I shook my head, tearing my attention from him and allowing it to linger on Inés instead.
I found her gaze on me now, a look of reluctance and worry across her face. But when my eyes connected with hers, with the woman I loved, her expression turned tender and caring.
“Are you okay?” she mouthed over at me. The competitor in me screamed to ignore her, to not let girlfriend Inés get under my skin.
I bit my lip, burying the truth, and nodded back.I’m not,I thought to myself,but I will be.
She shook her head from side to side, mouthing three easy words: “I hate this.”
My hand ached to reach out to hers, to feel her soft skin under my fingertips, as if sitting even this far from her was its own form of torture.
“Me too,”I mouthed back, just as the umpire called us back to the court.
It was time.
As I marched back to the baseline, I let her take control. After my loss in London, the idea of making it this far in the tournament had driven me, serving as my only goal.
If I could claim this trophy, I’d show everyone that I had more than a single win in me.
That I could do it again, and again, and again. No matter the rage that earned me newspaper headlines, I was still a worthy opponent.
Now, staring Inés down, both of us taking our places on the baseline, I wondered if any of that was true. If I was good enough, or if I’d been running on luck.
A luck that had run out when that elastic snapped. I looked down at the tied bracelet, so tight it dug into my skin, sure to leave its imprint on my wrist.
Inés watched me, her gaze steady and unflinching. She didn’t need a bracelet, didn’t rely on rituals or omens. She relied on herself, on her ability to push through, to claw her way back even when the odds were stacked against her. And for the longest time, I had hated her for that.
But not anymore. These past few months had changed something fundamental. That simmering envy had transformed into admiration, burning low in my chest and setting my nerves on edge in a way I couldn’t shake.
As we launched into the game, I knew I would fight her with everything I had. For every point, for every ounce of pride I could salvage. I threw myself into every return, chased every ball until my legs screamed. I played like there was nothing left beyond this match.
But against her, it wasn’t enough.
Ten agonizing minutes later, when the umpire’s voice cut throughthe roar of the crowd with a calm, unwavering, “Game, set and match,” the name he called wasn’t mine.
My chest tightened, the sting of loss sharp and unforgiving. My dream was gone, reduced to ash. Dead.
And the woman I loved was the one who had set the fire.
45
Inés
Rue—girl in red
Success should feel good. A rush of excitement, Champagne bubbles fizzing on my tongue and a stomach full of butterflies. But winning the semi-final against Chloe? It felt like tearing the wings off every last one of them.
After we shook hands at the net, she left the court quickly, her head down and her movements clipped. I wanted to follow, or to call for her to stay, but the noise of the crowd surged around me, my attention pulled in several different directions as an interviewer appeared, a camera pointed at me. They were so thrilled, sorelievedthat I’d clawed my way to a final after years of heartbreak and setbacks.
But their joy tasted bitter. Because I knew what I’d put at risk with this victory.
Her.
Chloe was all I could think about as I charged through the tunnel, looking around the cool-down area.
I didn’t stop. I tore through the locker room, pushing open stall doors, even glancing into the showers.
“Chloe?” Her name fell from my lips like a plea, echoing back at me, unanswered.
