“Come on, is that really as fast as you can go?” I shouted, looking back over my shoulder, finding Inés red-faced and lagging behind.
“Fuck you,” she puffed out, running to match my stride.
“I knew you could keep up.” I wiped the beads of sweat from my brow. Under the summer sun, even a morning run was brutal, but I didn’t dare show weakness to Inés.
“I hate running,” she grumbled. “I hate sand.”
“That’s why Calvin sent us out here. Running on sand is hellish compared to a flat surface.”
We’d started training together at my place on the Rhode Island coast, and I was almost certain that Calvin had upped our usual intensity. The rest of the day would bring on-court practice and drills, as well as some core-strengthening work in the late afternoon. Inés had seemingly taken most of it in her stride, her years of this lifestyle showing over mine. But our morning run across the beach, I still had that on her.
“Come on, I’ll race you back to the house,” I challenged, spotting a glimpse of my home down the shore.
It wasn’t even two weeks ago that Calvin and I had walked here with Wilson.
“Thatfar?” she said, her voice starting to betray some exhaustion. In every other practice, she had me.
“Come on, you’ll be no use to me slow,” I said quickly. “If you beat me, you can serve first in practice.”
Thatgot her attention. It was as if the prize had Inés summoning the last of her strength, and within a split second, she was ahead of me.
“Last one there is a loser!” she cried, pushing me forward.
I raced after her, my sneakers pounding against the sand, pushing forward as I sank. The sand was exhausting, and now at full pelt, my calves and thighs were truly burning.
But I managed to keep my focus on the race, and not on Inés. I’d been convinced that half the reason I kept losing our practice matches was because I was distracted by her, by how she looked in that tiny sports bra she kept wearing, the way her shorts hugged her thighs, accentuating her ass.
The finish line came into sight, Inés a little ahead of me. I dug down deep, going to that place I reserved for the final round of tennis. When it’s live or die, and victory is hanging on the line.
Push. Chloe. Win.
My dad’s voice rang in my head.
Do not fail. Do not lose.
In the last few seconds, I reached her side, but I couldn’t even bear to look at her, keeping my eye on the target of the garden fence. Seconds broke into milliseconds, meters into centimeters, breaking down into millimeters until finally—
“I won!” Inés cried, both our hands pressing against the fence, so close together I could feel the heat radiating from her body.
“No way, I won,” I insisted. “I serve first.”
“Over my dead body.” Her voice was razor-sharp as our bodies almost brushed together. “We both know I was faster. You don’t want to admit it.”
“If you think I’m going to let you take the first serve because yousayyou won, you’ve got another think coming.”
“Oh, you’ll let me take it.”
My fingers tightened on the fence rail, my jaw clenched. I hated this feeling. Losing. Even over a stupid beach run that wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
Dad’s voice sounded in my head again. Another moan about how I was supposed to be better than this. That Ihadto be the best.
I pushed it down again. Smoothed it out. Remembered everything Calvin had taught me instead. Like rewriting glitchy programming.
I offered my hand. “Call it a tie.”
When she took it, I was thrown right back to when we agreed on this very partnership, the slight spark I’d chosen to ignore igniting again underneath my palm.
“I still want to serve first,” she pressed.
