Page 68 of Break Point
“Well, you’re not letting me NEHBL!” I say with an exasperated chuckle.
“You and I both know that’s not why you’re embarrassing yourself.”
I’m well aware…
“And what do you want me to do?” I whisper. “Go back in time and ask Paxton to bring me water instead? I can’t change what happened last night. What’s done is done.”
“You, of all people, should know better,” he says, stepping into my personal space, looking down at me like he’s trying to scold the truth into me. He bends down, picks up my racket, and twirls it once in his hand.
“If it makes you feel any better, I hated the gin and what it did to my head. So it’s safe to say I’m never drinking again. But please …” I add softly. “Can we call it a day and go home? I barely slept last night.”
He looks at me like he couldn’t care less, and I know it’s a lie.
“Alcohol is a disease, and we might have it too,” he says. “You and I … it’s in our blood, waiting to wake up. I don’t want you screwing up your career because you had a few drinks while you were sad and fighting with your boyfriend. That’s how it starts. One night turns into two, then three, and before you know it, you don’t remember how to stop. You become just like?—”
He cuts himself off, his jaw ticking.
“Like my mom?” I finish for him.
“Yes,” he says, voice low and cold. “And my dad.”
“I literally had two and a half drinks. That doesn’t put me in risk of becoming an alcoholic.”
“Lower your voice,” he commands. His overly authoritative tone makes my blood boil. “People are watching.”
And they are. But I don’t give a flying fuck aboutpeople.
“They’re all here for a show, aren’t they?”
“Alcohol already cost me my tennis career,” he snaps. “And I won’t sit here and let that happen to you.”
He stalks away.
What?
“Henry! Wait!” He doesn’t stop, so I go after him. “What do you mean?”
My heart’s in my throat now. What the hell is he talking about?
“Give meonegood serve,” he challenges, glancing back at me. “I’ll let you NEHBL, even if you’ve forgotten how to do it correctly. Then we’ll get you something to eat. Drew’s waiting for us at the restaurant. He’s got some big news to share with you.”
He hands me back my racket and starts to turn away.
“Tell me what happened, Henry.”
He knows exactly what I mean. I need to know what made him stop playing tennis. It’s so frustrating that he won’t give it to me straight. Maybe he started drinking, too. Maybe that’s the real reason he quit. The real reason he hated watching me drink last night.
“One. Good. Serve,” he enunciates each word like a prayer.
I give my racket handle a quick twirl and stride toward the service line.
“Necio!”?1 I shout over my shoulder, huffing in exasperation.
“I heard that,necia!” he calls back.
I shake my head. He’s so infuriatingly stubborn. I regret teaching him so many words in Spanish, and I hate this feeling of wanting him to hold me right now when I feel like shit.
Can’t we just watch a movie, eat snacks, and talk all night? I just needmyHenry. But he feels so far away now, buried under this strict tennis coach personaI can’t stand.
