Page 112 of Break Point
“GAME,SET, MATCH, FREEMAN. Two sets to love, 6–1, 6–2,” the chair umpire announces into the microphone, her heavy Australian accent dragging on the final syllables. I close my eyes, fist-pump in front of my face, kiss my racket like I always do after a win, and walk toward the net to shake Evan’s hand.
Her face is splotched from the effort. It was a tough game. For her. But this is a Grand Slam. No one’s here to make it easy.
Today, I’m all about doing what needs to be done. Playing the part. The picture-perfect athlete my dad and Drew always wanted me to be. It’s keeping me focused, and more importantly, distracted.
After dropping my stuff in the locker room, I head out for my mandatory post-match interview.
“You didn’t need to go that hard on Evan,” Henry says, scolding me. He’s in coach mode now, not Henry mode. He knows that’s the only version of himself I’ll listen to right now.
“You had this one in the bag from the start. Evan’s no match for you, and you knew it. But you went wild on her anyway.”
His concern sounds legit. But there was no other way for me to do it.
“There’s no need to burn yourself out when you’ve still got matches to play.”
We’re in the media room, waiting for me to go next, and I’m nowhere nearburning myself out. Dad’s out there somewhere with Robbie and Gemma, but I haven’t talked to any of them today. Everything’s a mess, and I don’t have the emotional verve to fake it.
I don’t know how Gemma’s doing, having to sit next to Robbie for an entire match like last night didn’t happen. I care. God, I care. But I’m maxed out. There’s nothing left in me to fix anything that isn’t happening on these courts.
A few other players roam nearby, but I’m glad Zoya’s got the day off. The odds of seeing her are slim to none. Explains why she had no problem playing hostess in her suite last night like tomorrow only happens to other people.
Patting the sweat off my face with a hand towel, I listen to Henry without talking back or arguing. It’s all part of staying focused on the only thing that makes sense right now, the only thing that feels real.
The exhaustion is settling in now that the adrenaline’s gone, and without hesitation, I admit that it’s finally caught up to me. But it was worth it. I had to channel my frustrations somewhere. Unfortunately for Evan, she got caught in the crossfire.
“This is the Australian Open,” I reply in a soft, controlled tone, my eyes fixed on a blank spot on the cream-colored wall. “I couldn’t risk it. Not after China.”
I take a swig of my watermelon Sportaid, still refusing to look at him.
Losing today wasn’t an option, and I did what I had to do to ensure there was no way Evan could slip through the cracks of my emotional instability. I was either going to play like a savage or risk being a complete mess out there.
And no, I didn’t add the K to my NEHBLing ritual. Not yet at least, even though I promised Henry I’d give it a try someday.
It reminds me too much of him.
It took a whole lot of human interaction avoidance and hip-hop blasting through my headphones just to get in the zone this morning. So, no, I wasn’t about to start tweaking myneurosis.
“You have to follow the rules we have in place,” he snaps.
He’s not being chill, and I’m weirdly impressed by how littleit affects me. I can’t connect to the roughness in his tone. Mentally, I’m somewhere else entirely.
This must be what zen actually feels like.
It’s a shame, though, that things had to get really ugly before I learned how to shut the door on all the bullshit.
Henry kneels in front of me with narrowed eyes, probably checking to see if I’m dead inside, but he has my full attention. He just thinks he doesn’t because I’m not interrupting every other word he says like I used to. This time, I’m listening and giving him his place as my coach. Not that I didn’t before. It’s just that I was always too quick to react. Too quick to talk back.
“Yes, I’m aware of the rules,” I say once it’s my turn to speak, still not looking at him. I can’t. And I know he wants me to, but his blue eyes and those thick, dark lashes will be the death of me if I so much as glance his way. I’m afraid they’ll break the trance I managed to put myself under this morning. That they’ll toss me straight back to where I was last night: shattered to pieces.
“Don’t overdo it if it’s not necessary,” he insists. “I was worried you would dislocate your shoulder with the way you were serving. You don’t want to risk your spot in the finals with a fourth-round, self-provoked injury.”
“You’re right,” I say, and he is. “I can’t be reckless.”
I could’ve won this match without going to the extreme like I did. Still, I desperately needed to let off steam, especially after my mom called at 9:00 a.m., throwing off my focus with her belated birthday wishes.
After thanking Mom with a monotonous tone, I reminded her that my birthday was yesterday, to which she replied, “But it’s still your birthday in New York.” And since she wasn’t technically wrong, I agreed: “You’re right.”
And she was.
