First Set
1
Inés
My Kink Is Karma—Chappell Roan
Sinclair vs Murphy
Final—Centre Court, Wimbledon
Alifetime of running myself into the ground for this sport had led me here. Centre Court. Seated in the hushed crowd, watching two other players battle for the trophy I should have had a shot at.
My place was down there, racket in hand. I’d worked the majority of my twenty-five years towards this goal. Instead, every sharp pop of the ball dragged up another memory of how it all went wrong.
Henrik’s low voice broke through the silence. “Watch.” He leaned in towards me, his eyes glued to the action. “You’re missing the match.”
“Anda ya,”I huffed in Spanish, my eyes still lowered to my wrapped wrist. It wasn’t an injury, only some tenderness, so the wrap was precautionary. Still, the rough fabric made my stomach turn, a reminder of the problems that had plagued my career. “You forced me to come.”
“It’s the Wimbledon final, you couldn’t miss this,” he added as we sat burning under the English afternoon sun. “Besides, it’s not like you were busy.”
His words stung with truth. But it was all a reminder of how I should be the one down on court.
I’d practically grown up on the tennis court in Spain and finally, two years ago, I’d claimed my first and only Grand Slam trophy on the French clay court of Roland Garros. It had been a tough match. The iconic red surface lowered the game pace, forcing patience, endurance, and precision. I’d gone the distance with a baseline rally, keeping players on their toes with chess-like tactics.
I’d been the champion. But my victory was short-lived, and only a few weeks after, I’d started getting a sharp pain in my wrists, making even swinging a racket painful. I’d barely survived the opening rounds of tournaments, giving away precious points as I fell down in the rankings.
Eventually, I had no other choice but to take time away from the court for surgery. In the end, I spent almost a year watching the women’s singles competition from the sidelines.
Even eighteen months after the surgery, I was still struggling to bounce back. And now, the woman the press had pitted against me, the strawberry blonde down on the court, bouncing a tennis ball against the grass, was playing in a final I could only dream of reaching.
Long legs, slim body, Chloe Murphy was only twenty-two and in her third Grand Slam final in less than a year. She’d stormed into my life, winning our matches in brutal fashion.
Two weeks ago, I’d been standing opposite her on the court. A decidedly horrible matchup in the first round of Wimbledon that had seen me crash out.
Throughout my comeback, Chloe Murphy had haunted me, becoming my major competitor since rejoining the tour. Back in January, she had beaten me in the first round of the Australian Open. Chloe played like she had nothing to lose and no one to answer to. Delaying tactics. Intimidating net rushes. A smile after every shanked shot, like she’d planned it.
Finally, in May, she turned my favorite court in Paris against me in the second round. And she’d used every trick in the book, like pacing just long enough between serves to fray my nerves.
She didn’t play with people. She played through them.
The press had wasted no time pitting us against each other. A rivalry between the former star, now fallen, and the next big thing.
Every time I thought I had bounced back, that my body was ready for the brutal two weeks a Slam brought, she had been there, a cruel reminder of my limits.
Chloe’s serve cut through the air like a blade, sharp, effortless, dangerous. Her opponent and my friend, Scottie Sinclair, lunged, her footwork quick and deliberate, no flicker of hesitation in the hometown favorite. But Chloe hit the ball with such power, it made it near impossible for Scottie to return.
The crowd erupted. Point Murphy.
Chloe lifted her chin, a faint, familiar smirk pulling at her lips that I had seen too many times, but the first was still seared into my memory.New York. An after-party. I’d spotted her across the room.
I hadn’t taken Chloe seriously at first. She’d entered Wimbledon last year on a wild card. She’d done better in a couple of the smaller competitions in the run-up to the US Open, making it as far as the semis. Apparently, all it took to become a tennis star was a wild card and a miracle. Then she started making finals. First in China, then Melbourne, then again in Paris in May, where she’d finally won.
Watching her raise that trophy, the one that had been mine, hurt more than all the physio it had taken to return to the court. And now all the history between us felt mocking.
A grunt from the court snapped me back, signaling the start of another point.
Scottie Sinclair stormed forward, every muscle sharp with intent, lobbing the ball over the net, and over her opponent. Chloe Murphy stood too close to the net as the ball flew over, giving her no chance to claim the point.
