Page 111 of Set to Love

Unsurprisingly, the second I unmuted Theo, he’d informed me I was “lacking architectural vision” and called the exposed pipes “honest engineering at its best.”

“If you enjoy the sight of seeing rusty pipes so much, you should buy it,” I countered.

“I don’t use my own London flat enough as it is.” He waved me off, his voice echoing in the hollow space. “I’ll let some other lucky soul snap it up.”

Fingers crossed that the third time is the charm. “Now, this is a garden-level studio,” Nigel announces, pushing open a heavy oak door at the base of a stone terrace. “It’s got a bit of a wait for the hot water, and the radiator in the main room is temperamental, but I think you’ll agree that the lighting in this flat is exceptional.”

I step inside, and the first thing I hear is the squeak of floorboards under my sneakers. I walk deeper into the room, panning the phone slowly for Theo’s benefit.

“Check the window seals,” he commands from the speaker.

I tune him out for a moment and drift toward the bay window. “Oh, look at that,” I breathe. Beyond the glass, a small sunken garden spills over with ivy and weeds, a single stubborn rosebush still in bloom. It’s messy, but it feels like something worth bringing back to life.

“Gardens are the cherry on top, Katie. Focus on the infrastructure first. Don’t get distracted,” Theo says.

“Fine.”

We dutifully check the seals and the utility cupboard before I wander into the kitchen. It has a galley-style setup tucked into an alcove. I can practically reach the fridge, sink, stove, and washing machine without taking a step. It’s cramped, but still a massive upgrade from my microwave-and-hot-plate setup.

“The rent is thirteen hundred pounds per month,” Nigel says. “Or three hundred twenty-five pounds a week.”

I’m ready to commit on the spot. The flat ticks every box on my must-have list. I can already picture a couple of vintage tennis posters on the walls, my yoga mat and weights tucked into a corner, and those Peter Rabbit plates I’d spotted at M&S stacked neatly in the cupboards.

But before I can open my mouth, Theo answers for me, “Thank you, Nigel. I’ll discuss the options we’ve seen today with Katie. We’ll be in touch soon.”

The estate agent’s face falls a little, but he nods and hands over his card. “I’m always available if you have any further questions or want a second viewing.”

We exit the flat. Nigel leaves, and as I walk back toward the train station, I ask Theo, “Why did you want me to wait? That place is perfect.”

“You need to be certain this is the right neighborhood for you, Katie,” he counters. “Do me a favor and walk around the area. You should also do at least one more viewing in North London. If you still feel the same way afterward, then by all means, take the flat.”

I know he’s right. Rushing into something because I want it to work hasn’t exactly gone well for me lately.

“All right, Theo, I’ll do one more viewing.”

He nods. “Brilliant. Let’s aim for scheduling any second viewings closer to the start of your tournament. I’d prefer to inspect them again in person instead of over video chat.”

“You and Zoe both,” I say, “She’s been dying to come over and help me pick a place.”

We say our goodbyes, and I head back to the aparthotel, continuing to think about that garden flat.

The rest of the week settles into a rhythm of early training sessions and yet more careful text conversations with Max that never quite say what either of us actually means.

When Friday arrives, I finally agree to go out with my team. My team. Every time I say that phrase, a little flutter of disbelief still hits my chest. We’re celebrating my becoming a full-fledged member of the Stratford Sports Club family tonight.

“Oy, Keller, over here,” Adala says when I spot her waving a hand near a corner booth as I enter the Dog & Fox.

Honestly, when she invited me to join them at a pub in Wimbledon Village, a chill shot down my spine. Wimbledon isn’t just a tournament. It’s the tournament. Until now, it hadn’t quite clicked that it’s a real place where people lived.

Tonight, the pub is packed with the Friday night “out of office” crowd, but the Stratford crew is tucked into the back as if they own the joint. As I squeeze past a group of rowdy locals, it hits me why they probably chose this specific spot.

Every single one of them—Alex, Drew, and Adala—has won a Wimbledon title. And in case anyone in the room managed to forget that fact, the booth they’re sitting in has their framed tournament pictures hanging directly above it.

Subtle—not.

“Hi, everyone.” I wave, approaching the table. Sitting with my coaches are two women I don’t recognize. One is a petite Asian woman with an athletic build. The other has auburn hair, gray eyes, and a sly smile. In contrast to Drew, I get the vibe that she’s all business.

“You can sit here next to us.” Alex pats the leather bench. Turning to the woman beside him, he says, “Olive, Katie. Katie, Olive.”