Booked & Busy ? Devin Booker

The bronze medal match was grueling. From the first serve, Whitney had to fight for every ball, every groundstroke, every inch of the court. Her usual precision was off—her serves were slow and weak, her shots lacked their usual sharpness, and her shoes felt like they were filled with cement. She tried to push through but her opponent won game after game, securing the two sets needed to claim the bronze.

When the final point was played, Whitney's racquet connected with the ball too late, sending it into the net. Her opponent's victorious scream rang in her ears and the realization hit her like a tidal wave. She'd lost. She'd be leaving Paris with nothing.

Whitney closed her eyes for a beat, trying her best to fight back the tears as her throat began to burn. She walked up to the net, shaking her opponent's hand, then the umpire's, but the motions were automatic and hollow. As she gathered her belongings, the crowd's applause echoed in her ears, feeling almost mocking. Every cheer felt like a reminder of her failure. She kept her head down and quickly left the court, desperate to escape the embarrassment of her defeat.

Back at the Olympic Village, Whitney wandered aimlessly, her mind numb from the loss. She'd turned her phone off, not ready to face the flood of messages she knew were waiting. She needed to be alone to process what had gone wrong. The thought of returning to her room felt suffocating, so instead, she headed to the mindfulness room -the place she had found sanctuary in since discovering it early in her Olympic journey.

As she rounded the corner, she stopped at the sight of Devin leaning against the wall with an expression full of understanding. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled her into a tight embrace. Whitney didn't fight it and buried her face in his chest, allowing the tears she'd been holding back to flow freely. This was the kind of support she hadn't realized she was missing. Devin, who had seen her at her best and worst, held her like he was giving a piece of himself to her to mend the parts of her that shattered with the loss. She cried silently as he rubbed circles on her back, his chin resting gently on the top of her head.

Whitney didn't know how long she cried in Devin's arms, but she knew he'd never let go, holding her as long as she needed. As she clung to his warm body, she replayed the match in her mind, analyzing every misstep and every missed opportunity. She knew it was pointless and nothing could change the outcome but she couldn't stop. The reality was sinking in: she'd be leaving Paris with nothing.

As the tears continued to flow, the realization hit her. It was about more than the match. It was about everything she'd lost and sacrificed along the way. The relationship that never was... The hole she'd been trying to fill since she walked away from Nick after Indian Wells five months ago. The loneliness that lingered despite the constant crowds and cameras.

"I lost," she admitted quietly, more to herself than to Devin. "I don't know where to go from here."

"You keep moving forward, Wyn," he whispered, using the old nickname that always seemed to soften her. "That's all you can do."

"I lost," she repeated, her voice thick with emotion.

Devin pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. His gaze was soft with an edge of seriousness. "You're more than this match, you know that, right? Just like you're more than your ranking. You're more than tennis, Whitney. It doesn't define you."

Whitney nodded but Devin's words did little to lift her spirits. She'd lost countless tournaments in her career, plenty this year alone, but none stung as much as this one. It wasn't just about the medal. This was supposed to be her moment of redemption after falling short in Tokyo. The Olympics only came around once every four years and she couldn't even be sure if she'd be at the same level, or even playing tennis, the next time the Summer Games rolled around. By then, she'd be 30.