Chapter 16
Inés
HOT TO GO!—Chappell Roan
Bailey the first set had gone to Scottie and Dylan after a fierce tie break, but deep into
the second set, we were neck and neck at 5–5, and I could see the tension beginning to crack Chloe.
“That ball was clearly out,” she persisted, before pointing towards the crowd. “Ask anyone here, they’ll agree. Your line
judge needs to get his eyesight checked.”
I swallowed down my frustration towards her, stepping closer. “Chloe?”
She glanced over her shoulder at me, and the frustration across her face was clear. We’d all felt that rage at a call we thought
was off, and in a bigger tournament, we had the Hawk-Eye to judge the calls. But here, we had to rely on human judgement.
“Calm down,” I mouthed, but before she had a chance to take my advice, the umpire’s voice boomed through the microphone. “Code violation for Murphy, verbal abuse—warning.”
She turned around as if to further argue with the umpire. I knew that everything we’d fought for would be for nothing if she
didn’t calm down. The last thing we needed was a point deduction.
I intercepted her before she could react, a hand pulling on her shoulder.
“Hey, you need to take a breath.” Deciding to use a tactic I’d learned from my father. “Look . . . count on your inhale with
me.”
“Breathing isn’t going to change shit, Inés.”
“Maybe not, but remember where we are. This isn’t some big Grand Slam. It’s a charity event.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her gaze as unrelenting as she was on the court. Today, she had upheld her side of the
promise: she had let me play as much as her, treating me with respect when she had something to say, and accepting my advice
with little argument.
It was like she had undergone a personality transplant overnight, but hey, whatever worked.
But playing on the same side as her, I had been able to appreciate her strength as a player instead of despising her for it.
I was sure, once I was back over that net, I’d be cursing her again, but today, I could appreciate the accuracy of her serves,
the force of her returns, the control she had on the ball, even against the signature Scottie Sinclair spin.
She commanded this court, and today, she was my teammate.
Finally, that fire in her eyes relented, and her shoulders slumped beneath my grip. “Fuck . . . I’m sorry.”
She bit her lip, raking her gaze over the crowd, as if she could feel their narrowed attention, analyzing our every move.
“It’s fine. But no more outbursts, yeah?” I asked, trying to get her to move on, to let the match continue. If we were going
to win, I needed her back. “Every time you feel that rage, don’t explode, especially at the umpire. Put that power in your
serve, into your returns. If you do that, then they have no chance against us.”
She nodded. “Okay. I can do it.”
“Good.” I smiled and dug a spare ball from my pocket. My wrist ached, the pain nothing new and nothing I couldn’t handle.
I handed the ball to her to serve. With only a moment’s hesitation, she took it, returning to the service line, ready to begin
again.
I crouched down, fighting the urge to look over my shoulder and watch her serve. The long line of her body as she served was
a temptation I didn’t need.
Instead, at the thump of ball hitting racket, I jumped into action, mirroring our competition as Scottie returned the ball.
Chloe ran it down, catching it as it threatened to jump out of bounds, before the match settled into a rally, the two of us
using all the tricks we had slowly picked up, and this time, I could sense the difference in Chloe’s return.
Each thwack of the racket was pitch-perfect, sending the ball back over the net with a precision I’d seen only in Grand Slam finals.
Each was loaded with that anger she held so tightly, the frustration, but it gave us an edge I was sure would have this match
swinging in our direction in no time.
It was only when Dylan moved close to the net, catching the ball and spiking it back down, that she caught me out, the match
ending in their favor. It was an impossible shot to come back from, but nonetheless, nerves were biting at me as I looked
back over my shoulder at Chloe.
I expected to find her red-faced and already screaming at me for missing. But instead, I watched her chest rise and fall,
her eyes shut for a moment, as if she was taking my advice.
Nodding towards her, I mouthed, “Sorry.”
And I didn’t expect it, but when she nodded back, acknowledging my apology before mouthing, “Next time,” I felt a prick of
pride.
She had listened to me. And while we didn’t win the match, maybe she could take those feelings, the ones that threatened to
burst out of her, and keep channeling them into her plays.
I stood center court as the same man from the opening gala dinner rambled into the microphone, slowly reading a speech he had written on some cue cards.
Beside me, Chloe barely managed to conceal a yawn.
Leaning close, my side bumping against hers, I whispered into her ear, “You’re going to have to work a little harder to not
look so bored.”
A sly smile curled her lips. “But I am bored.”
I fought a smile of my own, before she continued. “Why would they even pick this guy to give the speech? I thought these things
were supposed to be entertaining.”
“Whatever happened to respecting your elders?”
“That’s before they tried to bore me to death.”
This time I couldn’t contain the chuckle.
“And now for the winners . . .” the man drawled, pulling our attention as the presentation began. He coughed to clear his
throat, the microphone whining slightly before he turned. “Scottie and Dylan, congratulations.”
I watched as my two friends made their way to the stage, two small trophies waiting for them.
Chloe was right. The award was small, practically child-sized.
Chloe and I had found a way to work together, building on everything she’d improved on yesterday. A week or so of doubles
training, and she’d be a serious threat to practiced duos. Even Henrik and I had never made such a good pairing.
I’d even found myself proud of her in a way. She’d kept her head when we lost the last set. And although she definitely sulked
for the first while, she’d quickly adjusted, and smiled and congratulated our opponents at the net without any trouble.
“Thank God I don’t have to do a speech,” she muttered into my ear. “I hate public speaking.”
I tilted my head at her. “Is that why you scream at umpires?” I joked. “Nerves?”
She snickered, pausing as Dylan took her turn at the microphone. As she finished, Chloe leaned in and said, “Imagine what I would say if I wasn’t terrified.”
I thought for a second, the piece of information slotting into place. I could understand that fear, how it could fuel you
to misstep and speak out of turn. The anxiety and frustration all melting into something more.
Even though my English was good, speaking in public always made me nervous, in case I forgot all my mother’s English lessons
and said something incomprehensible.
Finally, the event was over, a small band playing in the background as Scottie and Dylan posed for photos with the press.
I set my sights on the locker room, my body aching for a hot shower. My right hand was tingling with the usual pain after
a grueling match, nothing new, but I’d have to do everything the physio had taught me. We’d gone right down to the wire in
every game, and now I was feeling the cost.
I paused at the side of the court, grabbing my belongings. Chloe met me there.
“What comes next?” she asked, swinging her equipment bag over her shoulder.
Shrugging, I replied, “A shower hopefully.”
“I meant bigger picture. What tournaments are you playing?” she replied dryly. I took a moment to process the suspicion that
spiked at her question, opening my water bottle, taking a sip before answering.
“Washington starts at the end of the month, then Toronto—”
She cut me off, her eyes lighting up at my answer. “And Cincinnati. Yeah, I’ll be at all of those too.”
“Guess I’ll be seeing you there.”
“It will be interesting having you on the opposite side of the court again.” The cocky curve of her lips was distracting.
“Do you think you’ll have as much fun trying to beat me?”
A week ago, facing her again felt like a nightmare.
Today, it was a challenge I couldn’t help but savor.
“Not as much as I’ll enjoy winning,” I said, watching her entire face light up at my challenge. A pink flush appeared across her cheeks, down her neck. I wondered if her skin felt warm there, or if it was as soft as I remembered.
Her gaze slid past me and over my shoulder. “Calvin! You’re here!”
I turned around, finding her brother meters away. Despite their contrasting hair color, they both looked so similar: same
color eyes, soft nose.
He walked right past me to pull Chloe into a big hug, stepping back and smiling. “Look at you! Playing doubles. I never thought
I’d see the day.”
“Anything for charity,” she teased back, a different kind of smile on her lips.
“Inés, this is Calvin, my coach,” she said as he offered his hand to shake. “And annoying pain-in-the-ass brother.”
Calvin shook my hand, a small wince of pain traveling up my arm with the motion. “Good to meet you, Inés. It’s incredible
to find somebody who can calm this one down from a tantrum.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” I said.
“It wasn’t a tantrum,” Chloe interjected.
Calvin only smirked, raising an eyebrow as he continued. “She used to kick and scream whenever we told her practice was over.”
“I was seven.”
I couldn’t help but enjoy the sibling squabble breaking out in front of me, before adding, “She wasn’t too bad today. Only
challenged the umpire once.”
“And she didn’t kick up a fuss when the match didn’t go your way.” He tilted his head. “That might be a record for her.”