Chapter 26
Inés
BITTERSUITE—Billie Eilish
Murphy vs Nagy
Semi-final—Stadium Court
“Coming through!” I shouted, weaving through the warm-up area at a full sprint. Players and coaches turned to glare as I dodged
around them, narrowly avoiding a collision with a guy carrying a cage of tennis balls. The stitch in my side a cruel reminder
of how late I was.
I caught a glimpse of the digital clock on the wall and swore under my breath.
I was really fucking late.
I slammed through the changing-room doors.
“Chloe?” My voice echoed against the tiled walls, frantic as my gaze darted from one section to the next, heart pounding.
Where the hell was she? I yelled her name again, my fingers clenched tightly around the bracelet in my hand. I had promised her I’d be there. I couldn’t
mess this up.
“Inés?”
I whirled around to see Scottie stepping out from behind the lockers, dressed in a Barbie-pink tennis dress and matching trainers.
“Is Chloe here?” I asked, urgency sharpening my voice.
Scottie’s brow furrowed. “I think her match has already started.”
Frustration bubbled over as I spun on my heel. After everything in her room last night, everything that was said, that moment, this couldn’t be happening.
“What’s going on?” Scottie called after me, concern lacing her tone. “Do you need help?”
“I slept in. I was late.” I pressed a hand to my damp forehead as I tried to think. “Do you know which court?”
“I think they’re in the Stadium.”
That was all I needed to hear. “Thanks!” I shouted over my shoulder, already breaking into a sprint.
The hallways blurred as I ran, my shoes squeaking against the polished floor. Officials loomed ahead, but I dodged them, narrowly
sidestepping a cameraman. The tunnel stretched before me, a looming beacon that promised salvation, if I could make it in
time.
Please don’t be on court yet, I begged silently, clutching the bracelet so tight it bit into my palm. My lungs burned, my legs felt like lead, but none
of it mattered. I couldn’t let her down.
Superstition was a cruel, insidious thing, a virus you couldn’t shake once it sank its claws into you. And tennis players?
We were the perfect hosts.
Bursting out of the tunnel, I was hit by a wall of bright sunlight, momentarily blinded. My heart pounded as I squinted, desperate
to spot her still courtside, tying her laces or adjusting her grip.
Instead, I was greeted by the sharp crack of a blistering serve. The ball shot across the net, the player barely reacting
before it whizzed past.
My vision adjusted in time to see Chloe, stranded on what turned out to be the losing side, her dread written across her face
in bold, unmissable lines.
“Forty-love.” The umpire’s voice cut through the lump in my throat.
I stood frozen, the bracelet useless in my hand.
Chloe’s gaze caught mine, her expression almost unreadable. She stood on the baseline, her jaw tight, gripping her racket so fiercely that her knuckles had turned white.
I think if she’d had a ball in her hand, she would’ve aimed it right at me.
Desperately, I mouthed an apology, holding up the bracelet like it wasn’t too late to do its job. Her reaction was swift,
shaking her head sharply. The flick of dismissal might as well have been a slap. She turned away, channeling her anger into
the match, though her shoulders were rigid with frustration.
I looked to the stands, spotting a space beside Calvin. Sliding along the stands, I couldn’t help but wince as the umpire
called the game for Chloe’s opponent. The hush of the crowd broke as the match continued, and I could hear the spectators
murmuring.
Calvin barely glanced at me, his attention glued to the court. The crowd hushed as Chloe’s opponent prepared to receive, but
the tension was palpable.
She’d been flying through the tournament. Until now.
“What the hell is she doing?” Calvin hissed under his breath. “She’s a complete mess out there.”
I froze, guilt twisting my insides. I’d been the one to convince her to swap the sweatband for my friendship bracelet. How
could I explain that her meltdown was my fault?
On court, Chloe tossed the ball for her serve, her motions a fraction off. The ball clipped the net.
Calvin groaned, leaning back in his seat and yanking the brim of his cap lower over his face. “Come on,” he muttered, as if
sheer force of will could drag her back into the match. “It’s like she’s not even there.”
I swallowed hard, keeping my gaze fixed on Chloe. She was pacing the baseline now, rolling the ball between her fingers, her
lips moving as though she were scolding herself.
“She’s spiraling,” I whispered.
Calvin turned to me. “She was fine this morning, a little nervous but not”—he motioned towards the court—“this.”
Chloe served again, this time landing it cleanly, but her opponent was ready. The rally was short and brutal, ending with
a crosscourt winner that Chloe couldn’t even lunge for. The crowd gasped, a murmur of disappointment spreading like wildfire.
The game continued like this, and it felt torturous to watch from the stands.
I looked down at the bracelet, still clenched in my hands, my fingers running over the beads. She had to pull herself together.
I’d seen her spiral weeks ago, at the final at Wimbledon. But this was different; she was thrown by superstition rather than
her short fuse.
Chloe didn’t even glance at us as she stalked to her chair, her movements rigid, her racket dangling in her hand like she
was debating smashing it against the ground. She sat down heavily, yanked a towel over her head and disappeared from view.
“This,” Calvin said with a heavy sigh, his gaze fixed on his sister, “is exactly what I need your help with. When she reacts
like this, she completely loses her head on court.”
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat almost painful. “I know.”
He shook his head as Chloe stood again, shoulders slumped like she was carrying the weight of the match on her back. “She
wins plenty, but the second something doesn’t go her way? It’s like a switch flips. Game over.”
The match continued, and for a moment, it looked like Chloe had steadied herself. She made a few solid returns, forcing her
opponent back to the baseline and trying to dictate the pace. But it was fleeting; her control slipped, and she lost another
point.
Calvin exhaled sharply, running a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know what’s setting her off this time. Did I say something during
warm-up?” His voice tinged with frustration.
“Calvin . . .” I hesitated, guilt pressing down on me.
“Was it the locker room?” he continued, his brow furrowed. “Did someone say something to her?”
“It’s my fault,” I blurted, my voice barely above a whisper in the hushed crowd.
Calvin turned sharply, his anger immediate and clear. “What did you do?”
“I—” The words tangled in my throat. I opened my hand, showing him the bracelet cradled in my palm. “I didn’t show up.”
His jaw clenched as he looked away, muttering under his breath about superstition. On court, Chloe managed to win a point,
but her expression barely flickered, the fire in her eyes dimmed as the scoreboard worked against her.
Calvin leaned closer, his voice low but cutting. “I don’t know how you’re going to fix this, but you will. I’ve seen you two together.”
My stomach knotted. He’s seen us?
“In the Hamptons,” he added, his tone shifting to something more pointed. “You got her to settle down, to reset. She listens
to you in ways she never does with me.”
“Why?” I asked cautiously.
He shook his head, frustration evident. “I’m her older brother. Sometimes it’s not enough for me to tell her. I’ve tried for
years to stop these spirals, and it’s never worked. That’s why we made the arrangement with you.”
“Understood,” I replied without hesitation.
“You are team Chloe. Day and night. Start acting like it, or the deal is off.”
His words hit like a blow. I nodded, the weight of his expectation pressing down on me. Calvin turned back to the court, but
the message lingered.
This was my mess. I’d caused this. On court, this would’ve been fair game. But today, here, I’d messed up, and it was up to
me to fix it.
I owed her that much.