath in your lungs. Everything else fell away.

The first set had taken everything out of you. Long rallies, sharp angles, your knee screaming every time you pushed off just a little too hard. You’d won it—barely. And now, standing at the baseline in the second set, the heat pressed down heavier than before. The sun clung to your skin, sweat pooling at the base of your neck, soaking into your wristbands. You bounced the ball, trying to find your breath, trying to find your focus.

One point at a time.

You returned serve cleanly, chased the next shot, sent it down the line with just enough spin to pull it out of reach. The crowd responded, a low murmur rising into something louder, warmer. You didn’t let yourself react. Not yet.

But as you walked back toward the baseline, towel draped around your shoulders, your eyes drifted—just for a second. You didn’t mean to look. But you did.

And there he was.

Lando.

Sitting in the stands, elbows on his knees, cap pulled low. No smirk. No lazy grin. Just stillness. Focus. Watching you—not like a teammate, not like a rival. Like someone trying to understand something he hadn’t seen before.

Your grip tightened around the racket handle.

Why is he even here?

You shook the thought off, forced your gaze back to the court. It didn’t matter. He was just another face in the crowd. Just another distraction.

But the next rally dragged long—brutal, punishing. You chased a wide ball, stretched too far, and your knee flared in protest. Sharp. Immediate. You bit down on the pain, forced yourself through the motion, barely masking the wince.

And from the corner of your eye, you saw him move.

Lando straightened in his seat, jaw tight, eyes locked on you.

Like he felt it too.

You’d taken the second set, but your heart was racing for all the wrong reasons. Not from the heat or the effort or the pressure of the match—but from something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

As the applause rolled over the court, you let your eyes drift—just for a second, just long enough to betray yourself. And there he was.

Lando.

Still in the stands. Still watching. Elbows on his knees, cap pulled low, gaze fixed on you like he hadn’t looked away once.

You turned quickly, heading for the sidelines. The crowd was loud, the sun relentless, sweat dripping down your temple as you moved straight toward Toto. You didn’t wait for him to speak.

“What is he doing here?” you asked, voice low but sharp. “Doesn’t he have his own match?”

Toto handed you a bottle of water, calm as ever. “He already played,” he said. “He won.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He’d finished his match. And he’d still come to watch yours.

The thought landed in your chest with a strange weight. Not heavy, exactly. Just… tight. Unsettling. Maybe he was here to see you fall apart. Maybe he wanted proof that you weren’t as good as everyone said.

Or maybe—worse—he wanted to see for himself just how good you really were.

“Focus, kid,” Toto said, his voice low and even, cutting through the noise like a metronome. He gave you a steady look, the kind that didn’t waver, didn’t rush. “You’ve already taken two sets out of three. You’ve got this in the bag.”

You nodded, but it didn’t quite reach your chest. Your heart was still racing, your body humming with adrenaline and heat and something else—something harder to name. Pressure, maybe. Or fear. Or the weight of knowing how close you were to finally breaking the curse of this tournament.

You looked down at your hands, fingers wrapped tight around the water bottle, knuckles pale. You’d done the hard part. You were ahead. But the finish line always felt the farthest when it was right in front of you.

Still, Toto’s voice stayed with you. Calm. Certain. Like he believed in you even when you weren’t sure you could believe in yourself.

You took a breath. Then another.

And when you stood, racket in hand, the world narrowed again—to the court, the ball, the next point.

Just one more set.

The whistle blew, sharp and final, slicing through the heat-soaked air.

You stepped to the baseline, and something inside you shifted. Not snapped, exactly—more like something uncoiled. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the weight of the moment. Or maybe it was the image of Lando, still watching, still there, etched into the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

Whatever it was, it lit a fuse.

You served with more bite, more speed. The ball cracked off your strings and kissed the line. Your returns came cleaner, heavier, each one landing with purpose. Your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, your body slipping into that rare, elusive rhythm where everything just worked.

The crowd roared, but it barely registered. Their cheers blurred into a distant hum, like waves crashing somewhere far away. All you could hear was the thud of the ball, the scrape of your shoes, the steady beat of your breath.

Focus. Timing. Instinct.

It all clicked.

Each point you won fed the next—momentum building, confidence blooming in your chest like something wild and overdue. The anger, the nerves, the noise—they all faded, burned away by the fire in your blood and the clarity in your mind.

And then, between points, as you turned to towel off, your eyes flicked to the stands.

Lando was still there.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you. No smirk. No smugness. Just focus. Just… attention.

The rally stretched on, longer than you thought your body could handle. Sweat dripped into your eyes, your muscles screamed with every lunge, every pivot, every desperate reach. Your breath came in ragged bursts, the court blurring at the edges as you chased one more shot, then another, refusing to let go.

Alexandra lunged for your return, her body fully extended, racket slicing through the air. The ball clipped the edge of her strings—then spun wide.

Out.

The stadium erupted.

For a second, you didn’t move. Couldn’t. The sound hit you like a wave, crashing over your shoulders, and then your knees gave out. You dropped, the racket slipping from your hand, your fists clenched and raised as you let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.

You’d done it.

The Australian Open. The one that had always slipped through your fingers. The one that haunted your off-seasons and whispered in your dreams. You’d won the first round. And this time, it was real.

Toto was there in an instant, dropping to your level, gripping your shoulder with both hands. His eyes were bright, voice thick with something that sounded suspiciously like pride. “You did it,” he said, shaking you gently. “You did it, kid!”

You laughed, still catching your breath, the weight of the last few months crashing down all at once. The pressure. The burnout. The doubt. The noise. It all spilled out in one long, shaking exhale. “We did it,” you said, voice cracking. “We actually did it.”

Toto pulled you into a quick, fierce hug. “No,” he said, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You did it. That’s all you.”

And in the middle of the chaos—the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the blur of movement—you let yourself feel it.

Not relief. Not survival.

Triumph.

Real, unfiltered, earned.

You had won the first round of the Australian Open.

You and Toto stepped into the hallway, the buzz of the crowd still echoing faintly behind you. You didn’t have to look to know he was smiling—that quiet, proud smile he only wore when words weren’t enough. The kind that said I knew you could without needing to say it at all.

And then you saw them.

Lily, Oscar, Kimi… and Lando.

Lily was the first to reach you, arms already outstretched. “You did it, Y/n!” she beamed, pulling you into a tight hug that nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You laughed, still catching your breath, still riding the high. “Thanks, Lil. It’s—God, it’s unbelievable.”

Oscar clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grin wide and easy. “That was insane. You dominated out there.”

Kimi didn’t say much— he never did—but his smile was warm, steady. “Told you,” he said simply. “You’ve got this. Always.”

And then your eyes found Lando’s.

He stood a little apart from the others, hands in his pockets, cap still low over his brow. His expression was unreadable—no smirk, no teasing glint. Just something quieter. Something still.

“Congrats,” he said.

Just that. One word. No fanfare. No sarcasm.

And honestly, you hadn’t expected more.

But somehow, it lingered. The way he said it. The way he looked at you when he did. Like it meant something. Like he’d seen something out there—something real—and couldn’t quite put it into words.

You’d won today. That much was clear.

But maybe, just maybe, you’d also proved something.

To yourself. And to him.

“Training in one hour,” you said, glancing at Lando, Lily, and Oscar as you reached for your bag.

Toto’s voice followed, calm but edged with quiet disapproval. “You should take a break.”

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t wanna,” you muttered, brushing past, fingers already curling around your racket.

Lando raised an eyebrow, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Seriously? You just crushed your singles match and now you’re jumping straight into doubles?”

You turned, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Yeah. Seriously.”

He didn’t push, but the look he gave you lingered—half impressed, half questioning.

“No rest for the best,” you added, tugging your shoes on with quick, practiced movements.

Lily let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You really don’t know how to relax, do you?”

You paused for half a second, then shrugged. “Relaxing’s for people who aren’t chasing Grand Slams,” you said, tightening the laces. “I don’t have that luxury.”

No one argued with that.

────────────

An hour later, you were back on court.

The adrenaline from your win still pulsed through your veins, sharp and heady, like a second heartbeat. Your limbs buzzed with leftover energy, your mind still half caught in the echo of the crowd. Only your knee whispered its quiet protest, a dull throb you refused to acknowledge. Not now. Not in front of them.

Across the net, Oscar and Lily were already in motion—laughing, tossing balls back and forth, their movements fluid and in sync. They looked like they belonged together on and off a court—in which, they did. Like they didn’t even have to speak to know what the other was thinking.

It was annoying, honestly. How easy they made it look.

Meanwhile, you stood near the baseline with Lando, Zak, and Toto, the four of you in a loose circle that felt more like a standoff than a strategy session.

“You two need to communicate,” Toto said, his voice clipped, no room for argument.

Zak chuckled, hands on his hips. “And not argue, by the way. Just to be clear.”

He was the only one who found that funny.

Toto didn’t even blink. “Communication doesn’t mean yelling,” he added, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “Call your shots. Trust each other.”

You scoffed before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp in the quiet. Your gaze snapped to Lando, heat rising in your chest. “You think I can trust someone like him?”

Lando let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Wow. Starting strong, aren’t we?”

Toto pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “This,” he said, “is exactly what I mean.”

“Take example from Oscar and Lily,” Toto said, nodding toward the other side of the court.

You followed his gaze. There they were—laughing, bumping shoulders, moving like they shared the same rhythm. They looked relaxed, completely at ease, like this was just another afternoon. Like they weren’t about to run drills in the heat. Like they weren’t being watched. It was effortless. Disgustingly effortless. And, of course, they were in love. That probably helped.

“Toto, please,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “They’re dating.”

“And?” Toto shot back without missing a beat. “They communicate. They know each other’s next move before it even happens.”

You opened your mouth, but Lando beat you to it, his voice dry. “That’s because they’ve been playing together for, like, four years.”

Toto sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this entire setup. “Exactly my point. They didn’t start like this. They learned. They worked at it.”

Lando let out a quiet scoff, not even trying to hide it. “Yeah. Over four years. We’ve had—what—twenty-four hours?”

You turned toward him, heat rising in your chest. “And half of that,” you snapped, “you spent mocking my forehand.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because it was late.”

You glared at him, jaw tight. “It won the match.”

“Barely,” he said, and though his voice was even, the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

Toto clapped his hands once, the sound loud and sharp. “Enough,” he said, stepping back. “On court. Both of you. Now.”

You didn’t argue. Neither did Lando.

But as you walked to your side of the net, you could feel the tension still crackling between you—sharp, stubborn, and not going anywhere anytime soon.

The first rally hadn’t even properly begun before it all fell apart.

Oscar’s serve came fast and clean, skimming just over the net. You moved to cover your side, expecting Lando to shift with you—but he didn’t. The ball flew past him, bounced once behind you, and rolled to a stop near the fence.

Lando groaned, spinning around with his arms outstretched. “Seriously?!”

You turned too, already bristling. “What was that?” he snapped, glaring.

“What was that?” you shot back. “You weren’t ready!”

He didn’t answer—just lunged for the next ball that Oscar had casually returned to keep the rally going. You stepped forward to help, swung too late, and clipped the net. The ball dropped dead at your feet.

“You’re late again!” Lando barked, breath short. “Move your ass!”

You whipped around, eyes blazing. “Excuse me? You’re the one standing there like a statue!”

He didn’t respond. Just dove for another shot, barely keeping it in play. You tried to recover, swiped at the return, and missed entirely.

From the sidelines, Toto and Zak were shouting—something about spacing, about communication—but their voices barely registered. The court had shrunk to just the two of you, locked in a rhythm of blame and frustration, every word sharper than the last.

“You’re impossible!” you shouted, voice sharp and raw as another ball zipped past you, missing your shoulder by inches.

Lando didn’t miss a beat. “You think you’re perfect?” he snapped, slamming the next ball toward your side with a little too much force, like he wanted to make a point with the sound of it hitting your half of the court.

You lunged, off balance, barely getting your racket to it. “Fuck!” you hissed as the ball clipped the strings and dropped straight into the net, limp and useless.

“Shit!” Lando barked, scrambling after the next shot, his foot catching awkwardly as he stumbled, barely staying upright.

The rally kept going, but it was a mess. Every shot felt like a fight. Every movement turned into a complaint. You weren’t playing together—you were playing around each other, like two magnets repelling on contact.

“Move your feet!” he yelled, frustration bleeding into every word.

“You’re blocking me!” you snapped, trying to sidestep him and nearly colliding instead.

“Watch the net!”

“How the hell did you miss that?!”

The ball skidded out of bounds, and you both stood there, breathing hard, glaring across the court like enemies instead of teammates. Somewhere on the sidelines, you could hear Zak groaning and Toto muttering under his breath, but it all felt distant.

The shouting had reached a boiling point—sharp, fast, and full of heat. Every word felt like it was meant to hurt. You missed two more volleys in a row, your timing completely off, your head spinning with frustration. And then you heard Lando’s voice, panicked and too late.

“I—shit—watch out!”

But you were already moving. Both of you lunged for the same ball, and the collision was loud and jarring. A solid thunk of shoulder against ribs, racket against thigh.

“Ow!” you gasped, stumbling back, clutching your shoulder as the sting bloomed deep and fast.

“Fucking hell,” Lando muttered, bent over slightly, rubbing his side with a grimace. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and angry. “What the hell was that?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not right away. Your chest was tight, your breath shallow, your body aching in more ways than one. And then you looked across the court.

Lily and Oscar were still playing—still laughing, still moving like they shared the same heartbeat. They bumped shoulders, exchanged a high-five, and didn’t even glance your way. The contrast was brutal. It made your stomach twist.

You threw your racket down, the sound loud and final against the court. “I can’t,” you said, voice cracking. “This is impossible.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “Impossible?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You’re the one yelling at everything!”

You took a step forward, anger flaring. “You think I’m the problem? You’re a—”

“—a cocky idiot?” he cut in, eyes blazing. “Yeah. I know. You’ve said it enough times.”

The words kept coming, fast and sharp, like neither of you could stop. Insults, blame, frustration—spilling out until your throat burned and your chest ached from the effort of it all. You weren’t even sure what you were fighting about anymore. The match? The pressure? Each other?

All you knew was that it hurt.

Toto stormed onto the court, arms raised like he was trying to physically push the tension back into place. “Enough!” he barked, voice cutting through the heat and noise. “Both of you!”

You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring at each other like you were seconds away from swinging your rackets at something other than tennis balls. And then, slowly, you both looked down—realizing at the same time that your grips were too tight, your stances too sharp. You weren’t holding rackets. You were holding weapons.

Toto’s voice dropped, low and firm, the kind of tone that didn’t invite argument. “Take a break. Sit down. Drink some water. And calm the hell down. Because whatever this is—it’s not doubles. It’s a screaming contest.”

You didn’t argue. Just turned and walked to the bench, legs heavy, lungs still burning. You dropped onto the seat like your body had finally remembered it was tired, water bottle clutched in your hand like it might keep you from unraveling. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts still tangled in the last ten minutes of chaos.

Across the court, Lando didn’t sit. He leaned against the fence instead, arms crossed, head tipped back like he was trying to breathe through whatever storm was still brewing inside him. He didn’t say a word. But the tension coming off him was thick enough to feel from where you sat, like heat rising off the pavement.

You and Lando had finally cooled down enough to approach Oscar and Lily, rackets in hand, the silence between you still heavy but no longer sharp. The earlier shouting had drained something from both of you, leaving behind a kind of raw quiet. Not peace, exactly—but maybe the start of it.

Lily glanced up as you approached, bouncing the ball gently on her racket. Her tone was light, but kind. “So,” she said, “watching you two out there… maybe try calling your shots before swinging. It really helps.”

Oscar nodded beside her, his expression easy but sincere. “Yeah. And trust each other. You don’t have to chase every ball alone. Let the other person take their shot.”

You nodded slowly, the words settling somewhere in your chest. It still felt tight, like your ribs hadn’t quite relaxed since the last argument. But you were listening. “Call our shots,” you repeated under your breath. “Right. And… trust. Sure.”

Lando let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “Sounds easy when you two say it.”

You glanced at him, your voice quieter now. “It’s not. Trust doesn’t just show up.”

“No,” he agreed, and for once, there was no edge in his voice. “It doesn’t.”

Lily smiled gently, stepping closer. “Exactly. It takes time. You’ll get there. Just… breathe. And listen to each other.”

While Lando nodded along to Lily and Oscar’s advice, you shifted slightly to the side, adjusting your grip on your racket. That’s when you heard it—Zak’s voice, low and curious, just behind Toto.

“Was she always like this?” he asked. “I mean… with Max?”

The words hit like a sudden gust of wind. You froze mid-step, heart thudding once, hard and loud. You didn’t turn around, didn’t move. Just listened.

Toto’s voice came a moment later, calm and even, but softer than usual. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s always been like this. Fiery. Stubborn. Unrelenting.”

There was a pause, and you could almost hear the memory in his voice when he added, “Max knew it. And honestly, that’s why he respected her. She drove everyone else crazy, but he never flinched. He always saw the good in her—even when she couldn’t see it herself.”

You swallowed, the air suddenly thicker in your lungs.

“She pushed him,” Toto went on, his gaze distant now. “Hard. He had to adapt, trust her instincts, keep up. And he did. Because he knew what she was capable of. He never doubted it. Not once.”

You shifted your weight, fingers tightening around the handle of your racket. The words settled deep, stirring something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a while. Pride, yes. A flicker of irritation, maybe. But mostly… something quieter. Something that ached.

Longing, maybe.

Or the echo of something you hadn’t quite let go of.

“Why did he bail on her though?” Zak asked, his voice low, curious in that way people get when they think you’re not listening.

But you were.

God, you were.

No. No. No. You didn’t want to hear this. You weren’t ready. But your feet stayed planted, your breath caught somewhere in your chest, and your ears strained for every word.

Toto let out a slow breath, the kind that carried weight. “She had a knee injury a few months ago,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “Max probably thought she wouldn’t be the same after that.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your stomach twisted, breath catching. You stared straight ahead, but your vision blurred at the edges.

He thought you wouldn’t be the same.

Like you were broken. Like you were less.

Toto kept talking, his tone dipping into something darker. “But I don’t know for sure,” he added, jaw tight. “You know Horner. That piece of shit probably twisted something, planted doubts in Max’s head. God knows what he told him.”

You clenched your jaw, teeth grinding together as the heat rose in your chest. Anger flared, sharp and sudden, curling around the old ache in your knee and the deeper one in your chest. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. It all tangled together, heavy and bitter and impossible to swallow.

Zak’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and impatient. “Alright, enough resting. Back to work.”

You didn’t need to look to know he’d caught you listening. The way he said it—clipped, pointed—made it clear. But you didn’t flinch. You just exhaled, slow and steady, letting the anger and anxiety settle somewhere low in your chest.

Something shifted then. Maybe it was the leftover fire from the earlier chaos. Maybe it was the sting of hearing Max’s name spoken like a closed chapter. Or maybe it was just the simple, stubborn truth: if you didn’t figure this out—if you and Lando couldn’t find some kind of rhythm—this whole doubles thing was going to crash and burn.

“Let’s do this,” you muttered, stepping back onto the court beside him.

Lando didn’t say anything, but he followed.

The first serve came fast, skimming low over the net. You didn’t hesitate.

“Mine!” you called, loud and clear, lunging forward with purpose. Your racket met the ball with a clean, satisfying thwack, sending it deep into the corner.

“Got it!” Lando barked, shifting behind you, his stance sharp, alert. He moved like he was actually paying attention this time—like he trusted you to hold your ground.

The second volley came quicker, a blur of motion. “Backhand, yours!” you called, already pivoting to cover the other side.

“On it!” he replied, and this time, he was. He stepped in, met the ball with a clean return, and for once, you didn’t have to roll your eyes or bite back a curse.

You adjusted without thinking, sliding low to intercept a drop shot that barely cleared the net. “Switch!” you called, already pivoting.

“Yeah, yeah, I see it!” Lando shouted, his voice tight with focus as he sprinted to cover the other side.

And somehow, it worked.

The next rally came, and then another. Each one steadier than the last. The rhythm wasn’t perfect, but it was there—hidden in the chaos, waiting to be found. You started calling your shots more clearly, your voice cutting through the air with short, sharp commands.

“Net, mine!”

“Middle, yours!”

“Don’t rush, hold it!”

“Got it, don’t worry!” Lando called back, his tone clipped but not biting. Focused. Present.

Then came a tricky volley—fast, low, aimed right between you. For a split second, you both moved. But this time, there was no hesitation.

“Mine!” you shouted, stepping in.

“Good!” Lando called, grinning as he followed up, slamming the ball over the net with just the right amount of force.

You caught the return cleanly, your body moving before your brain could catch up. “Yours!” you called, already shifting to cover the next angle.

And he was there.

The small victories started to stack up. Clean hits. Fewer mistakes. A kind of coordination that hadn’t been there before. The bickering still hummed beneath the surface—old habits didn’t vanish in an hour—but it didn’t get in the way. Not this time.

Across the court, Zak had stopped pacing. He stood still, arms folded, one eyebrow raised as he muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch the words, but the tone was unmistakable: surprise, maybe even a little relief.

Toto stood beside him, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You and Lando paused at the baseline, both bent slightly at the waist, catching your breath. Sweat clung to your skin, your chest rising and falling in heavy bursts, but the air between you felt different now. Less sharp. Less combative. There was still tension, sure—but it had shifted. Smoothed into something closer to rhythm. A kind of truce, maybe. Or the beginning of one.

Across the court, Lily grinned, bouncing the ball lazily on her racket. “Well, would you look at that,” she called, her voice light with amusement. “They’re actually talking to each other. Miracles really do happen.”

Oscar leaned on his racket beside her, smirking. “Yeah, I can’t decide if I’m impressed or mildly horrified.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

For the first time all day, it didn’t feel like the court was a battlefield.

It just felt like tennis.

────────────

You hated media day. Always had, always would.

The questions never changed. Same dull rhythm, same tired faces. Who do you think will win? Who’s the better player? How much sleep did you get? You could practically mouth the answers before the reporters even opened their mouths. It was all noise—predictable, exhausting noise.

“Gosh… I really don’t wanna do this,” you muttered under your breath, dragging your feet behind Toto as he led the way down the corridor toward the press room.

“You tell me,” Toto said, not even turning around, though there was a flicker of amusement in his voice.

Up ahead, Zak and Lando were already waiting by the entrance. Zak stood with his arms crossed, scanning something on his phone. Lando leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world, curls a mess, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth like he actually enjoyed this circus.

Zak looked up as you approached, his expression shifting into something sharper. “Alright,” he said, gesturing between the two of you, “don’t argue. Don’t yell. If someone asks how you’re doing, just say ‘fine.’ Got it?”

He paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat.

“They’ll be annoying,” he added, voice flat. “Be ready for that.”

You exchanged a glance with Lando. He raised an eyebrow, still smirking.

You stepped into the room behind Lando, moving quietly, like slipping into a space you didn’t really want to enter. The setup was exactly as you remembered—two long rows of tables, each seat marked with a neat little name card, everything lined up in perfect, press-friendly order.

Your eyes scanned the row, already bracing for the worst.

And then you saw it.

Two empty seats.

Side by side.

Your name on one. Lando’s name was on your left.

And on your right?

Max.

Your chest tightened, breath catching for just a second. Of course. Of course they’d put you next to him. Like it was nothing. Like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like you were still a team.

Right. Of course you were stuck in the middle.

You and Lando made your way toward the table, walking side by side, both a little too quiet, a little too stiff. Your nerves buzzed just beneath your skin, making your steps feel heavier than they should’ve.

You kept your eyes down, focused on the floor, the chairs, anything but him. God forbid you looked at Max. You didn’t want eye contact. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But somehow… it happened anyway.

A flicker of movement. A shift in your peripheral vision. And then—his eyes met yours.

“Hey,” he said, soft and casual, like it was nothing. Like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t left.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. “Hey,” you said, sharp and flat, sliding into your seat without another glance.

The space between you felt like a live wire.

And the press hadn’t even started yet.

The first question came fast, before you’d even fully settled into your seat.

“Y/n, congratulations on your singles win yesterday. How are you feeling heading into the rest of the tournament?”

You straightened, smoothing your expression into something calm, composed. The cameras were already clicking. “Good,” you said, offering a polite smile. “Focused. It’s a long tournament, so I’m just taking it one match at a time.”

Another hand shot up. “You’ve won every Grand Slam except the Australian Open. Does that add extra pressure?”

You let out a slow breath, measured and even. “Pressure’s part of the job,” you said. “If I couldn’t handle it, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

A few reporters nodded. Someone murmured approval. The cameras clicked again.

Then came the question you’d been waiting for.

“And how’s the knee?”

The tone was too casual, like they were asking about the weather. You didn’t blink.

“It’s fine,” you said, voice steady. Firm.

Beside you, Lando shifted in his seat. You felt his glance, quick and quiet, but you didn’t look his way. You kept your eyes forward, your posture still.

Another voice chimed in. “Do you see yourself as the favorite this year?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I see myself as prepared,” you said. “That’s all that matters.”

The room quieted for a beat, the weight of your words settling in.

The camera shifted slightly, its lens angling just enough to frame you and Lando side by side. You didn’t need to look up to know what was coming. You could feel it in the way the room shifted, in the way the air seemed to pause for a beat.

“Lando,” a reporter began, voice smooth and practiced, like he’d been waiting for this one, “how do you feel about your partnership with Y/n? Especially considering the history you two have.”

Your shoulders tensed. You kept your eyes on the table in front of you, jaw tight. Of course they’d go there. Not the matches. Not the training. Not the actual tennis. Just the story. The drama. The past.

Beside you, Lando let out a quiet breath. You could hear the way he shifted in his seat, leaning slightly toward the mic. “I mean,” he said, with a shrug that sounded more tired than casual, “we’ve definitely had our moments.”

You almost rolled your eyes. Almost. But you held still, biting back the urge to scoff. Moments was one way to put it.

“But we’re both competitive,” he went on, and this time his voice was steadier, more grounded. “We both want to win. And at the end of the day, that matters more than whatever history people think we have.”

You didn’t look at him. But something in his tone—calm, honest, maybe even a little tired—made the knot in your chest loosen just a little.

The reporter didn’t waste a second.

“Y/n, do you agree?”

You lifted your head slowly, schooling your features into something neutral. Not cold, not warm—just steady. “We’re professionals,” you said, voice even. “We don’t have to like each other to play well together.”

The room stilled for a beat, that kind of pause reporters lived for. The kind that made every word after feel heavier.

Another voice jumped in. “And do you think this partnership can actually work?”

You felt the smallest shift beside you—Max, adjusting in his seat. You didn’t look, but you felt it. Lando, on your other side, glanced at you, just for a second. You caught it in your peripheral vision, but kept your gaze forward.

“Yes,” you said, clear and firm. “I do.”

There was no hesitation. No room for doubt.

Lando leaned forward slightly, his voice low but certain. “Same.”

You blinked.

That was… unexpected.

No smirk. No sarcasm. Just a quiet agreement, like he meant it.

The questions had started off simple. Predictable. You almost let yourself believe it wouldn’t be so bad.

But of course, that didn’t last.

“Max,” a reporter said, leaning forward just enough to make it feel personal. The camera clicked, the flash catching the edge of your vision. “There’s been some controversy around your sudden withdrawal from mixed doubles. Care to explain?”

Your mouth twitched. A flicker of something—disgust, maybe. Annoyance. You swallowed it down, kept your eyes forward, your hands folded neatly in your lap. But your heart had already picked up speed.

Max didn’t miss a beat.

“Singles are my priority,” he said, voice smooth, practiced. Sharp in that way he always was when he didn’t want to be questioned. “I decided to focus on myself this Grand Slam. Simple as that.”

You stared at the table in front of you, jaw tight. The words landed like a slap, even though you’d heard them before. Even though you’d lived them.

Focus on myself. Simple as that.

You clenched your fists just enough to feel your nails press into your palms. Not enough to show. Just enough to stay grounded.

Beside you, Lando shifted. You didn’t look, but you felt it—the way his body turned slightly, the way the air changed. Then came the glare. You could feel it radiating off him, sharp and unfiltered, aimed straight at Max.

Another journalist leaned forward, voice calm but loaded. “Do you regret your decision?”

Max didn’t even blink. “No. I don’t,” he said, smooth as ever. “Mixed doubles can be limiting if you’re not perfectly aligned…”

You blinked. What does that even mean?

Your stomach twisted, a slow, sour knot forming deep in your gut. The words echoed in your head, looping in that same clipped, careless tone. Limiting. Like you were a weight. Like you’d held him back. Like the months of training, the hours of work, the trust you’d built—meant nothing now. Just a footnote in his story.

Before you could even process that, another reporter jumped in, voice sharper now. “And what do you think of this new pairing? Y/l/n–Norris? Do you think they’ll do better than you and Y/n? You two were top three before—no one reaches that level easily.”

Your breath caught.

What the fuck.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails digging into your palm. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Didn’t trust yourself to move. The heat in your chest was rising fast, too fast, and you could feel it pressing against your ribs like a warning.

Beside you, Lando’s jaw clenched. You saw it in your peripheral vision—the way his whole body tensed, the way his eyes snapped toward Max, sharp and furious.

Max just shrugged, like none of this mattered. “I think they’ll do fine,” he said, voice light, almost bored. “It’s not my problem anymore.”

And just like that, he tossed the words out like they were nothing. Like he hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it at your feet.

Fucking idiot.

You didn’t say it out loud. But the words burned in your throat, bitter and hot.

Suddenly Lando’s head snapped to Max, sharp and unflinching. “You know what’s funny, mate?” he said, voice tight. “You didn’t just walk away. You dumped everything on me. All the pressure, all the expectations—like it was nothing. That’s for that. Really.”

Max didn’t flinch. He raised an eyebrow, his tone smooth, almost amused. “And? That’s your problem now, isn’t it?”

The words landed like a slap.

Lando’s hand hit the table with a dull thud, loud enough to make a few heads turn. He leaned forward, the smirk gone, replaced by something sharper. “No,” he said, voice low and steady. “No, that’s our problem, and you walked out like it meant nothing. You think it’s easy being stuck cleaning up your mess?”

You kicked him under the table, not hard, just enough to say stop. Not here. Not now. But he didn’t look at you. His eyes were locked on Max, jaw tight, breathing hard.

Max didn’t blink. “I don’t see it as my mess,” he said, calm as ever. “I made the decision that was best for me. Don’t blame me for that.”

Lando let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m not blaming you, mate,” he said, quieter now, but no less sharp. “I’m just saying… it’d be nice if you owned up to it instead of pretending it’s nothing. You shot everything at me, and now you act like you’re better off alone. Well, congrats. You’re not.”

You cleared your throat, the sound small but sharp in the heavy silence. “Hey…” you said, voice steady, even if your chest was tight. “He made his choice, alright? I get why he did it. It sucks, yeah. But it’s not the end of the world.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe because someone had to. Maybe because, deep down, it still stung to hear Lando tear into Max like that—even if you had every reason to be angry too. Even if you weren’t sure you’d ever forgive him.

Lando turned to you, eyes wide with disbelief, frustration flickering just beneath the surface. “Seriously?” he said, voice low but sharp. “You’re defen—”

“Enough,” Zak snapped, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Out. Both of you.”

The word landed hard.

You didn’t argue. Just stood, slow and stiff, your chair scraping quietly against the floor. Lando rose beside you, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists at his sides. The cameras clicked in a frenzy, flashes popping like fireworks as you made your way toward the door.

You could feel the weight of every stare, every whispered comment. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. You didn’t need to check your phone to know what tomorrow’s headlines would say.

Almost at the door, Lando stopped.

You turned just in time to see him spin on his heel, eyes locked on Max, voice rising above the hum of the room.

“You’re a selfish piece of shit, Max!”

The words rang out, sharp and clear, echoing off the walls and straight into every microphone in the room.

Zak and Toto exchanged a look as the door shut behind you, the noise of the press room fading into a dull hum. Both men let out quiet scoffs, the kind that said this again?

“You two are impossible,” Zak muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Do you even realize how that looked? Cameras everywhere. Journalists hanging on every word. Do you care what kind of mess you just made?”

“Impossible? Me?!” Lando snapped, his voice sharp as he turned toward you, finger jabbing through the air. “I just called him out! Someone had to say it!”

You crossed your arms, stepping in closer, heat rising in your chest. “Oh, please. You think yelling in front of every camera makes you some kind of hero? You’re just as ridiculous as he is.”

Lando’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “Ridiculous? Maybe. But at least I’m not sitting there pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. At least I say what I mean.”

You shook your head, the words coming out before you could stop them. “Spare me. You’re not some moral crusader, Norris. You’re just loud idiot.”

“Oh, and you’re what? Enlightened?” he shot back, voice rising. “Defending the guy who bailed on you like it was nothing? Are you stup—”

“Enough!” Zak barked, cutting him off before the sentence could land. “My head hurts just listening to you two. You’re like children.”

Toto stepped in then, his voice quieter but firmer. “Go to the hotel. Take a shower. Sleep. You’ll need it tomorrow.”

No one argued.

You just turned and walked, the silence between you and Lando louder than anything either of you had said.

────────────

Sleep wouldn’t come.

You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the press conference, still playing on a loop in your head. Maybe it was the match tomorrow, the weight of it pressing against your chest like a stone. Or maybe it was just your body—too wired, too used to adrenaline and noise and movement to understand that it was finally allowed to rest.

You lay flat on your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster like they might spell something out. The hum of the air conditioning filled the room, soft and steady, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made the silence feel louder.

Then your phone lit up on the nightstand.

The buzz was sharp in the quiet, startling in its suddenness.

You groaned, already bracing yourself. Probably Lily, checking in. Or Kimi, sending some half-asleep meme. Maybe Toto, reminding you to hydrate.

You reached for it lazily, thumb swiping across the screen.

One message.

norris u asleep?

Your eyebrows lifted.

What the hell?

You glanced at the time. 11:07 p.m.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

For a moment, you thought about ignoring it. Pretending you hadn’t seen the message. Just going back to staring at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch on.

But instead—before you could talk yourself out of it—you typed a reply.

yn no. why?

Short. Dry. On purpose.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared. Then came back.

You watched it, heart ticking a little faster for reasons you didn’t want to name.

norris me neither was thinking maybe we should train? court one’s free

You blinked at the screen.

Of all the things he could’ve said—that wasn’t what you expected.

Not an apology. Not a joke. Not some half-hearted attempt to explain the press conference.

Just… train? At 11 p.m.

You stared at the message, thumb hovering again.

yn it’s late.

And it was. The kind of late that made your limbs feel heavy, your thoughts a little slower, your body unsure if it wanted rest or movement.

norris that’s the point. no zak. no toto. no cameras. just tennis.

You stared at the message, thumb hovering. He wasn’t wrong. You did need the practice. There was still so much to figure out—timing, rhythm, trust. The match tomorrow wasn’t going to wait for you to feel ready.

Still, something about this felt… off. Or maybe just unexpected. Lando reaching out like this. Not to argue. Not to gloat. Just to play.

You hesitated for a second longer. Then typed before you could overthink it.

yn fine. see you there in 15.

You set the phone down, heart ticking a little faster now.

What could possibly go wrong?

Plenty, if history was anything to go by.

But you were already pulling on your hoodie.

The court was washed in the harsh white of the floodlights, every corner lit too brightly, every shadow stretched long and strange across the surface. The city murmured in the distance—cars, wind, the occasional far-off siren—but here, it was mostly quiet. Just the soft thud of tennis balls echoing in the stillness.

Lando was already there, leaning on his racket like he had all the time in the world. His silhouette cut a sharp line against the light, curls messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked over as you stepped onto the court, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Wow,” he said, voice light. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You rolled your eyes, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. “Don’t be so surprised,” you said, walking toward your bag. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Right,” he said, flipping a ball into the air and catching it again, his gaze following its lazy arc. “Can’t exactly win a Grand Slam sitting on our asses, can we?”

You didn’t answer. Just bent to lace your shoes, the weight of the day still clinging to your shoulders.

Lando flicked a few switches on the ball machine, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “Alright,” he said, stepping back with a grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first ball shot out like a bullet.

You swung—and missed.

The second came even faster. Another miss.

“Oi! Watch it!” Lando shouted, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “Your forehand’s still a disaster!”

You glared at him, breath already short. “Maybe if you didn’t hog the settings like a control freak, I’d have a chance!”

You swung at the next one—missed again. The frustration boiled over, and you slammed your racket down against the court with a sharp crack that echoed under the floodlights.

The machine didn’t care. It kept firing, relentless and mechanical, balls flying at you both like it had something to prove. You and Lando kept shouting over the noise, blaming each other, tossing insults mid-rally like they were part of the drill.

“You’re late on it!” he snapped, ducking a ball that whizzed past his shoulder.

“No, you’re late on your—”

CRASH.

You collided mid-swing, shoulders slamming together, rackets clattering to the ground. You stumbled back, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding from the impact and the sheer absurdity of it all.

The machine kept going, balls bouncing wildly across the court.

You both froze, glaring at each other, chests heaving, sweat dripping down your temples. The tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife.

If Toto or Zak had been watching, they’d be having a full-blown meltdown.

Lando finally threw up his hands. “Alright! Break! Now!”

He sounded so much like Zak that you almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, you nodded, dragging your sleeve across your forehead as you walked off court, muttering under your breath.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, but not entirely uncomfortable. You sipped your water slowly, the coolness of it grounding you as your eyes traced the white lines on the court. They looked sharper under the floodlights, like they’d been drawn just for you to stare at while you questioned every decision that had led you here. The press conference. The match tomorrow. The fact that you were out here, in the middle of the night, training with someone who drove you absolutely insane.

Then Lando’s voice cut through the quiet. “Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t look at him. “No.”

It came out flat, automatic. You weren’t in the mood. Not for more questions. Not for whatever was brewing behind that tone of his.

But of course, he ignored you. That was just who he was—always pushing, always poking, always talking even when you told him not to. You rolled your eyes, already regretting showing up. And yet, despite yourself, a small laugh slipped out. Just a breath of amusement, soft and tired.

“Why do you keep defending him?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away. You kept your eyes on the court, pretending you didn’t know exactly who he meant. “Who?”

Lando didn’t take the bait. “You know who,” he said, voice dipping lower, almost teasing. “Max. At the press conference. You jumped in like you were his lawyer.”

You sighed, the weight of it catching in your chest. Jesus. Why does he care? Why now, after all the yelling, after all the tension, after everything that had gone unsaid for weeks?

“Because he didn’t deserve what you said,” you said finally, voice quiet but firm. “Yeah, he messed up. He made a shitty call. But that doesn’t mean you get to tear him apart in front of the world. It was unnecessary.”

Lando turned toward you, eyebrows raised like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Since when does Y/n Y/l/n empathize with anyone?”

You shot him a look, sharp and tired, but there was a flicker of something else behind it. A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth, despite everything. “Maybe I’m full of surprises, Norris.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, that familiar smirk creeping back onto his face. “Oh, you definitely are.”

The quiet settled again, heavier this time. Not the kind that felt peaceful, but the kind that pressed down on your chest, made the air feel thicker. You could hear the soft hum of the lights above, the distant buzz of the city beyond the fences, but between the two of you, there was nothing. Just the weight of everything unsaid.

Then Lando spoke, and his voice was different now. No teasing. No edge. Just quiet confusion. “No, seriously,” he said. “I don’t get it. Why would you defend someone who bailed on you?”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes—judgment, pity, curiosity. You weren’t sure which would be worse. “You’re reading into it too much, Norris,” you said, trying to keep your voice flat, dismissive. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.

But something in you shifted. The way he was looking at you—soft, searching, not smug or sarcastic—made something twist in your chest. It caught you off guard. You almost felt bad for brushing him off. Almost.

What the fuck is happening to you?

You exhaled slowly, your eyes dropping to the court, to the lines you’d been staring at all night. You didn’t mean to say it. Not really. But the words slipped out anyway, quiet and raw.

“It’s because I got injured.”

And there it was.

The truth, sitting between you like a stone dropped in still water. No excuses. No spin. Just the thing you hadn’t said out loud until now.

You didn’t look up to see his reaction. You weren’t sure you could.

Lando didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, racket hanging loosely at his side, the ball resting by his shoe like it had been forgotten. His face was hard to read—no smirk, no sharp comeback, just stillness. And that somehow made it worse. You could feel his eyes on you, waiting, trying to make sense of what you’d just said.

“Injured?” he asked finally, and his voice was quieter now. Not accusing. Just… unsure.

You felt your stomach twist. Of course. Even him. Even Lando Norris, who never shut up, who always had something to say—now he was looking at you like he didn’t know what to believe. Like maybe you were making it up. Like maybe you were just another excuse.

But something in your chest shifted. You didn’t want to lie. Not this time. Not about this. You didn’t want to brush it off or change the subject or pretend it didn’t matter. Because it did. It mattered more than anything.

“It happened last year,” you said, your voice soft, almost like you were telling the story to yourself. “Wimbledon. One wrong step. That’s all it took.”

You paused, swallowing hard. The memory was still sharp, still vivid—the way your foot slid, the way your knee twisted, the way everything changed in a second. You hadn’t even screamed. Just laid there, stunned, knowing something had gone very, very wrong.

“I didn’t tell anyone at first,” you went on, eyes fixed on the court. “Not the doctors. Not the federation. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. I thought I could push through it. But it didn’t get better. It got worse. And by the time I finally told Toto, it was already too late.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Max knew, though. He could tell something was off. He always could.”

Lando didn’t say anything. He just stood there, still and quiet, his expression unreadable. But you could feel him listening. Really listening. And somehow, that made it harder to keep talking.

Still, the words kept coming.

“So when he left,” you said, your voice steady but worn thin at the edges, “I understood why. I didn’t like it. I hated it, actually. But I got it.”

You stared down at the court, the white lines blurring slightly under the harsh lights. The silence that followed wasn’t sharp anymore. It didn’t feel like a fight waiting to happen. It just felt… full. Like everything you hadn’t said until now was finally catching up to you.

“So yeah,” you said, softer now, “that’s why I defended him.”

You paused, the words sitting heavy in your chest.

“Because in the end…” You swallowed. “It’s kind of my fault.”

There it was. The truth, bare and quiet and a little bit ugly. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, not like that. But once it was out, you didn’t take it back. You just sat there, heart thudding, waiting to see what he’d do with it.

“That’s bullshit. It’s not your fault,” Lando said at last, his voice low but firm, like he’d been holding it in and couldn’t anymore.

You let out a soft scoff, but there was no humor in it. Just bitterness. “Sure it is,” you muttered, eyes still on the ground. “I hid it. I kept playing like nothing was wrong. If I’d just been honest—”

“Shut up, Y/n.”

The words hit you like a slap, not because they were harsh, but because of how suddenly they came. You blinked, startled, and looked up.

Lando had stepped closer, his expression tight, serious in a way you rarely saw. No smirk. No teasing glint in his eyes. Just something raw and real.

“If you’d been honest,” he said again, slower this time, “you would’ve been benched. You wouldn’t have played singles. You wouldn’t have won. You would’ve been sidelined, and you know it.”

You stared at him, heart thudding a little harder now. Because he wasn’t wrong. And because he wasn’t saying it to hurt you—he was saying it like he needed you to hear it. Like he needed you to stop blaming yourself for something that was never really yours to carry alone.

To be honest, you didn’t know what to say. Your mind was still catching up, still trying to make sense of the version of Lando standing in front of you now—calm, steady, almost gentle. It didn’t fit the version of him you’d been arguing with just hours ago. It didn’t fit the version who yelled across press rooms or snapped at you mid-rally. And yet, here he was. Saying things that made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“Just so you know,” he said, voice low, words careful, “I won’t bail on you because of an injury. I can promise that.”

You stared at him, heart ticking a little faster. Lando Norris, making promises. Since when did he do that? Since when did he say things that made your throat tighten?

You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “What does that mean for me?”

He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you could feel the shift in the air. His eyes met yours, steady and clear. “It means I want you to promise me something,” he said. “That if it gets worse—if anything feels off—you tell me. No more pretending it’s fine. Got it?”

You blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Something warmer. You weren’t used to this version of him. You weren’t sure what to do with it. But you knew one thing—you believed him.

“Got it,” you whispered, nodding slowly.

And just like that, something shifted between you. The weight of the night, the tension, the rivalry—it didn’t disappear. But it softened. Just a little.

“Now…” Lando said, his voice lighter again, like he was trying to shift the mood, to pull you both back into something that felt more familiar. “Let’s train again, shall we?”

He held out his hand.

You were still sitting on the bench, water bottle resting loosely in your grip, legs stretched out in front of you, muscles cooling too fast in the night air. You looked at his hand for a moment, unsure. Not because you didn’t want to take it—but because something about the gesture felt different. Not performative. Not sarcastic. Just… simple. Steady. Like he meant it.

Against your better judgment, you smiled. A small one, barely there. Then a quiet laugh slipped out, soft and surprised, like it had caught you off guard. Like it had been waiting for a reason to surface.

And then—without really thinking—you reached out and placed your hand in his.

His palm was warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. Like muscle memory. Like something you hadn’t realized you missed until it was there again. His fingers curled around yours, not too tight, not too loose. Just enough to hold you steady.

Something flickered in your chest. A strange little flutter that didn’t belong here. Comfort, maybe. Or reassurance. Or something else entirely—something you didn’t have a name for. You weren’t supposed to feel it. Not with him. Not like this.

This was supposed to be a late-night training session. That’s all. Just two players trying to find their rhythm again. Just you and the guy who’d driven you insane for years, who knew exactly how to get under your skin.

So why did your heart skip a beat at his touch?

You didn’t know.

babsie radio ! so here it is, my dearest child </33 this was so much fun to write!! also sorry for the possible inaccuracies, but I played tennis, like, twice in my life, and one time my friend nearly broke my nose! So if you spot any mistakes, just pretend you don’t see them! thank you! Hope y’all like it anyway and see you in part two, which will be available in few seconds <3 big thanks belongs to @lvrclerc for allowing me to take inspo from her graphic and layout in general. Without A Dent In The Ice this fic wouldn’t exist!!!

taglist. @haniette @amyelevenn @clovermoters @zariacore @darling-suee @wwwynette @landosaints @piestri @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @basicchelsea @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @biscuitjuice @keepyoureyesonmeboy @filmleclerc @taetae-armyyyyy @jewelsm481

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