Page 182 of Break Point
I laugh, still dazed, and lean in for the handshake. “Thanks for the match,” I say, my grip firm and my voice steady.
Still holding my hand, Theo jerks his chin toward my box and winks.
Ather.
“You’re shameless,” I mutter, clapping his back.
“And you’re lucky.” He walks off, and I finally let myself look up.
Belén.
My chest cracks open the moment I spot her. She’s on her feet, hands over her mouth, eyes glassy and shining. It’s all pride, joy, and a love so consuming it doesn’t fit inside my body.
It hits me like a freight train.
She did this. She brought me back. Pulled the fight out of me when I thought I had none left.
My knees give out.
The numbness that’s been paralyzing me since the final point shatters with no resistance. Like it was only waiting for her.
My dream girl. My fire. My fuckingeverything.
But she can’t rush down to me. Not yet. Not at Wimbledon.
So I wait, like I waited yesterday afterherwin. After the trophy. After the press.
Pressing my hands into the grass, I bow my head in part out of gratitude, part disbelief, and part surrender.
Still kneeling, I lift a finger to the sky, hoping I made him proud. Wishing he were here to see it, the past be damned.
I spring to my feet, fist clenched in front of my face, and let out a deep, guttural roar. The crowd erupts with me, and the cheering becomes a tidal wave that crashes through my body.
Jogging to the chair umpire, now on the ground, I point at Belén and tap my chest a few times, right above my heart.
He grabs my hand, shakes it with a smile, and congratulates me. I nod in return as the court transforms into the stage for the trophy ceremony.
Back at the hotel, I’m still riding the high, but I’m spent after handling media obligations, photos, doping control, and the official press conference. Drew’s already calling meetings about million-dollar campaigns and brands trying to ride the momentum.
I need a second.
I need her.
Belén opens the door before I knock. I texted her on the way up.
She’s glowing. Damp hair. Fresh face. Still wrapped in the echo of everything we just lived.
“Am I in the right room?” I ask, brows raised, resisting the urge to grab her by the waist and lock ourselves inside this room for the rest of the week. “I was told there’d be aprivate singles afterparty.”
She laughs, bunches my shirt into her fist, and pulls me inside.
“You’re right on time,” she whispers in my ear. “The mixed doubles group just left.”
I snort at her shamelessness, grab her face, and kiss her hard. She jumps. I catch her strong thighs as she wraps her legs around my waist.
“I’m filthy,” I say, breathless, as she bites my lower lip.
“Let’s fix that. We have a dinner to attend.”
