Page 176 of Break Point
It’s a war of wills.
And I’m done playing on her terms.
SECOND SET
Zoya took the first set 6-4.
I fought for it. God knows I did. But she was cleaner, smarter. Colder.
We’re tied at 3–3 in the second, and I’m still playing catch-up. Everyball she hits feels like it’s dipped in acid. It’s sharp, corrosive, and designed to make me doubt everything I’ve trained for.
Henry’s last words before leaving the locker room resonate inside my head: “It’s your court. Take it back.”
Then comes the rally. Seventeen shots that shock my system and leave me breathless. She pushes me to my limit from corner to corner, baseline to baseline. I slide, moan, stretch, and lunge for a backhand slice I have no business reaching. It clips the net and barely crawls over.
Zoya gets there, but she’s a beat too late.
She nets it.
4–3, me. First break of the set.
The crowd explodes like someone flipped a switch. The roar swells so loud that Chad has to ask for silence over the mic. It takes a few beats for the audience to settle.
Then, from the top row, a guy yells, “Marry me, Belén!”
Without thinking, I shout back, “Get in line!”
The place bursts into laughter, but the noise dies down in time before Chad has a full-blown meltdown.
And just like that, focus clicks into place.
I pull her forward with a drop shot. She gets there late and dumps it in the net. 5–3. I do it again on the next point, this time with a sharp angle, and she overhits it wide.
Shedoeshate the net. I can see it in the way her feet stall, just for a beat, before charging in. It’s not her safe space. That’s not where she shines. The mask stays on, but I can feel the hairline fracture.
Mom was right.
But Zoya doesn’t crumble. She regroups and holds her next service game quickly. 5–4.
I serve next, hoping to close the set, but I can’t. She breaks me after a long deuce, staying aggressive and fearless.
We’re tied again. 5–5. This could swing either way. But I refuse to let her take control.
She steps up to serve, riding momentum, firing two winners down the line and forcing me into three more deuces. But this time, I don’t fold. I hold my ground.
And I break her. 6–5.
My time to serve now.
I take my time between points, wiping my face, bouncing the ball exactly six times, NEHBLing like I have all the time in the world. I stop rushing. Stop playing at her pace. My hands are on the controls now. I’m dictating the tempo.
Set point.
I glance at the ball and NEHBL. Without stopping to think, I kiss it. A new step. A risky one. One I haven’t tried since I was eight.
INEHBLK.
God, I hate how it sounds. I shouldn’t mess with my ritual. Not in the most important final of my entire career so far.
