Blake listened. And remembered.
Six months later.
The Philippe Chatrier court in Paris was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon.
It was the final of the French Open.
Blake stood at the baseline, bouncing the ball three times. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, his hair damp with sweat, his face a mask of absolute focus.
He was back.
The six-month leave of absence had ended in November. He had spent the winter training with Doug, rebuilding his fitness, sharpening his weapons. He had returned to the tour in January, unseeded, unranked, and completely lethal.
He had torn through the Australian Open draw, losing in the final to the world number one. He had won Indian Wells. He had won Monte Carlo.
And now, he was serving for the championship at Roland Garros.
He was playing the Spaniard, the same relentless clay-court specialist who had pushed him to the brink in Madrid the year before. The match had been a brutal, physical endurance test, stretching past the four-hour mark. They had traded the first four sets, the momentum swinging wildly back and forth in the heavy, humid air of the Parisian afternoon.
Now, it was the fifth set. Blake was up 5-4, serving for the match.
He was exhausted. His legs felt like lead, his lungs burning with every breath. The red clay was caked onto his socks and the hem of his shorts, a testament to the miles he had run, the slides he had made, the physical toll of the battle.
He looked up at the player box.
Andre was there, sitting next to Doug. He was wearing a light linen jacket, his dark sunglasses pushed up onto his head. His right hand, the scars faint but visible in the afternoon light, was resting on the railing. He wasn't cheering. He wasn't clapping. He was just watching Blake, his expression calm, steady, and filled with an unwavering belief.
Blake took a deep breath. He turned his attention back to the court.
15-0.
He served out wide, pulling the Spaniard off the court, and hit a clean forehand winner down the line.
30-0.
A long, punishing rally. Twenty-two shots. Blake finally broke the pattern with a perfectly disguised drop shot that died in the clay just over the net.
40-0.
Championship point.
The crowd in the massive stadium fell completely silent. The only sound was the rhythmic bouncing of the ball on the clay.
Blake tossed the ball high, his body uncoiling in a fluid, explosive motion. He didn't go for placement. He went for power.
The serve was a blistering ace down the T, kicking up a cloud of red dust. The Spaniard didn't even move.
Game, set, championship.
The crowd erupted, a massive, deafening roar that shook the stadium.
Blake dropped his racket. He didn't fall to his knees. He didn't scream. He simply smiled — a wide smile — and walked to the net to shake his opponent's hand.
He did the on-court interview, holding the Coupe des Mousquetaires, thanking Doug, thanking the crowd, his French improved yet flawed, but always charming.
But his eyes kept darting to the tunnel leading to the locker rooms.
When the ceremony was finally over, Blake grabbed his bag and jogged off the court, ignoring the reporters shouting his name, ignoring the cameras in his face.
