Chapter 3
Chloe
Number One Fan—MUNA
The word bitch filled 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.”
I wondered if there were worse things than what I’d seen. Of course there were—the internet knew no boundaries.
“I do take time.”
He eyed me suspiciously. “It doesn’t count if you’re playing tennis.” I smirked, sure I’d got him on this one, but he cut
me off before I could speak. “Or asleep.”
He knew me too well.
We’d been working together since I was sixteen and were inseparable despite our six-year age gap.
“I know it’s been hard for you, the last few days,” he started, but I didn’t want to hear it again. I wasn’t quite done punishing
myself. And there were plenty of people, and the media, lining up to do the kicking. “And that’s why we need to slow things
down, tennis wise. Maybe take some time to regroup.”
“Slow down?” I stared back at him, my brows pressed together. Surely he couldn’t be serious? But he pulled back his shoulders, wind messing his black hair, the same shade as our father’s before the grey set in.
“You’ve been running yourself into the ground this past year.”
I glared at him. “It’s called working hard. All this time, the practice we’ve been putting in, has been paying off. Now isn’t
the time to slow down.”
If I made it to the end stages of the US Open, I’d have achieved a career run I was only dreaming of last year, back when
I was still grinding through the smaller tournaments, keeping my head down and my eye on the prize.
Now I was making finals of Grand Slams. People knew my name. As disappointed as I was about last week, with my home slam fast approaching, I felt more determined than ever.
To lift the trophy in Queens . . . it would be everything I’d been working towards my entire life.
“It is if we want to do well at the US Open. I want you to be focused, and right now I’m worried there’s too much going on.
You draw a lot of attention when you play aggressively,” he stressed. Wilson’s nose nuzzled at my side. I dug out a tennis
ball from my pocket, teasing her with it. I threw it in the air, finding myself covered in sand as she ran to catch it mid-air.
“We’ve got some time here, a few weeks before everything begins again. And I want you to use some of that time for something
other than tennis.”
My jaw fell open. “Other than tennis?”
He rolled his eyes as if the idea wasn’t a step away from insanity. “Yes, go hang out with friends. See that boyfriend of
yours.” I shook my head, but Calvin cut me off before I could say anything else. “Crack open a beer. Get drunk. Do something
stupid and easy. And please God, stay away from the press.”
If our parents found out what he was suggesting, they’d have a breakdown.
“The sponsors don’t seem to mind the media storm,” I pointed out. If anything, that had been the only good thing to come out
of my stupidity. They say there’s no such thing as bad press.
“They will if you burn out. And I want you in your best shape mentally for the tournament in Washington,” he said.
“Do you know what it feels like to sit courtside, watching you crack? I see it in your eyes, like you’re disappearing inside yourself.
And I can’t stop it. Chloe, you’re not a machine. You need rest.”
Calvin paused, looking away from me and instead down the shoreline. The waves crashing against the white sandy beach, the
blue skies for miles and miles. This place was home, the only one I’d ever known. Whenever I left, I always counted down the
days until I returned.
“I’m supposed to look out for you, and when you burn out like that, in front of everyone, I can’t protect you.” My heart ached
for my brother, for everything he’d given me. He was always there, always coming when I needed.
He looked directly at me, his sea-green eyes meeting mine. “So, I need you to learn how to do that yourself, how to take a
breath when everything is going wrong. And that starts with a little rest.”
I sighed. “This year . . . things are happening. I’ve gotten back to where I should be. If I hadn’t taken that year out—”
“If you hadn’t taken that time off, I don’t want to think where you’d be.” He raised his hands. “But it certainly wouldn’t
be on a tennis court.”
I couldn’t meet his gaze as I thought back to how dark sixteen had felt. Back when I didn’t understand my own brain and what
it needed, only what our parents had impressed on us. It took a lot of work to put myself back together and a lot more time
than I’d wanted. A year off had felt like it could hold me back, but in the end, it was time I needed.
A twist of guilt struck again, but it changed into determination, into the driving force I’d been riding all year. “I don’t
want to slow down.”
“I just want you to take a few days,” he said, his tone changing into something lighter. “Go out. Be twenty-two.”
“What if I don’t know how to be twenty-two?”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Calvin replied. I didn’t bother to point out that at my age, he was beginning to coach me, taking me pro, not exactly a time for enjoyment. “Just have some fun. Avoid picking up a racket.”
I laughed, turning to walk back down the beach. “What if I pick up a racket for fun?”
His hand rubbed at the stubble on his chin, all he was able to grow before a patchy, terrible beard came in. “As long as it’s
not practice.”
I thought of Henrik, remembering that his schedule was bringing him stateside in time for the hard-court season. I was sure
he was scheduled for some time off too; maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have a little break. He fit in this weird space between friends with benefits and boyfriend. Both of us were far too busy and non-committal
to take it any further.
And he had the added bonus of being somebody my over-protective family could trust me with. Calvin had always pushed me to
socialize more, but my mom had seen the darker, cutthroat side of tennis, left with anxiety and forced from the sport she
loved. My dad, who’d had to watch her endure from the sidelines, hated the idea of me being close with the enemy, with a possible
rival. But Henrik’s and my families were close, which apparently made him an acceptable partner.
“Fine,” I agreed. “I’ll give Henrik a call, see what his plans are. I’m sure he’s supposed to be in Manhattan.”
Calvin elbowed me in the ribs. “That’s the spirit.”
I held a finger up. “On one condition.”
“What?”
I pointed at Wilson. “I’m taking the dog.’