Chapter 44
Chloe
Honey—Halsey
Costa vs Murphy
Semi-final—Arthur Ashe Stadium
The first set went long, down to the wire with a tiebreak. Inés fought tooth and nail, driving every game to its limit. But
in the end, I capitalized on a couple of small missteps. My speed served me well, and I managed to edge her out, snatching
the set.
Now, as she prepared to serve, I watched her closely. She was taking her time, deliberately running down the clock. I stayed
planted, ready for her assault. My hands adjusted on the racket handle, the rough grip pressing into my fingertips.
Breathe, I reminded myself. Channel the frustration into the swing.
I knew exactly what she was doing, using everything she knew about me to disrupt my rhythm. Every extra second was a calculated
move to throw me off my flow.
But as she tossed the ball into the air, I grinned. I was doing the same to her.
Her racket struck the ball, sending it across the court, but it clipped the net.
“Fault. Second serve,” the umpire called as the court reset. A ball girl darted out to retrieve the failed serve while Inés repositioned herself.
She shook out her left hand before clenching it into a fist. One glance at her expression, and I knew.
She was in pain.
I thought of seeing her post-match with an ice pack pressed to her wrist, the stretches and exercises she religiously performed
to prepare for matches like this. My chest tightened with an unfamiliar ache.
This was a weakness I could, and would have to, exploit. I’d promised her I wouldn’t hold back. If I noticed something, I’d
use it. But that didn’t mean I wanted to. There was no pride in it, no satisfaction.
She served again, and I returned with all my strength. Inés grunted, staggering back to meet the ball. Her shot made it over
the net but lacked the power she’d commanded earlier. The control she had wielded so effortlessly in the first set was slipping.
Confidence surged through me. I had this.
I drove the ball down with a punishing groundstroke, ramping up the intensity. Inés scrambled to meet it, managing to slice
it back with a sharp backhand. Too late, I realized my mistake, my overconfidence, as the ball skidded past me. Point to her.
Inés’s injury was bothering her. But as the match continued, with her taking point after point and game after game, it became
clear her injury wasn’t causing the weakness I’d assumed.
If anything, it made her more dangerous.
While I relied on brute force, burning through my reserves with every powerful return and serve, she played smarter. Every
shot was calculated, designed to push me further into exhaustion. Inés didn’t need to match me in strength; she had her strategy,
her precision, and her resilience.
This wasn’t a contest of raw power anymore. It was chess, and I was already losing moves.
The match stretched, the game of tug-of-war continuing into the third set. My body ached, muscles screaming as I hurled everything I had into each swing. I would not lose. This was supposed to be my tournament. I wasn’t going to walk off this court without giving it my everything.
But Inés, she was fucking relentless.
Point by point, she followed my lead. Her calculated plays, her ability to read me like an open book, it all piled on the
pressure. Every time I thought I had her, she slipped through my grasp, exploiting every weakness I accidentally offered up
to her.
Hours had passed since the start of the grueling match, and as we sat for what could be our final short break, I looked over
at her, a towel draped over her head and neck, soaking up the sweat.
We had reached the deciding game, the crowd still electric, even in the pause, the sound of their cheers washing over us like
waves. The score sat at 5–4, with Inés due to serve, and my frustration was threatening to boil over again.
I looked to the crowd, finding Calvin sitting in a box. He sat slumped forward, his eyes on mine. He mouthed two words to
me, and I knew I didn’t need to hear him to know what it was.
A single, useless, “Stay calm.”
I shook my head, tearing my attention from him and allowing it to linger on Inés instead.
I found her gaze on me now, a look of reluctance and worry across her face. But when my eyes connected with hers, with the
woman I loved, her expression turned tender and caring.
“Are you okay?” she mouthed over at me. The competitor in me screamed to ignore her, to not let girlfriend Inés get under
my skin.
I bit my lip, burying the truth, and nodded back. I’m not, I thought to myself, but I will be.
She shook her head from side to side, mouthing three easy words: “I hate this.”
My hand ached to reach out to hers, to feel her soft skin under my fingertips, as if sitting even this far from her was its own form of torture.
“Me too,” I mouthed back, just as the umpire called us back to the court.
It was time.
As I marched back to the baseline, I let her take control. After my loss in London, the idea of making it this far in the
tournament had driven me, serving as my only goal.
If I could claim this trophy, I’d show everyone that I had more than a single win in me.
That I could do it again, and again, and again. No matter the rage that earned me newspaper headlines, I was still a worthy
opponent.
Now, staring Inés down, both of us taking our places on the baseline, I wondered if any of that was true. If I was good enough,
or if I’d been running on luck.
A luck that had run out when that elastic snapped. I looked down at the tied bracelet, so tight it dug into my skin, sure
to leave its imprint on my wrist.
Inés watched me, her gaze steady and unflinching. She didn’t need a bracelet, didn’t rely on rituals or omens. She relied
on herself, on her ability to push through, to claw her way back even when the odds were stacked against her. And for the
longest time, I had hated her for that.
But not anymore. These past few months had changed something fundamental. That simmering envy had transformed into admiration,
burning low in my chest and setting my nerves on edge in a way I couldn’t shake.
As we launched into the game, I knew I would fight her with everything I had. For every point, for every ounce of pride I
could salvage. I threw myself into every return, chased every ball until my legs screamed. I played like there was nothing
left beyond this match.
But against her, it wasn’t enough.
Ten agonizing minutes later, when the umpire’s voice cut through the roar of the crowd with a calm, unwavering, “Game, set and match,” the name he called wasn’t mine.
My chest tightened, the sting of loss sharp and unforgiving. My dream was gone, reduced to ash. Dead.
And the woman I loved was the one who had set the fire.