Page 162 of Break Point
We nod, part ways, and head to our baselines for warm-up.
I give the cameras a small, focused wave and start my usual routine: jog to the baseline, a few quick skips, a stretch, and deep, steadying breaths.
Sabine and I trade clean, steady groundstrokes across the net. I glance up at our box between points. Gemma and Robbie are quiet now, watching the warm-up. Henry and Tim are talking, and Dad’s already filming on his phone.
I focus on the rhythm, the ball, and the way the court feels under my feet, trying to get in the zone and drown out the weight of the silence … and the fact that Mom’s seat is still empty.
I keep telling myself she got caught up in interviews and will appear any minute now. Maybe she got pulled aside by someone important. Orstopped for coffee.
Or a drink …
I shake my head quickly as something twists low in my stomach. I can’t let it get to me. She could be here, just not sitting with the others. That has to be it. I can’t afford to let her absence mean what it always does.
Not yet.
The umpire calls time.
The first hit of adrenaline sharpens everything. I bounce on my toes and head to the baseline.
I NEHBL, toss the ball high in the air, and serve.
Game on.
This is one of the best matches I’ve played in my entire life. One more game, maybe two, and I’ll be in the semis. I haven’t glanced up at our box once. Not even as I towel off, sip water, and settle into the changeover bench. But curiosity is crawling beneath my skin. The match is almost over. What harm could it do to look? She should be here by now.
I’m sure she is.
But when I finally look up, Gemma’s still there, fists clenched in front of her mouth. Henry’s at the edge of his seat, his knee bouncing like he might jump down and serve the point himself. Tim’s next to him, arms crossed tight over his chest.
Wait.
My eyes sweep the rows, hoping Mom and Dad just shifted seats, or moved for a better angle … something. But no. They’re gone. Drew’s missing, too, but that’s normal. He has other clients to attend to and comes and goes as he can.
My heart skips a beat. Heat flashes up my neck.
What the hell is going on?
I slam the water bottle down and rise before the umpire calls time. If something’s happening, I’ll deal with it once I finish this.
I need to get off this court.
Now.
I clutch the last game by the throat and don’t let go. I don’t even givethe final point a chance to settle. The second it’s over with an ace down the T, I skip the fist pump and the theatrics. I walk, racket in hand, pulse pounding, and meet my opponent at the net for a quick handshake.
“Good match,” she says. I nod but don’t answer.
I’m back to scanning again.
The crowd’s roaring.
Camera flashes blind me.
But I’m still searching for my parents like a kid at a school recital, craning her neck for familiar faces … and finding none.
I smile and wave mechanically to the crowd, then head to my bench. I barely register the applause as I grab my things. I shake the umpire’s hand and walk off like I’ve been hunting for hours and the dogs have finally started howling.
My limbs are jittery, and my breath comes short and ragged as I head for the tunnel.
