Page 9 of Breakpoint
The argument that followed was a painful unraveling of years of unspoken frustrations. Jaz, for the first time, saw the sacrifices Lena had made, the life she had put on hold for her. But it wastoo late. The hurt had festered too long, the imbalance of their relationship too deeply ingrained.
Jaz finally said the words that they both knew to be true, even after five years together. “I’m not retiring anytime soon, Lena. This is my life right now and for the foreseeable future.” She couldn’t offer Lena what she wanted, not while tennis still consumed her.
“And I’m tired of being second. Second to the matches, second to the training, second to the ever-present demands of your ambition. And what makes it really sad, I don’t even think you truly want this.”
And with that, Lena was gone. After seven years, two as friends and five as a couple. But those final words stuck with Jaz till this day.
Scott soon stepped in, and it was like Jaz never lost a step, even though her heart was in shambles. She won two more Grand Slams in the years that followed.
Jaz was brought out of her memories of the past when Kira and Chris let them know that Daniela would have to do media first, and Jaz could hide out in the locker room area until it was her turn. Jaz bobbed her head with a triumphant yes, because she could put her headphones on and get back to her audiobook.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans because as soon as she entered the locker room, she saw her.
Lena.
Her back was to Jaz, her familiar athletic figure bent over another player, her hands gently massaging a calf muscle. Jaz’s heart hammered against her ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. A wave of nausea washed over her, the taste of bile rising in her throat. Jealousy, sharp and acrid, burned in her veins. It wasn’t rational, she knew. But the sight was like a punch to the gut, a sharp reminder of what they had and what she lost.
Seeing Lena with someone else, touching someone else with those healing hands, sent a lance of pain through her. She wanted to turn around, to run back to the sanctuary of the court, but her feet felt rooted to the spot.
Lena finally turned, and their eyes met. Time seemed to freeze. Jaz’s breath hitched.
Lena’s expression was unreadable, her face a mask of professional composure. But for a fleeting moment, Jaz saw a flicker of something in those hazel eyes. Regret? Longing?
Or was it just her own wishfulthinking?
Lena smiled, a small, polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and nodded in acknowledgement. It was a smile that said, “We are colleagues, nothing more.” A smile that felt like a slap.
Jaz’s stomach churned with a potent cocktail of emotions: regret, a flicker of anger, and a deep, aching sadness. She forced a smile, a pale imitation of Lena’s, and nodded curtly. “Lena,” she acknowledged, her voice a tight whisper.
“Jaz,” Lena replied, her voice betraying nothing. “Good to see you. Good luck out there.”
The words were polite, meaningless. Jaz’s throat constricted. “Thanks,” she managed, her voice barely audible and her insides twisting into knots.
She wanted to say more, to ask how Lena was, but she had chosen this. Or astutely, had chosen this life over Lena. She walked past, her head held high, pretending indifference. But inside, it still fucking hurt, even five years later. The encounter was a stark reminder that some wounds, despite time and distance, still ran deep.
Chapter 4
The red dust on the clay court swirled around Jaz’s ankles as she lunged, the impact of her racket sending a cloud of red into the air. Jaz hated the clay court season. Her slide across the clay was passable, but she still felt like an elephant on skates. Across from her, Daniela grunted with effort, her tall, lean frame a whirlwind of motion as she met the ball with a resoundingthwack. They were engaged in a ferocious dance, a symphony of grunts, slides, and the sharp crack of the ball on strings.
It was warmer than normal for late April, but the hot Spanish sun beat down on them like a dome of heat. Sweat plastered strands of dark hair that had escaped her bun on Jaz’s forehead, but her expression remained unreadable, a mask of intense concentration. Daniela’s long legs propelled her across the clay, her every movement a burst of energy mixed in with controlled aggression. A bead of sweat traced a path down her cheek, glistening in the bright Madrid sun.
Jaz always participated in the Madrid Open, it marked the start of the clay court season, another of the 1000 series tournaments,worth a lot of points in the rankings and big prize money. It was also a great tune up to the French Open, the Grand Slam played on clay in the heart of Paris. She was proud that had won three French Open titles, even though clay wasn’t her best surface.
It usually took a bit for her to transition her game to clay. It was always the most challenging surface to play on for her compared to the others. The ball was a lot heavier, and she had to slide across the court to get to just about every ball. Plus, clay courts, with their grippier, bouncier texture, lent themselves to a slower pace of play than Jaz preferred, with more topspin and fewer winners. She had to work harder to get a winning shot and use all the tools in her box to win matches on clay.
But Daniela was sliding across the court like it was second nature. She didn’t seem to face the same footwork struggle. And it was annoying as fuck.
Especially given that Daniela showed up lateagain.
And to Jaz’s horror, she smelled of tequila when she rolled up forty-five minutes late. She surmised Daniela must have been out enjoying the Madrid night light a little too much instead of focusing on the tournament they both had to play.
It must be nice to be twenty, roll out of bed, and be ready to play tennis with only a few hours of sleep and alcohol still seeping out of your pores. It would take Jaz at least three days to recover from a night out. Alcohol hit differently in your mid-thirties. But even when Jaz was twenty, she was already at the top of the sport and would never cheat the game by drinking or partying during a majortournament.
Her current annoyance ratcheted up even more by all the media currently surrounding this practice session. There was a throng of press, a sea of flashing cameras and extended microphones, ringing the court. Their lenses, like predatory eyes, trained on this spectacle. The air crackled with anticipation, not just for the upcoming tournament, but for this intimate glimpse of these two players hitting together.
Each powerful serve she hit, each lightning-fast return, was punctuated by a barrage of camera shutters. The rapid-fire clicks were a percussive counterpoint to the rhythmic thud of the ball on the court. The press, usually a cacophony of voices, was hushed, their collective gaze fixed on the two women battling it out on the red clay. The sight of these two women practicing together was something they obviously never expected.
Jaz reluctantly agreed to have a practice open to the media, but Jaz knew that Kira would never set up such a large feeding frenzy, so it must have been Daniela’s team. She hated dealing with the press on a good day. She’d played in televised tennis tournaments where thousands of eyes watched her every move. Had done photo shoots for magazines with millions of readers. Honed her muted public speaking skills after hundreds of post-match interviews and even a few TV commercials. But dealing with the media was still exasperating, and she hated it. All she wanted to do was play tennis.
