“Inés?”
I whirled around to see Scottie stepping out from behind the lockers, dressed in a Barbie-pink tennis dress and matching trainers.
“Is Chloe here?” I asked, urgency sharpening my voice.
Scottie’s brow furrowed. “I think her match has already started.”
Frustration bubbled over as I spun on my heel. After everything in her room last night, everything that was said,that moment, this couldn’t be happening.
“What’s going on?” Scottie called after me, concern lacing her tone. “Do you need help?”
“I slept in. I was late.” I pressed a hand to my damp forehead as I tried to think. “Do you know which court?”
“I think they’re in the Stadium.”
That was all I needed to hear. “Thanks!” I shouted over my shoulder, already breaking into a sprint.
The hallways blurred as I ran, my shoes squeaking against the polished floor. Officials loomed ahead, but I dodged them, narrowly sidestepping a cameraman. The tunnel stretched before me, a looming beacon that promised salvation, if I could make it in time.
Please don’t be on court yet,I begged silently, clutching the bracelet so tight it bit into my palm. My lungs burned, my legs felt like lead, but none of it mattered. I couldn’t let her down.
Superstition was a cruel, insidious thing, a virus you couldn’t shake once it sank its claws into you. And tennis players? We were the perfect hosts.
Bursting out of the tunnel, I was hit by a wall of bright sunlight, momentarily blinded. My heart pounded as I squinted, desperate to spot her still courtside, tying her laces or adjusting her grip.
Instead, I was greeted by the sharp crack of a blistering serve. The ball shot across the net, the player barely reacting before it whizzed past.
My vision adjusted in time to see Chloe, stranded on what turned out to be the losing side, her dread written across her face in bold, unmissable lines.
“Forty-love.” The umpire’s voice cut through the lump in my throat.
I stood frozen, the bracelet useless in my hand.
Chloe’s gaze caught mine, her expression almost unreadable. She stood on the baseline, her jaw tight, gripping her racket so fiercely that her knuckles had turned white.
I think if she’d had a ball in her hand, she would’ve aimed it right at me.
Desperately, I mouthed an apology, holding up the bracelet like it wasn’t too late to do its job. Her reaction was swift, shaking her head sharply. The flick of dismissal might as well have been a slap. She turned away, channeling her anger into the match, though her shoulders were rigid with frustration.
I looked to the stands, spotting a space beside Calvin. Sliding along the stands, I couldn’t help but wince as the umpire called the game for Chloe’s opponent. The hush of the crowd broke as the match continued, and I could hear the spectators murmuring.
Calvin barely glanced at me, his attention glued to the court. The crowd hushed as Chloe’s opponent prepared to receive, but the tension was palpable.
She’d been flying through the tournament. Until now.
“What the hell is she doing?” Calvin hissed under his breath. “She’s a complete mess out there.”
I froze, guilt twisting my insides. I’d been the one to convince her to swap the sweatband for my friendship bracelet. How could I explain that her meltdown was my fault?
On court, Chloe tossed the ball for her serve, her motions a fraction off. The ball clipped the net.
Calvin groaned, leaning back in his seat and yanking the brim of his cap lower over his face. “Come on,” he muttered, as if sheer force of will could drag her back into the match. “It’s like she’s not even there.”
I swallowed hard, keeping my gaze fixed on Chloe. She was pacing the baseline now, rolling the ball between her fingers, her lips moving as though she were scolding herself.
“She’s spiraling,” I whispered.
Calvin turned to me. “She was fine this morning, a little nervous but not”—he motioned towards the court—“this.”
