The hallowed corridors of the All England Club are accustomed to the sounds of grunting effort, the thwack of fuzzy yellow balls on taut strings, and the roar of a captivated crowd. They are not, however, typically privy to the specific, flustered tenor of a disagreement between two of its brightest young stars. Yet, mere minutes ago, in a plush player’s lounge momentarily emptied of its usual throng, Emma Raducanu and Carlos Alcaraz found themselves embroiled in a debate of surprisingly personal proportions: the etiquette of the first date kiss.
It had begun, as these things often do, with an innocuous observation. Carlos, buzzing with his usual effervescent energy, was recounting a friend’s disastrous dating anecdote. The story culminated in an awkward, mistimed goodnight peck that had left both parties red-faced.
“And I said to him,” Carlos continued, gesturing with a bottle of water, “‘Hombre, you have to go for it! Confidence! If you feel the moment, you create the moment.’ A kiss on the first date is like a winning passing shot—it’s bold, it’s exciting, it lets the other person know you are playing to win.”
Emma, sipping her tea with a composure that belied her 21 years, raised a single, sceptical eyebrow. It was the same look she’d given umpires who dared make a questionable call against her. “Absolutely not, Carlos. That’s a terrible strategy.”
Carlos’s smile didn’t fade, but it shifted into something more competitive, a look usually reserved for break points. “No? Why? You think he should have… what? Shaken her hand? A formal ‘thank you for the evening’?”
“I think,” Emma said, placing her cup down with deliberate softness, “that a first date is about building tension. It’s a feeling-out process. Like the first few games of a match. You’re assessing, you’re understanding their rhythm. A kiss isn’t a passing shot; it’s match point. You don’t go for it in the first set. You have to earn it.”
This was, clearly, a clash of philosophies as fundamental as the difference between a clay-court grind and a grass-court blitz.
“Earn it?” Carlos laughed, a sound as warm and sunny as his native Murcia. “But the feeling is the earning! If you have this connection, this electricity—pum!—it’s there. To not act on it is to… to let the ball go past you. It’s a shot you don’t take! And in tennis, in life, you regret the shots you don’t take.”
Emma leaned forward, her voice dropping into a more earnest, persuasive register. “But that’s just it, Carlos. It’s not a shot you don’t take; it’s a shot you set up. A kiss at the end of a first date, if it happens, should feel inevitable. Like the final point of a perfect game. It’s the culmination of everything that came before. If you force it, if you ‘create the moment’ as you say, it feels… transactional. Aggressive. It ruins the mystery.”
“Mystery?” Carlos was genuinely perplexed. “What mystery? You like the person, they like you—this is clear from the date! Why play games? Why not be direct and show your intention?”
“It’s not about games!” Emma insisted, though a faint smile played on her lips. “It’s about anticipation. The most powerful part of any story is the moment just before the kiss. Not the kiss itself. By waiting, you build that. You give both people something to think about, to look forward to. It’s a cliffhanger. It leaves you wanting more. A first-date kiss can be… definitive. It can close the book instead of making you desperate to turn the page.”
Carlos shook his head, his curly hair bouncing. He was on the baseline of his argument now, loading up for a big forehand. “I think you are overthinking it. completely. This is not a novel or a movie. This is real life. A kiss is… a question. It’s not the answer. It’s you saying, ‘I am having a fantastic time with you and I would like to explore this further.’ It’s the start of the second set, not match point!”
“But a kiss is an answer!” Emma countered, her own returns getting sharper. “It answers the question of physical compatibility, sure, but it also answers the question of timing. And getting the timing wrong is worse than not doing it at all. What if she’s not there yet? What if she needs one more date to feel that certainty? By going for it, you risk making her uncomfortable, you risk making a beautiful connection feel rushed and awkward. That’s not a risk worth taking. Patience is a virtue.”
“Patience is for clay courts!” Carlos declared, waving a hand dismissively. “On grass, you have to be aggressive. You have to seize the initiative. Life is grass court, Emma! It’s fast and you have to be brave.”
“Bravery isn’t the same as impetuousness,” she fired back. “It’s braver to be patient. It’s braver to read the play, to understand your opponent’s—sorry, your date’s—body language and respect it enough not to force a winner when the court isn’t open.”
They paused, both slightly breathless, the irony of using tennis metaphors to deconstruct romantic norms not lost on either of them. The disagreement was sincere, but it was layered with a mutual respect and a hint of amusement.
Carlos looked at Emma, really looked at her: the fierce intelligence in her eyes, the unwavering conviction in her beliefs. He saw the same qualities that made her a US Open champion—a preternatural maturity, a strategic mind that processed variables at lightning speed.
Emma looked at Carlos: the uncontainable joy, the boundless optimism, the sheer, audacious belief that every moment was there to be conquered. She saw the genius that could conjure a winner from anywhere on the court, the instinct that trusted feeling over calculation.
He broke the silence, his voice softening. “So, for you… the perfect first date ends with a handshake?” He said it with a teasing glint in his eye.
Emma laughed, a clear, bright sound that cut through the tension. “No, you muppet. It ends with a meaningful look. A lingering hug that lasts a second too long. Maybe… maybe a kiss on the cheek. It ends with a text the next morning that says, ‘I had a really great time last night.’ The kiss comes on the second date. And it’s a thousand times better for the wait.”
Carlos considered this, nodding slowly. He could see the elegance in her strategy. It was a controlled, percentage play. High margin for error. But it wasn’t him.
“I see your point,” he conceded. “It is… smart. Very smart. But for me, life is not about avoiding errors. It is about hitting winners. If I feel that electricity, that pum… I have to go for it. Even if I shank it into the stands. At least I took the swing.”
Emma smiled, a genuine, warm smile. “And that,” she said, “is why you’re Carlos Alcaraz.” She picked up her tea again. “And my way is why I’m Emma Raducanu.”
They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, two champions who had battled to a stalemate not on the court, but over the complexities of the human heart. There was no resolution, because some things cannot be resolved. They are simply a matter of style, of personality, of the fundamental, unchangeable way one chooses to move through the world.
Carlos, the instinctual artist, believed in capturing the moment. Emma,the strategic analyst, believed in constructing it.
Both approaches had won them Grand Slams. And both, they quietly suspected, were probably valid in the equally unpredictable and high-stakes game of love. The disagreement wasn’t about who was right; it was a glimpse into the core of who they were. And in that understanding, they found a new kind of common ground.
