Chapter Text
Caitlyn stepped through the glass doors of the Chicago Tennis Institute, her suitcase wheels rattling against the tile. The lobby smelled faintly of fresh grip tape and disinfectant, its walls lined with framed photographs of champions who had passed through here.
“Excuse me,” she said to the only person in sight. “I’m looking for Violet Lanes.”
Behind the counter, a young woman with the tips of her hair dyed a faded blue was working a stringing machine with practiced rhythm. She didn’t glance up.
“She won’t be available until the next hour,” the woman replied flatly, weaving a cross-string.
“That’s alright,” Caitlyn said smoothly. “I can wait.”
The woman finally lifted her head, wondering who is willing to wait at least another fourty minutes just to meet her sister. Then she froze and her eyes went wide. “Oh my god… Caitlyn Kiramman?”
Caitlyn gave a small, polite smile. It had been a while since anyone reacted like that. “That’s me.”
“Could you, uh, could you sign my racket?” the girl blurted.
“Of course.”
She scrambled to fetch a silver marker and her frame, practically shoving them across the counter. Caitlyn signed neatly across the throat.
“I’m Powder, by the way. Violet’s sister, but everyone calls her Vi.” She tried to contain her grin as she accepted the racket back.
“Want a selfie too?” Caitlyn offered, already raising her phone. If she was going to be working with Vi, she might as well stay on good terms with the family.
They posed quickly, Powder grinning ear-to-ear. Then she waved Caitlyn off, cheeks flushed. “Thanks! I should get back to work. But tell me if you need anything!”
“Of course,” Caitlyn said again, her voice cool, almost automatic.
Left to herself, she wandered along the display cases. Row upon row of trophies gleamed behind glass, polished to perfection. Her eyes lingered on a framed antique Head Prestige racket, its strings long since frayed, and a black-and-white photo of Andre Agassi standing on the podium beside a younger Vander Lanes, hoisting their trophies high.
“Vander Lanes owns this place?” Caitlyn asked, still staring at the photo.
Powder looked up from her machine, beaming. “Yeah. He’s my dad.”
Caitlyn blinked, surprised she hadn’t put it together sooner. Vander Lanes, grand slam champion, one of the game’s fiercest competitors. Of course. Vander. Violet. Powder. Tennis runs in the whole family.
“You and Violet must’ve grown up with racquets in your hands,” Caitlyn said.
“Pretty much.” Powder grinned. “But I just play casually now. I’m a licensed stringer. I string all of Vi’s racquets. And Ekko’s, maybe you’ve heard of him?”
“The American top seed?” Caitlyn smiled faintly. “Of course. Not many can say they string for the number one. It’s hard enough just to get certified.”
“I’m lucky they trust me,” Powder said, puffing with pride before turning back to her weaving.
Caitlyn’s eyes drifted again, and then froze. A silver plate in the cabinet bore the inscription:
Wimbledon Women’s Singles , Runner-Up: Violet Lanes.
Her stomach tightened. That was the final. Their final. The match that made Caitlyn Kiramman a household name… and Vi a cautionary tale, carried off court with a torn ankle. Caitlyn had lifted the trophy, but even now, years later, the victory still felt like something unfinished, tainted by someone else’s pain.
Movement outside the window caught her eye. Vi was on the practice court, tossing gentle balls across the net to a brown-haired girl no older than eight. The girl squealed with delight as she managed to return one cleanly, and Vi crouched low to give her a triumphant high-five. Both of them laughed.
Caitlyn’s throat went dry. It was a softer Vi than the one she remembered, though the fire was still there in her stance.
She stepped quietly out to the court, the squeak of her shoes drawing Vi’s attention. For a long moment, Vi just stared, the ball dangling in her hand.
“Well, look who it is,” Vi said finally, her voice edged like a blade. “Princess Kiramman, in the flesh.”
“Hello, Vi,” Caitlyn said evenly.
Vi tossed the ball to the little girl. “Take five, kiddo. Go grab some water.”
The girl scampered off. Vi stayed planted at the baseline, arms crossed, sizing Caitlyn up like she was across the net again.
“I didn’t expect you to show up here,” Vi said. “Not after all these years. What, you finally run out of coaches willing to babysit you?”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. She forced herself to keep her tone measured. “I came because I need someone who knows me. Someone who can help.”
Vi barked a short, humorless laugh. “That’s rich. Last time we met, you didn’t need my help, you just needed me to tear my ankle apart so you could hoist a trophy.”
“That isn’t fair,” Caitlyn shot back, more sharply than she intended. “I didn’t want you injured, Vi. No one did.”
The air between them went still, heavy with years of unspoken history. Powder glanced through the window, curious but wary, and ducked back inside.
Finally, Vi shook her head, tossing the ball into her pocket. “You picked the wrong last resort, Cait.”
Caitlyn steadied herself. Her instinct was to argue, but instead she took a breath. “Then at least let me buy you a coffee. Talk it over.”
“I’m already over-caffeinated.” Vi snorted. “One more cup and my heart might give out.”
Caitlyn hesitated, lips twitching with the faintest smile. “Then… a pastry? Maybe?”
Vi raised an eyebrow, like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scoff. “You think a croissant’s gonna fix years of bad blood?”
“No,” Caitlyn admitted. “But it’s a start. And, well, you never could say no to a cinnamon roll.”
That earned her a crack in Vi’s armor: the ghost of a grin, quickly smothered. “You remember that?”
“Of course,” Caitlyn said, softer now. “I remember everything.”
*
They sat across from each other in the corner of the café, coffee cups steaming between them. For a long moment, neither spoke. Caitlyn stirred her drink slowly, as if stalling.
“So what are you here for?” Vi finally asked, leaning back in her chair. Her tone was flat, but her eyes stayed locked on Caitlyn’s.
Caitlyn’s lips curved into a faint smile. “To visit an old colleague.”
“Colleague,” Vi repeated, skeptical. “Is that what we are now?”
Caitlyn didn’t answer right away, just took a sip of her latte.
Vi tilted her head. “You came all the way from D.C. for this? Doesn’t really sound like a casual drop-in.”
“What else would I do in this town?” Caitlyn said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t have any other friends here.”
That caught Vi off guard. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So you’re telling me… you actually came just to see me?”
Caitlyn’s gaze flicked up, steady but guarded. “Why does that surprise you?”
Vi huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “Because I figured you just happened to be in Chicago. Some sponsor event, some charity gala. Not… this.”
Caitlyn tapped the rim of her cup. “No gala. No sponsors. Just you.”
Vi frowned, trying not to show how much that landed. “How’d you even find me? It’s not like I advertise where I coach.”
“I Googled your name and it says you work here.” Caitlyn said simply. “I didn’t hire a private investigator, if that’s your concern. And how exactly do you know I was in Washington?”
Vi froze for half a second, Caitlyn turned the tables and showed she’s not oblivious either. Then Vi shrugged, trying to play it off. “You think I didn’t watch the D.C. Open?”
Caitlyn gave a small, knowing smile. “So you still keep tabs on me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Vi shot back. “Someone’s gotta keep track of all those first-round exits.”
Caitlyn rolled her eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. “Glad to know I still have your attention, then.”
The silence stretched between them, until Caitlyn set her cup down with a quiet clink.
“I’m looking for a new coach,” she said finally.
Vi raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Who’s coaching you now?”
“Ambessa Medarda.”
Vi let out a short laugh, almost a scoff. “Of course. Bet she had you running ten miles before breakfast.”
Caitlyn’s lips twitched. “She has her… methods.”
“Had,” Vi corrected, leaning forward. “Didn’t stick, did it?”
“I fired her,” Caitlyn admitted.
Vi tilted her head, smirk tugging at her mouth. “And how do I know I wouldn’t get the same treatment?”
Caitlyn met her eyes steadily. “Because you said it yourself. You’re the last resort.”
For a moment, Vi said nothing, just studied her. Caitlyn’s voice was calm, but the plea beneath it was obvious.
Vi shook her head slowly. “You really think dragging me out of retirement is gonna fix what’s broken? I’m not a miracle worker, Cait. And honestly? I don’t feel like babysitting a Wimbledon champ who can’t win anymore.”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking you to babysit me. I’m asking you to help me.”
Vi leaned back, folding her arms. “Yeah, well… request denied.”
The words hung heavy between them. Caitlyn sat a little straighter, as if absorbing the hit without flinching.
“I see,” she said quietly, her face unreadable.
Vi looked away, out the café window where the traffic rolled past. “You’ll find someone else. You always do.”
Caitlyn didn’t reply. She just finished the last sip of her latte, stood, and adjusted her jacket.
“Thank you for the coffee,” she said, her voice even.
And with that, she left Vi staring at the table, fighting the urge to call her back.