Chapter Text
The only sound that existed was the thwack of the shuttlecock—a sound the sports pages had dubbed "The Verstappen Smash." It was more than a shot; it was a statement of a legacy. In the blinding glare of the All-England Open finals, it was the sound of a chapter closing.
“She’s done it! A clean sweep! The Golden Slam is complete!” the commentator’s voice cracked with emotion, slicing through the stadium’s roar. “With this win, Denise Verstappen has achieved what no other player in history has—holding the Olympic Gold, the World Championship, and all three Super Series Majors simultaneously. They’ll have to invent a new word for dominance!”
The victory felt like marble: cold, solid, and final. In the sanctum of the players’ lounge, the adrenaline was a familiar hum in my veins. My agent was already buzzing about a tidal wave of new endorsement deals, but his words were static. My focus was on my phone. A new photo from Max. He was in his home garage, leaning over the exposed engine of a classic, vibrant orange Porsche, giving a grease-monkey grin to the camera. He’d Photoshopped my badminton racket where the steering wheel should be. The caption: ‘My champ. (But still faster than you in this). 😉’
My family’s world. The smell of high-octane fuel, the scream of engines—it was the one arena where I wasn't the reigning champion. It was a siren song I’d resisted for a decade, but its pull was now a physical ache, a restlessness that even this historic win couldn't soothe.
My fingers went to my neck, finding the simple leather cord and the worn silver drachma coin that hung from it. It was cool and smooth, a familiar weight against my collarbone.
It had been a gift from Max after my first senior international win. I’d been a nervous wreck, and he, already making a name for himself in karts, had seen right through my bravado. Before I went on court, he’d pressed the coin into my hand.
“Look,” he’d said, his usual teasing replaced by a rare, solemn intensity. “This is from my first big win in Europe. It’s my lucky charm. And now it’s yours.” He’d looped the cord over my head. “I don’t need it anymore. Because you’re my lucky charm, Dee. No matter where you go, no matter what you do, you wear this and you remember: you’ll always have my support. I’ve got your back. Always.”
It was more than a coin. It was a promise. A tether to the one person who had always seen the real me, not just the champion. It was the physical proof of my brother’s unwavering, doting belief in me.
The phone buzzed in my hand. A video call. Max’s face, smeared with a fresh streak of oil, filled the screen.
“Saw it. The ‘Verstappen Grand Slam,’” he said, his tone a perfect mix of brotherly pride and a direct challenge. “What’s left? You’ve beaten everyone. Twice.”
“I could always try to beat your lap time at Zandvoort,” I fired back, only half-joking.
His eyes lit up. “That’s the look. The ‘this-track-is-too-small’ look.” His sharp gaze dropped as I instinctively adjusted the sweatband on my wrist, a lifelong habit. The movement was too quick, revealing the stark, black script that had been etched into my skin since birth: SV 23.
Max’s grin turned wicked. “Ah. The final frontier. Any closer to figuring out your mystery man? SV. Maybe Sebastian Vettel?” He waggled his eyebrows. “You’d go from being the greatest badminton player of all time to a rookie driver. That’s a plot twist even Netflix wouldn’t dare.”
I yanked the sleeve down, the fabric rough against my skin. A flush of warmth spread up my neck. “It’s not him, you idiot. It’s not a joke.” The numbers were the real curse. The ‘23’ was a constant, maddening riddle. It didn't correspond to any logical age for him in my timeline, the one piece of my life that refused to be conquered. “And it’s not new. I was born with it, remember?”
“Why not him? He was a legend. You’re a legend. It’s poetic.”
“It’s impossible,” I shot back, the word feeling hollow even to me. He was a ghost from a past era. A retired icon. A face from my brother’s childhood posters. “Don’t you have a fuel injector to unclog?”
His laughter echoed as I ended the call. The soulmark felt like a brand, a secret that had been burning just beneath the skin for twenty-three years.
A week later, the only sound was the savage roar of a turbocharged engine and the calm, metronomic voice of my co-driver in my ear. “Left five over crest, tightens to three, caution.”
This was the other side of me. The raw, untamed question. Gripping the worn leather of the rally wheel, I felt a different kind of focus—not the precise geometry of a court, but the violent, beautiful chaos of a gravel road in Greece. Rain lashed the windshield, turning the world into a slick, grey smear.
A third, calmer voice cut through the intercom, laced with a Spanish accent that commanded absolute respect. It was Carlos Sainz Sr. from the team wall. “Okay, Denise. You are doing well. But remember, this stage is a marathon, not a sprint. The car is your partner, not your opponent. Feel it. Do not fight it.”
His words were a anchor. Feel it. Do not fight it. It was the opposite of everything I knew on the badminton court.
“Right six, into immediate left four over jump,” my co-driver called out, his voice tightening. “It’s a carousel in the wet. Big, big lift.”
I saw the crest. My foot, conditioned for absolute victory, hesitated. For a split second, I remembered Carlos’s advice. But the competitor in me, the one who smashed for gold, overruled it. The throttle stayed flat. The car launched into a weightless silence. For a breathtaking second, I was flying.
Then, gravity wrote a different ending.
The landing was wrong. The rear wheels kissed a patch of mud and the world snapped. The car became a spinning top, a vortex of screaming metal and shattered glass.
The last thing I heard was Carlos’s voice, sharp and urgent in my ear. “¡Cuidado! Denise—!”
My head ricocheted off the roll cage, and the thwack this time wasn't "The Verstappen Smash." It was the sound of my crown hitting the floor.
Then, nothing.