Chapter 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.
His friends, 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.
The walls seemed to close in as I realized they weren’t only watching me, they were judging.
“So, Chloe,” Oliver said, a friendly smile on his face. “How are you recovering from Wimbledon?”
“Fine, it’s mostly the jet lag now that’s the killer,” I answered, unsure whether he meant the competition or my on-court
meltdown.
He smiled and nodded in response, his girlfriend beside him only shooting me daggers.
“Would you like some bubbles?” Scottie asked, already pouring two glasses for us. I gladly accepted, still feeling so awkward,
my bag still in hand. If I put it down, then it would mean I was committed to actually staying.
“Are we really going to pretend like this is all happy families?” Inés asked bitterly, leaning forward.
“Inés—” Henrik’s tone was short, but she cut him off anyway.
“You knew we’d have a problem because you gave us no warning.”
I downed the liquid from my glass, needing the courage. “Look, it’s fine. I can call a ride share.”
Henrik shook his head, but there was something too casual in his tone. “No, stay. You should stay.”
I grimaced, hating the idea of spending one second longer in this goddamn house.
“Me cago en la puta.” Inés tsked. “Do you realize she’s fucked over three of the people in this room?” She pointed around the kitchen island as
she dug up every embarrassing moment I’d had over the last year. “She accused Dylan of cheating, she yelled at the umpire
and Scottie at Wimbledon, and—”
“They both still beat her,” Henrik interrupted. “You’re the only one with the problem here, Inés.”
I swallowed uncomfortably. All this time, I’d avoided hanging out with Henrik’s friends. It was easy enough to keep my distance;
he was the only player I knew. In locker rooms, I kept to myself. And while other girls had tried to be friendly with me,
I hadn’t been interested.
“Keep your eye on the prize,” my dad had always told me. “Don’t get friendly with the enemy. You’ll only be distracted.”
“Right now, you’re both being a problem.” Scottie turned to me, her features softened. “Chloe, I’m sorry for my friends. Let me show you to your room, and we can figure out where to put Wilson’s bowls.”
And with that, she led me from the kitchen, leaving only a chorus of hushed accusations behind me.
“It’s true, you know.”
“Dylan, stay out of this.”
“Why did you bring her?”
Every word stung, but as she led me farther into the house, away from the kitchen, their words disappeared into the noise,
a speaker still playing dance music in the lounge.
She paused midway up the grand staircase, flicking her long hair over her shoulder and looking back at me. “Don’t pay attention
to anything they are saying. I promise, after a couple of beers, all will be forgotten.”
I bit my lip, not quite believing her.
“Thanks for what you said back there,” I managed.
We reached the second floor, and she led me into one of the front bedrooms, a luxurious king-sized bed in the center. I wanted so badly to climb into the crisp sheets and hide away.
“It’s nothing.” Scottie waved her hand. “I know well enough what it’s like to have people talking shit about you. They didn’t
need to be so rude.”
“I deserved it,” I admitted. And why deny it? I could regret it all I wanted, but it had happened more than once, cracking
under that pressure, making a fool of myself.
“You can stir up a little controversy, but we’ve all had our moments.” She shrugged, sending me a sly smile. I knew her history;
there wasn’t a fan who didn’t. The daughter of a famous ex-player, she’d once found herself banned due to illicit substances.
For two years, she’d been on the outside of this world and on the front page of every tabloid. She’d known how it was to live
in scandal, but when she’d returned, she’d come back with a vengeance.
And with Nico Kotas on her arm.
“I’m . . . I . . .” I looked around the room, looked at the floor, anywhere but at her as my cheeks burned. “I’m sorry for
what happened at Wimbledon. And for what I said. I know that wasn’t professional or acceptable.”
“I could’ve won,” I’d claimed. “I should’ve. Any other day, I could’ve taken her.”
“Thank you for apologizing.” Her response caught me off guard. Somehow her kindness made me feel worse. “I know how heavy
that pressure is, the Grand Slam final, at twenty-two. Dylan and Inés will come around. They need time to remember they can
be difficult too.”
I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped me at her words, the scene in the kitchen feeling further and further away. With
Dylan, her reputation wasn’t about winning, it was about breaking opponents down, stone-faced and unapologetic, never giving
an inch. If you wanted to beat her, you had to be just as ruthless.
And Inés—that situation was worse than anyone could imagine. There was no hope there. I could’ve gone easier on her during our matches. I usually faced her in the first and second rounds; there was no need to be so brutal.
“We will see,” I said, letting go of my bag, allowing myself to accept that I’d at least be staying the night here.
When Scottie finally left, I climbed into the bed, allowing myself to replay Henrik’s words from the drive here, his insistence
that this long weekend would be fun.
But all I could think about was the way Dylan wouldn’t look at me, the sharpness in Inés’s tone, and the uncomfortable silence
that followed my name in the kitchen.
These weren’t allies; they were opponents I’d pissed off one too many times. And now I was in their house, on their turf.
It was only a matter of time before rackets were drawn and backhands exchanged.