Page 173 of Break Point
“We need you in five minutes, Miss Freeman,” a floor manager calls through. Crisp and efficient, like it’s just another match.
But it’s not.
Not for me.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” I mutter. “I’m not used to feeling this way. I don’t?—”
“Yes, you can,” she says, calm but sure. “And you will.”
She cups my face.
“When I told you I’ve seen all your tapes,” she adds, her voice low, “I left out one little detail.”
I blink. “What?”
“I’ve been watching hers, too.”
I sit up straighter.
“Zoya likes to control the rhythm. Everyone knows that. Most players get so caught up trying to match her pace, and you’re great at it, but they forget the one thing that throws her off.”
I stare at her, waiting.
“She hates the net,” she finally says, giving me a classic Addison smirk. “She avoids it unless she has no choice. Pull her forward. Make her uncomfortable. That’s where you take her down.”
“Okay.” I nod a few times. “I can do that.”
“Don’t let her intimidate you,” she adds. “She’s good at the fearless act, but I promise you … she’s scared out of her mind. She’s got a title to defend. On your turf. And I’ve been doing the math …”
She pulls a deteriorated pocket notebook from her bag, flips it open, and thumbs through the pages.
“The 700-point drop for not defending her title leaves her stuck at No. 2 with 7,900 points,” she says, tapping her scribbles with a perfectly manicured finger. “You, on the other hand, would come out on top with 8,510.”
She looks up at me, flips her notebook shut, and smiles.
“I’d be number one?”
“Correct.” She tosses the notebook back into her bag. “How long you stay there depends on the rest of your season, but you’d get there. Way before I ever did.”
She exhales sharply and waves a hand in front of her face like she’s trying to keep the tears at bay. “Phew. Okay.”
“I’ve always sucked at math,” I say with a snotty chuckle, giving her a puzzled look as I hug her again. I’ve been recently asking my team not to bring up rankings until I actually get there. There was a time once when I got so obsessed with the scenarios and stressed out over numbers that I didn’t even calculate correctly.
But today … knowing I could reach the top? It makes me want to fight harder. Win harder.
“I know,” she deadpans. “Miss Annie keeps calling me, worried sick about your future.”
We laugh.
I settle into her arms for a moment, soaking up the strength and reassurance I didn’t know I still needed, wondering how I ever managed to function without her support.
Mom starts humming. It’s a song I know, one I haven’t heard in a while, but it brings back core memories from early childhood.
Ay, ay, ay, ay … canta y no llores.
Porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones.
Mom always struggled with the Spanish lyrics, so she would hum the melody, holding me close whenever I cried. I’d start singing it back, and all my toddler problems would melt away.
