Page 133 of Break Point
He shakes his head like he can’t let himself believe it, like the guilt is fused into his bones.
I grip his face, forcing him to look at me.
“You hear me?” I whisper. “It’s not on you. It was never on you.”
His chest shudders against mine. He’s crying again. Silent, shattering sobs he probably hasn’t let out in years.
I hold him tighter, wishing I could peel the weight off him.
“How could I walk back onto a court when she can’t walk back onto a stage?” he mutters.
“What do you mean?”
He pulls back slightly, enough to see me, but not enough to let me go.
“The doctor gave me three options after the accident,” he says, his voice flat and mechanical. “His first suggestion, surgery. Long rehab, painful, but a real shot at full recovery.”
He swallows hard.
“And?” I ask, even though I already know the answer to this question. I need to understand his logic.
“I said no.”
My eyebrows pull together, my pulse stumbling with the helpless ache of knowing I can’t change the past.
“The second option was intensive physical therapy. Longer odds without surgery, but still a chance at regaining full strength and mobility.”
He shrugs helplessly.
“I said no to that, too.”
I blink, barely breathing, feeling the frustration spiraling inside me.
“And the third?” I whisper.
He lets out a hollow, humorless chuckle.
“Manage the pain. Deal with it. Avoid too much strain. Accept the limitations. Learn to live with it.”
“Andthat’swhat you chose?”
He nods.
“It was the easiest punishment,” he says quietly. “The one I deserved.”
I stare at him, stunned. The pieces clicking into place so fast my brain can barely keep up.
“So you’re telling me,” I say slowly, my voice trembling with the force of it, “the doctor told you the injury was fixable, and you’re choosing not to operate and forfeit your lifelong dream of having a professional tennis career because you feel like you have to punish yourself for something that’s not your fault.”
“Correct,” he says, like he’s signing his own death warrant.
“No mames…”?1
I fly up from my seat and bring my hands to my face. I’m so angryI could scream. At his stubbornness. At the way he keeps punishing himself for a tragedy he didn’t cause.
I start pacing the room, my thoughts going a thousand miles a minute. Thinking. Processing. Fuming.
Henry has always been a stubborn son of a bitch. But this? It’s beyond excessive. This is cruel. This is self-inflicted torture he doesn’t deserve.
