Chapter 18
Chloe
You Don’t Want Me Like That—Rachel Bochner & Xana
I’d spent the better part of an hour looking for any sign of Inés. At first, I’d tried not to make it too obvious that I was
looking for her. But after I’d searched every single ground-floor room, including awkwardly standing outside the bathroom,
stalking the occupants, I gave up and cut to the chase.
The music had eased from its ear-blistering volume and instead had become a muffled background noise as I knocked on her closed
bedroom door.
“Who is it?” Her voice rang out from the other side.
“It’s me,” I said too quickly, before realizing how identifiable “me” was. I’d almost forgotten my own name. “Chloe.”
“Come in.”
I pushed the door, my eyes trying to figure out what exactly I was seeing.
“Hey, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Are you—” I started. “What’s happening?”
This, in my wildest imagination, had not been what I expected.
“I need you not to laugh.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
“I’m stuck.” Her top was pulled up over her head, the material only giving me sight of one eye. Her arms were stuck overhead, her right held at a strange angle.
“How?” was all I could manage without breaking my promise.
“I put on my splint. The Velcro wasn’t quite straight, and then I wanted to get changed, but the material got caught. Not
to mention my wrist is killing me.”
I hummed, sitting down on the bed next to her, examining her position. And ignoring the lacy black bra I could see peeking out.
Pulling at her shirt, I tried to find an easy way to get her out. “I know you’re supposed to keep injuries lifted, but I think
this takes it to a new level of dedication.”
“You said you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I didn’t laugh. I made a joke.”
“Same difference,” Inés grumbled, her voice breaking into a whine. “Just get me out of here, please.”
“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.” I tried my best to sound confident. My fingers gripped at the pink cotton, trying to
find the best angle. “Here, let me . . . I’ll pull, you stay still.”
“Fine.” She breathed in deeply as I fumbled with her shirt. “Mierda,” she said, her tone pained and aching.
I stopped immediately. “Did I hurt you?”
“It all hurts. Keep going.”
Swallowing down my reservations, I realized that the best way was going to be a quick movement to break the grip that the
Velcro had on her shirt. I counted down, telling her to brace herself, before one sharp movement.
She cried out, but the shirt released, and as cautiously as I could, I pulled it over her head.
“Are you okay?” I asked, growing desperate for two simple words. “I’m fine.” Or “I’m good.”
Instead, I got three.
“I will be.” But the ache was clear across her face, a grimace of pain that didn’t dissipate after a moment. It remained, etching its way across her features. I wanted to raise my hand, run it along her face, see if I could erase the discomfort with a soothing touch.
She moved slowly, stretching her arms and shoulders. My eyes couldn’t help but catch on the obvious dip of her delts and shoulders,
the strong line of her neck.
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was suddenly dry. Not to mention that she was now just sitting there in only a black bra
and shorts. l was mesmerized by the contrast of the delicate lace against her strong muscles, the athleticism and strength
in her body growing harder to ignore.
“Thanks for helping,” she said, settling and looking a fraction more comfortable. “I thought I might die in that position.”
“It’s nothing,” I said, watching as she began to fiddle with the strap of her splint, trying and failing to set it straight
with one hand. “Here, let me.” I reached out to her injured hand.
She moved away, determination clear on her face, her teeth gritted, her attention singular. “I can manage.”
“And risk getting caught again in another shirt straitjacket?” She paused. “I know I’m not the most fashion-conscious person, but I don’t think that particular style is going to be featured in Vogue anytime soon.”
Inés didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at me, but I felt grateful when she stretched out her right arm towards me. I worked
fast, pulling the straps tight, sneakily assessing the injury. Her wrist was clearly painful, but I knew she’d been dealing
with this for a long time. Any advice I had would pale in comparison to her experience.
I pretended not to notice how soft her skin felt under my fingertips.
“There,” I said, presenting my work to her. She inspected the splint, flexing her fingers to test the tightness.
When she was satisfied, she murmured in that soft, silky voice I wasn’t sure I’d ever grow used to, “Thanks . . . again.”
She moved away, grabbing a baggy old grey T-shirt from her bed, a slogan printed on the front.
“It’s my pleasure.” Immediately, my cheeks burned hot at the sound of my own words. Pleasure? HELP!!! “I mean, I’m happy to help. I know these things can be hard on your own. Having a second person to help can be a godsend. Not
that I think I’m a godsend. Anyone could do it. I swear—”
Inés shut me up with one word. “Chloe.”
“Yes?”
“Why exactly are you in my room?” The fact she had omitted mentioning my runaway-train mouth had me both grateful and cringing
all over again.
“I . . . um . . .” What was an overspill of words only three seconds ago was now void of any obvious sentience. “Calvin wanted
me to talk to you.”
“Your brother,” she said flatly.
I winced. “Yes, but in a coach capacity.”
“Does that get annoying?” Her question caught me off guard. My surprise must have been written all over my face as she added,
clarifying, “Distinguishing between brother and coach?”
My entire childhood, Calvin was there, a step ahead. Before me, he was the Murphy star tennis player. Dad’s favorite project.
And then he’d chosen college, putting off turning pro. Dad turned his resolute attention towards me instead. I bloomed. I
got faster, stronger, and started winning serious tournaments, capturing more and more attention.
I looked set to rise above my brother, and my parents made sure college was never a choice for me. They didn’t need another
child with split ambitions. After what happened to my mom, they were determined to keep me isolated from the competition,
allow me to stay focused. We were a tennis family through and through, and if my brother refused to turn pro, then the mantle
would fall to me.
But then I fell apart just as Calvin graduated, cracking under the immense pressure to keep delivering wins. I had a meltdown at a junior competition, stress and anxiety driving me to the point where I felt like everyone was out to ruin me.
I’d fought with my coach, the team. All of them helpless as I spiraled, crying between sets, a towel hung over my head.
I’d stormed from the court after one loss, not even stopping to shake my competitor’s hand. I’d felt like the world was over.
My parents tried their best, but it was Calvin who understood me, who put me back together. And listened to me when I insisted
that quitting tennis wasn’t the answer.
“Not often,” I answered honestly. “There are moments when we disagree and butt heads, but for the most part, we can keep it
separate.”
Inés hummed in agreement, a strange look falling across her features. I only smiled softly, adding, “And it’s nice to work
with my best friend.”
We fell into silence for a moment, and I lost track of what we had even been talking about before she had asked the question.
The panic at the proximity of her was overwhelming.
Thankfully, Inés turned towards me, an eyebrow arched. “So, he wanted you to talk to me about . . .”
I let out a heavy breath, the weight of what I had to pitch to her hanging on my shoulders. “Remember how you asked me not
to laugh?”
“And then you laughed,” she replied.
“Again, I made a joke. I did not laugh.” I took a moment to look at her, my eyes catching on her lips. “Anyway, I’m going
to ask you not to get angry.”
Her eyes searched my face for clues. She must have come up empty, agreeing, “Okay.”
I sucked in a deep breath, then blurted it all out.
“Calvin thinks it would be a good idea to hire you as a hitting partner for the upcoming leg of tournaments. You’d train with me, he’d coach you.
We’d pay for your travel and accommodation.
You’d be doing everything you’re currently doing, but you’d be doing it with me. ”
“You want to hire me?” Her tone was emotionless, dry. Exactly like when she was on court, Inés Costa gave nothing away.
I nodded once, my voice croaking, “My agent is reaching out to yours tomorrow.”
“No.” The word cut through me like a knife.
“Inés,” I pressed. “Think about it.”
With everything that Calvin had said, told me about her situation, she had to see that this was the best way to go forward.
The easiest way to get her through the next expensive weeks until the US Open.
“No.”
“You aren’t interested in free accommodation?” I asked. “Training? Travel? None of that appeals to you?”
I waited for her response, but it didn’t come. Her attention lingered on the splint around her wrist, uninjured hand rubbing
it softly, as if she was weighing up the consequences of aiding her rival.
I sighed, taking a shot. “I know about ELITE.”
“So?” She said the word with such disgust. “Do you think that makes me desperate enough to work with my opposition? To help
you get better?”
“Remember how you promised not to get angry?” I reminded her, trying to keep us from falling too far back into old habits.
I wanted us to move forward, too exhausted to fight with her again.
“That’s feeling like a big ask, Chloe,” she grumbled.
“Answer one question,” I requested, trying to think over every word before I said it. “What’s your biggest challenge right
now with your career?”
Inés couldn’t look me in the eye, so I started to list off my suspicions instead.
“Your injury is still clearly niggling, but I don’t think it’s the biggest thing going on. And then there’s me—clearly I’m
a threat.”
“Good to know you think so highly of yourself.”
“I believe we should all have high self-confidence,” I said.
“But I think your biggest issue is sponsors. I know things must be getting a little tight.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket, bringing up her social media profile, one I had embarrassingly already loaded.
“And considering that this week was the first time you’ve posted in almost a year, I assume you’re trying to drum up some more support. ”
“Maybe I’m documenting my time off with my friends,” she grumbled, her slight annoyance a show of her hand.
“But you know what would get you even more PR than some posts with your friends? And pay some of your bills?” I asked. Her
eyes met mine, as if she needed to hear the answer. “Becoming a hitting partner with your rival.”
For a moment, the only sound between us was the faint hum of the air conditioning.
“I’ve seen it plenty of times.” Her voice was so small, and suddenly this woman who held such power over me seemed vulnerable.
“Older players . . . who aren’t doing their best. This is how they are put out to pasture, to help the younger players. This
could be the end of my career.”
I couldn’t help but fall silent as she looked towards me, all her defenses down. Instead, for the first time since that night
at the party, she was opening up again.
“Only you decide when to call it, Inés,” I said. I thought back to when I was sixteen, afraid I’d never be able to face a
court again. When I wondered if I could take the toll and stress of being competitive. “You can decide that this isn’t the
end. I’ve played against and with you, and I know that you still have that fight.”
It should’ve felt strange, trying to convince her, a competitor, to keep going. But something about it felt like the most
natural thing in the world. As if, without her, I wasn’t sure what this sport would hold for any of us.
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she studied me. “Why would you do this?”
I opened my mouth to answer, to repeat what Calvin had told me downstairs, but she cut me off. “And I don’t mean why your brother thinks you should do this. Because you could work with anyone.”
And while Calvin’s reasoning stood true, that there was a lot I could learn from Inés and her abilities, I hated that he assumed
she was down and out. That her career was at the end.
That wasn’t what I wanted. And after this week, working alongside her, I knew I had a different reason.
“I want you to get that magic back,” I admitted. “I want you at your best, because when you play, Inés, you really fucking
play. And I could tell you that I want to work with you so I can learn how you did it, but that’s not the entire truth.” I
swallowed down my anxiety and continued. “I want to fight you, really battle on that court, and for better or worse, I want it to be a fair fight.”
Her expression was twisted, as if she was confused about why on earth I would want that, but I knew. I’d watched her for years,
studied her performances, mesmerized by everything about her. And now I had the opportunity to play her. To fight. To win.
Sometimes, I wanted that more than I wanted another fucking trophy.
“So?” I asked. “What do you think?”
I held my breath, waiting for her response.