Page 163 of Break Point
“Belén!” someone shouts. I pretend I don’t hear. Because if I stop moving, I might unravel right here on Centre Court.
She promised.
She fucking promised to be here and only made it as far as the venue. It’s ridiculous. It’s rude. It’s not okay.
I keep believing her. Keep thinking she might come around and show up for me … for once.
The corridor is quiet and cool as I follow my host, bypassing the media as I previously requested, a stark contrast to the screaming, sunlit arena I just left behind. My clipped footsteps echo against the floor. I keep walking, my jaw clenched so tight it burns.
“Bells!” Henry’s voice echoes behind me, a little breathless. “Wait!”
I stop but don’t turn around right away. I’m not ready to face the crude reality yet. I know he’s here to let me down easy, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough for a disappointment this big. It’s letting myself believe that makes me feel stupid. Like I’m nine all over again.
“Where’s Mom?”
Other players, VIPs, and staff brush past us, muttering apologies. I’m clutching my towel like it’s the only thing tethering me to Earth.
Henry steps in front of me and gently wipes away the tears I hadn’t realized were falling.
He swallows, steps closer, and hugs me, pressing a kiss to my sweaty head.
“She fainted,” he says. “Your dad got a call from the medical tent after you won the first set. Someone found her passed out in the bathroom. Your dad left right after the call and rushed her to the hospital.”
The world tilts. I blink hard, trying to make sense of what he’s telling me, unable to decipher how it makes me feel.
“Is she okay?” I blurt, panic rising. “Will she be okay?”
“She’s okay,” he says reassuringly. “She was severely dehydrated, but they’re taking good care of her at the hospital.”
“Take me to her,” I say.
Henry nods and reaches for my bag.
“Don’t you dare.” I point at him, stepping back and yanking the thick strap higher on my shoulder. “I’m more than capable of carrying my shit. I’ll report you to Dr. Rivera if you try that again.”
I’m not even kidding.
He lets out a laugh, but it comes out mostly sad and worried.
“Why don’t you gather the rest of your stuff from the locker room first?” he says. “I’ll let the others know we’re leaving and meet you in the parking lot.”
“Wait,” I say, and he stops. “Who am I up against in the semis tomorrow?”
“Tim will text you the name as soon as he knows,” he says. “Like he always does.”
I give him a sharp nod and rush toward the locker rooms.
We arrive at the hospital. Robbie came with us, but Gemma stayed behind to give us privacy and said she would meet me later at the hotel.
Robbie calls Dad to ask where we can find them. He gives us the floor number and tells us to meet him in the waiting room.
The elevator doors can’t open fast enough. I dash out and find Dad hunched in a chair, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.
“Hey, Joe,” Henry says.
Dad flinches at the sound of his name and shoots up from his seat.
He looks wrecked. Worried. Hollow. The saddest I’ve ever seen him.
