*

LONDON, ENGLAND. WIMBLEDON. CENTRE COURT. MID-DAY. JULY 2023.

In hindsight, AUDRA D'ORO, age twenty-five, wishes she'd been an accountant. Accountants have careers. Consistency. Yes, Audra decides, all parents should push their children into accounting, or, at the very least, something more practical, like politics.

There will always be some fat bastard campaigning for parliament, complaining about climate change, lying about his mistress, and taking back-alley bribes. There will, however, never be enough grand slams to justify allowing your child to be a professional tennis player. Her mother was right. It was a setup for failure. The French Open was an anomaly. An outlier. Audra is a failure.

Lifting her chin towards the cloudless summer sky, Audra pants. Before her, Centre Court sprawls, viridescent and war-torn. She'd fought many battles with women stronger than herself to stand here, but in the second set, her stamina began to ebb— receding inward. Audra is abated. Her heart beats heavily in her chest.

She can't think, let alone hear the empire, yet his words still echo in her ears, taunting: "Ladies and gentlemen, quiet, please."

At full capacity, the stands hum with excitement as spectators lean forward in their seats, eyes transfixed on Audra. It's game three, and the score is 40-15. She's one serve from winning— winning Wimbledon, but her hands shake. Audra's steady hands, hands that had never failed her before, tremble.

For the first time in her life, she's truly frightened.

Tears creep into the corners of her eyes. She can't do it. The pain in her shoulder is too intense.

Spitting, Audra wipes the sweat from her brow. She turns, spinning her racket, only to spot Peter amongst the crowd. Huh?

Audra presses her eyes shut.

No. That's impossible. He wouldn't show his face there. No, not after what happened at Jim's wedding. Peter was an idiot, but he wasn't suicidal.

Audra turns again, scanning the stands, but PETER TALBOTT, age twenty-nine, is nowhere to be found. He's gone.

Great, she thinks, now I'm seeing things.

Audra rocks back on her heel, studying Sloane's form for a fatal flaw in desperate need of exploitation. She'd learned this skill from the best. God bless, Isobel Fisher.

Sloane is panting, too, but not nearly as hard as Audra. This doesn't come as a shock. Unlike Audra, Sloane hadn't fallen in the second set. She has the advantage, and Audra knows it. She's screwed. If Sloane returns the serve, that's it. Audra can't rally. She can hardly move. Ace. It's the only way.

One serve. One perfect serve, and it's over.

"Okay," Audra says, nodding her head. "Okay."

The sun beats hard against her back as she tosses the ball and drops her shoulder.

Audra waits, and then– WHACK!

The world goes black.