Page 174 of Break Point

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Another knock interrupts the moment.

A staff member peeks in through thedoor.

“Time to head out.”

FIRST SET

The stadium is buzzing with energy. I’m ready to step out, but I’m not alone. Mom stands beside me, proud and composed, like we’re heading into battle.

A tournament official nods, then leads the way. We follow her toward the light, the crowd’s roar building with every step, adrenaline pulsing through my body.

Arthur Ashe erupts when they see us.

“Freeman! Freeman! Freeman!”

Mom waves to the crowd, slow and regal, and they go wilder. Applause, whistles, people rising from their seats.

They love her. She hasn’t been forgotten.

But the Mexican flags waving among the American ones remind me they’re here for me, too. They’re chanting for the legend and the one following in her footsteps.

We reach the edge of the court.

The spotlight finds us both. And right before she steps away toward her box, she leans in. So close her lips brush my ear.

“Win.”

That’s it. That one word is the permission I didn’t know I was still waiting for.

A verbal blessing.

And for the first time all day, I want to be here. I want this. I’m ready. Not for the title. Not for the points.

Forme.

Chad Armstrong is our assigned chair umpire for today’s match, not that I didn’t already know that. Talk about a full-circle moment.

“Don’t let him get under your skin,” Henry told me this morning as I drank my smoothie on the balcony. Easy for him to say when Chad Armstrong has a talent for acting like he’s the one people paid to see.

Smiling, I approach Chad, extending my hand.

I’m not the same girl who lost last year and threw a hissy fit on his watch.

I paid my dues.

Faced my demons.

And now I’m back, refusing to drop my chin and look the other way.

We meet at the net for the coin toss.

“Heads,” I call.

It lands on tails.

Zoya chooses to serve.

Figures.

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