“Oof!” Henrik wheezed, sounding surprised as I squeezed him tightly. “I only saw you a few days ago.”
“I know but I’m...” My words faltered as I glanced out the open front door, down the path to where a large golden retriever was hurrying up the garden path, its owner, her strawberry-blonde hair tied back, trailing behind, a weekend bag in hand.
My teeth caught my tongue, biting down my immediate response.
Every time I thought I’d shaken her shadow, she popped right back up again. But of course she was here, dragging her golden retriever and her perfect, polished self into my space, like she owned every court, every match, every second of attention.
Mierda. Why on earth was Chloe Murphy here?
5
Chloe
Blue—Billie Eilish
The burning gaze of Inés Costa was enough to tell me I had fucked up. I had entered the lion’s den.
Standing in the entryway, I realized that Henrik had omitted to mention the fact that the beach house he was staying in was actually full of friends.
Hisfriends, who hated me. With good reason.
I paused, waiting for my fight-or-flight response to kick in; meanwhile Wilson, the innocent little pup that she is, strolled right up to Inés, sniffling at her, wet nose nudging her hand for attention.
She barely moved, still staring me down.
Inés Costa.I remembered when she won the French Open. She’d looked so graceful, sliding across the court—strong too. Now all I could think of was that night we’d first met and how everything had changed since New York. Now she hated me.
“I hope it’s okay but I invited Chloe along,” Henrik said, as Scottie Sinclair and Dylan Bailey appeared, an equal mix of curiosity and confusion across their features.
If I hadn’t already decided that coming here was a mistake, seeing two of the other women I’d acted like an ass towards was sure to do the trick. Dylan, who I’d screamed at during a medical time-out.Scottie, who even just a couple of days ago, in my post-match blues, I’d gone on record and said didn’t deserve the win.
I was officially fucked.
Dylan’s jaw tightened as she mumbled something I didn’t catch. Meanwhile, Scottie crouched down to Wilson as if she hadn’t noticed the atmosphere turn glacial. But then she sent a fleeting glance at Inés and Dylan, a mix of exasperation and silent warning passing between them.
“There’s more than enough room.” Scottie smiled. “And now we have this bundle of joy to walk. What’s their name?”
“Wilson.” My voice croaked, my fingers tightening around my bag. I could go home, could hide there.
“I love it,” Scottie said, her blue eyes gleaming. I stayed silent, still feeling the heat from the glares of Dylan and Inés burning into me.
I faced the Australian back in January, in Melbourne. I’d gotten frustrated at her stalling the game with an injury, a tactic used by some players to slow the game, regain some of the power. I paced and shouted at the umpire while a physio rewrapped her ankle.
“How long are you staying?” Dylan asked, a cold chill to her voice. I knew the question was directed at me, but instead she looked at Henrik, who was either playing dumb or completely unaware of the situation he’d marched me into.
When Calvin told me to rest, I’d thought it was a happy coincidence that Henrik would be here and, better yet, taking part in a charity event.
Now I realized the cruel joke that had been played upon me.
“All weekend,” Henrik answered happily, as if he wasn’t in the middle of a tennis player standoff. “Chloe isn’t signed up for the event, but I’m sure we could get her in.”
“With her track record, are you sure? They might not want a drama queen on court,” Inés grumbled as she walked away. Judging by the deafening silence she left, she had only said what everyone else was thinking.
I looked back at the rental Henrik had driven us in. I barely had my learner’s permit; there was no way I could drive. Maybe a ride share. Hitchhike.Anything. Desperation began to pull at the pit of my stomach, but Henrik’s hand found mine, pulling me farther inside the house.
We followed everyone into the kitchen, my sneakers squeaking against the glossy tiles.
The kitchen gleamed with polished countertops and oversized windows, the late-afternoon sun reflecting off every surface. It was almost blinding, a cruel contrast to the chill in the room. And there sat an assortment of tennis legends, their combined accolades totaling two Olympic gold medals, seven Grand Slam trophies, and enough collective experience to make me feel like an intruder in my own sport.
