The third set isn't tennis anymore. It's a rhythmic, violent exchange of wills.
Under the lights, the grass feels faster. The ball doesn't hiss; it screams. Luke has recovered from his double fault, but the "Golden Boy" persona has been stripped away. He's grunting with every strike, his face contorted. He isn't playing for a legacy anymore. He's playing to keep his head above water.
4–4 in the third set.
I'm serving. My shoulder feels like it's being pierced by a hot needle every time I reach for a toss. I've hit forty aces today, but Luke is starting to read them. He's leaning into my wide serves before I even contact the ball.
"30–40," the umpire calls. Break point, Luke.
If he breaks me here, he serves for the set. If he takes the set, I have to climb a mountain in the fourth.
I bounce the ball. One. Twice. Three times. I look at the players' box. My father isn't sitting anymore. He's standing, his face carved from stone. He knows this feeling. This is the "deadline." This is the moment where, if you fail, everything stops.
I toss the ball. I swing.
Fault. The crowd groans. A second serve. On grass, a second serve at 30–40 is a death sentence. Luke creeps two steps inside the baseline. He's sharking, waiting for a weak, spinning ball he can crush.
I look at him. I see the confidence in his stance. He thinks I'm afraid.
I don't hit a spin serve. I don't play it safe. I flatten it out—a 122 mph gamble aimed directly at his body.
The ball jams him. He barely gets his racquet up, the ball popcorning off his frame and landing weakly in the net.
"Deuce."
Luke stares at me, his chest heaving. He can't believe I took that risk.
"You're insane," he mouths across the net.
I don't answer. I just walk back to the line. I win the game. 5–4.
We are deep into the set now. 6–6. The Tiebreak.
A tiebreak at Wimbledon is a different kind of torture. Every point is a miniature life. Every mistake is a permanent scar.
3–3 in the tiebreak.
Luke serves a wide ace. 4–3, Luke. I hit a service winner. 4–4. I hit a forehand long. 5–4, Luke.
He's two points away from the set. He has the serve. The crowd is on their feet, the noise a physical weight against my eardrums. Luke steps to the line, wipes his face with his sleeve, and tosses the ball.
It's a perfect serve to my forehand. I lunged, my sneakers squealing on the worn-down grass near the baseline. I barely chip it back.
Luke charges the net. This is his signature move—the "Prince" finishing the point with a graceful volley.
But the ball I hit was low. It had no pace. It was that "gentle, slow" shot I found when I was nine.
Luke has to reach down, his racquet scraping the grass. He pops it up, a "sitter" right in the middle of the court.
I'm already there.
I don't think about the form. I don't think about the score. I just let six years of shadows, debt, and fear flow into my right arm. I hit the ball so hard I feel the vibration in my teeth.
It hits Luke's side and disappears into the back wall before he can even turn his head.
5–5.
The momentum has shifted. I can feel it—a cold, sharp wind blowing through the stadium. Luke looks at his father in the stands. His father is looking at his watch.
The clock, I think. It's ticking for him now.
I win the next point. 6–5. Set point, Roki.
Luke is serving to stay in the set. He's sweating so much he has to change his racquet because the grip is slipping. He tosses the ball... and he hesitates. Just for a millisecond.
He hits the net.
Second serve.
The entire stadium holds its breath. You could hear a pin drop on the emerald lawn.
Luke tosses the ball again. It's a safe serve, right into my backhand.
I don't slice it. I don't guide it. I take a massive, violent rip at the ball, stepping into the court with everything I have.
The return is a blur. It catches the very edge of the sideline.
"Out!" Luke screams, pointing at the mark.
The umpire looks. Silence.
"The ball was... in," the umpire announces. "Game and third set—Roki."
I walk to my bench, my legs shaking so hard I have to sit down immediately. I've taken the lead. 2 sets to 1.
But as I look across the net, I see something terrifying.
Luke Caine isn't crying. He isn't throwing his racquet. He's sitting on his bench, staring at me with a terrifying, quiet intensity. He's realized that the "Golden Boy" can't win this match. To beat me, he has to become something else. He has to get down into the dirt with me.
He rips the tape off his fingers, throws his water bottle aside, and stands up before the clock even hits thirty seconds.
He's waiting for me at the baseline.
"The fourth set," he says, loud enough for me to hear over the roar of the crowd. "No more games, Roki. No more stories. Just us."
I look at my father. He's gripped the railing so hard his knuckles are white. He knows what's coming. The fourth set isn't going to be about tennis.
It's going to be a war.
I stand up, my vision blurring for a second before snapping back into focus. I grab my racquet. My hand feels light. Too light.
"Just us," I whisper.
The fourth set begins.