It's approaching summer. It's not exactly sunny, but a humid warmth is beginning to approach onto England which manages to give the illusion of good weather. Just as the crowd contemplates climbing out early from the anti-climatic match to escape the heat, a mangled call of 'out' shatters one man's dreams. All eyes focus on the man, who slams his racket against the court in anger. The racket snaps in two, the strings tearing apart as he hastily chucks it back into his bag.

"Challenge!" he screams in his thick accent, looking as if he's about to climb up the umpire's chair and batter him.

But he doesn't have any challenges left. They show hawk eye anyway, as if just to rub it in the poor man's face. The ball was in. His opponent Sebastian Grantaire, a German man, falls onto the ground, his arms balled into fists which he holds up high into the air. The crowd boos as the man hastily lifts his bags, storming out of the court without even acknowledging the crowd of little kids by the exit holding out tennis balls and programmes for him to sign.

The man is Charles(or Charlie) Bahorel, dubbed by the papers as 'the angry Scotsman'. It's no wonder that he's furious; so close to winning his first grand slam and it's torn away from him at the hands of an 'out' ball that was actually in, but try telling that to the press. Pages and pages of lies about his rivalry with the German champion; rumours of fights in the changing rooms and childhood rivalries and a long-running mutual hatred between the pair.

Unbeknownst to Bahorel, Grantaire's reign as number one may be slipping from his fingers. After dictating the tennis world for the past three years with his immaculate skill in going for every shot and being able to make it, his way of playing is finally beginning to take it's toll. Despite his win at Wimbledon this year, he spent the entire last set feeling as if his knees were about to buckle beneath him. An old ankle injury causes a horrible click when he walks sometimes, and he can just tell that he won't last much longer. The upcoming US open terrifies him, because the hard court is the surface which causes his injuries to flare up.

When the mighty fall, they fall, and they fall hard. Grantaire's downfall is unexpected, even the most avid tennis fan being unable to notice his recent struggles. He makes it through the first round as if by default; his opponent Joly faints with the heat towards the end of the second set and pulls out. His next opponent is Jean Prouvaire, a young Frenchman(who usually goes by the name Jehan) who's recently started taking singles more seriously after his doubles partner retired.

Despite his inexperience, the boy is good and makes Grantaire run. Drop shots force him to pull away from the baseline, cross court shots force him left and right. His legs feel as if they're twigs, about to break at any second.

Crack. The crowd gasps. Grantaire falls onto the floor, curling into a ball. He's not known for being one to show injury, unlike certain players who dive about and groan and call the trainer in for what ends up as nothing. He looks as if he's unconscious, but he just doesn't want to move, as if one flicker would send pain searing through his leg. The trainer makes a mad dash to get to the court as Grantaire covers his face in shame. The crowd is in silence; Grantaire is a well liked player, and any bad injuries in this sport are always horrible to watch. Jehan tepidly tiptoes to the other side of the net to see if his opponent is okay, collecting towels and Grantaire's bottle of water on his way. Officials are already by Grantaire's side, ensuring that he stays still. Just as the trainer is running over, he gags horribly in pain, to which Jehan reacts by gently resting his hand on his shoulder. As the trainer tends to the ankle, Jehan insists upon making sure Grantaire is alright. He folds up one of the towels, resting it underneath his head, before placing another beside him in case he retches again. He helps him take a sip of water, before sitting back and leaving the trainer to do his job.

The crowd erupts in applause, although it seems to make Grantaire even more uptight, so Jehan shushes them calmly, before taking a seat and watching as the trainer tries to help Grantaire to stand so he can hop out; but he can't. His ankle is obviously broken, and he feels so weak that he can't even limp out with the support of the other man. A wheelchair is rolled out, Grantaire's shoved into it, and he's wheeled away to be treated properly.

Prouvaire is devastated. He's won by default, but it doesn't feel like a success. It's the furthest he's ever gotten in the men's singles of a grand slam, yet he'd much rather have taken the loss. He goes on to play fellow Frenchman, Julien Enjolras in the next round, or so he thinks, because Enjolras also pulls out over the shoulder injury responsible for his absence from the last three majors.

It's been an awful day for the tournament, with several players retiring from injuries, and several good players losing their matches; this includes Adrian Feuilly, a player who looked like he could maybe win his first grand slam, who is pipped to the post by Marius, and Dutch player Adam Combeferre, the world number two who seems to be reaching the later stages of his sporting career. The tournament ends with English serve and volley player Marius Pontmercy against Bahorel, who manages to use his anger over Wimbledon to win the last major of the year.

The media are devastated. Marius is the papers' big money maker at the moment, with his relationship with singles player Cosette having recently been announced. They turn Bahorel into public enemy number one, detailing every little challenge which tore the points away from their precious little Marius, and every hostile look and every powerful serve which threatened his opponent.

Grantaire's injury hasn't been heard about much, as no new information has been given. The day after the final, his team make an announcement that his ankle is fractured and that he won't be playing for at least the next year. He's devastated, knowing that until he's able to play again he'll slip into bad habits and completely ruin his fitness. As Bahorel sets out for his celebratory round of drinks, Grantaire uses alcohol in his own way; to drown his emotions. He insists on being alone for a bit after he gets back from the hospital and his watchful team have left. Back in the day before he started to take his tennis seriously, he was quite the drinker. He still craves it, but his team never allow him unless he's celebrating and being careful. The alcohol feels good as it trickles down his throat, and the guilt doesn't even hit him. He's been lucky that the press haven't found out; they'd have a field day.