Page 91 of Break Point
“I don’t think it’s necessary for you to run more than three miles today.” His voice shifts, firmer now, like he’s trying to draw me in. “Youshould let your body recover for tomorrow. You’ve trained hard these past months. No need to push yourself. You’re already in great shape.”
I keep my gaze on the numbers flashing on the screen.
He’s right. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.
Having Henry’s full attention on me makes me want to slam the emergency button and throw myself into his arms. To come clean about the chaos in my head. To let him help me make sense of it all. To tell him how sad and frustrated I feel.
But I can’t.
I won’t let myself go there. Not again. I need space. To breathe. To think. And maybe he does too and hasn’t realized it yet. I’m done throwing myself at someone who doesn’t want me. From now on, I’m all business.
And this is the moment my body chooses to betray me …
My toe stiffens.
I should’ve stretched before stepping on the treadmill today, but I didn’t.
The stiffness creeps through the sole of my left foot, arching it in an excruciating way and making me jump off on one foot.
“Henry!” I hiss, panic flooding my mind as pain contorts my face.
He yanks the emergency string, bringing the treadmill to an abrupt halt. I wobble, struggling to balance on my right foot, gripping the side handles while Henry assesses the situation.
“Muscle. Cramp,” I grit out with a hiss, lowering myself to the floor. “Left foot.”
I rip off my sunglasses and toss them aside.
The gym is mostly empty, with a couple of tennis players working out, too absorbed in their routines to notice. Thank God. The last thing I need is people whispering about an injury I don’t have.
Henry tugs off my tennis shoe and sock as I lower myself back on the floor. My foot curls tighter, cramping further as he works to stretch it out, his hands firm but careful, coaxing the muscles to relax.
Finally, the tension gives. The pain fades, and my muscles loosen.
Henry keeps hold of my foot, his hands still wrapped around it, keeping it stretched and warm.
“Fuck,” I mutter, exhaling hard as I swipe away the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, my chest heaving.
“Better?” Henry asks, lowering my foot slowly back to the floor.
I barely have time to nod before my heel jerks upward and my calf locks up.
“Henry!” I grind my teeth, pointing at my calf.
“Shit.” Henry grabs my foot again, his grip firm as he flexes it, pushing back against the muscle’s tightening. A fresh wave of pain shoots through me, and I whimper. This is not good. My body can’t afford to rebel against me at the Australian Open.
After a few endless, agonizing seconds, the cramp releases.
“Stay put. I’m calling Greg.”
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t planning on moving, anyway.
Greg, my sports physical therapist, is one of the best in the game. He works with plenty of top players and travels with the tour, but his schedule is insane, so I doubt he’ll be available. Everyone fights for his time.
Henry pulls his phone from his pocket and dials, pacing as he presses it to his ear. He drags a rough hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
“He’s not picking up,” he mutters after a few seconds. He dials again. “Did you sleep or eat last night? I wouldn’t put it past you to run on an empty stomach. You can’t neglect yourself during a tournament like this?—”
“I said I’m fine,” I cut in.
