Page 1 of Break Point
CHAPTER 1
THE NEHBL
SEPTEMBER 11, 2010
I WASN’T ALWAYSlike this. The sharp edges, the outbursts, the heat in my chest that flares before I can stop it. It built over time. It crept in quietly, until it was the only way I knew how to be.
Sometimes, the rage erupts through my mouth as sharp, venomous words. Other times, it spirals down my arms, propelling my racket and leaving me wondering if it’s skill or fury driving the shot.
What I need right now is precision, clarity, and control. That’s what I’m aiming for, but I constantly find myself caught up in a powerful whirlwind of both physical and verbal outlets. It usually comes down to unleashing a vicious left-handed backhand that leaves my opponent stunned. Or snapping at the chair umpire with something like, “Aren’t you the most corrupt official in the game?” as I just did, after a line judge called my ball out when it clearly touched the line. You’d have to be legally blind to miss it.
“Watch the time, Miss Freeman. You’re pushing the clock,” the chair umpire warns in my direction.
He ignores my last words. I barely exhaled them, acid still scalding my tongue.
I know I’m “hindering the flow of the game” by glaring, but we have history.
Today’s assigned chair umpire, Chad Armstrong, knows my complex personality all too well. And I’m well-acquainted with his flair for applying the rulebook like it’s sacred text.
He feelsso-soabout me, and the feeling is mutual.
I try to calm down. I really do, but I can’t. Not when we’re in the second set of the US Open women’s final. I’ve already lost the first set and am on the brink of losing the second.
Thanks to Chad’s poor judgment, it’s deuce when it should’ve been advantage in my favor. I shoot him the deadliest nod, laced with reluctant compliance, biting my tongue to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Then, I turn my attention to Zoya freaking Kruschenko. I take my position, go through my ritual, and blast an ace to wipe that little smirk off her face.
“Advantage, Freeman,” Chad announces on the mic.
There you go.
Zoya remains silent. She’s probably not even breathing, like the well-oiled, high-performance robot she portrays to be, but I can imagine the shit running through her head. Drew, my agent, said her team’s got their sights on my Rolex deal. But I’ve already been sent the ambassadorship paperwork, it just hasn’t been announced yet. Tough luck.
Rolex came knocking after I won my first Grand Slam at Roland Garros a few months ago, at“THE TENDER AGE OF 17,”as the headlines put it. The only tender thing about me is the skin on the back of my neck, sizzling under the harsh afternoon sun.
I’ve played Zoya four times. Lost four times. And every one of those losses eats at me. I can’t let this one be the fifth.
As much as I hate to admit it, Zoya is tearing me apart from the inside out. She’s wormed her way into my head, eating away at my soul. She’s got me thinking about a luxury watch ambassadorship and the number of times she’s beaten me.
Crap.
I’m succumbing to the pressure. I want this too much.Needthis so much that my bones are vibrating with expectation.
We’re at 6-5. I’m losing. I desperately need to take this to a third set.
God knows I’ve sacrificed more than anyone could imagine just to have the privilege of standing on this court and tossing the ball in the air. But not before I drag my left index finger down the straightline of my nose, pinch my left earlobe, touch my hair, brush my right eyebrow, and bite my lower lip. I do it so fast you’d miss it if you blinked twice.
I serve hard, and Zoya returns with power. Time bends. My shoes squeak against the acrylic, the ball thuds on the strings, and my breath catches on impact. Sweat drips down my temple as I sprint into position and fire the ball back to her side.
“Deuce,” Chad calls out over the microphone.
I take it. This time, the ball was clearly out. I don’t bother lifting my gaze from the service line.Bop,bop,bopgoes the ball as I bounce it six times. The scent of new fibers exploding in my nostrils calms me in an instant.
I’ve got this.
Only I don’t.
Zoya is blonde, tall, and willowy, with feline eyes of the lightest shade of blue. She reminds me of my mother, which only makes things worse. It always has. It always will. My need to crush her is primal. Chemical. Zoya might stand at six feet, but what I lack in height, I make up for in wrath.
Nose. Ear. Hair. Brow. Lip.
