Page 67 of Break Point
Normally, I’d complain, but I keep quiet. Henry knows I can barely keep myself upright, which is why I’m staying put until it’s absolutely necessary. Ten serves feel impossible, let alone one-freaking-hundred. And if he expects me to hop on a treadmill after that, he better start dialing an ambulance, because I will collapse on the spot.
I dig deep into whatever energy I have left and push myself up with both hands on my thighs. Foolishly, a proud part of me wants to prove I can do this. That I’m fine.
The metallic basket, filled to the brim with tennis balls, sits waiting for me on the service line. At this point, there’s nothing left to do but try.
I turn my back to Henry so he won’t see me take a shaky breath or wipe the cold sweat from my forehead with my towel.
“Crap,” I mutter under my breath, grabbing a ball and instinctively starting to NEHBL.
“I said no NEHBLing!” Henry shouts from the net, arms firmly crossed over his chest. He’s punishing me. He knows how anxious it makes me to serve without my ritual. It’s ingrained in my entire being.
“I’ll keep count so you can focus on your serve,” he says, clicking a metallic tally counter in his right hand. “Go!”
Henry removes his cap, turns it backward, and crosses his arms over his chest again.
I give him a quick, curt nod and look down at my feet, bouncing the tennis ball six times, trying to get in the mood for training—a task that’s never felt harder.
“Let’s go! We don’t have all day!”
I serve. Poorly. Barely.
My shaky hand reaches for another ball, and I give it another go. The ball drifts through the air in what feels like slow motion, ballooning over the net before landing far past the service line. I can’t do this. I’m making a fool of myself.
“It’s out!” Henry shouts.
I know it’s out.
Hearing him say it only makes my racket feel heavier in my hand.
Shutting my eyes, I take a deep breath.
A superstitious part of me wants to blame my terrible serve on not being allowed to NEHBL, but I know that’s not it. My energy is drained, and the unforgiving sun only worsens my deteriorating state by the second.
I keep serving shitty serve after shitty serve, but I’m still counting. Thirty-nine.
Sixty-one more to go.
Henry isn’t calling them out loud, and I can’t take his word for it. Not today. Thirty-nine is way more serves than I thought I’d survive. The truth is, I’m barely putting any effort into them because I physically can’t, and it’s killing me.
More people are gathering around the court, like word spread that Belén Freeman is losing her mojo and everyone wants a front-row seat to the downfall. It makes me feel weak and ridiculous. They’re here for the show. Any show.
I serve my fortieth lousy ball and let my racket drop to the floor, my hands bracing against my knees. I suck in a deep breath and shout, “Forty!”
“Twenty-three!” Henry shouts back.
“Excuse me?” I grimace, a heaviness building behind my eyes, threatening to explode into the worst possible headache. His tally counter is clearly broken.
“Twenty-threeokayserves,” he clarifies. “The rest don’t qualify as such.”
“Henry …please,” I say between heavy pants, mostly to myself, but I know he can hear me. His frown suggests he might feel sorry for me, yet the slight flare of his nostrils makes it clear he’smostly furious.
He refuses to cut me any slack for last night. He’s probably regretting the kiss too, but not for the same reasons I do. I hate that my impulsiveness hurt Liam. That part’s sitting heavier than the hangover.
But even if Henry wants to pretend he didn’t get lost in that kiss, the way he touched me, with that quiet urgency, proved he wasn’t just into it; he would’ve gone further if I’d let him. If the circumstances had been different.
All I care about right now is keeping our friendship intact … if possible.
“You’re not even trying,” he grits out, the annoyance crisp in his voice as he closes the distance between us. His statement couldn’t be any further from the truth. Iamtrying. He’s just too pissed off to see it.
