Chapter 12
Chloe
You Stupid Bitch—girl in red
Moore it was about winning control. “If you didn’t keep stepping in front of me, we could’ve taken this
set already.”
“You always think you’re right. Your positioning is all wrong.”
Inés shot me a glare, her eyes flashing with irritation. “Maybe if you actually communicated, we might stand a chance.”
I rolled my eyes, sick of hearing the same thing over and over from her. It wasn’t my fault she couldn’t keep up. Throwing
the ball at her, I said, “Just serve already, and stay out of my way.”
Inés tsked but didn’t say anything else. I suspected that as she stood behind me on the baseline she was cursing my name,
but I kept my attention ahead, on our competition.
The crowd around us fell to a hush as I prepared for the serve, readying myself to jump off my mark and hit the ball. Instead,
the ball hit me, square in the back of the head.
I swallowed down my fury, turning around as I resisted the urge to rub the spot where it hit, to find Inés not even looking
a little sorry. Around us, I could feel the loud rumble from the crowd right down into my bones, as if every single one knew
that sharp pain.
Instead, she sent me a look of innocence, twirling her racket in her hand. I was tempted to beat her with it. Instead, I used
anger to fuel me. We reset, a ball kid retrieving the served ball and supplying Inés with another.
As she got back into position, I looked over my shoulder, making eye contact. I sent her a glare, my eyes narrowed in cold
disbelief. Lips pulled into a tight line, I tilted my head slightly as if to say, “Really?”
She raised her shoulders in a shrug, a pleased, smug smirk on her lips. I couldn’t help but think that I would’ve done the same.
Inés served, the ball fired over to the other side of the court, and I launched into action, hitting it back when our competition
returned it.
I let Inés take the back of the court, allowing her to fall into a steady rhythm of hits. The ball flew towards me as I stood
in position close to the net. Keeping my wrist firm, I angled my racket. The ball barely cleared the net, the softest of taps
sending it spinning towards the other side. A drop shot.
I heard Inés scrambling behind me, but there was no need, I had this. The ball landed close to the net, bouncing, and I was
sure we’d won the point, before our competitor charged. I ran back, chasing the ball down, racket raised and ready to return
the ball, when I crashed into Inés, both of us falling to the ground as the ball bounced away.
We lost the game.
The look on our opponents’ faces told me everything I needed to know. We were a complete mess, an embarrassment.
“Idiota,” Inés said angrily. “What the fuck were you thinking? I could’ve got that.” She shoved me away as we both attempted to get
up.
“No way,” I replied angrily, managing to get to my feet. “It was in my section.”
We headed towards the sidelines, bickering as we sat on the bench for our short break. An attendant handed out towels, and
I took mine appreciatively, needing desperately to wipe the sweat from my face, the midsummer sun burning hot.
Sitting on opposite sides of the bench, I tried to take a moment to reflect on how the hell we had lost the first set. Inés
and I were both top players, and maybe that was the problem. Our rivalry was far too ingrained to allow for cooperation. I
wasn’t used to having a teammate, didn’t want one, and now I had to play alongside a player I was used to being ruthless against.
Inés looked at me. “If we want to win, you’ve got to let me play.”
I leaned forward in my seat, gaze scanning the large crowd that had gathered to watch the match, all the photographers. They’d
claimed it was to highlight the event and the charity, but a quick glance online at the articles about our doubles partnership
said otherwise.
“Maybe it’s easier if we lose.” I shrugged. “We’d get out of here faster.”
Inés looked at me, an eyebrow raised. “You really could face losing? Just so you don’t have to share a court with me a second
longer? I know you hate losing more than you hate me, and even you have to admit that I’m the one with the experience playing
doubles.”
I exhaled, hating the fact that she might be right. I hadn’t attempted doubles in years; Calvin quickly decided that I was
too much of a ball hog to share, and now maybe I was the disadvantage to our team.
“Fine,” I gritted out, hating the idea of facing another two sets. “What do you suggest we do exactly?”
She was quiet for a moment, her gaze leaving me and scanning across the court. “If you keep trying to cover the whole court
by yourself, we’re going to keep tripping over each other.” I wanted to argue back, but the memory of us literally running
into each other was still too real, and I could admit now, upon reflection, that maybe that was partially my fault. However, that didn’t mean I wasn’t expecting her to change her behavior too.
“Play smart, not only hard. Think of us being attached by a piece of rope. We should work in tandem to cover the court. If I’m pulled out wide
for a return, you should move closer to cover the opening, but remember to make room for me.”
“That doesn’t sound too difficult,” I admitted.
Inés quickly glanced at the clock, and I realized our break was almost over. “You’re good at volleying, so don’t hesitate,
put the ball away whenever you have an opportunity.”
I blinked twice. “Was that a compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it.” She rolled her eyes, pushing up from her seat. “Listen to what I’ve said, communicate, and we can pull this back.”
I nodded, exchanging a brief, tense glance with Inés before we headed back to the court, the atmosphere still charged but
slightly less hostile.
The next set began with a mix of hesitant cooperation and lingering frustration. At first, our movements were disjointed—shots
missed, balls not covered—and more verbal jabs exchanged. But gradually, something shifted.
I began to understand what she meant, moving with her instead of against her. A push and pull. She’d fill the gaps I’d leave
behind, but also return to the baseline when I returned, staying out of my way. And I’d do the same, occasionally letting
her take a shot that I could have easily covered. But like she’d said, instead of getting mad, I channeled all my rage back into my gameplay.
Slowly, we started to build up the points, winning our share of games.
I started to feel in sync with Inés, learning how her body moved, how she reacted. From playing against her, I was aware of
her weaknesses, how to exploit them, but instead of using that to my advantage, I had to cover for them, play to her strengths.
I’d been well aware that she was a strong player, but . . . it caught me by surprise to find her in her element, to see her
in action, her strong backhand, the control she could have on the ball even when it was loaded with spring.
A couple of times I had to remind myself to react whenever a ball came my way, distracted by the movement of her body, the
swish of her skirt, the muscles highlighted in her arms as she delivered blow after blow of her racket.
None of this meant we didn’t fight our way through the second set, irritation bringing us close to blows every time one of us did something to irk the other.
Whether it was me taking the ball she was setting up to strike, or her not covering for lobs, we always found something wrong with each other.
It was like playing with my fucking coach: always picking up on my shit, my footwork, my shot selection.
By the end of the third set, already exhausted from a full day of playing tennis, I was so sick of it. Both of us were so
annoyed that even when we won, neither of us cracked so much as a smile. Not as we shook our competitors’ hands and ignored
each other’s presence, and not as we disappeared into the locker room, only growing more eager to escape each other’s company.
It was if we had forgotten we were sharing a house, and with a group of her friends who seemed to love nothing more than meddling.