Page 2 of Break Point
The NEHBL. My ritual. My anchor.
My father thinks it’scute, but I once overheard my mom call itThe Neurosis. She can call it whatever she wants, as long as I’m allowed to do it in peace before each serve. Not that she attends my matches, anyway.
I don’t mind the curious stares from the crowd, either. It’s become a bit of a spectacle, or so I’ve been told. By Drew, of course. He’s the living, breathing, and smoking definition of a busybody. But he’s practically family now. He was my father’s agent when he played for the Yankees, and once I started pursuing tennis professionally, I inherited him. Or he inherited me. It’s still up for debate.
It’s hard to admit that I’m exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Zoya must be, too, but she’s trained to repress and hide every trace of fear, pain, or emotion. Meanwhile, I’m her opposite in every way. I wear my emotions on my sleeve, burning and exploding every time. It ought to sells more tickets, too.
We volley, pushing each other to the brink with every return.
Moan. Swish-pop.
Grunt. Swish-pop.
I’m the moaner; she’s the grunter.
Moan. Swish-pop.
Grunt. Swish-pop.
She goes crosscourt, fast and deep. I’m late.
Damn it …
“Match point, Kruschenko,” Chad announces into the mic, pressing his lips like we’re taking too long and he’s got somewhere better to be.
My mind goes into a panic. I’m paralyzed. So much so that when I NEHBL and toss the ball high above me, I realize I’ve forgotten to bite my lip—the L in NEHBL. But I channel the fury into a perfect serve, forcing Zoya to counter with a two-handed backhand return.
Shit! I needed an ace.
We battle through an explosive volley. Moaning, grunting, and dragging our mini-skirted souls across the court.
Zoya changes the tempo. A tight, angled drop shot that dies past the service box.
Hell, yeah. I sprint. I know my limits, and damn it all, I get there.
But the ball stays low, barely off the ground, and there’s nothing I can do with it. I reach for it on the slide, but it skims off the frame and goes into the net.
I’m still crouched when the crowd gasps.
One, two, three seconds of confusion cloud my vision before it hits me.
Zoya’s fist pumping. She smiles and covers her face with her hands.
What just happened?
“Game, set, match, Kruschenko. Two sets to love 6-4, 7-5,” Chad announces, probably celebrating on the inside.
I don’t move.
I don’t blink.
I stand there, stunned, as the roar swells around me. And Zoya? She’s already walking over to shake the umpire’s hand like she didn’t just ruin my life with physics.
Somewhere, far in the depths of my mind, I can hear the words:Shake it off and let it be.So I take a deep breath that does nothing to stabilize me, and I thrash my racket against the court because I’d rather have my right arm disjointed from my body thanlet it fucking be.
Chad is getting a kick out of calling out a code violation into the microphone. And all I can think about is how that ball from a few points back wasn’t out. So I reach deep within and stop to glare at the man, pointing my intact racket at him as he sits calmly on his literal and figurative high chair, with his resting umpire face on.
I unleash my rant. In Spanish.
