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On cue, Drew enters the court area. “Katie, can I borrow you for a second?”

Adala gives me a small nod. “We’re finished. Well done today. See you tomorrow.”

I wave goodbye, gather up my gear, and follow Drew off the court and down the quiet corridor to his office. My throat goes dry. This is it. Decision time.

We enter a room that tells the history of his career. My eyes travel over the walls as I sit down. I spot a few photos of him with Alex, as well as a woman with shoulder-length curly brown hair, and a much younger-looking Drew holding up the Roland Garros trophy.

“You had long hair?” I ask, distracted by the image.

He chuckles, leaning back into his leather seat and running a hand over the spot where his hairline has started to recede. “Once upon a time. Alex had a mane too. You should ask him to show you the photos from his mohawk phase.”

He sighs then, his expression turning serious as he folds his hands on the desk. “I think we both know why you’re here, Katie.”

I swallow hard. “To discuss my performance?”

“Yes.” He nods. “We’re coming up on the end of your trial period.”

I nod back, feeling the familiar knots in my stomach begin to turn over. They’ve hinted the news would probably be positive, but my stomach still twists waiting to hear it out loud.

“These past couple of weeks, you’ve undergone a complete turnaround,” Drew says, his voice steady and encouraging. “Adala and I both agree that by this time next year, you’ll be making the jump onto the WTA tour. There’s still a mountain of work to be done, but the improvements you’ve made in such a short time show just how high your ceiling is as a player.”

He leans forward, smiling. “If you’re happy with us, we’d like to offer you a formal place here on our team.”

“Yes,” I say before he can even finish the sentence, unable to sit still.

Drew laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Well, that was quick.”

“I don’t need to think about it,” I say, surer than I’ve been in months. “Being here is a dream come true. I know you guys can mold me into the player I want to be.”

“In that case,” he says, opening his desk drawer and pulling out a folder, “I’ll give this to you now. Take your time looking everything over before you sign.”

I barely make it through the first page before flipping to the signature line. “Done,” I say, sliding the contract back across the desk.

“I’ll have the front office send you a copy tonight.” Drew signs his own name on the coach’s line and closes the folder. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about your schedule. We’re heading into the indoor hard-court stretch now,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It suits your game well, which makes this the perfect time to test where you’re at competitively.”

He pauses, studying me, before continuing. “I’ve managed to secure you a wildcard into the qualifying draw at the Kensington Indoor Classic in two weeks. It’s a good competition with fast courts. Exactly the kind of environment we need to evaluate where your game’s heading.”

Kensington. Two weeks. Instead of the usual cold coil of panic tightening in my chest, I feel a surge of pure, unadulterated excitement. Two months ago, I would have been terrified of the word “evaluate,” but now I’m hungry for it. “I’m in,” I say, a grin breaking across my face.

“Brilliant. We’ll start preparations tomorrow. For now, unless you have questions, I’ll let you get on to your gym session.”

“Just one—When do I get to try out a grass court?”

Drew laughs. “Not until next May. The season only runs a few weeks.”

My face falls.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance soon enough. Focus on the indoor season first.”

I walk out of the office in a daze. The moment the door closes, I pull my phone from my bag. The first person I need to tell is Max. I rush to a quiet corner of the club’s lobby and press his name.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

It goes to voicemail. I deflate slightly. I was hoping that by now he’d be all finished with the callback, and he might have some good news for me too. But I suppose it’s like all the other auditions—an all-day thing where the clock doesn’t exist. I know he wouldn’t miss my call if he were free.

I wait for the beep. Even to my own ears, my voice sounds giddy. “Hey, it’s me. Call me the second you’re out. I have the best news to share with you. Hope you’re doing well. I love you!”

I pull the phone away from my ear, staring at the blank screen as the call disconnects.