Chapter 9
Chloe
Stayaway—MUNA
I had never been so supremely hungover in my life.
But to be fair, I’d never drunk as much as I did last night. Calvin would be so proud, his baby sister finally doing what he told me to do.
“How am I still alive?” I grumbled, leaning back into the sandy beach, the sun glaring aggressively down on my pale skin.
Setting my bookmark back in place, I resigned myself to getting none of my paperback read today.
“I feel your pain,” Henrik stated, sitting up in a sun lounger, the world’s biggest hat on his head, big enough that it cast
shade over his shoulders. “And more. I can’t believe you made me sleep on the floor.”
“I did not make you. You’re the one who’s getting serious with a partner. It felt respectful.”
“Respectful to make me sleep on the floor?”
“Why are you wearing the world’s biggest hat?” I asked, reaching out and flicking the brim with my fingers. “You look absurd.”
“Skin cancer is no joke,” he replied, popping open another bottle of sunscreen. I would’ve rolled my eyes if he didn’t have
such a good point, and I held my hand out for some lotion, applying yet another layer.
“So, it looked like you were having fun last night,” he said, turning to face me.
“It was fine.” I shrugged him away, pulling my cap low, relaxing back into the sand again. Maybe an afternoon nap would free
me from my suffering. But clearly, Henrik had other ideas.
“By the fifth shot, you were practically leading the group in the dance lessons.”
I cringed at the memory. We’d posted more than a dozen videos last night. Scottie recorded the entire thing, tagging everyone.
I’d woken up to endless notifications, to endless mentions and comments across social media.
@thedailytea: Tennis gone wild! Scottie Sinclair’s crazy night and who was there!
@TennisNews: Who needs competition? Tennis’s biggest rivals party it up!
@GameSetMatchMag: Chloe Murphy and Inés Costa in the same room? Who knew they were friends?
I’d wanted the earth to swallow me whole, especially considering Calvin had told me to stay out of the press and somehow I’d
managed to fail at that on the very first day.
“You seemed to be getting along with Scottie, even Dylan, although she can be a little prickly,” he said. “I think Inés will
take a little more time.”
“I don’t blame her.” I tried to swallow down the twist of guilt that even the sound of her name conjured up.
I looked out at Nico running after Scottie, Dylan dunking Oliver in the sea, Inés laughing, the light, playful sound reaching us on the shore over the crashing of the waves.
She was wearing a two-piece, the forest green complimenting her tanned skin, delicate metallic chain straps over her shoulders.
I’d had to force myself not to stare when she’d come into the kitchen earlier, wearing only an unbuttoned white shirt on top.
A toaster waffle practically hung out of my mouth as she ignored my existence, pouring herself a cup of coffee before disappearing
out into the garden to soak up the summer sun.
I already knew how flawless her olive skin was, had kissed inches of it. It had been almost a year, but I still couldn’t erase
the memory of her scent, warm and sweet.
“She had a hard time recovering from her injuries and the surgery,” Henrik said. “It was a long recovery but necessary. And
she’s had moments where we see glimpses of the player she used to be. But then . . .” He trailed off, his words catching.
I swallowed uncomfortably. “Then she played me.”
He didn’t look at me, but I could see his discomfort in the swallow of his throat, the firmness of his fist. He was torn between
me and his friend.
“The draw works in mysterious ways.”
Scottie let out a loud screech in the background, Nico wrapping his arms around her waist, spinning her around in mid-air,
and next to them, Inés turned, shaking her head as she slowly began to walk back up the beach. The closer she drew, the more
the dread built up in me.
It was hard not to keep watching her, part of me thankful for my sunglasses so she couldn’t see how my eyes trailed over her
athletic body, stomach trim and muscled, biceps defined, her cropped glossy dark hair falling neatly on her shoulders.
“Do you want a refill?” She stopped before Henrik, her hand on her curved hip.
“A beer would be nice.” Henrik picked up his empty bottle, passing it over to her. He turned to me. “Do you want anything?”
I could practically feel the warning radiating down at me from behind her black Dior sunglasses, the unsaid “Don’t you dare.” I shook my head.
Inés nodded, disappearing past Henrik towards the beach house.
All I could think about was how it had felt, having her warm skin pressed against mine, every single touch with her overwhelming
in a way I’d never felt before.
She’d noticed that I was overwhelmed at the party where we’d met, finding the busy atmosphere too much. It had been her idea
to find a different room, for some quiet, but my idea to kiss her, and all along she’d been enthusiastic, reminding me we
could stop anytime I wanted to.
I’d always known, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I was into girls, if secret crushes and the way my cheeks flushed
around them were anything to go by. But I’d never done anything about it. Not until I met Inés Costa. Kissing her had made
everything certain.
But when I’d gotten up to leave, she’d given me her number. I had my parents’ voices in the back of my head, telling me not
to even make friends with the competition, let alone make out with it. In the end, I’d saved her number in my phone but never
dared to use it.
Sometimes, I just stared at her contact card. Like it was the only evidence that it had ever happened.
The next time I saw her was months later in Melbourne. My arrangement with Henrik was public, and when we’d gone head-to-head
on court, I think I took her by surprise with my win.
The way Inés had looked at me as she shook my hand, meeting at the net, it had felt personal, and since then, it had spiraled
out of control. And maybe . . . just maybe, it would help if I said sorry.
“I’m going to go feed Wilson,” I said, making an excuse to chase after her, see if apologizing would help. Henrik only murmured,
relaxing further into his chair, feet digging into the warm, dusty sand.
Unhooking Wilson’s lead from where it was tied, I took her back inside.
The cool air of the kitchen felt like a relief from the burning sun, the air conditioning working hard to keep the beach house comfortable. The room was empty, Henrik’s bottle untouched on the counter.
I focused on Wilson, pouring some dry food and fresh water for her.
No sign of Inés.
Feeling increasingly awkward, I started to chicken out, grabbing myself a bottle of water and a fresh beer for Henrik, the
coldness of the fridge helping me cool down, the sun having done little to improve my hangover.
I closed the fridge door and turned back to the kitchen island but stopped suddenly when I found Inés on the opposite side
of the kitchen, frozen in the doorway. The surprise across her features hardened as her gaze flickered to the bottles tucked
under my arm.
“I was going to get him a beer,” she said, as she stepped up to the marble counter.
“Right,” I said, trying to ease off the tension with a smile that didn’t quite land. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes.”
I stretched my hand out towards her, offering her the beer. She hesitated.
“It’s funny,” she replied after a beat, though she didn’t take the bottle. Her arms crossed—not in defiance, but maybe to
shield herself. “You seem to do that a lot.”
Her dark brown eyes bored into mine, the look not hostile despite her sharp words but instead guarded. I couldn’t look away.
This was the closest I’d been to her in nearly a year. So close, I could smell the salty ocean water that clung to her golden
skin.
I swallowed, the weight of our shared history settling on my tongue. “I’m sorry,” I said, quietly, uncertainly. “For everything.”
Our on-court battles. My public meltdown. Inés could take her pick of reasons.
There was a break in her scrutiny, a flash of surprise that was quickly suppressed. Her eyes searched my face, examining.
I felt as if I’d been dissected and the pieces laid out on a table.
“Why did you have to bring that night up?” she said, her voice low. Inés moved, finally, to the other side of the kitchen island. Somehow, I found comfort in the block of solid marble that now stood between us.
“I don’t care, Chloe. I hardly remember it. And you’ve made it clear that it meant nothing to you.”
The kiss.
My cheeks burned at the mention of last night. That stupid game. That stupid question. I’d been sitting in the corner all night. I didn’t think anyone would notice, didn’t think the entire group would pick up on the fact I drank.
I cleared my throat, finding my words choked. “I just want to . . . you know, set things right.”
She looked at me. Daggers. “You want forgiveness?” Inés snapped. “Think about how you could act more professionally on court instead of screaming and
shouting at my friends.”
I inhaled deeply. This was the conflict I’d been walking on eggshells to avoid, and now I was knee deep. “I’m sorry for that
too.”
“Sorry means shit when you don’t change your actions.” She rolled her eyes, hands pressing into the marble. “You know, time
and time again, you’ve shown that you’ve only thought of yourself.”
“That’s not fair.” My defenses went straight up. “What was I supposed to do? Send you a DM? Come up to you in the locker room?
Let you win?”
“No me lo puedo creer.” Her Spanish rolled off her tongue as she pulled back, a look of disgust across her features. “I don’t need your pity.” Inés
let out a single laugh, shaking her head as she repeated my words. “Let me win. Have some respect.”
“So far, you’ve struggled.” I shrugged carelessly. “Maybe that’s what you want from me.”
She looked like she wanted to leap across the island and skin me alive. How had things gone so off course? I had come in here
to make things better with her, bury the hatchet. She’d all but dug it up and thrown it at my head.
“What I want from you is to stop being so damn cocky.”
“Prove me wrong.” I kept my features neutral as I issued my challenge, drawing closer to her, almost leaning across the breakfast
bar at her. Close enough to see the freckle below her left eyebrow, to make out her full eyelashes, the golden ring around
her brown eyes. “Lets find a court, right now, and see if you can actually win. Go on and beat me.”
Her eyes flashed, a fire igniting behind them that made my heart race furiously. Even on the court, during a match, I don’t
think I’d ever seen her look so determined. So . . . hot.
“Is that all this is to you?” she bit out. “A game?”
I felt a flicker of guilt, but it was buried deep beneath layers of bravado. It was too late to walk this back, any chance
at peace completely demolished.
And to think, I had the long weekend here.
“It’s not a game, and you know that. But if you think you can settle this on the court, then let’s do it.”
Her laugh was bitter. “I’m not falling for that. When I beat you, I want it to matter. I want the fucking points.”
I broke her gaze, instead finding Wilson nudging at my palm. I clipped the short lead back onto her collar.
“Then I guess I’ll see you in Washington.”
“I guess so.” She swallowed, the anger dissipating, making room for all the hurt.
And just like that, the space between us was a battlefield, laden with fallen soldiers, mines and craters. No man’s land.
No more memories, no history—instead a challenge, raw and unrelenting.
One that was sure to draw blood, at the very least.