Page 7 of Break Point
My eyes sting with tears that threaten to start pouring down my face again, but I swallow them back. Robbie sets down his drink and stands up to hug me. I bury my face in his shoulder and let him squeeze the feelings out of me with a tight embrace.
A knock on the locker room door makes me turn my attention toward the sound.
It’s Liam.
“Belén.” He hurries my way the moment he spots me, offering a firm handshake to Drew and Dad as he walks past them.
“Hey, mate.” Liam greets Robbie before throwing his arms aroundme. His hold is warm and comforting around my shoulders. “You were great out there. I’m so proud of you.”
My cheek finds that magic spot on his chest as I watch my dad raise an eyebrow at me. At us.That boy is a distraction, I can practically hear him saying in my head.
“I hope I’m not late for your racket’s burial service,” he says, making me chuckle.
He gently lifts my chin, tilting it upward to get a better look at my face.
He always lights up my day like a warm beam of sunshine.
“We’re ready for Miss Freeman!” a staff member shouts through the open door. The trophy ceremony comes right after the match, but they’ve already given me a few extra minutes to “recover” from the embarrassing episode.
Liam breaks off the embrace, cups my face, and shoots me a disarming look. He’s so good to me, but I always have to be somewhere else and running away from him when I don’t want to be.
“I need to get to the ceremony,” I say in barely a whisper. “But … are you free tomorrow? Gemma’s coming over too for tape night, and I thought we could hang out and?—”
“I’ll bring pizza,” he whispers back, beaming. “And a fresh notebook for you to take notes.”
I reciprocate his smile and walk backward until our hands break apart.
My dad nods once at Liam and places his hands on my shoulders to guide me out into my personalized torture chamber.
As we make our way back to the main court, more judgment-filled stares are directed at me. I’m still learning how to navigate being in the spotlight, listening to the cameras clicking inches away from my face, but my mind is elsewhere, and I can’t find it in me to care.
I lost. In my book, there’s no such thing as “winning” second place. And if there’s anything I hate more than losing, it’s losing against Zoya Kruschenko onmyturf.
Shake it off and smile for the cameras, damn it.
CHAPTER 3
BLUE-EYED GHOSTS
SEPTEMBER 12, 2010
A BEAUTIFUL FLOWERarrangement arrived this morning from Liam, right after Mom texted to congratulate me for my second-place finish at the US Open. She promised to call me later in the day, but it’s already 4:00 p.m., and there’s still nothing but radio silence.
I’m not sure if I want to listen to what she has to say. That’s the main reason why I decided not to go home to Jersey this weekend. The apartment in Manhattan feels more like home nowadays. It’s the only other place besides the court where I find true peace.
Interacting with my mom corners me into defensive mode, so ending our conversation with her last text might be a better idea. She congratulated me, and that should suffice. I wish I could go about my day without expecting her to call me.
The doorbell rings, and Gemma squeals, throwing herself into my arms the second I open the door. We haven’t seen each other in months. She just got back from South Korea, where she spent most of the summer visiting her dad’s side of the family, and I’ve been busy training my ass off and traveling. With everything that went down yesterday, I didn’t get to spend any time with her at the event.
I missed her.
Gemma walks in carrying her favorite hot pink YSL bag, rolling a small suitcase behind her. Her short, straight, jet-black hair bounces against her neck. She’s a tiny, cute little thing who’s always dressed to impress, and today is no exception. But there’s something different about her.
“Did you get your boobs done?” I ask, shutting the door. I can’t help but stare at the perky cleavage peeking through her white blouse. She drops her bag on the living room couch and squats on the floor, heels and all, to unzip the mystery luggage.
I’m wearing an oversized gray Yankees jersey over black cycling shorts and mid-calf retro socks—one of my go-to lounging outfits. I know Liam’s coming over, but he’s rarely seen me in anything other than sportswear or casual clothes. I let my long dark brown hair down and sprayed some perfume to keep it cute. I’m not in the best mood to dress up. It’s nothing but tape night and pizza.
Gemma looks down at her blouse and laughs. “A lot has happened during the summer.”
