Page 46 of Break Point
It would’ve been mortifying to have played against Zoya this time around. I can’t allow her to notice my weaknesses. And I know it’s no one’s fault but mine, but I still hate when people call me out on my shit because Iamaware of the mistakes I made in China. And I don’t need Henry and my dad repeating any of those things to me. And they did … more than a few times. That’s why I ended up throwing my noise-canceling headphones over my ears, and it worked like a charm. They both got off my back.
Henry’s sitting next to me in silence in the back of the SUV while Dad rides in the front with Tony. And since it’s Friday, we’re going straight to Montclair for the weekend. But how I wish I could go to my apartment, bury myself in bed, and watch my tapes until my eyes bleed.
Henry nudges my shoulder with his and jerks his chin at my dad, who I notice is trying to grab my attention. I pull off my headphones and let them hang around my neck.
“Sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“I was asking if you’ll be staying in tonight since your mom and I are attending an event in the city,” he repeats himself. “I want to make sure you don’t need Tony.”
“I’m staying in,” I tell him, my tone dry enough to pass for annoyed. I’m impressed my dad has the energy to attend an event after the long-ass trip back home. “Thanks.”
Dad replies with a nod and returns to his conversation with Tony. I grab my headphones to put them back on when Henry says, “Do youwant me to watch your tapes with you? I could help you figure out what went wrong.”
“No thanks. I’m good, Coach.” As if he hadn’t already told me in his own words how I messed up my game. Besides, I’m planning to watch those tapes alone. I don’t need the extra humiliation of having someone witness me cringe at my mistakes every other minute.
“Bells,” he whispers, “look at me.” His pale blue eyes look sleepy from the flight, but they’re hypnotic and manage to seize my gaze.
Henry coming to China with me as my coach was bittersweet. We dreamed about going on tour together for years. We had it all mapped out and speculated on the places we would go, and how amazing it would be to experience it together. We shared the same dream and were so sure we would get to live it. It was all we knew and the reason we busted our asses off for years.
Only he’s not playing tennis, and after that awkward encounter with Liam at my apartment the other day, things are still weird between us. So our childhood plans aren’t looking quite like we expected they would.
Henry’s wearing light blue jeans, black and white Air Jordans, and a black hoodie. His dark locks are sticking out, and he looks cute, which annoys me beyond measure because I’m not in the mood to react to his face. I’ve already been doing that every single day since he returned from Chicago. I thought I was doing an okay job shoving those reactions aside, but I was wrong. He’s so painfully handsome to the point of it being unfair.
Even if he’s changed so much, he’s shown me glimpses of the Henry I used to know, so I know he’s still in there, even if I know he’s in pain. He’s dealt with a lot from what he’s told me. I’m surprised by his resilience and emotional stability despite everything. Something tells me the things he has shared with me are just the tip of the iceberg.
I admire him, and I’m sure my face betrays me, especially when we’re training. Henry seems so much in his element on a tennis court, like he deserves to be standing there more than I do.
To say my thoughts and my feelings have been in constant turmoil since he arrived is an understatement. I’m still pissed at him, but I also understand what he went through, and a part of me thinks he’s either lying or hiding something, but I can’t accuse him of that. I have too muchon my mind. No wonder I got my ass handed to me in China by a mediocre tennis player.
Henry wets his lips and says, “I know you’re disappointed about your performance, but we can turn it around. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You keep beating yourself up, and you need to stop doing that.”
That’s another reason Henry’s presence has been getting on my nerves. He knows me too well and doesn’t hesitate to call it like it is. He keeps throwing truths at my face. Truths that hurt my pride and my ego. He doesn’t tiptoe around me. Henry knows how much I care about him, even if my responses might make people think otherwise. He knows talking back and openly arguing with someone is practically my love language.
He still knowsme.
Tony pulls over in our driveway and jumps out of the car to help with our bags. Dad follows him.
“Listen …” I clear my throat, which feels scratchy and dry after hours of recycled airplane air conditioning. “I know I’m the idiot who has a ‘distracting boyfriend’ and can’t manage to play decent tennis because of it,” I tell him. “So yeah, I’ll watch the tape, but all I’ll be thinking about is how I should’ve turned off my phone at seven and gone to bed by eight every night. So if you have a magic formula to cure stupidity, I’m all ears, Coach.”
This is a clear example of the type of reply I shoot back at people when deep down I know they’re trying to be supportive. I’m unable to recognize it because my mind registers everything as an attack, as if I weren’t attacking myself enough as it is.
Exhibit A: I’ve been obsessing over the following statement on the awake portions of our flight back home:My shit game in China is not Liam’s fault. That’s my current mantra. And I’ll repeat that until I’m out of breath because a part of me can’t help but be irritated at him whenIshould have drawn a line. When I should have explained to him how crucial it was for me to get in the zone when I’m at a tournament. I should learn to communicate better while I’m at it. But I got carried away.
The nonstop texting door was left open by no one else but me. But that’s not how we used to operate. Before, I would leave for a tournamentand wouldn’t talk to Liam until I returned. This stems from me trying to be more thoughtful, but this whole being-a-good-girlfriend thing is not working in my favor.
How can I complain whenIasked him to be my boyfriend? I chose this against my dad’s and Henry’s advice, but at what cost? This first tournament went to shit because of it, and I’m low-key hating on Liam right now, even when I know I shouldn’t. I haven’t replied to his texts since before I boarded the plane to New York. I’m just … overwhelmed.
“It’s useless trying to talk to you when you get like this,” Henry replies with an annoyed tone, lifting one of his thick, dark brows at me.
He steps out of the car, shutting the door before I can say anything. Not that I knew how to respond to that. I know I’m being difficult. I can’t even stand myself, so I get it. I get where he’s coming from.
It’s easier to ignore him than to acknowledge my behavior, so I absentmindedly run my tongue over my teeth and grab my backpack to follow everyone out.
When I walk inside the house, I spot a gorgeous, massive flower arrangement of purple and magenta blooms.
For some reason, I thought that after telling Liam how I sucked in China, he wouldn’t send me anything. It only makes me feel worse because I didn’t do a thing to deserve them, and I know all he wants is to cheer me up. But what kind of shit person am I if I can’t stand my boyfriend sending me flowers to cheer me up?
Liam’s the best, and I suck at being his girlfriend.
