Page 22 of Breakpoint
“So we’re friends?” Dani looked at herwith so much hope in her eyes.
“I wouldn’t call us besties,” Jaz admitted, “but I can at least call you by your preferred name. I mean, you call me Jaz….It takes a while for me to grow to trust someone. But it happens. You know, once every decade.”
Dani laughed at her. “Even when I’m driving you crazy because I can’t be on time?”
“I’ve just learned to tell you forty-five minutes before we actually need to get together,” Jaz admitted.
“What?!?” Dani looked shocked with mock outrage. “Eh, I don’t blame you. My parents used to do the same thing, but now everyone I work with usually goes on my schedule, so it never matters if I'm late.”
“Girl, it still matters. If Beyonce can be on time for everything, so can you!” Jaz shot back. “Professionalism matters, Dani. You’re now a professional tennis player. You’re a good player, but you could be great.”
The blush crept up Dani’s face at the compliment. Jaz didn’t dole them out often, but when she did, she meant it. They looked at the different titles in the library, Jaz pulling out some of her favorites that she also had on e-book, just in case she wanted to re-read them while traveling. It was a moment, and a shift in that room. A shift to a friendship. The first that Jaz could ever remember really having that wasn’t Brandon or someone on her payroll.
Then they started texting. It started when Dani left for Eastbourne in England and sent Jaz a picture of a book from a store in the airport that she thought Jaz might like. Jaz had actually read it and gave Dani her thoughts about it. Dani then tried to find a book that Jaz hadn’t read. That continued until the textschanged to discussing Dani’s matches and tactics, to just random thoughts about their days. Dani was actually really witty and had this effervescent thing about her that made Jaz wonder what she was doing and thinking.
So what she said to Brandon was true. They were friends. Jaz didn’t know if she had ever had a real adult friend before. The last friend she could remember was Lena. Before that, Stacey from middle school and they drifted apart when Jaz started playing tennis more regularly. Everyone else around was on her payroll, even her brother, so it was often hard to discern if they were really her friends, if they wanted to be, or because they were paid to be.
The attendant at the end of the tunnel gave them the signal. “Ladies, we’re ready to go.”
Jaz closed her eyes, focusing on her breath. Inhale. Exhale. Slow, deliberate. Brandon’s voice, calm and steady, echoed in her mind, “Control what you can control, Jaz. Your breath, your focus, your game.” The anxiety was still there, a nervous flutter in her stomach, but it was now tempered, a fuel to her fire. She was ready. She was in the zone.
She was JazfuckingMason. She walked into Centre Court, beside Isla Harper, ready to go to battle and hopefully avenge the loss from the Australian Open. The match went by in a blur, and next thing she knew, they were tied five-all in the second set. Jaz was already up a set and didn’t really want to have to play a third. Her hamstring was aching, and her back was barely holding up. She needed to end this match now.
She had to hold serve her and break Isla’s to prevent going to a tiebreak. She lifted her arm to begin her serving motion, andthe ball jumped off her racket and flattened right along the T-line before exploding back up with a sharp kick to the right.
Ace.
She pumped her fist to the crowd as she walked to the other side of the baseline to serve again. Despite the mild weather, Jaz had a clear sheen of sweat across her brow. Isla had great all court coverage and was fast as shit. It seemed like no matter where Jaz placed the ball, it was always going to come back. She had to work hard mentally and physically to mix things up and keep Isla on her toes to force her into errors to win a point.
She had held serve and was now waiting to see if Isla could do the same. Everything around her stopped while she was waiting for the ball, anticipating what would happen. Even after playing for close to two hours, Isla’s lefty slice serve was still crisp. Jaz didn’t even get a chance at the first two points of the game, one out wide and a second down the middle that she barely got her racket on. At 40-love, Isla finally played a shot in her strike zone, and Jaz was ready. She took the ball early for a forehand down the line, but it just went out.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. Now they would have to play a tiebreaker for the second set. They changed ends, ready to do battle for the second set, and Jaz hoped for the last set of this match.
In the tiebreak, the rallies continued to be fierce, and the level of play didn’t diminish. Leading 6-4, Jaz knew she was close. She adjusted her grip on her racket, the worn tape a familiar comfort in the sea of swirling tension that was Centre Court. She was playing against the weight of expectation, the pressure of the moment, thedemons that whispered doubts in the quiet corners of her mind. That she was too old, that she still didn’t belong. It wasn’t just a physical game; it was a mental chess match, a battle of wills, and Jaz refused to fold.
One more point was all she needed. And she was serving. No matter how many times she had served for a Grand Slam tournament, the nerves never went away. She bounced the ball once, twice, the rhythmic thud a counterpoint to the frantic beat of her own heart.
Eighteen Grand Slams. That was what this point meant. Eighteen. A number that echoed in her mind, a whisper of history she was trying to match.
She tossed the ball, the sunlight glinting off its fuzzy yellow surface. Her serve, her weapon, her trusted ally. But even that felt shaky now, vulnerable. The ball connected with the racket, a solidthwack, and flew across the net. Isla returned, a fierce forehand that Jaz barely reached. The rally began, a tense dance of power and precision. Each shot was a gamble, each stride a test of her aging body.
Jaz hit a backhand slice across the court, and Isla faltered. A slight hesitation, her feet moving a fraction of a second too slow. She got to the ball, but she didn’t have enough force on the shot, and it sailed into the net.
Jaz froze, her racket still outstretched. For a moment, the silence was deafening. Then, a slow wave of realization washed over her. She had done it. Eighteen.
The roar of the crowd erupted, a tidal wave of sound that crashed over her. She looked up, her eyes searching the mass of faces, a mixture of relief and disbelief swirling within her.
She raised her hands to the sky and screamed, “FUCK YEAH!!” But the words we drowned out by the roar of the crowd.
She had won Wimbledon. Again.
She looked into her player’s box and saw Brandon in tears. Mike, Kira, and Scott were beaming and giving her fist pumps. And behind them she saw Dani, clapping and cheering for her with a smile that seemed to glow. Even though Jaz just tied Dani’s mother’s record.
The first few times she won Wimbledon when she was younger, she climbed into the stands and over the crowds to give everyone in her box a sweaty hug. Now, in her older age, she wasn’t as limber and knew she would see them as soon as she got back to the tunnel. So she gave them a thumbs up for a job well done. Plus she didn’t want to delay the uncomfortableness of the post-match interview and trophy ceremony too long.
The post-match on-court interview was a blur, and next thing she knew, she had the Venus Rosewater Dish, the trophy for the women’s champion, in her hands, holding it up to the crowd to show everyone. For the sixth time, she lifted the trophy, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat of her emotions. It was hers.
As soon as she got to the tunnel, Mike, Brandon, and Kira were already waiting for her. Brandon crushed her in a bear hug, tears in his eyes. “You did it, kiddo.”
