Page 135 of Break Point
I run to him, the world blurring around me.
We crash into each other at the edge of the court and it’s a tangle of arms and laughter and something so big it nearly knocks the breath out of me. He lifts me off the ground and says, “You played out of your fucking mind!”
I throw my head back and laugh, goosebumps barreling through my body.
The euphoria after a win is intoxicating and addictive.
He puts me down gently.
“You’ve brought me this far, Coach,” I remind him. And it’s true. Henry brought a new energy—a newlifeto my craft.
His smile falters for a second, but he squeezes my arms and says, “You’re not just picking up a trophy today. You’re walking away with 280 points that could bump you a few spots in the seedings come Madrid.This matters. And I’m so fucking proud of you. Now go shake your opponent’s hand like a good girl.”
I stick my tongue out to him, walking a few steps back. Then I rush toward the sideline to shake Anastasia Pavlyuchenkova’s hand, congratulating her on the fantastic performance.
She gave me a run for my money.
And just like that, the hours melt away.
The rest of the day slips by in a rush.
Court interviews. Trophy ceremony. Press conferences. Hurrying back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. FaceTiming Dad. And Drew. And Gemma. Reading Robbie’s texts. Reading my mom’s, who is asking for a good bottle of tequila, which, yeah, no.
It’s a lot.
But I’m happy and grateful for my first win of the season, and so ready to bring another trophy home.
The night winds down slowly.
Henry and I return to the hotel after having dinner with my cousins atEl Mirador. It was a magical evening full of congratulations, shared smiles, and delicious food. We’re exhausted. Happy. But ready for bed.
We have an early flight tomorrow morning, and the transportation will be waiting for us downstairs at 3:00 a.m. That means Henry’s airport anxiety should be kicking in any second now.
Henry swipes the room card and nudges the door open, his hand brushing lightly against the small of my back, sending sparks straight through me.
“Oh, my God!”
The first thing that grabs my attention is a beautiful, glossy black vase on the table, overflowing with at least one hundred red roses.
It comes with a card and a white box tied with a delicate baby blue ribbon. My trophy sits proudly next to this setup, reminding me why I fell in love with this dream in the first place.
I bolt to see who they’re from.
“They’re probably Dad’s,” I say, plucking the envelope and pulling it open to read the card.
Para la jugadora más necia de todas.
Estoy muy orgulloso de ti.
¡Felicidades!
Love,
-Henry
“Henry,” I say, feeling myself thawing on the floor. “You sent these?”
He nods, taking a few slow steps my way, his hands tucked inside his pants pockets. I’ve been foaming at the mouth since he walked out of the bathroom earlier, all dressed up in a white polo shirt tucked inside a pair of pristine navy-blue slacks, drenched in cologne, and in no way helping my heart rate.
