Page 14 of Breakpoint
Jaz sat down beside her, leaving a respectful distance. “You had some really great moments out there. And made it difficult….for a while,” she strained to say.
“I wanted to destroy you.” Daniela blew out. But then her big green eyes looked over at Jaz with expectation. “Do you think I had a chance to really beat you today?”
“No.” Jaz wasn’t going to lie to the girl.
“Fuck.” Dani let out a deprecating laugh.
“But maybe someday.” Jaz wanted to give her some hope. Though she would likely be retired before Daniela was good enough to beat her. She was nothing but confident in her game.
They both sat there in awkward silence on the floor. The only sound was the whirling of the air conditioning system in the locker room. It was Daniela who finally broke the quiet.
“Do you know you ended my mother’s career?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Jaz looked at her in disbelief. “What?”
“The last match she ever played was a loss to you? I was six and I still remember how badly you crushed her.” Daniela looked straight ahead, and Jaz wouldn’t have believed the words coming out of her mouth if she weren’t watching her lips move.
Jaz sucked in a sharp breath. She didn’t even remember the match. She remembered playing Brittany Kappas a few times years ago when she was first on tour. God, that made her feel so fucking old that she was on tour when Daniela was a child. But she’d played so many matches since then that she didn’t really remember all the details of every single one.
“Honestly, I didn’t know that. And I don’t really recall it or knew it was her last match,” Jaz whispered, suddenly feeling recalcitrant. This was new territory. Jaz wasn’t used to having to deal with personal and emotional things with the other players on tour. She didn’t spend time with other players off the court. They were competitors with the goal to destroy each other at every turn. But she had spent time with Daniela. More than any player in the last decade, and even though she annoyed the hell out of her, Daniela was a good tennis player. She appreciated that she was direct and always kept it real with Jaz. She didn’t bow down to Jaz like most people around her did.
Daniela continued, “I mean, why would you remember? But I just don’t wantthatto be the last memories people have of the Kappas name on the big stage. A loss. I want this. I want it sofuckingbad.” Dani slammed her hand against the locker behind her.
Jaz could see the fire in Daniela’s eyes. That this wasn’t just a game or novelty for her to be famous. It was the same fire that she often had herself, the burning desire to win at all costs that mirrored her own relentless hunger. Her respect for Daniela grew in that moment, because anyone who wanted it as much as Jaz would do anything to be great.
Jaz pressed on, driven by a sudden, inexplicable urge to bridge the gap between them.
“Listen, I know we’re not exactly…buddies, but we will be partners soon, and I saw something in you out there today. A fire. You just need to harness it.” And it pained her to admit, but sheneededDani to rise to the occasion if they were going to win the Olympics. She paused, then took the plunge. “Maybe…maybe we could train together for a bit before the Olympics? I could show you a few things, work on your forehand, maybe your serve. What do you say?”
Daniela’s brows shot up in disbelief. Her tear-stained face contorted into an expression of skepticism, her lips parting in a silent question. “Train together?” she finally said, her voice hoarse. “Why? Why are you being so…so decent to me? It’s not like you.”
“You don’t know me,” Jaz shot back quickly.
Daniela raised a beautifully sculpted left eyebrow at her clapback. “Fair, but why are you volunteering to work together with mebeforethe Olympics?”
“Let's be clear, this is not me being nice. I have my own selfish reasons. You’re going to be my doubles partner for the Olympics soon, one of the most important tournaments left in my career. I need you at your best and most confident. Can’t have us going out in the first round.” Jaz nodded, trying to make it make sense in her own head.
She held out her hand, a silent invitation. Daniela stared at it for a long moment, then slowly, hesitantly, reached out and shook it. The touch was brief, but Jaz felt a zap of intensity.Huh?
“But do NOT be late,”Jaz commanded. “It’s my pet peeve.”
Daniela at least had the nerve to look sheepish about her lateness, but she smiled and nodded, nonetheless. “Okay.”
The humid Florida air hung thick and heavy, clinging to Jaz like a second skin. Each breath was a conscious effort, a reminder of the grueling pace she was forcing herself through. But she loved it. She felt it gave her an advantage on her fitness, even though her left knee was throbbing, but if she could play in the Florida heat and humidity in June for hours on end, then a three-set match would be nothing.
“Forehand volley, Daniela,” Jaz called, her voice crisp and cool. There was no ‘please,’ no hint of encouragement. Just the statement, clipped and efficient, the way she did everything. The sounds of their shoes squeaking on the court were only outdone by Jaz’s constant chirping.
Daniela gritted her teeth and slammed the ball back. It was low, hard, a shot meant to make Jaz stretch, but she got it with ease.
Jaz made Daniela’s team change plans when she learned Daniela was going to stay in Europe until Wimbledon. Most players stayed overseas since there were only three weeks between the French Open in Paris and Wimbledon in London. However right after Wimbledon would be the Olympics and they needed to get their shit together quickly.
So whenJaz lost in the next round at the French, she arranged for Dani’s team to travel with her on her private plane back to the States. They could recover and get treatment while in the air and train in private at her Florida compound. Jaz rarely stayed in Europe between the two tournaments anymore, mainly because she hated staying in rental houses for close to two months. She missed the privacy of her home and the ability to keep her routine. Plus, she could afford to travel back and forth quickly by flying private.
“Anticipate, don’t react,” she barked when Daniela was a second late to a drop shot. Jaz’s instructions were clipped, bordering on rude but Daniela needed this kick in the ass. Obviously, Tom, as gruff as he was, wasn’t getting through to her. “And your footwork is sloppy,” she remarked, her gaze meeting Daniela’s. “You’re transferring your weight too late.”
Jaz could see Daniela bristle at her tone. “I know,” Daniela snapped, “I’m working on it.” The sun beat down on the hardcourt, the heat reflecting up into their faces.
Daniela’s usual fluid, instinctive play was replaced by a rigid, forced formality, each shot punctuated by a silent, simmering resentment. Why had Jaz agreed to this, actually suggested this torture, this...cooperation between them?
