Chapter 23
Inés
Edge of the Earth—The Beaches
“So, how was it?” Scottie hissed, leaning over the bench, her blue eyes stuck on me.
I blinked at her, thrown off by the question. “How was what?”
It was the opening day of the DC Open, and I was being interrogated in the changing room by my best friend.
“Training with the enemy. What else?” Dylan interrupted sharply, tossing her bag onto the bench.
Correction: both best friends were interrogating me.
“She’s not the enemy,” both Scottie and I said. Her blonde head whipped toward me in surprise, her eyes narrowing.
“You’ve certainly changed your tune,” Scottie said, her tone teetering between teasing and accusatory.
It had been a week and a half since I’d last seen them at the beach house. A week and a half since Chloe and I had agreed
to work together as hitting partners. And now I was on the road, traveling and sleeping on her expense.
How was I supposed to explain what had changed in such a short time?
“I agreed with you,” I said lightly, keeping my focus as I pulled out my outfit for the day: a bright pink dress with matching trainers. The bold color felt like armor against the sharp blue court.
“I know, that’s what’s weird,” Scottie said.
“What’s weird is why you agreed to it in the first place,” Dylan said. “Half these girls will cut your strings if they find
out you’re helping Murphy.”
Dylan was always one of my tougher friends, a hard exterior, but once she saw you as a friend, she would rage to the end for
you. While she didn’t know the full story with Chloe, she knew how much our professional rivalry had affected me.
“If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been somebody else,” I reasoned, taking a moment to look around the room. Familiar faces were
everywhere, each player locked in match prep. Across the lockers, a flash of strawberry-blonde hair caught my eye. I sat up
to get a better look, but Scottie’s voice pulled me back.
“Exactly. And in the meantime, it must be helping you out, right?” Scottie asked, her eyes on Dylan as if there was a silent
warning between the women.
“Of course.” I slipped into the dress quickly, eager to move on to my pre-match ritual. “It’s fine. She’s different, off court.
And on, she’s trying to be better.”
Scottie snorted. “We’re all different off court. Well, most of us.” Her sharp blue gaze darted to Dylan. Once upon a time,
their rivalry had eclipsed even mine and Chloe’s. Only in the last year had they managed to find common ground.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Dylan replied coolly.
Scottie rolled her eyes. “I mean, we can all be a little difficult with each other when the competition heats up. Chloe is
no different.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“So, it’s strictly professional between you two?” Dylan asked sharply.
I couldn’t help but think of the friendship bracelet around my wrist. How we’d sat together in the guesthouse, stringing them together until the power came back on.
And then after, how we’d binged an entire season of a TV show in one night, only realizing we’d finished when we both were woken up by the credits, her head resting on my shoulder.
“Yeah. More or less,” I said, clearing my throat. “How are you feeling about the competition?”
The two of them exchanged a knowing glance, their shared grin sharp as a knife.
“Looks like your new bestie is having trouble,” Scottie said, tilting her chin across the room. My head whipped around instinctively.
Chloe was perched on the edge of a bench, panic etched across her face. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but loose
strands stuck to her temples. She was rummaging frantically through her bag, dumping its contents onto the bench beside her.
“Oh no, how terrible,” Dylan said flatly, her voice dripping with fake concern.
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll see you both in the warm-up area.” I snapped my locker shut before heading towards Chloe.
“Hey?” I said, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”
She didn’t look up right away, but her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly at the sound of my voice.
“Nothing,” she muttered, then mumbled something else too quietly to catch over the buzz of the locker room.
“Hey,” I said, firming my tone. Her head snapped up this time, her sharp, blue-green eyes locking onto mine, stress carved
into her expression. “Are you okay?”
“I . . .” She trailed off, sagging back onto the bench, her things scattered around her in a chaotic heap. “I can’t find my
lucky sweatband and I’ve got a match in fifteen.”
“Your lucky sweatband?” I repeated, brushing a few items aside so I could sit down next to her.
“It was my mom’s. I always play with it. I think I left it at home, and now I just . . .” She waved a hand at the mess around her, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior. “I don’t know how I missed it.”
“And now you’re having a meltdown?” I asked.
“It’s not a meltdown. Just nerves,” she explained, shrugging me off. “Nothing new.”
“You? Nervous? This does feel new.”
“I’m always like this in the first round. There’s something . . . cutthroat about it. If I survive this one, then I calm down,
but at the start . . .” She shrugged.
Players could be incredibly superstitious. From the number of ball bounces before a serve to the quirks of lucky underwear, I’d seen it all. The tiniest
things could unravel them if they felt the tide of luck wasn’t in their favor. Whether it truly made a difference or not,
who could say? But for Chloe, the missing sweatband clearly was throwing her off.
“It’s normal,” I said gently. Maybe all she needed was a little bit of luck. And since we weren’t going head-to-head today,
I didn’t mind giving her some of mine.
“Here, give me your bracelet.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Trust me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped it off and handed it over. I got a good look at it, light blue and green beads with
a neat little charm in the middle. The letters spelled out Wilson, framed by two tiny pink hearts.
I laughed. “You made your bracelet for your dog?”
“The love of my life,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Of course. You know, people are going to think this is some kind of sponsorship.”
“If you know, you know,” she said with a grin. “Let’s see yours.”
I passed it over. Compared to hers, it looked utterly tragic.
“Really? “I heart wine”? she read aloud, a laugh bubbling up. “Did you seriously make a bracelet about wine?”
“The love of my life,” I said, smirking.
“Inés Costa and a glass of red,” Chloe teased. “The perfect pairing.”
“Add some cheese and you’ve got the perfect trap.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She slipped the bracelet around her wrist. Compared to her perfectly appointed outfit, a gorgeous
lilac matching skirt and skintight top, the ELITE branding in the upper corner of each item, the bracelet stood out horribly.
I tapped her hand. “I want that bracelet back when you’re done. But before matches, we can swap. Put some faith in it.”
She looked at the mismatched beads against her outfit. “It’s definitely a statement piece.”
“A winning statement,” I said, nudging her arm. “So, wear it like you mean it.”
Chloe laughed under her breath, the tension in her shoulders easing a little. “Okay, fine. But if I lose today, I’m blaming
your taste in beads.”
“Deal.” I smiled. “And if you win, I’m taking credit.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, you’re still sitting here with me,” I shot back, looking over at her. The nervous look was gone, erased by a sunshine
smile. Her eyes gleamed up at me, the green flecks brighter in the light. Her hair was still a mess, strands of it out of
place and instead framing her face.
She still looked beautiful.
I swallowed, pushing the thought away. “Now, are you ready to destroy somebody on court?”
Chloe stood, joking through her nerves, “I was born to crush dreams.”
As we’d talked, the locker room had almost emptied, and only now did I realize how alone we actually were. Chloe zipped her
bag, the bracelet catching the light as she slung the bag over her shoulder.
For a brief moment, she hesitated, glancing back at me. “Thanks, Inés. For this.”
She turned, digging out an orange pill bottle, a sticker on it clearly marked with her name and details. She poured one tablet out into the palm of her hand.
Warily, I asked, “What’s that?”
“Remember how I told you I used to struggle? When I was sixteen? I’ve taken anti-anxiety medication ever since,” she explained
easily, washing the pill down with some water. “Don’t worry, it’s allowed and reported to the ITIA. I have a therapeutic use
exemption for it.”
“That’s good,” I said, the slight worry calming at her words. I’d seen it before, players taking medications or supplements
their coach had claimed were aboveboard. Only for their blood work to come back saying otherwise.
We stepped out into the corridor together, the noise from the warm-up courts greeting us. I glanced at her one last time as
we walked to the split where we’d head to separate warm-up areas. The lilac and rainbow beads didn’t match at all, but somehow,
they suited her. They worked with the patchwork image of Chloe Murphy I was beginning to build.
“Give them hell, Murphy,” I called over my shoulder.
“I don’t know any other way, Costa,” she shot back, her voice carrying enough of her usual swagger to sound like herself again.
“You do the same.”
As I headed towards my own match, a strange warmth settled in my chest. This was supposed to be a professional arrangement,
a mutually beneficial deal. But somehow, in a quiet, unspoken way, it felt like more than that.
And maybe . . . I didn’t mind.