Page 171 of Break Point
US OPEN
SEPTEMBER 11, 2011
The weatherin New York has been a mess all week, so the tournament pushed the women’s final from last night to today. Classic.
I’m in the locker room alone, music pounding through my headphones. Tim just left after the usual match breakdown and pep talk. Before that, I met with my inner circle: Henry, Gemma, Drew, and my family. I was too nervous for small talk, like I wasn’t about to enter a career-defining match. But of course, they noticed.
There’s a screen mounted in the corner showing the live tournament feed. Whatever’s on the jumbotron, I see too. Sponsor reels and crowd shots loop through the pre-match segment as I stretch and bounce on my toes, trying to shake off the anxious energy building in my body.
The Kiss Cam banner slides across the top of the screen. I don’t usually pay attention, but watching strangers make out could distract me from the fact that I’m about to walk out there and face Zoya freaking Kruschenko.
Kiss Cam starts making its rounds. I slide my headphones down to hang around my neck and grab the remote, turning up the volume to catch the reactions. The locker room is so well soundproofed I can barely hear what’s happening outside.
The camera zooms in on two random strangers awkwardly leaningaway from each other. The crowd hoots, but the camera pans away when they refuse to kiss. It cuts to an old couple. They kiss. Just a peck. The whole stadium goes, “Awww.”
I chuckle.
Then—
It lands on Robbie and Gemma, their flustered faces dead center on the big screen.
My mouth hangs open with anticipation.
Gemma would never.
Robbie grins and turns to her. Gemma looks like a deer in headlights, stiff and stunned. Until she shrugs and kisses him.
The crowd loses it.
I audibly gasp and slap a hand over my mouth.
Their kiss continues, soft and lingering. And about fucking time.
Drew’s howling and clapping like a maniac behind them. Dad’s gone full catatonic. Henry’s shaking his head like he knew this was coming. And Tim, bless him, doesn’t know where to look.
But Mom’s seat is empty. Again.
Pressure builds in my chest.
No, no, no, no.
The Kiss Cam moves on to claim its next victims as I fumble for the remote and shut the TV off.
I pace, trying to shake off the hollow sting of Mom’s empty seat. It brings back the still-fresh memories of Wimbledon. I don’t think I’ve fully recovered from that day yet, but we were moving forward from it and making real progress.
Today might be harder than she thought it would be. Maybe she can’t stomach watching me play a match that could shatter her personal record of winning the US Open at nineteen.
A record I’d been quietly plotting to break for years. A personal, petty goal. But that was before Wimbledon.
Before she admitted to her jealousy.
Before she admitted that the drinking came from that place.
She’s been so supportive ever since, making up for lost time, going above and beyond to make me feel special. Like I truly matter. Like she loves me.
She wouldn’t leave … not after everything that’s happened. But I’d understand if she needed to. I just wish she’d tell me instead of disappearing without a word.
I’m spiraling.
