“Hold up,” he says mid-interview, turning his head slightly as you walk past, still in your match kit, trophy tucked under your arm. “You’re just gonna let her walk by? She literally just won the women’s final.”

The reporter chuckles, flustered, but he doesn’t let it go. He reaches out, curls two fingers around your wrist, and pulls you into the frame like you belong next to him—which, after today, you kind of do.

“Number one on the men’s tour, and you’re number one on the women’s—makes sense we share the spotlight.” His grin is cocky, but there’s respect there too. “I’m used to being the center of attention, but you? You’re claiming your throne just as fiercely.”

He leans in, voice low enough only for you and the cameras. “Let’s see who holds that crown longer. Until then, enjoy the moment. This rivalry just got interesting.”

The crowd may only see champions posing side by side, but behind his eyes, this is just the start. Game on.