Dylan leaned into me, whispering in my ear, “Where did they dig this man up from?”
I had to smother a laugh. It was boring. Dead boring. He’d been listing all the events at what felt like half speed.
“I wonder if there’s a fast-forward button on him,” I murmured back.
“How much longer is this supposed to go on?” Oliver interrupted, leaning across Dylan.
“As long as it takes to bore us to our deaths.”
He huffed. “At least the food was half decent.”
Dylan picked up the half-empty glass of red in front of her, rolling the liquid around the glass. “The wine pairings, however, have not been pulling their weight.”
I shook my head, taking another sip from my own glass. It was disgusting, the taste of the subpar wine turning to vinegar on my tongue. If my dad was here, he’d be up complaining to the manager in angry Spanish. It wasn’t a Ribera del Duero, but it was still alcohol, and I could ignore my inner wine critic for just one night.
Yesterday had gone by in a flash, the day spent on the beach, before a quieter night inside, watching old tennis matches from Nico’s prime (Scottie’s idea, of course).
“And now on to the presentation of our tennis players and the draw for our teams. Each team will be playing two matches tomorrow, and a finale on Saturday.” The older man’s drawl cut through the murmuring crowd, dragging us back to the event as he adjusted his glasses and attempted to refocus on his notes. I sighed and straightened up in my chair, already anticipating the awkward introductions that were about to follow.
Next to him on the stage, they slowly wheeled out a very squeaky lottery drum.
“Ah, here we go. Showtime.” Dylan sat back, stretching her legs beneath the table. “Ready to find out who your partner is?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The crowd shifted, a few claps breaking out as the announcer revealed the first partnership, butchering the first player’s name. I watched two players walk onto the stage and shake hands.
The lottery drum was turned again until it produced two more balls, revealing two more names, their competitors.
The rounds continued. When Scottie and Dylan were paired together, I began to suspect it was rigged. They’d once been rivals on the court. Putting those two on the same side of the net could draw some more attention to the charity we were supporting.
The one thing Scottie was guaranteed to bring was a headline ortwo; a glance at the current number of social media notifications had told me enough. The videos we had posted had gone viral, the number of articles in tabloids growing by the day. Even Selene had texted to tell me that the numbers on my socials were great.
Oliver and Henrik were called up onstage too, going against Nico and another player who looked overjoyed to have the two-time Olympian playing with him.
“Next up... Chloe Murphy! Please come to the stage to meet your new teammate!” Her name boomed over the sound system. I couldn’t help but watch her rise out of her seat. Her hair clipped back from her face, the rest of it trailing down her back, her lips glossed a pale strawberry pink. I didn’t want to appreciate how fucking pretty she was. Not after what had been said between us, the bad blood we’d spilt.
It was like she was haunting me, the ghost of one-time make-outs past.
While she took her place on the stage, a voiceover listed her accomplishments. “Murphy’s recent success has been headlined by three finals in the last year, including lifting the winner’s trophy at Roland-Garros. Her success and popularity have been highlighted by the fact that she has been picked up by many sponsors, including being announced as the new face of ELITE, the fastest-growing sportswear brand and a champion of this event, in a Times Square announcement a few hours ago.”
My jaw fell open.Shewas the face of ELITE. My last sponsor had dumped me forher, the person who couldn’t get through a match without screaming at the umpire.
The lottery drum spun again, the noise of the balls filling the otherwise silent room. It felt like the scene was unfolding in slow motion, as the presenter pulled another name out. He coughed off-mic, clearing his throat, his eyes narrowing on the ball, struggling to read the text.
“Next up we have...” He trailed off, and it was like my intuition kicked in. Just as it did when I needed to read the person opposite me on the court, their body language, their footwork, how hard they were hitting the ball, all to figure out how to take the match for myself. And it was screaming at me to run. “. . . Inés Costa!”
First, she’d taken tennis. She’d taken my best friend. My sponsors and... now she was my doubles partner.
I was fucked.
11
Inés
FERAL—Xana
Icouldn’t breathe. I’d locked myself away in a bathroom stall, sitting on a closed toilet, trying to remember what breathing felt like, failing desperately to calm my racing heartbeat.
