Page 116 of Break Point
“Copy that,” Drew says, already pushing up from his seat. He glances at me, chin jutting toward the magazine like it’s toxic waste. “Guessing you don’t want this, kid?”
“All yours,” I say with a wave.
God knows I’d only obsess over the photos if he left it behind.
Drew scoops it up like evidence from a crime scene. “I’ll call you later,” he tells Dad. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Dad nods his thanks, waving him off likeplease do.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” Dad says, looking at both of us. “Now that we’ve cleared the air about last night.”
That’s a generous way to put it.
“Of course,” Henry says, and I nod.
“I just got word that you’ve been seeded for the Monterrey Open,” he says. “That’s a big deal. The dates are tricky for me since your mom and I have to be in New York that week for the Yankees’ Hall of Fame inductionceremony. We need to decide now if you’ll be attending. I told them I’d get back to them once I confirmed with you.”
“Monterey, California?” I ask, confused.
“Monterrey, México,mijita,” he says in Spanish to clarify. “Es el Abierto GNP Seguros. Ya te había platicado.¿Te acuerdas?”?1
Oh!
It hits me like a delayed reaction, and then I practically squeal.
“Oh my God! Yes!” I’d always wanted to play in Mexico. And this would be my first chance. “I remember you told me about it.”
“I would hate to see you miss that opportunity,” Dad adds. “You know it’s important for me. And I know it is for you, too.”
“What are the dates?” I ask. “Do we have an estimate on when Tim will start coaching me?”
“It’s, um …” Dad pulls out his phone and taps the screen. “The week of April 11th. Tim starts by the end of April. He’ll be coming with us for the European leg of the tour, starting with Mutua Madrid.”
The words settle like ice water pouring down my back.
Henry’s days as my coach are numbered. It shouldn’t catch me off guard. I knew this was coming, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
As hard as it is to look at him right now, I’ll hate to see him go. Hate what it might mean for us and how easy distance can turn into silence.
And this time, it feels inevitable.
“Can we go over the tour dates again?” I say, trying to get my mind off Henry and I being separated again.
“Sure,” Dad says, tapping his screen again. “One second.”
“We leave for Dubai on February 10,” Henry cuts in. “Indian Wells on March 3rd and Miami right after that on the 20th. Madrid on April 27. Rome right after that on May 8th. Then Roland Garros on the 16th. Then, you’re flying back to New York to prepare for Wimbledon. Your flight hasn’t been booked yet for that, but I suggest doing so on June 14th. Then, back to the Rogers Cup at the beginning of August. You’re skipping Cincinnati this year to rest and prepare for the US Open, which is at the endof August, as you know.”
I stare at him, swallowing down the way he’s soft-launching an apology disguised like it’s just good coaching. It’s theI know your life so well I’ve memorized it better than my ownvibes that are killing me.
But I’m on to him.
He struggles to say the things that matter out loud, but he remembers I like my milk warmed for exactly twenty-two seconds. He held on to a tennis ball for almost ten years because it holds special meaning. He leaves my smoothie on the counter whenever I hit snooze one too many times. And apparently? He’s memorized my tournament schedule by heart.
Of course he has.
That’s who he is. Just … Henry. Always paying attention. Always getting under my skin. And that’s what wrecks me most of all because I need to stay whole. Not in pieces.
Not because of him.
