Page 175 of Break Point
I scan the stadium and walk toward the bench. My people are exactly where they should be. Dad is in his Yankees cap, camera in hand, and ready to film. Robbie and Gemma sit side by side, probably still recovering from that kiss. And judging by the way they keep stealing glances, this time they might not overthink it. Maybe this time they’ll let it happen.
Drew’s on the phone but waving energetically and flashing his pearly whites my way.
And Henry? His eyes are locked on me like I’m the only thing that exists in this entire arena.
Mom has now quietly taken her seat.
I wave at the crowd, but not at my family. I can’t. If I lift a hand, I might break.
Zoya’s already stretching on her side of the court, cool as ever, pretending to be deaf to the noise. I don’t know how she does it, how she looks so unbothered while I’m out here barely holding it together.
She doesn’t look at me. Not once. She doesn’t need to. She’s already owned this court once before and watched me unravel at my defeat.
I reach my chair and set my bag down. Unzipping it, I pull out a purple Neel Ultex racket, the same model I thrashed last year.
But not this year. No racket tantrums, no matter the outcome.
I kiss the frame, and those who get the joke laugh. I stretch it, cradling the racket like a baby. More laughter.
Then I settle.
Drew will be thrilled, and so will my sponsor.
But it’s time to get serious.
I bounce on my toes and force air through my lungs.
As I walk to the baseline, a ball kid tosses me three balls. I choose twoand tuck one into the built-in shorts under my violet, custom-made pleated skirt.
Adidas designed the whole look for tonight. It’s soft lilac and crisp lines. The cropped, collared top feels classic with an edge. It’s the kind of outfit that moves with me and transcends time.
Warm-up feels like a blur. The sound of the crowd, the pop of the ball, and the umpire’s voice blur together, like background noise I’m barely registering.
Game face on.
Let’s go.
Zoya serves first. She holds at love. Not the start I wanted.
Then it’s my turn. Two unforced errors, a rushed approach, and a double fault.
Shit.
I sit during the changeover and press the towel over my face, not just to dry off, but to get a second alone with my thoughts.
She’s controlling everything. The pace. The angles. The noise.
Mom’s words pop back in my head:She hates the net. She avoids it unless she has no choice.
Next point, I throw in a low slice that skims just over the net.
She charges forward, off balance, and swings wide.
The crowd reacts. And I’d bet my bottom dollar that whatever came out of her mouth wasn’t fit for a lady.
Good.
This isn’t just a match.
