Page 180 of Break Point
¡Porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones!
Zoya’s jaw tightens. She anxiously spins her racket in her hand and takes an extra second before bouncing the ball. She’s growing restless. She doesn’t seem to like being the underdog. Especially not when the entire arena just picked a side.
Chad’s barely holding it together. He seems to be on the verge of wanting to issue a warning to the crowd for failing to maintain decorum and providing excessive emotional support.
And … he just did.
It’s subtle. But he opens his mic and asks for silence after allowing the singing to go on for longer than I thought he would.
“Thank you,” Chad says, once the crowd dies down. “Play will resume. Miss Kruschenko to serve.”
Zoya’s lips purse, and her feline blue eyes narrow on me.
She serves like she’s out to kill me.
Inhaling deep through my nose, pain still lingering, adrenaline hijacking it, I respond in kind.
She attacks my backhand. I slice. She hits it crosscourt. I stretch. We trade blows, twenty shots deep, lungs burning, shoulders shrieking. But I stay in it.
She tries to finish it with a blistering forehand to the corner.
I guess it. Sprint. Slide. Put my racket on it.
She dashes forward, but I go low and fire a laser crosscourt, making her dive?—
I hold my breath and see my entire life roll in front of my eyes.
She misses.
“Game, set, match. Freeman. Two sets to one: 4–6, 7–5, 6–3,” Chad announces in the most boring tone he could muster, like he’s ready to go home to his cats. I barely catch it through the explosion.
I drop to my knees, clutching my racket to my chest and kissing the rim. When I set it aside, my palms press on the court and you bet I kiss it. I spring to my feet with a little jump and fist-pump, crying out like a Viking who went for the kill and left no one standing.
Somewhere in the background, Zoya tosses her racket on the bench and approaches the net.
I pick up my pace to a jog and meet her there.
“I’ll see you in China,” she spits out, her palm sweaty and stiff as we shake hands. “If you make it past the fourth round this time.”
She’s quickly intercepted by the media.
A small crowd shouts my name, and they’re beckoning me forward, offering me a Mexican flag. I wrap it around my shoulders and do a victory lap while the rest of the crowd keeps cheering.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chad announces with a bit more grit. “Your 2011 US Open champion … Belén Freeman.”
Gemma tackles me with a hug. Robbie’s crying, his glasses so foggy he yanks them off his face before embracing me. Dad lifts me off the ground and twirls me around like I’m still his five-year-old girl winning her first Red Ball tournament at the country club.
Tim comes next. He’s not the most affectionate but he understands the magnitude of this moment. He hugs me, gives me a warm smile and says, “You made my blood pressure spike, but that was a hell of a match.”
Drew high-fives me and pulls me in for a quick hug. He reminds me we have a shit ton of media to attend to after this and hands me over to my mom.
She’s staring at me from a close distance, her eyes shining. Proud.
“The earrings didn’t fail me,” I say, sliding a finger over one of them.
“Oh, honey. It wasall you.”
We crash into each other. Camera flashes going wild. The media circling us like famished sharks.
