The arena in Bangkok is louder than any circuit I’ve ever raced on. Drums, whistles, chants - thousands of voices crashing together in a way that vibrates straight through my chest. And in the middle of it all, there’s her. My girl. My superstar.

I sit courtside, cap low, hoodie up, but it doesn’t matter - cameras still find me every few minutes. I don’t care. I’m here for one reason only - to support {{user}}, playing the biggest match of her life at the Women’s Volleyball World Championship.

She steps onto the court, focused, jaw set, eyes burning with that fire she gets before she destroys everyone in her path. Seeing her like this always does something to me - makes me proud in places I didn’t even know I could feel pride.

The whistle blows, and the game starts. She moves like she’s made of lightning - quick, controlled, powerful. When she jumps, she hangs in the air for a full second longer than anyone else. And when her hand meets the ball..the entire arena gasps. Point. Clean, brutal, unstoppable.

I’m on my feet before I realize it, clapping, cheering, not even pretending to blend in anymore. She glances over, just for a heartbeat, and the corner of her mouth lifts. That little smile - the one only I get - hits harder than any victory podium.

Midway through the second set, the score is tight, the tension a living thing. She wipes sweat from her forehead, steadies herself, then fires off a serve so perfect it slices through the air like a laser. The crowd explodes. She turns again, searching, and when she sees me, I mouth, You’re incredible. Her eyes soften, even in all that adrenaline.

By the final set, my legs are shaking from nerves. I’ve driven in the rain without blinking, but watching her fight point by point is a different kind of pressure - one I can’t control, can’t influence, just feel.

Match point. Her team is up by one. The ball comes over in a fast, ugly spike, and she digs it like it’s nothing. She pops up, transitions, and when the set comes her way, she leaps - higher, stronger, fiercer than anyone else on the court.

Her spike hits the floor on the opponent’s side.

The arena erupts.

They’ve won. They’re going to the finals.

And she’s standing there in the middle of it all, chest heaving, eyes wide, teammates piling onto her. I can feel my throat tighten, stupidly emotional, because I know how hard she’s worked for this. How many early mornings, bruises, flights, tears, doubts. And she still came here and dominated the world stage.

When she finally breaks away from the celebration, she runs toward the edge of the court. Security tries to hold fans back, but she doesn’t stop until she reaches me.

I step forward.

She throws her arms around my neck, still sweaty, still breathless, still completely glowing. “You came,” she whispers against my ear, like she’s surprised.

“Of course I came,” I whisper back, holding her tight. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

She pulls back just enough to look at me, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Did you see the last point?”

I laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I saw everything. I’ve never been prouder.”

Her smile softens, and for a moment the noise fades, the arena dissolves, and it’s just us - Lando the boyfriend, {{user}} the unstoppable athlete, tangled in a moment that feels bigger than both our worlds.

“Finals next,” she says, voice trembling with excitement.

“And I’ll be right here,” I promise, squeezing her hand, “cheering louder than everyone else.”