Page 3 of Break Point
“¡Vendido de mierda! ¡Vete al ca?—!”?1
“Belén!” someone reprimands me, cutting me off.
But my vision is a long, dark, claustrophobically narrow tunnel, and the only thing standing on the other side of it is Chad, who’s now calling a verbal abuse code violation. You don’t need to speak Spanish to realize I was insulting him, although it’s best if he doesn’t go asking around for a translation.
I have no clue who shouted at me. It was probably Elliot, my coach. So I keep my mouth shut and resume thechristeningof what used to be my favorite personalized purple Neel Ultex racket against the ground.
Frustrated, I toss it to the side. That thing is never going to bend or break because of “technology and shit.”
My knees threaten to buckle on me as a wave of humiliation, disappointment, anger, sadness, and fear overcomes me. I fall to my knees and bring my hands to my face, quietly horrified at the excruciating and unbearable silence around me. The stadium is filled with nothing but the dense sound of my pathetic, uncontrollable sobs.
“Get up.”
It is in fact Elliot.
He gently grabs my arm and pulls me up from the ground. I walk away and head for the tunnel with my head down. His hands on my shoulders feel like he’s dragging the leftover pieces of me away into the locker room.
Dad and my brother Robbie stand at the threshold, waiting for me.
“Get Drew on the phone,” Dad orders Robbie as the three of us step inside.
“He’s sitting out there,” Robbie replies, looking at his screen while he texts. “I’m sure he’ll?—”
“Just get him on the damn phone,” he snaps back as I walk over to the bathroom sink to splash my face with cold water. I dare to look at my reflection in the mirror, wanting to recognize myself, but I can’t. I want to understand how to control the chaos inside me and learn how to quench the overwhelming anger, but I wouldn’t know where to start. It’s overpowering and all-consuming. All I want is to scream, but I manage to momentarily contain the rage by throwing more water on my face.
Robbie hands his phone over to Dad and walks in my direction. I know I shouldn’t ask, but I do because a small part of me is always so heartbreakingly hopeful.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask Robbie, not caring to dry myself as heavy water droplets drip down my face onto the floor.
As I wait for his response, I redo my ponytail.
“Is she out there?” I make a double fool of myself for pressing a question to which I already know the answer. “Did she come or not?” I insist, for good measure, and a good dose of masochism.
God, she doesn’t have to be sober, just here. Present. Why does she always make me feel like her attendance is too much to ask?
Robbie runs a hand through his thick, wavy, golden hair. He shakes his head once, pushing his dark-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose, his piercing ice-blue eyes staring back into mine. We couldn’t be more different, Robbie and me. But he takes after my mother’s looks. Thankfully, just that.
My teeth dig into my lower lip to hide the tremble, reminding me how I didn’t do it before my last serve. I didn’t bite my lip when I NEHBL-ed. I skipped a step, and that’s nobody’s fault but mine.
“She wanted to watch the final at the country club with her friends. You know how tennis is such a big deal over there, and she …” I stop listening to whatever shitty explanation Robbie’s cooking up at the last minute on her behalf to make me feel better.
All the while, I’m left standing, wondering what it would be like to have Mom here with me, comforting me. To glimpse a shred of pride shining in her eyes for having made it this far. But I sling the thought away as Robbie and Dad sandwich me in a crushingly adorable hug.
I don’t need her, I remind myself, tears beginning to roll down my face.
Damn her and her day-drinking, country-clubbing friends to hell.
I cry-laugh through the hug, but I can’t distinguish between sweat, water, and tears anymore. Although I’m sure I’m depleting my body’s mineral supply fast because everything tastes salty in my mouth.
Drew storms into the locker room in a freshly pressed suit, talking on the phone. A security guard plucks the cigarette from his fingers and walks off without a word. Drew barely notices, swatting a lazy hand in his direction like he’s a Zika-carrying mosquito.
Dad gently breaks off the embrace and marches over to Drew, his towering frame reaching him in a few long, sturdy strides. He makes Drew look tiny as he stands beside him.
Finally, I sit on the couch, and Robbie tosses a blue Sportaid my way. As I drink fast and deep, Elliot paces the locker room, shaking his head as if buried deep in his thoughts. He’s not calling me out or scolding me as he does every single time after a match. Even when I win, he gives me shit. But he’s not talking to me, which is highly disturbing.
Robbie grabs a yellow Sportaid for himself and plops on the couch beside me.
“You know you’re getting fined, right?” he says. “You were out of control out there. Chad’s not gonna let it slide this time.”
