If I could get into shape, get off the bench and make it past the opening rounds, maybe I could use that short fuse against her.
The match continued, the pressure in the air crushing. This was Scottie Sinclair, a Brit at a home match, so the crowd were supportive of her from the start. But after Chloe’s outburst, they grew louder, more energized. It got worse, especially when Scottie took control of the third set, leading 5–2.
Chloe hurled her racket towards the sideline, earning another warning for unsportsmanlike conduct and racket abuse. All the drama added up to a completely avoidable point penalty.
She was vulnerable. A crack in the polished veneer. For months, she had seemed untouchable, but now, as her composure splintered under the weight of the match, I could see that Chloe Murphy wasn’t invincible. If this was what it took to beat her, I wasn’t above stepping into the shadows.
If she was allowed to play mind games, then so could I.
We were only a couple of months out from the US Open. Chloe’s home turf. And if she could beat me on what I considered mine, then I could do the same on hers. She might have youth and speed, but I had experience and spite.
If my body didn’t fail me, if I stayed in control of my injury, then I could do this. I refused to back down, to be at the mercy of Chloe Murphy’s backhand.
As I watched Scottie Sinclair take the final set, I jumped to my feet, cheering as loudly as I could for one of my closest friends. But my eyes were on Chloe the entire time. Watching as she met Scottieat the net for the handshake, as she was presented with her runner-up award, as she clapped as Scottie received her winner’s trophy. All with a scowl on her lips the entire time.
If the press had thought we had the most exciting rivalry in tennis, then they’d better not count me out.
Inés Costa was coming back for another round.
Interstitial
TEMPER TANTRUM ON COURT: MURPHY FALLS SHORT AGAIN
British favorite Scottie Sinclair triumphed on Centre Court today, defeating rising star Chloe Murphy in a thrilling final. Sinclair, who recently announced her engagement to former doubles partner Nico Kotas, expressed her joy after claiming the competition.
In contrast, American Chloe Murphy cut a frustrated figure after finishing as runner-up. Murphy’s frustrations boiled over during the match, resulting in a code violation and fine for unsportsmanlike conduct. In a fiery post-match conference, Murphy stated, “Today, I did not play my best. There was the wind and the crowd was noisy. It’s not how it’s supposed to be, you know? You come to Wimbledon, and they’re all chanting her name. What about me? I could’ve won, I should’ve. Any other day, I could’ve taken her.”
Criticism swiftly followed, with online commentators and tennis veterans weighing in. Renowned coach Brooke Turner remarked, “Murphy is talented but unpolished. She’s still young and inexperienced but regardless, it’s unprofessional, and she needs to mature if she wants to be taken seriously in the sport.”
She added, “Murphy’s raw talent is undeniable, but whether she can channel her passion constructively remains to be seen.”
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Inés
What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Paranoid—The Beaches
“What do youmeanthey’ve dropped me?” I sat straight up in the leather chair, feeling smaller than I ever had in the wood-panelled office of my longtime manager.
I’d flown to the States, returning to New York ahead of the summer hard-court tournaments.
But opposite me, Selene let out a heavy sigh. “ELITE didn’t renew the contract.”
“So, I have...” I sank back, trying to remember who was left. At one time, it had been countless; now it was harder to keep track of who was still working with me. “Two sponsors left?”
“None.”
My brows shot up. “None?”
Selene shook her head. “ELITE was the last. The other contracts finished earlier this year.”
My chest tightened and a familiar sting of shame crept up my spine. Over two years ago, they’d been lining up to plaster their branding over every inch of me, of my team. Anything for a bit of my airtime.
“Tennis’s Hottest Player”they’d called me. “The Next Big Thing.”
Except the next big thing had lasted only weeks after Roland-Garros before injury had kicked in. One moment, I was everywhere; the next, I was forgotten. In two years, I’d spent longer on the bench than I had on the court.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
