Set Point (Game, Set, and Match #3)

Chapter 1

Inés

My Kink Is Karma—Chappell Roan

Sinclair vs Murphy

Final—Centre Court, Wimbledon

A lifetime of running myself into the ground for this sport had led me here. Centre Court. Seated in the hushed crowd, watching

two other players battle for the trophy I should have had a shot at.

My place was down there, racket in hand. I’d worked the majority of my twenty-five years towards this goal. Instead, every

sharp pop of the ball dragged up another memory of how it all went wrong.

Henrik’s low voice broke through the silence. “Watch.” He leaned in towards me, his eyes glued to the action. “You’re missing

the match.”

“Anda ya,” I huffed in Spanish, my eyes still lowered to my wrapped wrist. It wasn’t an injury, only some tenderness, so the wrap was

precautionary. Still, the rough fabric made my stomach turn, a reminder of the problems that had plagued my career. “You forced

me to come.”

“It’s the Wimbledon final, you couldn’t miss this,” he added as we sat burning under the English afternoon sun. “Besides,

it’s not like you were busy.”

His words stung with truth. But it was all a reminder of how I should be the one down on court.

I’d practically grown up on the tennis court in Spain and finally, two years ago, I’d claimed my first and only Grand Slam trophy on the French clay court of Roland Garros.

It had been a tough match. The iconic red surface lowered the game pace, forcing patience, endurance, and precision.

I’d gone the distance with a baseline rally, keeping players on their toes with chess-like tactics.

I’d been the champion. But my victory was short-lived, and only a few weeks after, I’d started getting a sharp pain in my

wrists, making even swinging a racket painful. I’d barely survived the opening rounds of tournaments, giving away precious

points as I fell down in the rankings.

Eventually, I had no other choice but to take time away from the court for surgery. In the end, I spent almost a year watching

the women’s singles competition from the sidelines.

Even eighteen months after the surgery, I was still struggling to bounce back. And now, the woman the press had pitted against

me, the strawberry blonde down on the court, bouncing a tennis ball against the grass, was playing in a final I could only

dream of reaching.

Long legs, slim body, Chloe Murphy was only twenty-two and in her third Grand Slam final in less than a year. She’d stormed

into my life, winning our matches in brutal fashion.

Two weeks ago, I’d been standing opposite her on the court. A decidedly horrible matchup in the first round of Wimbledon that

had seen me crash out.

Throughout my comeback, Chloe Murphy had haunted me, becoming my major competitor since rejoining the tour. Back in January,

she had beaten me in the first round of the Australian Open. Chloe played like she had nothing to lose and no one to answer

to. Delaying tactics. Intimidating net rushes. A smile after every shanked shot, like she’d planned it.

Finally, in May, she turned my favorite court in Paris against me in the second round. And she’d used every trick in the book,

like pacing just long enough between serves to fray my nerves.

She didn’t play with people. She played through them.

The press had wasted no time pitting us against each other. A rivalry between the former star, now fallen, and the next big

thing.

Every time I thought I had bounced back, that my body was ready for the brutal two weeks a Slam brought, she had been there,

a cruel reminder of my limits.

Chloe’s serve cut through the air like a blade, sharp, effortless, dangerous. Her opponent and my friend, Scottie Sinclair,

lunged, her footwork quick and deliberate, no flicker of hesitation in the hometown favorite. But Chloe hit the ball with

such power, it made it near impossible for Scottie to return.

The crowd erupted. Point Murphy.

Chloe lifted her chin, a faint, familiar smirk pulling at her lips that I had seen too many times, but the first was still

seared into my memory. New York. An after-party. I’d spotted her across the room.

I hadn’t taken Chloe seriously at first. She’d entered Wimbledon last year on a wild card. She’d done better in a couple of

the smaller competitions in the run-up to the US Open, making it as far as the semis. Apparently, all it took to become a

tennis star was a wild card and a miracle. Then she started making finals. First in China, then Melbourne, then again in Paris

in May, where she’d finally won.

Watching her raise that trophy, the one that had been mine, hurt more than all the physio it had taken to return to the court.

And now all the history between us felt mocking.

A grunt from the court snapped me back, signaling the start of another point.

Scottie Sinclair stormed forward, every muscle sharp with intent, lobbing the ball over the net, and over her opponent. Chloe

Murphy stood too close to the net as the ball flew over, giving her no chance to claim the point.

The score was announced, with Scottie in the lead: 40–30.

They were down to the third set, each player having claimed their win. Chloe first—unsurprising given the year she’d been

having.

“She’s got to keep up that speed,” Henrik said amidst the soft noise of the crowd. “If she loses that, Scottie will have her on the ropes.”

I turned, my jaw slackened. “Since when do you root against Scottie?”

Henrik had been a lifeline after my surgery, even pairing up with me in the mixed doubles to help me get back on my feet.

He’d grown closer to my friends, like Scottie, as well.

His head tilted towards me, brows raised. “I’m not rooting against her,” he said, softer now. “But I’m supporting Chloe.”

“Traitor.” I guess I shouldn’t blame him. They’d been seeing each other since last autumn. Our once-close friendship had frayed

since, and I couldn’t deny, I’d been the one pulling back. Seeing them together was harder than I’d expected.

I couldn’t decide what was worse, looking at him or at Chloe, down on the court. His relationship with Chloe left me unsure

of where I stood with him. As they played on, I stared at the floor, aware of the swaying of the silent crowd, sitting in

that tight anticipation a good final brought.

I should be down there. I should be playing.

“You know,” he said cautiously, “she isn’t so bad once you get to know her. I think you could be friends.”

I looked him dead in the eye. “You’re joking, right?”

In the short time that Chloe’s progress had held my attention, I’d watched her ruin careers like it was nothing. Girls with

potential, rattled and ruined after a match with her.

He raised his shoulders in a shrug, when Chloe’s American accent cut through the silence.

“This is a disgrace.” I looked up, playing catch-up to the unfolding drama. “It’s like you aren’t even watching her. If she

was anyone else, you’d be making these calls.”

The umpire placed her hand over her microphone, her response cut off by the murmur of the audience. Scottie waited on the baseline, inspecting her manicure as she waited for the Hawk-Eye replay on the screen to settle the point.

A slow, building clap began to echo around the stadium as the footage played, revealing the point in Scottie’s favor.

“Are you done yet?” Scottie shouted. “Or are you ready to play?”

And that really set Chloe off, shouting back at her opposition, anger flaring as the crowd grew restless, a chorus of boos rising in the

air.

“This isn’t good,” Henrik said, his hands pressing into his thighs as he watched his girlfriend lose it on court.

“No,” I said, my tone just as serious. “It’s not.”

“Code violation, verbal abuse, warning Chloe Murphy.” A loud cheer from the crowd broke out at the umpire’s announcement,

the young American shaking her head as she walked back to the returning position.

“What is she doing?” Henrik muttered as the match progressed, Scottie taking the last point in the game, and the serve changing

to Chloe. She took her time, bouncing the ball, tossing it to the side, waiting out the clock.

I struggled to suffocate a laugh. “She’s doing what she does best.”

His gaze tore away from the match, his eyebrows furrowed.

“She’s being a drama queen,” I said. “Chloe does this every time.”

Henrik looked back at the match as she finally served. Scottie started to move, but hesitated, reading the direction of the ball to perfection.

“Out.” The linesman thrust their hand in the air. The crowd released a breath, watching Chloe as she prepared to take her

second serve, Scottie getting back into position.

Again, she took her time, running down the clock.

“She acts like this when it isn’t going her way,” I said, watching as she threw the ball up in the air, and the point resumed.

It had happened during the final at Melbourne, when she’d harassed the umpire, telling everyone that her opponent was milking

an injury for more rest time. And again, in the quarter finals at Paris. And now. I wasn’t sure if she was just a hothead,

or if this was the pressure getting to her, but as her competitor it was thrilling to watch. To know she had a weakness.

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 Scottie at 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.