Page 5 of Break Point
“Right?”
“Well, it depends, kid.” Drew shrugs, smoke coming out of his nostrils as he tucks his phone inside his inner jacket pocket. “You would have to, you know … behave.”
“I can do that,” I assure him, rubbing my hands and nodding. “It’s not like I’m spiraling out of control or something.”
Robbie throws a nasalhmmat me, Drew tilts his head and narrows his eyes like he’s looking at a cute puppy, and my dad crosses his arms at his chest.
“What?”
“Let’s pretend that’s possible for a second, m’kay?” Drew shoots back, hitting the mark. “But they also want you to win the US Open next year. They still have faith in you and think it would be a meaningful partnership since your mom was an ambassador too, and they’re all about generational legacy and yada yada.”
Well, that’s convenient.
I could kill three birds with one stone.
Drew pulls his vibrating phone out of his pocket for the hundredth time and sends whoever is calling him to voicemail.
“Sound good to you? US Open next year. Doable? Yes or no?”
He stretches his left arm in front of him and squints at his watch before bringing his cigarette to his lips again, takingit to the filter.
Winning the US Open next year is not only doable but necessary. I made a promise to myself, set a personal goal for myself. One I’m not ready to divulge. But itwillbe the only thing I live and breathe for the next 383 days.
“Of course!” I exclaim, feeling confident, but overdoing it with enthusiasm. “Super doable!”
I still need to learn how to calibrate my friendly responses. They always come out forced, like I’m incapable of being genuinely warm towards others, when I know I can be.
“Elliot will work his magic, and we’ll make it happen. I know I sucked in Australia, but I already won Roland Garros, made it to the semis this year at Wimbledon, and won second place today.” It stings so badly to say it out loud and accept it because I didn’t win shit. “I’d say things are looking pretty good. Right, Elliot?”
Elliot shudders, breaking away from the self-induced trance he was under at the mention of his name.
“I’m afraid not,” he mutters, seeming detached from his response. His hands are tucked inside his pants pockets, and I haven’t seen him lift his gaze from the floor since I got here.
“Elliot?” I smile, puzzled, the corners of my mouth twitching. Trying to meet his eyes is pointless.
When he doesn’t react, my smile melts, so I repeat, “Elliot?”
He finally glances at me and nukes the hell out of the locker room with three simple words, “I quit, Belén.”
1 “You sellout piece of shit! Go f?—”
CHAPTER 2
MY TURF
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you quit?”I shriek, shooting up from my seat. “You can’t quit! You?—”
“I can’t do this anymore,” he replies, his words so weightless that they manage to shut me up to be able to listen to them. “Trust me, it’s time. You’ll be better off without me.”
Elliot turns his head slowly to glance at my dad.
“I’m sorry, Joe.”
I’m sorry,Joe?
What about me?!
There’s no way Elliot’s quitting on me. I’ve known him since before I developed a conscience. I don’t even remember the first day I met him. I was that young. About to turn three, to be exact, when I took my first tennis lesson with him, or so I’ve been told. He can’t just?—
