Page 27 of Break Point
“Oh, come on. You’re kidding me, right?”
“I kid you not. Now let’s go, Freeman,” Henry says with a clap. “Let’s get you warmed up.” He pushes his rolled-up sleeves up a bit more, and I think to myself this might not be as bad as I thought it would be.
1 I’ll wait for you here, Belén.
CHAPTER 8
A BRAT
It’s not asbad as I thought it would be. It’s worse.
Henry’s a tough coach. His coaching style is painfully and infuriatingly brutal. I found myself out of breath more than a few times during some of the strenuous drills he claims to have learned from Jacques, his French tennis coach in Chicago.
I peppered him with questions about his time there whenever I stopped to catch my breath because I wanted to know everything. But he dodged them, telling me to watch my posture, check my footwork, correct my grip, or stop fidgeting with my racket strings.
As much as I wasn’t expecting this, I have to admit that I’m impressed with Henry. He’s a perfectionist. I wonder if Dad knew he had the skill set to be a coach or if he took a chance and Henry turned out to be great at this. Either way, he’s good. And now I want to throw up just thinking about hitting the gym after this and tackling the afternoon training block right after that.
I’m exhausted.
“We’re done, Bells,” he says, wiping his forehead with his signature chiseled tennis-player forearm.
As I seek refuge under the flimsy sunshade, I notice Henry’s cheeks are bright red.
I lower my trembling body onto the bench and chug from my tumbler as if my mouth were filled with sand.
“You should take off that hoodie before you get heatstroke, Coach.”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “If you want to see me without a shirt on, Freeman, just say the word.”
“You wish,” I shoot back, not missing a beat. “I’m worried you’ll pass out.”
He snorts. “I’m fine, but thanks for the concern.” He grabs a paper cone cup and pours himself some water from the orange dispenser sitting on an aluminum rack beside the bench.
“I wouldn’t drink that if I were?—”
You.
He empties the cup over his head, running a hand along his wet face. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, shaking his head to flick the water from his hair.
I snap my mouth shut after catching myself gaping at him, unable to look away as he tosses the paper cup into a small garbage bin. He extends his hand, fingers swiveling as he eyes my tumbler. It takes me a good three seconds to react.
“I suggest you bring your own bottle next time, Coach,” I say, sipping my water with raised brows to taunt him.
“I’ll carry one with me tomorrow.” He smiles and seizes the tumbler from my grasp. “I never thought we’d end up here today.” He twists off the lid and takes a long, deep drink. “I used to love it here. It’s a shame to see it in such bad shape.”
“You never mentioned coming here.”
“Yeah, well, I only started coming when I turned fourteen. I’d ask my parents to drop me off here so I could work on my serve while they roamed around the city doing whatever they liked to do. Jasper’s dad used to run this place back then, but one day he got tired of it and handed the keys over to Jasper.”
“I see.”
I’m about to bring up the subject of his dad when my phone startles me.
“Hey, Drew. What’s up … Um, no thank you. There’s no way I’m training full-time at the country club … Well, because Mom’s always there and, you know, people … Drew … You know I love you most of the time, but looking for training venues is not in your job description, okay? So tell my dad we’ll talk about this later. He doesn’t need to send you to convince me … What about Liam? … Stop whispering! Is it bad? … Just tell me … I hate it when you do this. Just tell me already … Okay. Text me the photographs … Fine … I won’t… I said I won’t! … Thanks … Okay, bye.”
“Damn it,” I mutter, staring at my phone’s screen.
“Everything okay?” Henry asks, taking a seat next to me.
