A/N: How to apologise for this final chapter taking so long to publish . . .
Words could not express how sorry I am. To those of you who have been waiting patiently (and even to those who have been gritting your teeth in aggravation), I am truly, truly sorry. My last days in England got very busy, and school was waiting for me when I came back to America. Then, whenever I found time to write, I was itching to write for Stranger Things, because those small one-shots took only a couple of hours to write and upload (and because I got really obsessed with Nancy and Jonathan).
But now the reboot is here, and I have so many feelings. I knew I had to just sit and write this. So, after too many months, here it is. Welcome to the final part of A Game of Love. I sincerely hope the long break has not driven anybody away, but if it has, I completely understand. I sometimes lose interest in stories when it takes too long for updates as well.
Thank you to everybody has been reading and supporting this story from the beginning. It was so much fun (really, so much fun) to combine Rory and Logan and tennis. I hope this chapter is what you were looking for.
Watch out for some Rogan quotes, and if you're feeling extra lucky, look out for two lines I stole from the movie Wimbledon. Also, four months late, congratulations Andy Murray on your second Wimbledon Championship. You deserved it.
Here's looking at you, Kid!
P.S. I changed the spelling from "racquet" to "racket" in this chapter. Just for fun, and because I was starting to feel like a prick spelling it the other way.
A Game of Love | Win, Lose, or Draw
Luke, her mother, and Rory sat in a cafe near the courts. Each had a black coffee in front of them. Steam rose from the mugs in wisps, wafting upwards and disappearing as it passed by Rory's wandering eyes. She had left Dean a few hours ago to his misery. After Luke showed up at the hospital to discuss his future career, he found Rory talking to Logan and stole her away once Paris stopped by to take him back to his hotel room.
Mostly, they had been sitting in silence, but Rory could tell her mother was desperate to find out what exactly happened.
"Just ask, Mom. Stop fidgeting," Rory sighed, setting her mug down a bit too harshly. Other patrons inside the small cafe turned their eyes briefly towards their table, but looked away when they saw nothing particularly interesting.
Rory kept waiting to feel depressed, or at least overwhelmingly sad. Three years—she was with Dean for three years. She thought, for the majority of those three years (she only began questioning her feelings two weeks ago when they arrived in London), that she was madly in love with him. An emotional attack seemed almost necessary. But hours had passed since she said goodbye to Dean and she had yet to shed a single tear, not counting the two times her eyes had begun watering.
I'm a sociopath, she decided, letting her finger twirl on the rim of her mug. Only explanation.
Lorelai placed a warm hand on Rory's shoulder, a misty gleam in her eyes. "Are you okay?"
"Oddly enough, I'm fine," Rory admitted, shrugging off her mother's hand. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling, but I'm not upset or anything."
Luke grunted. "I think it's good you two parted ways," he said stoically, squaring his shoulders. "You were always the better player, the better partner. It's for the best."
Rory and Lorelai shared a quick look before bursting into a fit of laughter that lasted so long, Rory's stomach was in knots by the time she and her mother managed to calm themselves. Wiping stray tears from the corners of her eyes, Lorelai pinched Luke's cheek before he could turn away.
"What?" he asked, annoyed. He crossed his arms and frowned.
"Nothing, nothing," Lorelai gasped, hand dramatically clutching her chest. "I just don't think I've ever heard you be so . . . so paternal before."
Rory nodded her head in agreement.
Over the years since he began coaching her, Luke had become something of a father-figure, up there with her grandfather. He protected her from the nasty things and praised her like a proud dad. When her mother and Luke began seeing each other, the fatherly notions piled up until people started believing Luke was her true father. But he was a gruff, quiet, manly man. An athlete through and through. Getting him to show his feelings—to express his affection for Rory or Lorelai—was difficult and a rarity. But every now and again he would slip and display his affections. Then pay dearly for the lapse.
"I just can't believe Dean punched him," Lorelai said, saving Luke from any more taunting. "I mean, I've known him to get angry before, he's a jealous kid, but punching? Logan seemed more like the punching type, not Dean."
What her mother said was true. Rory had been expecting Logan to throw the first punch, should the opportunity for a fist fight ever present itself. He put himself forth as the prime candidate with all of his macho interviews and flirting. Typical bad boy. Never in a million years would Rory have thought Dean, her supposedly kind-hearted boyfriend, was capable of potentially ruining his tennis career by waving his fists around haphazardly.
"They're both going to be okay, right?" Lorelai asked, snapping Rory out of her reverie.
"Um, yeah. I think so," she said. "Well, maybe. Dean broke his hand in three places and he probably shocked his wrist pretty bad. Doctor's not sure what the outcome will be. Of course, Dean's playing it off like nothing happened."
"And what about Logan?"
Hearing his name for the second time in casual—well, maybe not casual, but something not too far off—conversation made Rory feel odd. How quickly her life had changed in not only the past fortnight, but in just the past three days was mad. Out with the old, in with the new. For how slowly her life had been progressing before she arrived at Wimbledon, she was surprisingly relaxed with the sudden modifications.
"Bruised face and ego, but fine. No concussion or anything from the fall, which is good."
"And you? How are you?"
The question came from Luke. Rory stared at him, confused.
"What do you mean?"
"Kid," her mother jumped in, "you're life has just drastically altered. You broke up with your boyfriend of three years because you've been swept off your feet by one of the most promising young tennis stars of the twenty-first century and you're out a mixed doubles partner. Are you okay?"
"You might not believe it, but I feel good," she promised. "'O brave new world' and such."
"Is that a quote?" Lorelai implored, taking a final sip of her coffee. "It sounds like a quote."
"Yes, mother, it's a quote. Shakespeare. The Tempest. Act V scene i," Rory explained. "We watched the 1980 movie version a few years ago."
"Oh, the one with all the really weird half-naked people on a beach?"
Luke spluttered out a mouthful of coffee. "What?"
"Hey, don't mock," Rory reprimanded. "But yes. That one."
"Wasn't it a book, though?"
"Wasn't what a book, Mom?"
"Brave New World," she clarified. "I feel like I've seen it on bookshelves. Are we sure Shakespeare didn't steal the line from this book?"
Rolling her eyes, Rory held her breath for a moment to stop herself from laughing aloud. "Aldous Huxley most definitely borrowed from Shakespeare. His novel was published 322 years after The Tempest was first performed."
"God, how do you pull this stuff from your brain like that?" Lorelai joked. "I swear," she said, looking at Luke. "Sometimes I think I brought home the wrong baby from the hospital."
Later that evening, Rory was sitting in front of her computer, browsing the internet for talks of her and Dean's exit from Wimbledon and each other's lives. It was torture. Painful seeing the photographs of her and her former partner slapping hands as they won a point, heart-wrenching reading old interviews of theirs as they explained why they worked so well as a team. She managed to drop a few tears as she scrolled through articles new and old, and she supposed the slight hollow feeling in her chest was due to the break up, so maybe she wasn't a sociopath after all.
It kept hitting her like a massive, invisible wave. She and Dean were done. Months of her life were now going to transform into distant memories she would eventually struggle to conjure up when asked about her journey to her first Grand Slam tournament. All because a boy with sandy blond hair nearly knocked her out with a tennis ball during training.
Thinking of Logan gave Rory a sinking feeling in her belly. Her toes curled and her cheeks heated, but what if all of the drama that had unfolded since they met was an indicator that they would never last as a couple? What if they had lost all of the excitement before they ever actually got together?
She kept wondering as she scrolled through articles if she was sacrificing herself by choosing Logan over Dean. By choosing a boy over her career. But then her rationality would kick in and she would remember that Dean had never made things easy on her, and he had done a good job of ruining his own career the moment he allowed his anger to control him. Besides, she wasn't giving up tennis for Logan. If anything, no Dean to worry about meant the prospect of becoming a successful solo tennis player. She was free now to focus on herself in every possible way. Logan was just a bonus.
Tomorrow, she would board a plane for Connecticut and begin a new chapter of her life that involved becoming the best damn female singles player in the world.
As if the boy could read her mind, Rory's phone buzzed beside her. Picking it up off the desk, she checked the caller ID—Logan. Her heart skidded to a halt and she hiccupped a lame excuse for a breath. Her heart stuttering out of time, she pressed the green answer button on her touch screen and brought the phone to her ear.
"Hello?" She sounded like she had just run a 100-miler marathon. Closing her eyes, she focused on breathing steadily. In and out, in and out.
"Ace, how are you doing?" Logan's voice came out stuffed, like he was in the midst of a bad cold.
A fresh surge of guilt broke over her. The memory of Dean's fist cracking as it met Logan's nose played for the hundredth time in her head. She could still smell the blood. The scent of it rising in her nostrils made her stomach churn.
"You still there, Ace?" Logan checked.
Gathering her thoughts, Rory said quickly, "Yes, yeah, I'm still here. I'm okay."
Despite everything that had happened to him that day, Logan managed to laugh. The noise was light and comforting. "Good. That's good to hear."
"And you?" Rory asked, though she knew even if he answered positively, he was lying. It had never happened to her, but she imagined getting socked in the face, especially by someone as strong as Dean, did not feel very nice.
"I'm missing you," he said softly, and Rory's heart plummeted into her belly. "Come over."
"Come over where?" Rory breathed, unsure of why she was whispering. Nobody else was in her hotel room. But she felt as if speaking any louder would somehow disturb the connection, and she couldn't have that.
"Come over to me," he clarified. "I'm only a few levels up from you."
Maybe it should have taken her longer to respond. Maybe it was supposed to, considering how recently she ended things with Dean. But Rory never cared much for etiquette.
"I'll be there soon," she said.
The line went dead, and Rory stood from the desk. She walked to the lone, full-length mirror in her room and examined her reflection. She was tired—it had been a long day—and the purple shadows beneath her blue eyes told a similar story. Her hair was in need of a proper wash, as was her face. She had a feeling Logan wouldn't mind her dishevelled appearance, though. He seemed to like her enough when she was sweating profusely from the London heat during practice. The post-breakup look she was sporting probably wouldn't bother him at all.
Dressed in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt with a faded stamp of a cup of coffee emblazoned on it, Rory Gilmore stepped from her hotel room and walked towards the elevator, a bubble of nervous excitement expanding in her stomach. The elevator ride was slow, but Rory, in her rational mind, knew it was an illusion. Nobody else joined her on her trek upwards, which she was glad for. The emptiness of the elevator meant she could have a mental pep talk with herself about not screwing this whole Logan thing up.
By the time the elevator dinged and the doors opened, she had somewhat gathered her erratic thoughts. This changed, however, the closer she got to Logan's room. Approaching the large door to his hotel room, Rory felt bathed in nerves. Her teeth were chattering, her fingers vibrating. It was as if she were about to walk on to the court in the middle of a Connecticut winter. Lifting her quaking wrist, she tapped on the door three times, wondering if she had ever felt this level of anxiety with Dean.
Probably not.
Definitely not.
As the door swung open, Rory was treated to a sight. Logan's bruised face looked worse than it had when she left him at the hospital. She could imagine all of the news stories tomorrow covering the match would be speculating what had happened. Would Logan tell them after the match, win or lose? No, he wouldn't. He may act above it all, but Rory had been witness multiple times to a gentle side of the injured man in front of her. He wouldn't drag Dean's name through the mud to boost his own ego.
"Hey," he lulled, reaching out for Rory's trembling hand. He squeezed and pulled her into the room. The door closed with a heavy click. Logan walked backwards, leading Rory further inside. "Stop looking at me like that."
Rory followed his lead as blood settled beneath her skin, casting a rosy hue over her complexion. As they continued walking, Rory noticed how much bigger his room was than hers. From the corner of her eye, she spotted a kitchen, a lounge, and an extravagant bathroom complete with an egg-shaped bathtub and separate shower that looked like it could fit five people. Logan led her slowly to his bedroom and sat them down on the comforter. Together, they sunk into the mattress.
"I said stop," Logan persisted, his hazel eyes pleading.
Startled, Rory turned her attention to Logan. "Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"How am I looking at you?" she asked, surprised at how normal she sounded. She was sitting on Logan Huntzberger's bed as he held tight to her hand the night before he took the court at the Wimbledon Men's Singles Championship. How she was not melting in a starstruck puddle on the floor was beyond her comprehension.
Logan's mouth twisted upwards in a small half-smile. "Like I have a huge bruise marring most of my face."
"Well, you do."
"Yeah, but you don't have to look at me like I do."
"So, I should just look at your mouth? The only part of your head not currently black," she suggested, stringing her eyebrows together playfully.
This was relaxing, slipping into a banter-filled conversation with Logan. Over the past couple of weeks these verbal sparring matches had been her way of floating down from the stress that came with being a professional tennis player.
"I'd be okay with that," he agreed. "How about this, we just stare at each other's mouths." He furthered his proposition by shifting his gaze towards the bottom half of her face. "Yeah, I like this. Let's do this."
"Logan . . ." Rory started, but she didn't know what to say.
Logan pumped her hand once before releasing it. He returned his eyes to her own, and Rory couldn't stop her head from tilting to one side. Like a dog waiting for its owner to give it a treat.
"Look," he said, the atmosphere growing increasingly somber, "Ace, I'm sorry about all of this. I know everything's messed up, and I know I've not done anything to help matters."
"No, you really shouldn't be apologising for anything. I'm the one with the crazy ex-boyfriend who punched you for no reason."
"Well, he had a reason," Logan proposed.
"What reason?" Rory challenged, one eyebrow kinked. She had brought her head back up. "We didn't do anything wrong."
They hadn't, had they? There had been no kissing, definitely no sex. Just copious amounts of flirting and secret sharing that happened all under Dean's nose.
On second thought, maybe Logan had a point.
Logan shrugged, his hands out in front of him as if he were the scales of justice in human form. "I fell hard for his girlfriend, for one," he counted, "then, his girlfriend, and correct me if I'm wrong, fell hard for me too. So, all in all, he had reason to punch me."
Annoying though it was to admit, Logan's short list—a list that caused Rory's stomach to warp with childlike nerves, because here was womaniser Logan Huntzberger telling her he had fallen, hard, for her—was full of truths. She had gotten twisted up in an emotional affair with Logan. It took all of meeting him for her to be totally entranced by his everything. Dean had been expelled from her mind the second that tennis ball hit her.
But still.
"Jealousy is not a valid reason to punch somebody," Rory argued. She searched her brain for a potential justifiable act that would cause a brawl. "The only time fists should be flying is when the other person stole something and won't give it back."
Logan, passionate as ever, grasped both of her hands and forced her to stare into his blackened eyes. "For all intents and purposes, I had stolen from him and was refusing to give it back."
"Am I the it in this metaphor?"
"I'm not talking about a tennis raket, Ace."
The pair sighed shallowly in unison. Rory tightened her grip on Logan's hands. His pulse jumped beneath her touch.
"You called him your ex-boyfriend," Logan said after a stretch of silence. A hint of glee touched his words, and it was enough to get Rory to smile.
"I did," she confirmed. "After I left you the first time, I talked with him and we both decided it would be best if we ended things."
"How are you feeling about that?"
"It comes and it goes, but mostly I feel great. Freed," she admitted.
Logan's thumbs began stroking her knuckles. The calluses built from years of tennis scratched her skin, but the slight irritation was oddly soothing.
"Was it really that bad?" he asked, his face pulled in as much of a frown as he could manage. "From what I read, you guys were some sort of power couple."
The Gilmore part of her wanted to say something witty like, What, would you like me to take back my breakup? but she held off. Logan's question was well-founded. With how quickly things had shifted, it was no surprise he felt out of the loop.
She felt the same way, as if someone else was pulling the strings and causing all of this commotion. It was almost as though she had played no part in it. As though none of them had.
"It wasn't all that bad," Rory said eventually, picking at memories of her time with Dean. "At least, it didn't seem all that bad. I've been thinking about my relationship with Dean since I met you, trying to analyse it, see where it all went wrong, but I think it was always kind of wrong. Looking back, which is all I've been doing this afternoon, I realised I had sort of tricked myself into thinking I loved Dean, when really I was just settling for him. Hopefully he'll figure that out too, that he never truly loved me. It'll make things easier for the both of us."
She knew it already, but Logan was an excellent listener. Vaguely aware of his watchful, intense gaze as she prattled on about her split, she admired how well he sat silently and allowed her to speak her mind. Dean would have interrupted her halfway through with his own thoughts and opinions.
It was nice, after all of this time, to have someone sitting in front of her taking the time to digest her words.
"He wasn't abusive or anything," she said, "just . . . neglectful. Of my feelings and our relationship and what being in a relationship meant. I mean, we were both pretty naive. I'm no saint here, clearly," she added, gesturing between herself and Logan.
"Hey," Logan crooned, "it's like you keep saying, we didn't do anything wrong."
"I thought you said we did do something wrong."
"Whoa, whoa, no," Logan disputed, "I said he had reason to punch me. And you then said he didn't, so we're in the clear."
"Let's just say we're all somewhat at fault," Rory resolved. It was true, after all. None of them were in the clear. "How does that sound?"
Logan nodded and intertwined his fingers with Rory's. "That sounds good."
It happened slowly, which was nice. Logan's eyes, both still circled in a purple, blue, black ring, were studying her intently. He licked his lips, and Rory, unaware of what she was doing, mimicked him. Steadily, his head began moving forward. She remained still, her nerves cementing her body in place.
Logan released her hands, transferring his own up to her face. She kept hers resting on her knees. His rough fingers clasped her cheeks, his thumbs drawing shapes over her apples. He was frowning as he inched closer, a side effect of such earnest observation.
When their lips met, finally, Rory's mind cleared. There was no Dean, no Wimbledon, no fancy hotel room. It was only her and Logan and their mouths as they kissed. His tongue was wet and warm as it traced lines over her lips, begging for entry. Once entrance was granted, Rory released a low moan she would later feel embarrassed about, but in the moment felt was a reasonable retort to Logan's tongue marking the inside of her mouth.
Seconds—or perhaps it was minutes, maybe even hours—later, Rory, whose hands had risen and encircled Logan's neck, broke away, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. The remnants of Logan's mint toothpaste stung Rory's mouth in the sweetest of ways.
"Wait, wait, we should talk about this," she said, though her body, which was throbbing and begging to return to Logan's arms, disagreed with her suggestion.
Logan pulled back, smiling sheepishly, the same as he had when he approached Rory for the first time. He pressed his forehead against hers and rubbed a hand up and down her arm. "Right, you're right. How do we go about talking this through?"
Rory unwound her arms and fiddled with a loose thread on Logan's sheets. "We set up boundaries and discuss terms. Things like that."
"You're pulling this stuff from thin air, aren't you?"
"The only other time I've had to have this conversation was three years ago and it did not end very well. Of course I'm pulling this stuff from thin air."
"Okay, okay," Logan hushed, his hand still burning pleasantly through her arm. "What boundaries did you have in mind?"
Drawing away, Rory stared out the window the other side of the room, watching as the sun set the sky on fire. Clouds burned pink and orange.
"No other girls," she said, attempting to sound nonchalant.
Logan's free hand touched her chin and tugged her concentration back to him. He looked very serious. "Of course no other girls," he said. "You don't need to worry."
Rory bobbed her head once, accepting the sincerity and conviction in his voice. "To be honest, that's all I can think of right now."
Letting loose a tumbling sort of laugh, Logan dropped his hand from her chin. "Look, I'm not going to pretend to be an expert. I've never actually had a proper girlfriend before in my life"—
—"I am clearly not an expert, Logan."
"Then we can try this out together, Ace," he said fervidly.
A sense of rightness broke over Rory. This felt right, in a way it had never felt before.
"I like the sound of that."
For the next short while, the pair talked and kissed and laughed as the hours bled into darkness. They talked until there was no question if Rory would spend the night, even if their clothes remained on their bodies. They laid together beneath the soft duvet of Logan's bed, still revealing secrets to one another.
When the clock struck midnight their eyelids drooped, and they slept.
Her grandfather had once jokingly told her she would be late to her own funeral. Everybody in the room had laughed. She had just showed up, twenty minutes late, to his 60th birthday party. Try as she might, Rory Gilmore was late. For nearly everything except tennis matches, and even then she barely got there with any time to spare. Just enough to change and warm up for a few minutes.
So, when she awoke on the second Sunday of Wimbledon at 12:43 in the afternoon, the space in the bed next to her empty, she panicked. Almost more than tennis and books, Rory loved sleep. Rarely was she allowed more than seven hours a night, and the idea of sleeping for more than twelve had her head spinning. As did all that had occurred not just yesterday, but last night in particular. Scanning the empty bed frantically, she found a sticky note fixed to the pillow that had, at one point, been occupied by Logan Huntzberger's gorgeous head.
Ace,
Gone to my mixed doubles final. You looked too peaceful to wake. I've secured you a seat at my singles final, hope to see you there. It's in my box, right next to Paris. Look for her when you get there.
Logan.
"Crap," Rory said aloud, looking around the room for a remote control. She spotted one across the room and leapt from the bed to grab it, turning on the large television in front of the bed.
The TV was already set to Sky Sports. Immediately, Rory saw Logan and his mixed doubles partner Paris Geller winning a point in the second set. They were up 5 games to 4 and they had managed to squeeze by in the first set on a tie-break. Mariano and Nardini must have still been on their high from beating her and Dean yesterday, but they were losing that now. It was 40-0 to Geller and Huntzberger, and Paris was serving for the match.
The players returned to their positions. Paris refused the ball boy's offer of a new tennis ball, which Rory knew she would do. Geller had a superstition that the fluffier the ball on her final serve, the more likely she was to win. Logan had his head faced forward as Paris threw the ball in the air. She would bet anything he already knew where his partner was going to place it. Down came Paris's arm and the ball flew into the air. It landed by Mariano, who quickly forehanded it back to Logan, who volleyed it to Nardini.
Rory held her breath. Nardini had issues being so close to the net, and she was very close to the net. In a scramble, the ball got the lost behind her swinging arms. Jess Mariano was too far away to reach it. His defeated eyes watched it on its second bounce and his racket fell to the ground as the crowd erupted.
Paris and Logan had won.
"I really don't get why he made you sit next to me."
"You can ask him after the match."
"Why don't you just move."
"I don't know anybody else. Asking to sit in their seat just because you don't like me would be really weird. Besides, the match is starting soon and then you won't be paying any attention to me."
Paris groaned beside Rory and Rory was having a hard time not doing the same. Ever since she sat down five minutes ago, Paris had been trying to get her to either leave or move somewhere else. Rory had thought that she would be kinder to her after her win, but to no avail. She was still Paris Geller, and she still hated Rory. Scooping up the mixed doubles title had apparently done nothing to cheer her up.
As she continued to give Rory a semi-death glare, her phone vibrated in her purse. It was her mother.
"Mom, what's up?" Rory answered, scrunching her face. She had forgotten to tell her mom or Luke where she was going to be.
"Oh, you know. Luke and I are on Henman (where you are supposed to be as well, I might add) and they keep showing Logan Huntzberger's box. At first, when Luke pointed out the similarities between you and this brunette sitting next to Paris Geller, I told him he was crazy. My daughter, sitting in Logan Huntzberger's box? No, she would have told me. But then they zoomed in on your face, and I'm sorry to say it honey, but it's you."
During professional tennis matches, Rory was able to easily forget the cameras. Her mind was too focused on the game, on getting that serve over the net. She wasn't on the court today, though. Her mother reminding her she was on TV (for millions of people to witness) made her entire body temperature rise.
"Um, yeah. It's me," Rory admitted. "I'm sorry for not telling you. I know we had plans to sit at Henman together. It's just . . . Logan got me a seat and I couldn't pass it up."
Paris huffed beside her. Rory fought the urge to shove her into the wall.
"Don't be sorry. I'm glad you're feeling okay after yesterday. You are, aren't you? Feeling better? I don't want you moving on too fast with this guy without knowing how you're really feeling. First heartbreak's are tough."
"I'm okay, Mom. Don't worry about me." She had been wondering ever since breaking up with Dean why she wasn't completely heartbroken, and she had decided yesterday that she would try figuring it out later. Now was not the time.
"Meet us after the match. Okay, Kid? And tell Logan his face looks god-awful."
"You got it, Mom."
"Ooh, you're on TV again. Wave hi!"
Rory's eyes searched the court. "Mom, there are so many cameras, I don't know which one to look"—
—"That one, that one!" Lorelai shrieked. "Come on, Kid. For me. And Luke."
In the background, Rory heard Luke say loudly, "I have no part in this."
Rory laughed. "Mom, I've got to go. The match is starting soon. I'll see you and Luke afterwards. Love you!"
Returning her phone to her bag, Rory straightened, aware that Paris was still mumbling about having to sit next to her. "I mean, he's only known you for a couple of weeks and you're already in his box?"
Rory stifled a laugh. Paris certainly had a way with words.
"That came out a lot more sexual than I had meant it. It's just, Logan is such a private guy. I hope you realise how lucky you are."
"Paris," Rory said, tired of the blond's complaining. "I am fully aware that I'm some strange exception to an unspoken rule. Now please, the match is about to start."
It was. No longer were Stan Wawrinka and Logan Huntzberger volleying a ball back and forth. They and taken their seats beside the umpire. Wrappings from new tennis rackets and sweatbands drifted in the gentle wind as Logan tightened the laces of his pristine white, Under Armour trainers. Rory watched him stick his fingers through the strings on his fresh racket and test the resistance. He looked so concentrated.
As she stared—gawked, more like it—Logan lifted his head towards his box, sending Rory's blood in a flurry through her veins.
First he mouthed something to his coach. After some nonverbal response, his hazel eyes, squinting in the sunlight, flicked upwards in her direction. It was the first time they had really seen each other since last night. He smiled crookedly. Unsure of what to do, Rory lifted her hand in a small wave, to which he responded by winking at her.
Someone so beautiful, even with his two black eyes and half-broken nose, should not be allowed to live.
The umpire called time, and Logan and Stan the Man stepped onto the court. Rory wasn't feeling so giddy now. Now, her heart was stuck somewhere in her throat. The two men walked with the umpire and huddled together as they observed a coin. It flew into the air. Upon its landing, Stand had the first serve.
Damn it.
The players took to their side of the court. A ball girl tossed three balls to Wawrinka. He chose two, rolling the other one back to the girl. He was ready to play.
Logan tapped his racket on the ground. Though the temperature in London was only in the early 80s, he swiped his forehead with his wristband. He was nervous. However, he was the picture of elegance as he bounced on his toes and crouched at the base line, waiting for Stan to serve.
The Swiss bounced the ball once more and brought his racket into the air. The crowd at Centre Court was silent. Chucking the ball high, Stan eyed it and sent it flying across the net. Logan's forehand caught it, and just like that, his first Wimbledon Singles Championship had begun.
Stan and Logan were deep into the fourth set. Stan had managed to steal the first away from Logan at 6-4. Something had happened with Logan's serve that allowed Wawrinka to capitalise and break him. After a pep talk with himself, Logan came back on the court and swiped the next two sets easily, winning the third 6-2.
Rory was surprised she was managing to watch. She figured if she pretended she was merely a fan of Logan's, hoping he would win, it would make being there easier to deal with. This tactic seemed to be working, but Logan was one point away from serving for the match. She had a feeling she would vomit once he stood on the base line for his serve.
Stan received fresh tennis balls from a small ball boy. Tucking one deep into his short's, he bounced the other a couple of times, eyeing his placement. Logan had the advantage after Stan's last serve, which turned out to be a double fault, discovered thanks to Logan using his second-to-last challenge. If Stan somehow lost this serve, Logan would be a mere four points away from winning.
The ball went up, then over the net. Logan smashed a double-handed backhand the other side of the court. Scrambling, Stan reached it just in time. He returned it, but there was too much power.
A linesman called it. "Out!" they bellowed, and the crowd cheered wildly.
Hints of a smile crept over Logan's face as he went over to a ball girl. She handed him his pick, her young eyes staring widely at his bruised face.
Rory could now taste her heart. It sat on her tongue, thumping away between her teeth.
A hush spread over the court. One last clap rang out as Logan took his place. Rory could feel her pulse everywhere, it danced through her fingers, her head, her stomach. Half of her wanted to clutch Paris's hand for support, but she stopped herself just in time.
Slinging a ball into the air, Logan shot it down the centre line. Stan wasn't fast enough. Nobody would be fast enough. Rory caught the IBM speed tracker. 165 MPH. Logan was breaking records left and right this tournament.
Again, the crowd could not contain themselves. Screams and shouts and whistles and claps assaulted Rory's ears. They were witnesses of history now. Logan Huntzberger was behind the fasted Wimbledon serve in recorded history.
The cheers continued until the umpire called for quiet and Logan returned to his position. He bounced the ball and served. Stan reached out, but it was again too quick. Another ace.
Rory's head was seconds from exploding as the crowd quieted once more. Two more points and Logan was the Wimbledon champion. Two more points and he was the first American to win since Sampras secured the title against Agassi in 2000. Rory couldn't wait for two more points—she was sitting literally on the edge of her seat, hand clasped absently around Paris's tight fist.
You can do it, Logan, she thought. You can do it.
As if he could hear her—he couldn't, but God, it felt like he could—Logan twisted his head towards her. Sweat dripped from the tips of his mussed hair. His broken face was coated in a sheen. Still, he looked handsome and prepared. Rory stared, her eyebrows pinched together, until he turned to face Wawrinka once more.
Logan would not get this point as easily as the last two. Regardless of his 146 MPH serve, Wawrinka was there, waiting for it. He returned the ball to Logan's backhand. Logan stumbled at the force of Stan's hit, but managed to get the ball to the edge of the base line. Stan was waiting. He shot a forehand deep. Logan's long legs got him to it quickly, and he slammed his racket hard against the ball. It flew over the net.
"Out!" came the cry of a linesman.
Logan's racket went up immediately.
Rory stood, dragging Paris with her. "What!" she shouted. "Oh, come on! The ball was good! Chalk flew up!"
The whole mass of people were shouting their disagreement. Grunting into the microphone, the umpire asked the crowd to calm. "Mr. Huntzberger is challenging the call. Ball was called out."
Rory and Paris, along with at least a quarter of the stadium, stood with their breaths held as they waited for the replay. On the screen, the green ball leapt and a shadow not more than a centimetre thick appeared over the chalk.
"Ball is in, Mr. Huntzberger leads 40-0."
Shouts of approval emerged from the audience. Rory and Paris sat down, their hands still entwined.
After two weeks of gruelling play, Logan was serving for the Championship. He brought his fists into the air and faced his box, his shirt riding up to reveal a thin strip of his tattoo. Rory laughed out of nothing more than stress and watched him walk slowly to the base line. He pulled a ball from his pocket and rocked back and forth on his heels.
He was going to attempt another ace. By the way Wawrinka was standing, he didn't think Logan would try for another one, but Logan was a show off. Of course he would try to win Wimbledon on an ace.
Sitting there, mindlessly attached to Paris Geller, watching Logan Huntzberger prepare for what could very well be the play that won him Wimbledon, Rory Gilmore felt at ease with the world. Everything had completely changed for her since she arrived in London, but the dramatic alterations to both her professional and personal life didn't frighten her. They excited her. Doors that had previously been barred were opening in front of her. She could see herself standing on this court next season by herself, maybe facing Paris. There was no Dean to hold her back. No self doubt keeping her from succeeding.
Luke was ready to train her for her first year without a partner. She was ready to put her all into this game, a game she had fallen in love with fifteen years ago before any boy had caught her attention.
The umpire calling out to Logan for a time infraction distracted Rory from her own mind. She glared at the umpire, a French man dressed in a suit that looked too big on him. That deafening silence blanketed Centre Court once more.
Logan rolled the ball in his hand and sent it down, bouncing it once, twice before preparing for his serve. He touched the ball to his racket, shifting his weight. The ball moved upwards with his arm. His body stretched out as he sliced his racket in the air. A clang rang out and the ball soared with the breeze. It happened in slow motion—the ball landed directly on the centre line and glided past a confused Stan Wawrinka, slamming into the curtain by a linesman.
"In!"
Rory gasped, tightening her grip on Paris. The two girls stared at each other. Squeals of elation seeped from their mouths. They jumped from their seats, finally releasing their hands, and cheered loud and long.
Logan had fallen to the floor. His chest rose and fell with sobs. He brought his hands up to his face, his racket long forgotten beside him, and wept. In response, Rory's throat constricted and her eyes welled. When he stood, he turned towards his box and whooped in celebration. She clapped as he ran for them, mind whirring when he started climbing to reach them. He got to his coach first. They slapped each other's back with the biggest smiles on their faces. Then he went to his mother and sister, who gathered him in a group hug. Next, it was Paris's turn.
Rory watched them, feeling suddenly out of place.
Who was she, really? There, with all of his support group. Paris was right. She had known him only three weeks. She didn't belong there. Not really. Panicking, Rory looked around for a quick exit. Before she could leave, something gripped her hand. Logan.
"Ace, you made it," he said, bruised eyes burning red. He was smiling widely and there was a waterfall of laughter spilling from his lips. Adrenaline really was the best pain reliever. He hardly seemed to notice his bruises.
Rory thought for a moment about what to say. About how to combat this strange sensation of having her foot only halfway through the door.
"I wouldn't have missed it," she said finally, grinning.
Head falling back, Logan let out a belly laugh and pulled Rory in for a hug. He squeezed, whispering in her ear, "You proud of your boy?"
Rory pulled away. My boy? she thought. Unexpectedly, she liked the sound of it. "I'm very proud," she responded, laughing as Logan leaned in closer and brushed their lips together, mindless of the cameras and the crowd. His mouth tasted of sweat and success and a happiness Rory would be lucky to ever experience.
He retreated from her all too soon for the ceremony, heading directly to Stan and gathering him in a bear hug. The men separated, ready to receive their awards.
Rory watched the ceremony with stinging eyes.A mixture of sadness and ecstasy babbled in her stomach. Sadness because this was the end of Wimbledon. The end of her first encounter with the most amazing tournament in the world. So many things had happened during these last few weeks. She didn't want to leave.
But ecstasy because of how well things had turned out. She and Dean might not have snagged the mixed doubles title, but their loss had set Rory on a new, thrilling path. One she never would have imagined herself on last month, or even last week.
Rory Gilmore was happy, and that was all that mattered.
A/N: If you made to the end, I would love to know how you felt! I won't beg for reviews (I find it tacky and, quite frankly, distasteful), but if you're feeling up to it, don't hesitate. Unless you're thinking of being really mean. Then please hesitate.
That's it, folks. Kind of. I actually have an outline for both a one-shot set immediately after the finals and a little short story set in the future. Let me know if you're interested in either or both!
Anyways, again, thank you so much. My love for these two has expanded over the past couple of days as I watched the reboot, and I am happy to finally be sharing the last piece of this particular story.
-Bethany