44
Chloe
Honey—Halsey
Costa vs Murphy
Semi-final—Arthur Ashe Stadium
The first set went long, down to the wire with a tiebreak. Inés fought tooth and nail, driving every game to its limit. But in the end, I capitalized on a couple of small missteps. My speed served me well, and I managed to edge her out, snatching the set.
Now, as she prepared to serve, I watched her closely. She was taking her time, deliberately running down the clock. I stayed planted, ready for her assault. My hands adjusted on the racket handle, the rough grip pressing into my fingertips.
Breathe,I reminded myself.Channel the frustration into the swing.
I knew exactly what she was doing, using everything she knew about me to disrupt my rhythm. Every extra second was a calculated move to throw me off my flow.
But as she tossed the ball into the air, I grinned. I was doing the same to her.
Her racket struck the ball, sending it across the court, but it clipped the net.
“Fault. Second serve,” the umpire called as the court reset. A ball girl darted out to retrieve the failed serve while Inés repositioned herself.
She shook out her left hand before clenching it into a fist. One glance at her expression, and I knew.
She was in pain.
I thought of seeing her post-match with an ice pack pressed to her wrist, the stretches and exercises she religiously performed to prepare for matches like this. My chest tightened with an unfamiliar ache.
This was a weakness I could, and would have to, exploit. I’d promised her I wouldn’t hold back. If I noticed something, I’d use it. But that didn’t mean I wanted to. There was no pride in it, no satisfaction.
She served again, and I returned with all my strength. Inés grunted, staggering back to meet the ball. Her shot made it over the net but lacked the power she’d commanded earlier. The control she had wielded so effortlessly in the first set was slipping.
Confidence surged through me.I had this.
I drove the ball down with a punishing groundstroke, ramping up the intensity. Inés scrambled to meet it, managing to slice it back with a sharp backhand. Too late, I realized my mistake, my overconfidence, as the ball skidded past me. Point to her.
Inés’s injury was bothering her. But as the match continued, with her taking point after point and game after game, it became clear her injury wasn’t causing the weakness I’d assumed.
If anything, it made her more dangerous.
While I relied on brute force, burning through my reserves with every powerful return and serve, she played smarter. Every shot was calculated, designed to push me further into exhaustion. Inés didn’t need to match me in strength; she had her strategy, her precision, and her resilience.
This wasn’t a contest of raw power anymore. It was chess, and I was already losing moves.
The match stretched, the game of tug-of-war continuing into the third set. My body ached, muscles screaming as I hurled everything I had into each swing. I would not lose. This was supposed to be my tournament. I wasn’t going to walk off this court without giving it my everything.
But Inés, she was fucking relentless.
Point by point, she followed my lead. Her calculated plays, her ability to read me like an open book, it all piled on the pressure. Every time I thought I had her, she slipped through my grasp, exploiting every weakness I accidentally offered up to her.
Hours had passed since the start of the grueling match, and as we sat for what could be our final short break, I looked over at her, a towel draped over her head and neck, soaking up the sweat.
We had reached the deciding game, the crowd still electric, even in the pause, the sound of their cheers washing over us like waves. The score sat at 5–4, with Inés due to serve, and my frustration was threatening to boil over again.
I looked to the crowd, finding Calvin sitting in a box. He sat slumped forward, his eyes on mine. He mouthed two words to me, and I knew I didn’t need to hear him to know what it was.
A single, useless, “Stay calm.”
