“See what you can do this weekend. Maybe as you carry on with the tour, you’ll get some more offers.”
“Hopefully.” I sighed. “When does SmartServe need an answer?”
“By the end of the month. You have time to see what you can do,” she answered. “But if there’s nothing, do I have your permission to accept?”
My chest tightened at the thought, but I didn’t have much of a choice. Reluctantly, I nodded. “But the minute anything else comes up, call me.”
“Absolutely. Anything for my favorite client.”
“Aw, I bet you say that to all of us.”
“Of course not.” She swiped her hand at me. “Besides, how many other clients keep me on my toes like you do?”
I offered a weak smile, but the discomfort wouldn’t budge. The thought of using my friends multiplied the churning in my stomach.
I had to make it to the US Open, and I had to up my ranking if I stood a chance of getting my tennis seed to a comfortable entry level. With my wrist feeling better after Wimbledon, the time for failure had passed; these next few days would be my one chance to breathe.
“Try and have fun,” she said, her voice turning soft. “I know things have been hard recently.”
“I’ll try.” I pushed myself out of my chair. “And I promise to try the social media thing.”
“I’ll do everything I can on my end. The smallest whiff of a sponsorship and I’ll hunt it down to the ends of the earth for you.”
“Thanks, Selene.” I quickly said my goodbyes, allowing her to carry on with her busy day.
As I stepped out into the sunny street, I started counting down the time until I left for the Hamptons. I was in desperate need of a vacation.
The fight I’d felt yesterday, the strange thrill I’d gotten from watching Chloe Murphy crumble on court, still lingered, like a spark refusing to die. That weakness I’d seen in her had felt like a thread of hope, one now slightly frayed from the reality of my situation.
But I knew I could still do it. I had to. That drive to survive kept my focus sharp. These next months would be far from easy, but I knew that failure was not an option.
3
Chloe
Number One Fan—MUNA
The wordbitchfilled my screen, each letter sharp as a shard of glass.
My stomach twisted, my fingers tightening on the phone. I knew better than to look but curiosity always won. I scrolled down the social media page: more abuse, more critical analysis of my on-court meltdown, a breakdown of everything I’d stupidly said in the post-match conference, a GIF of me repeatedly driving my favorite racket into the Wimbledon grass. The internet is hell.
It wasn’t only anger in the comments; it was disappointment. That stung more than I’d admit.
“I thought you agreed to leave your phone at home,” my brother shouted, his voice almost lost in the wind of the beach. I looked back at Calvin while Wilson, our family dog, ran past me, kicking up sand as she practically galloped along the coastline. We’d flown back to Rhode Island, getting in two days ago.
I locked the phone before he could see the screen, although since he’s also my coach, I had no doubt he knew already. “I thought you meant it figuratively.”
“Figuratively?”
The soft wind off the Atlantic blew stray tendrils of hair into my face. “What if we got lost and needed the map?”
Calvin reached my side, his long legs closing the distance in no time. The dog circled back around as if we were a herd of sheep. Not that this beautiful pea-brained golden retriever had ever seen a sheep in her life. “We’ve lived here your entire life. I’m sure the chances of getting lost are low.”
And while we traveled a lot, it always felt like Rhode Island was the perfect home to come back to. It was my own slice of peace, perfect for recovery from a long, tiring tour. Sometimes I would walk for miles up the beach and never meet another soul. It felt like I was a character in the novels I devoured between matches: a woman sent to the seaside to recuperate.
“What if we came across somebody drowning?” I asked. “Or a sudden tidal wave pulled us out to sea?”
“Chloe,” he pressed, stopping in his tracks. “You need some time offline.”
