Page 178 of Break Point
Break point.
I cannot afford to lose this game.
I NEHBL. Serve. Flat and fast to her backhand. She scrambles and barely gets it over the net. I take control as we trade shots. Ten balls. Twelve. I’m so fucking tired. But I’m not backing down. Not now. Not when I see it … an opening.
I whip a forehand screaming into the sideline, and it lands flush.
Chadcalls, “In.”
The crowd goes wild, and I fist-pump close to my face.
“That was out!” Zoya barks in her heavy Russian accent, raising a hand.
I don’t even flinch. Chad’s ego has this covered. He hates being second-guessed more than he hates double faults. He lifts a finger and presses his mic.
“The ball was in. No challenge remaining,” Chad calls. “Deuce.”
Zoya storms to the baseline.
She’s cracking.
The next two points are mine, and so is the set.
Zoya barely holds her next service game. Grunting, gritting her teeth, and muttering to herself between points. She scrapes through, but her confidence is fraying. The tension is visible. Audible. The crowd is picking up on it, the silence becoming thicker and heavier to bear.
I don’t let up.
On my serve, I stay aggressive. Mix up the pace. Make her guess wrong. I dominate the game with clean shot-making and sharper decisions. There’s no hesitation. No overthinking.
I hold at love.
5–3.
Zoya’s serving to stay in the match.
But it doesn’t feel like I’m one game away from winning.
It feels like the match could go on forever if she holds her serve. Like she could find a second wind, and I might not have one left.
A subtle panic sets in my spine. I don’t know how much longer I can hold when I’m about to combust. What if my body gives out on me?
What if?—
I blink hard, my vision blurring for a second too long.
I shake it off.
Zoya aces me out wide on the first point. No surprise. She’s not going quietly.
0–15.
Her next serve jams my body. I block it back on instinct, but she’s already closing in, volleying the ball away with a grunt.
0–30.
Exhaling hard, I widen my stance. She serves to my backhand again, but I change it up and redirect it crosscourt, low and sharp.
She’s late.
