The walls seemed to close in as I realized they weren’t only watching me, they were judging.
“So, Chloe,” Oliver said, a friendly smile on his face. “How are you recovering from Wimbledon?”
“Fine, it’s mostly the jet lag now that’s the killer,” I answered, unsure whether he meant the competition or my on-court meltdown.
He smiled and nodded in response, his girlfriend beside him only shooting me daggers.
“Would you like some bubbles?” Scottie asked, already pouring two glasses for us. I gladly accepted, still feeling so awkward, my bag still in hand. If I put it down, then it would mean I was committed to actually staying.
“Are we really going to pretend like this is all happy families?” Inés asked bitterly, leaning forward.
“Inés—” Henrik’s tone was short, but she cut him off anyway.
“You knew we’d have a problem because you gave us no warning.”
I downed the liquid from my glass, needing the courage. “Look, it’s fine. I can call a ride share.”
Henrik shook his head, but there was something too casual in his tone. “No, stay. You should stay.”
I grimaced, hating the idea of spending one second longer in this goddamn house.
“Me cago en la puta.”Inés tsked. “Do you realize she’s fucked over three of the people in this room?” She pointed around the kitchen island as she dug up every embarrassing moment I’d had over the last year. “She accused Dylan of cheating, she yelled at the umpire and Scottie at Wimbledon, and—”
“They both still beat her,” Henrik interrupted. “You’re the only one with the problem here, Inés.”
I swallowed uncomfortably. All this time, I’d avoided hanging out with Henrik’s friends. It was easy enough to keep my distance; he was the only player I knew. In locker rooms, I kept to myself. And while other girls had tried to be friendly with me, I hadn’t been interested.
“Keep your eye on the prize,”my dad had always told me. “Don’t get friendly with the enemy. You’ll only be distracted.”
“Right now, you’re both being a problem.” Scottie turned to me, her features softened. “Chloe, I’m sorry for myfriends. Let me show you to your room, and we can figure out where to put Wilson’s bowls.”
And with that, she led me from the kitchen, leaving only a chorus of hushed accusations behind me.
“It’s true, you know.”
“Dylan, stay out of this.”
“Why did you bring her?”
Every word stung, but as she led me farther into the house, away from the kitchen, their words disappeared into the noise, a speaker still playing dance music in the lounge.
She paused midway up the grand staircase, flicking her long hair over her shoulder and looking back at me. “Don’t pay attention to anything they are saying. I promise, after a couple of beers, all will be forgotten.”
I bit my lip, not quite believing her.
“Thanks for what you said back there,” I managed.
We reached the second floor, and she led me into one of the frontbedrooms, a luxurious king-sized bed in the center. I wanted so badly to climb into the crisp sheets and hide away.
“It’s nothing.” Scottie waved her hand. “I know well enough what it’s like to have people talking shit about you. They didn’t need to be so rude.”
“I deserved it,” I admitted. And why deny it? I could regret it all I wanted, but it had happened more than once, cracking under that pressure, making a fool of myself.
“You can stir up a little controversy, but we’ve all had our moments.” She shrugged, sending me a sly smile. I knew her history; there wasn’t a fan who didn’t. The daughter of a famous ex-player, she’d once found herself banned due to illicit substances. For two years, she’d been on the outside of this world and on the front page of every tabloid. She’d known how it was to live in scandal, but when she’d returned, she’d come back with a vengeance.
And with Nico Kotas on her arm.
“I’m... I...” I looked around the room, looked at the floor, anywhere but at her as my cheeks burned. “I’m sorry for what happened at Wimbledon. And for what I said. I know that wasn’t professional or acceptable.”
