Page 78 of Break Point
“We need to talk,” Dad says, holding my shoulders at arm’s length. His excitement is contagious, and he can’t stop smiling.
“Of course,” I reply, brushing the sweat off my face with a towel.
I won the third-round match 6-4, 6-3 against Jules Peeters, a tough Belgian player, advancing to the fourth round.
I’ve been feeling great with my game in Australia, and I have Henry to thank for that. He’s been so committed to my training. It’s like we both locked in after that night almost three months ago when we finally laid everything out and chose to focus on my training.
“Bells!” Henry slides my duffle bag’s strap off my shoulder, drops it on the floor, and wraps his arms around me. “You were fantastic.” He presses a gentle kiss on the top of my head as we sway from side to side, and I sink into his warmth.
All the hard work has paid off. After ending things with Liam, I’ve feltmore focused. More like myself. And as much as I hate to admit it, I know I let myself get caught up in him. He was never the problem. I was. I made Liam my escape when I should have been focused on my tennis career.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss him though. Because I do. We were close. He mattered. But processing the end of our relationship has been easier than I thought it’d be. Maybe it’s because we haven’t talked or seen each other since the breakup, or maybe it’s that, deep down, I knew we were heading here.
Ojos que no ven, corazón que no siente. Out of sight, out of mind.
However, I know Liam never misses the Australian Open. He and his brothers come every year. It’s their ritual. He spends the holidays at home in Sydney with his family, then they fly to Melbourne for the event.
The thought of seeing him makes me anxious, no matter how much I’ve tried to push it away. As if I didn’t already have enough conflicting thoughts swirling in my head.
Lately, I can’t stop worrying about my mom’s drinking.
She’s an alcoholic.
I’m still trying to make peace with calling it that. Henry says it’s important to call it what it is. That it starts with people excusing their loved ones and pretending it’s not a problem. So yeah, I’m worried. I keep wondering what’s at the root of it. A part of me thinks she’s trying to escape something; her life or her regrets, one gin and tonic at a time. But I’m part of that life. Does that make me part of what she’s trying to escape?
Henry insists that’s not it. We talk about it more often than I should admit. He gets it, his dad went through worse. But that doesn’t make it easier. If anything, it means he knows how much it hurts. And he’s the only person I can truly talk to about this.
I haven’t said much to Gemma. She’s not clueless, but I haven’t found the courage to open up about it. It could be shame. No one understands the feeling better than Henry or Robbie, but let’s be honest … Robbie’s mind is usually elsewhere. School, girls, gym, partying. I tried bringing it up to him once, but he brushed it off. He’s clearly in denial.
I’m grateful to have my best friend back.
That leads to another set of swirling thoughts.
Henry.
Dealing with my feelings for him has been … a lot.
I’ve done my best to focus on tennis and push those confusing thoughts aside. For now. Training with him every day makes me beyond happy. It fills me with a sense of peace I’d forgotten I was missing.
It’s evident he’s enjoying the time we spend together, too. I still can’t believe we’re freaking roommates and get to spend most of the day together.
I’ve caught him staring at me numerous times. When he thinks I’m distracted, when he’s waiting for me to tie my shoelaces before we leave, when I take my time resetting my racket’s strings, when I redo my ponytail, or when he holds the door for me to step into the SUV.
It’s always in casual, unguarded moments like those. But I always pretend to be beneath his notice. I’m afraid to see what happens if I meet his gaze and let him knowIknow he’s looking at me. Will he look away? Will he stop altogether?
I’m scared to look into his eyes and realize it’s nothing more than a fleeting glance from a guy who sees me as just a friend. Someone he’s simply grown used to having around.
When it comes to Henry, it’s easier to play dumb. I’ve forced myself to act clueless, ignoring my instincts, because despite my fears, I can feel the electricity between us. It’s undeniable. But I also see the way he keeps shying away from it.
I’m sick of him being lukewarm, mellow, and … polite. So damn polite. Like he’s scared of setting off a bomb we both know is already ticking.
I wish I could rattle him, but I’m too chicken-shit to actually try. It feels like gambling with our friendship, and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take. We’ve reconnected on a deeper level, and I refuse to jeopardize that.
Our interactions are either fun or meaningful, at least when he’s not busy being the ruthless coach he loves to be.
It’s better to let things be.
I keep catching myself daydreaming about that kiss. I remember the way he kissed me back, the passion in it, raw and real. It confuses me. It makes me wonder if he ever thinks about it, too. If he considers the possibility of us being something more than friends.
