Chapter 4
Inés
“Does everyone have a shot?” Dylan Bailey’s Australian accent echoed around the vaulted ceiling of the kitchen.
She stood on a bar stool above us all, with an arm extended, a shot glass filled to the brim with clear liquid.
“Nico doesn’t,” Scottie yelled back, earning her a temporary scowl from her fiancé, the hulk of a man who stood protectively
beside her.
“I don’t do shots,” he grumbled unhappily.
Dylan only tsked, clearly enjoying her platform of power. “It’s tequila or you down that beer.”
He raised his full bottle. “I’ll take the beer.”
“Beer is an option?” Oliver cried as he entered the vast kitchen where we were all gathered around the giant marble island
in the middle, an impressively large collection of alcohol set out before us.
He slid towards Dylan with a look of concern as he weighed up what was safer: to let her continue standing at that height
or try to encourage her to return to ground level and possibly face her wrath.
Instead, he hovered below her, like a protective mattress, ready to break her fall.
“Not for you, lover boy.” She smiled, pointing down at two more shot glasses awaiting victims. I suspected I was to be the other casualty.
Dylan crooked her head towards the glass, her eyes on mine. “Drink up, Costa!”
Like Oliver, I didn’t bother to argue. I was quite looking forward to a drink, to a few days away from the drama and pressure.
After an intense year for all of us, we needed this.
We’d known each other for years, but after being thrust together by a mutual coach, we’d spent a cozy six weeks in a training
camp in Greece that cemented our friendship. Scottie had been on a comeback from a ban, Nico recovering from a knee replacement,
Dylan trying to find her road to victory, and me, trying to figure out how to play with two injured wrists.
Now, a year later, Scottie was the winner of her first singles Grand Slam, Nico retired with the love of his life, Dylan loved
up with Oliver after her win in Melbourne. Was I the only one who had been better off two years ago?
We were all spending the long weekend together, Dylan and Oliver having rented the beach house for us while we took part in
a charity tennis event for a local club.
“To best friends,” Dylan said, her eyes catching mine, friendly this time. “I might kick your asses on court—”
“You wish!” Scottie interrupted.
She continued without missing a beat. “—but I still love you. Cheers!”
We all raised our glasses, before swallowing down the tequila. Harsh and unforgiving, but it would get the job done.
“You always pick the most disgusting shots,” Scottie said, a grim look across her face.
“Just because I don’t care about fancy tequila,” Dylan said, smiling. “Plus, I like when the bottle comes with a little sombrero.”
Nico finished his beer. “Reminder, don’t let Dylan do the booze run.”
“Fine,” Dylan answered as Oliver held up a hand to her, helping her safely down. “You guys can all sort the house out yourselves next time.”
She and Oliver had been traveling, taking some well-deserved time away from the court. Now, back in the United States, she’d
be joining us on the upcoming hard-court tour: Washington, Toronto and Cincinnati.
Or as I liked to call it: the yellow brick road towards the US Open.
And with my current form, I was barely holding on to my ranking in the top 200. I couldn’t rely on a wild card entry, so without
the crucial points I could win at the upcoming tournaments, my entry into the competition at Queens could be at risk.
With that reminder, my attention returned to my friends, my hand gripping my phone.
“Hey!” I said, the buzz of alcohol overtaking my nerves. “Can we take a photo?”
Scottie looked up from the prosecco she was pouring, slight confusion wrinkling her forehead. “Of course.”
They both moved around the counter, Scottie passing us each a full glass as we huddled together, smiles crinkling our cheeks
as I captured the moment. Having my friends by my side felt so good, despite my ulterior motives for taking the selfie.
“Do you mind if I put it on Instagram?” I asked nervously, lowering the phone, before reluctantly adding, “And tag you guys?”
Dylan didn’t even think twice as she took a sip from her glass. “Sure.”
But Scottie paused, her blonde hair cascading down her back as she leaned on the counter, not moving from my side. “You never
take photos. Is something up?”
My stomach dropped at the idea of telling them the truth. No sponsors, except a sketchy supplement, the kind usually pushed
by B-list celebrities.
“ELITE dropped me,” I managed, “and Selene . . . she thought . . .” I trailed off.
Scottie’s confusion flattened into realization. “That’s okay, I understand.”
I swallowed, trying to get rid of the guilt, but it felt sticky and heavy.
“Are you okay?” Dylan asked, settling onto a stool. “I know the last couple of years have been kind of a bitch.”
“Oh yeah, totally fine.” The lie was told on instinct, months of telling myself the same. It will all work out. Keep your head down. Keep playing. “Obviously, things haven’t been going amazing this year, but I’m hopeful for the next run. It would be nice if I could get
a few more deals, and then I can really focus on my playing.”
“I get it.” Scottie smiled. “And I’m more than happy to help. There are a few deals I’m not interested in. I can talk to my
agent, tell them to recommend you instead.”
“You’d do that for your competition?” I asked.
“I’d do it for a friend,” Scottie said.
My hand met hers, squeezing tightly once in thanks. The queasy feeling didn’t subside as I stared down at my phone, the image
and tag all typed up.
Beach time with the absolute legends @TheRealScottieSinclair and @DylanElizabethBailey
My finger hovered over the post button, somehow unable to bring myself to actually do it. Was this really what my career had
come to? Having to make up for my shitty performances on court by asking my friends to share pictures of our handful of rest
days? Having them offer me brand deals they didn’t want?
“Hey! We’re here!” My attention was pulled away as a chorus of happy shouting broke out in the vast hallway.
I stopped in the doorway, catching sight of Henrik putting down a suitcase. A smile grew across my face. All my good friends, under one roof.
I closed the gap between us, pulling him into a massive hug. When I was recovering from my surgery, he’d kept me company,
always on the other end of the phone, taking all the time he could to visit me while I healed.
And working with me, as my mixed doubles partner, to bring me back to the court. Unfortunately, that was the only redeeming
factor of my career in recent years.
“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?