Page 35 of Break Point

I snicker, partly to be a punk, but mostly because of the antiquated way my dad navigates the modern world.

“They’re posts, Dad. On social media. You should probably get with the times.” I roll my eyes.

“Damn it, Bryson! Not the point, and I know what social media is. My question is why the hell are you parading around on it advertising your sister’s cockamamie business? Are you partnering with her on this dating scheme? That’s not what your trust fund was meant for, and I think you know that.”

We’ve passed the point of this being a fun game of sparring. Now, I’m simply getting mad. And I hate that this shit is going to linger in my head during practice. I’m not like my dad. I don’t have an on/off switch.

“I haven’t touched my trust fund, and you know that. I’m sure you get alarms every time one of us sets foot in a bank.”

“Bryson, I’m not playing games,” he groans.

I let out a heavy sigh and mumble, “Neither am I.” The long minute of silence that follows is almost more painful than bickering with him, because I know what’s coming next. He’s forming his thoughts so he can lay out his case. Parenting has always been a business deal with him, though he does less negotiating the older we get.

We pull into the player parking lot, and I unbuckle my seat belt the second we rock back to a full stop, ready to sprint out of this SUV. My dad’s too fast, however, and his hand wraps around my left forearm before I open the door. My face jerks up to meet his gaze, and it takes every ounce of willpower in my body not to laugh at his pathetic attempt at expressing empathy.

“It’s not you I’m worried about, Bryson. Your sister, she’s always been about the fairy tales. But we both know that life’s not written that way. You went through hell and back with your injury. You’re built tougher. Amelia, she’s . . . a dreamer. And the business landscape is cruel. I just don’t want her ending up penniless and destitute because she thought she was the next big tech giant and instead was simply a weeklong fad.”

We blink at one another, and I chew at the inside of my mouth to keep my lips shut long enough to stifle my knee-jerk reaction. He’s an oil tycoon. Would he seriously stand by and let his oldest child struggle in poverty simply because she tried and failed to make something of herself on her own?

“It’s not my business, Dad. It’s Amelia’s. So you should give her a call if you have questions about it. But yeah . . . I am supporting her. That’s what family does. My real mom taught me that.”

I nudge the door open with my leg and shirk off his grasp, pivoting to face him head-on when I’m standing outside the SUV.

“And that redhead? She’s going to be the number one tennis player in the world soon. So quit equating strength with chubby. Maybe if you put on muscle back when you were in college, you wouldn’t have finished your college career playing backup.”

I slam the door shut on that note. And even though I don’t turn around to check, I can feel my father’s eyes drilling laser beams through the back of my skull.

Chapter 13

Jaden

I’m slogging today. I feel it in my steps. My feet aren’t quite leaving the ground, and it feels as though I’m dragging my tennis racket through the deep end of a swimming pool with every swing.

I’m . . . off.

“Johnson! What is that swing?” Coach Kelsey has clearly noticed I’m not on my A game too. I’ve blown three forehand returns in a row. If I hit that same damn spot in the net one more time today, Coach might get out her marker and write my name on it. I’ve always laughed when she’s done that to other players. It would probably serve me right. It would kill me.

I bounce on my feet at the baseline, nodding in acknowledgment as my molars gnash together. My nemesis, Adrianne, has a mean serve, and she’s been gunning to knock me out of the top spot the way I spent my freshman year coming after the old number one. I can’t help but admire her tenacity. Usually, I feed off it.

So, let’s get to it, Jaden. Smash this next one right back at her chest.

Adrianne tosses the ball and arches her back, cutting her racket head through the air and slicing the ball right at the corner near the baseline. I’m a hair late on my jump. I feel it already, so I try to compensate with the speed of my swing, the torque of my elbow.

“Fuck!” I slam my racket head on the ground as the ball smacks the top of the net in the same spot as the previous three.

“Johnson, you’re done for the day! It’s in your head. Adrianne, head to court three and volley with Taryn.”

I remain bent in half in the center of the court, my fingers wrapped around the racket’s handle as the sweat from my palms melts into the leather grip. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to slow my breathing. I’m not gassed. I’m angry. I haven’t spun out or had a bad practice in months, and I know Coach is right. It’s in my head. One bad return becomes five in a row. It can happen like that. And it did. To me. I always bounce back. I just need to regroup, get my breath.

I open my eyes just as Coach’s shadow crosses my sight line. I straighten my spine and breathe slowly through my nose, willing my pulse to behave as I meet my own reflection in her sunglasses. Sometimes I’m glad I can’t see her eyes. Today, I’m glad.

“You seem distracted. This isn’t my ace out here today. Something going on?” She crosses her arms over her chest and shifts her feet wider.

I shake my head and sigh.

“No, I mean . . . literally nothing out of the ordinary.” I blow up at the stray hairs that have slipped out of my hairband as Coach locks me in place with a scrutinizing stare.

“If this NIL deal is too much right now . . .”