Page 161 of Break Point
“You’re allowed to be proud of me, you know,” I say, cool and even, but the words sting. “Stop making my success feel like your loss.”
I’m done pushing back chairs, slamming her fancy napkins on the table, and letting cortisol hijack my body every time I yell just to fill the air. Like some hormonal, deranged teenager she can roll her eyes at. I won’t this time. But I can’t keep quiet.
Not anymore.
“Iamproud,” she says, her voice turning small and brittle. I can see the emotional chaos swirling behind her eyes. I can see how she’s battling it. “I say it all the time.”
“Not to me.”
Mom lifts her chin and perks up in her seat.
“Then I’ll just have to show you,” she says with manufactured confidence. “I’ll come see you at Wimbledon.”
She tosses that in like she didn’t just nuke my chest. Like she hasn’t broken her promise to come see me at a Grand Slam before.
But I don’t respond.
Mom stands up and approaches Dora. Hugs her. Wishes her safe travels. Kisses her cheek. She congratulates Henry again, grabs her drink, and walks away with wet eyes and a graceful stride.
This time, Dad doesn’t go after her.
CHAPTER 38
WIMBLEDON
JUNE 28, 2011
EACH GRAND SLAMhas a unique energy. They’re all special in their own way, but Wimbledon’s just … sacred. It smells like old money and fresh turf. And when the crowd holds its breath? You feel it in your bones.
I tighten the grip tape with my thumb, even though I did it twice in the locker room, trying to pretend this is just another match. Like it’s not freaking Wimbledon and the entire planet isn’t watching.
LikeMomwon’t be watching.
I still can’t believe she kept her promise and flew out here to watch me play a major for the first time. I just wish she’d arrived sooner. She missed me taking down Serena Williams in the third round. I thought that might be as far as I’d go. She gave me a serious run for my money, coming back after a year away and still playing like that? I’m still shocked I beat her.
Mom arrived last night with Robbie since I made it to the quarterfinals. Gemma has been here for a few days. The first thing she told me when I asked how it went in Korea was, “God, I can’t believe I’m admitting this. I missed your brother like a complete idiot. It was disgusting. Don’t you dare tell him.”
I would never.
Robbie hasn’t admitted to missing her, but I know he does. Still, I can’t meddle. That’s for them to figure out.
I glance at our box. Robbie and Gemma are mid-conversation, weirdly civil. Maybe even friendly. Everyone’s there. Everyone except Mom. But I tell myself it’s fine.
Before I walked onto the court, Henry told me she’d meet them in the box once she was done with interviews. The media swarmed her the second she set foot on the grounds. Addison Freeman reemerging at Wimbledon? Of course they wanted a quote to slap on their headlines.
Knowing Mom will be watching and evaluating my every move, every serve, every twitch of my wrist, every moan that comes out too loud from the effort, makes me anxious. But I shake it off and focus on the thrill of being here again.
Sabine Lisicki’s a grass-court specialist with a brutal serve. I’ve never faced her before, but I plan to give it everything I’ve got.
Time for the coin toss.
The soft shuffle of feet, creaking seats, and murmured conversations fade into that solemn hush that makes Centre Court feel like church.
We approach the chair umpire at the net. He pulls a coin from his pocket and holds it up. Sabine chooses tails, and it lands on heads.
“I’ll serve,” I say without missing a beat. No way I’m letting Sabine’s serve set the tone.
She gestures to the left side. “I’ll take that end.”
