Page 27 of Break Point

“I gotta go,” I say, snagging my keys and wallet on my way out.

My friends are too lost in the train wreck of comments to pull their noses from their screens, so I leave them to duke it out over the rest of the bacon and my mess. I call Amelia from my truck, and she picks up after half a ring.

“I see it. We’re already moderating things,” she says rather than “hello.”

“Don’t moderate, Amelia. Take that shit down!” I bark, putting my phone on speaker and tossing it onto the passenger seat.

I don’t know where Jaden lives, so I head to the only other place I can guess she’ll be. I pull into the small parking lot near the tennis center and kill my engine.

“We can’t take it down, Bry. We just hit fifty thousand views. Our subscribers are up to twelve hundred. I know the internet is cruel, but it’s working. People are loving you two. Besides, she has her fans in the mix. #TeamJaden shows up more than once.” My sister sounds a lot like our father right now, if he understood tech. She’s not getting it at all.

“It shows up exactly once, Amelia. From her roommate.” I groan as I pick up my phone and scan through the latest round of comments. My sister’s right. There are a few Jaden supporters in the mix, but they’re mostly beefing with the negative trolls.

“People are loving the app, but they are hating Jaden, Amelia. H-A-T-E!” My sister and I rarely fight, so when I speak to her in certain tones, it tends to grab her attention. This business succeeding, though, seems to be more important than just about anything. She doesn’t flinch.

“People love to hate other people on social media. It’s great engagement. We’ll use the negative to ride the wave, but I’m already hiding the comments that go against our community standards. I’m sure it will be—”

“It’s fucking mean, Amelia. It’s not engagement. It’s bullying. Sort it out.” I end the call and scan the length of the windscreen on the east end of the courts. When I see a flicker of movement, I exit my truck and march right up to the fence to peek through one of the cracks in the screen. I’m greeted with one hell of a thwap followed by the ball ricocheting off the fence.

“You may as well come in and grab a racket,” Jaden says.

I follow the thin concrete walkway to an open gate and lean inside to get a look at her. It’s hard to tell if she’s pissed off or focused by the way she pounds the ball into the court by her feet before cradling it in her palm against her racket head.

“Grab my Wilson Blade. It will protect you.” Her eyes don’t veer toward me, remaining locked on her invisible opponent. She tosses the ball a few feet above her head, then arches back into her serve, whipping her racket through the ball with enough force that the smack echoes off the stands three times.

“That looked in, but it went by so fast, I can’t be sure,” I say, my voice light . . . positive. Praising.

“It was out by six inches. Go receive.” She grabs another ball from the cart and bounces it a few times by her feet again before cradling it to her racket head and finally shifting her gaze to me.

She’s read the comments. There’s no doubt. And she’s not brushing them off. She’s pissed. And I’m about to take the brunt of it.

“It’s just social media—” I cut myself off, hearing my own words and cringing. I sound like my sister. And I don’t believe that shit. Words hurt.

“Either pick up a racket or let me get back to work.” Her voice is stone cold and robotic. I glance to my right, where her gear bag is propped on a folding chair. I slip out the only Wilson racket inside and shuffle to the baseline across the net from her.

“Take it easy on me. I’m a hack,” I say with a chuckle, trying to add some deference, be humble. A second later I’m leaping out of the way of her hundred-mile-per-hour serve.

“Oh shit!” I hop back into place, adjusting my grip on the racket as if that’s going to make a difference.

Jaden has another ball in her palm within seconds, so I bend my knees and brace myself for the assault. The ball sears toward me, landing about a foot in front of my toes and giving me just enough room to use the racket head as a shield, sending the ball sailing over the fence and into the parking lot.

“Move back about six feet,” Jaden barks.

I came here to talk. Or at least to see how she’s doing, maybe to comfort her. “Jaden, can we—”

Her next serve zooms past me before I can finish a sentence. Okay, I’m going to need to do this her way. I get it. Aggression needs an out sometimes. And when you’re a competitor, falling into routine and testing your strength brings comfort. I bend my knees again and put a hop in my step, wishing I were wearing something better than the slip-on street shoes that were by the door when I left. I bounce side to side, testing the grip, as Jaden loads for another serve.

This time, I manage to get the racket on it, though it sails out of bounds. Her gaze follows the path the ball takes to her right, and her head locks on the corner of the fencing where the ball comes to rest after bouncing around a second ball cart and a rolled-up net.

“I’m getting this. Go ahead, give me your best. I’m ready,” I taunt. It’s what I know—shit talking and competition. It’s what she needs, and I feel obligated to give it to her. It’s my sister’s app. I pushed to hire her. I fucked up her tuition account . . . twice.

The ball is barreling toward me in a blink, and I shift my feet and swivel my hips as I fling my pathetic forehand swing into the ball and send it to the opposite corner, in bounds.

“Hell yeah!” I shout, holding the racket over my head a bit in disbelief.

Jaden tosses her racket across her side of the court a half second later and props her hands on her hips as she marches in a wide circle, head tilted to the sky as she wipes away the loose hairs sticking to the perspiration on her forehead.

“Hey, I got lucky is all,” I say, dropping my hands to my sides and moving toward the net.