Page 113 of Break Point
Maybe I suffered all day yesterday without reason, playing the victim to her carelessness. Or maybe she could’ve just called while it was still my birthday on my time zone and saved me the heartache.
She, too, was stunned by my agreeable reply. I could feel it from ten thousand-and-something miles away. My attitude led her to let me off quicker than usual. A new insight.
The call ended with a simple “Good luck” and no further explanation as to why she skipped Australia. Not that I asked. I wouldn’t dare go there, especially not before a big match.
Not that I don’t already know the reason.
Henry stands with a sigh. I can feel the frustration oozing from his every movement. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with me now that I’m not snapping or storming off.
Sorry to disappoint.Turns out, I’m capable of being calm. But I never thought that being pleasant, obedient, and a good listener would make people this uncomfortable.
“Miss Freeman, you’re next,” someone from the staff informs me. I stand from the chair with a smile, and Henry grabs the towel and Sportaid before I can hand them over.
Still, I don’t glance at him. And this time, he doesn’t say,Be nice, before I head out for my interview like he always does. This new, numbed-out way of living is doing wonders for me. It’s not what I thought peace would look like, but it’s a start.
From now on, I’ll leave all my fire on the court. And as I take my seat for the interview, I rest easy in that knowledge.
After thirty-something long minutes of answering questions from the media, it seems like we’re finally done, but a man in the back raises his small notepad for a final question.
The moderator allows him to speak.
“Miss Freeman,” the reporter says, flipping through his notepad with theatrical innocence. “This morning’sMelbourne Weeklycover features your brother and coach following Zoya Kruschenko and her publicist Abigail Sloane around the hotel lobby and finally getting into an elevator together, reportedly for a, and I quote … ‘private mixed doubles afterparty.’”
He chuckles like he didn’t just light a match.
Knowing her publicist was there explains a lot. Leave it to Zoya Kruschenko and Abigail Sloane to turn a hotel elevator into a PR landmine. And leave it to my brother and Henry to walk straight intotheir trap.
“Care to comment?”
The room holds its breath. Henry’s jaw tightens. And, somehow, my hands stay perfectly still on the table.
I meet the reporter’s eyes and lean forward.
“Sounds crowded.” The words land sharp and flat. Not playful. Not embarrassed. Just … done. I let the pause stretch to twist the knife. “Good thing I prefer singles.”
People chuckle as I sit back and bring the water bottle to my lips while the reporter tries to laugh it off likejust doing my job here, but nobody’s laughingwithhim.
Henry’s staring at the floor like he might combust. And that’s the moment Drew and Dad choose to walk into the press conference.
I lift my brows, cool and collected.
“Any more tennis questions?” I say, looking around the room. “Or are we just here to talk fanfiction?”
Drew’s mouth flies open. It quickly turns into a smirk like he’s proud of me for standing up to myself without flipping over a table.
The moderator thanks me for my time, ends the press conference, and announces that the next player will arrive in fifteen minutes.
I stand and shake the moderator’s hand with a smile.
Dad and Drew whisk me away from the media tent like there’s been a sudden outbreak of the plague. Henry trails behind, carrying my stuff like a disgruntled sherpa who did not sign up for this expedition. Not that he ever lets me carry my own stuff anyway.
“We’re skipping the luncheon,” Dad says.
Bless him.
“I’ve got a list of things we need to go over,” he adds. “Best to handle it back at the hotel.”
Fine by me.
