Page 74 of Break Point

“Not true!” Amelia shouts from the hallway.

My eyes roll as I sigh. I knew they were all still listening. I stare at the tennis team calendar still pinned to my wall. It’s a year old, but I love that picture, so I’ve kept it up. We’re a great team, but that’s not all I see when I look at it. I look so strong posed in the very center, my legs solid and arms cut with muscles from the two previous years of hard-fought wins. This was the moment I knew I’d get there, that I’d be number one and then stretch for all of my goals beyond college.

And then my brain betrayed me, and I hardly recognize that girl anymore. I’m not sure she exists.

“You keep saying we,” I croak.

“Because we’re in this together,” he says, moving closer but not touching me. I want him to, but I know it will be the thing to make me cave in, and I have to remain strong. I’ve made my decision.

“That’s awfully sweet, but we’re not, Bryson. You hurt your shoulder, and then you got better. I’m never going to get better. I’m broken,” I sob. I cover my mouth, surprised by the sound that leaves my mouth, and the tears begin to fill my eyes.

Bryson shakes his head and reaches a hand toward me, but I lean back and shake my head.

“Don’t. I can’t handle it. I can’t handle you . . . caring. I wish I’d never let you in,” I utter. Bryson winces as if I’d cut him. Because I did. I suck in a sharp breath that nearly chokes me, then open my mouth to take it all back. But the words fail me. I’m frozen by the look in his eyes. I hurt, and so I hurt him.

I shake my head and utter, “I didn’t—”

He holds up a palm and straightens his spine, his gaze dropping for a beat before coming back up to meet mine.

“You owe me a match,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie, then tossing a ball of twine and plastic into my lap.

I recognize the orange parachute man instantly, and my shoulders sag with everything it reminds me of—that night, us.

Bryson gets up from my bed, then moves to stand directly in front of me. I lift my gaze to meet his eyes, but the tears burn, and my head feels too heavy.

“I can’t play you,” I say, shaking my head and dropping my focus to the tiny figurine in my lap.

“Then I’ll win by forfeit. In that case, you owe me a favor, any favor of my choosing.”

I flit my gaze up, expecting to see a distant version of the guy I broke in two. But that’s not what I get, because that’s simply not who Bryson Moss is. Instead of a furrowed brow or a clenched jaw, both of which I’d deserve for breaking his heart, he flashes the faintest smirk. I draw in a full breath, and it burns, but it also feels good. I think I was starving for it.

“My favor is that you play me. One game. Right now.”

I blink through tears, and as sweet as his gesture is, I simply don’t have it in me. I can barely get dressed. Life just feels . . . heavy.

“I’ll be on center court. I know someone who can turn on the lights,” he says, moving his hands to my face. I’m too slow to stop him, not that I want to. He lifts my chin just enough to drop a soft kiss on my forehead, his lips lingering on my skin. I reach up for him, but too late. He’s already backed away.

I thought about standing them all up. I almost did. But the damn parachute guy was like this albatross reminding me of all the people I was disappointing. I suppose the lesson I should take away is that the person I’m letting down most is myself—but I’m not here for me. I’m here for Taryn, who isn’t supposed to turn the center court lights on without Coach’s permission but did. And for Amelia and Ashton, who walked into an uncomfortable space just to have their brother and friend’s back while he fought for me. But the biggest reason I’m here is the man himself. I owe it to him to at least feign effort. I can’t let him think that I’m not trying. It’s just so hard. I look at the road ahead, at everything I’ll need to endure—and overcome—and I just don’t think I can.

But maybe I don’t have to leave Cordon completely. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps I stay, and I let Amelia pay me, even though I feel like a fraud taking her money to pretend I’m something I’m not. I’ll be a was. A former athlete. But if she’s okay with that, then I guess I can stick around and play the part of Score’s queen of hearts. And be Bryson’s girlfriend for real.

I round the corner and step onto the court. The feel of the hard surface underneath my tennis shoes sends a chill up my legs and into my spine. My arms are shaking, and my racket feels as if it weighs twenty pounds.

Taryn jogs over to me and hands me a towel. I’m shivering. I can’t imagine sweating right now.

“All right, boss. You ready?”

I punch out a single laugh and snap my wide-open eyes to hers.

“I can’t feel my hands,” I mutter.

Her brow pulls in swiftly, and I realize the worry that I might have triggered in my friend. She thinks I’m feeling symptoms.

“No, I mean. It’s hard to be here is all,” I say with a shake of my head. I haven’t set foot on center court since my seizure.

She sucks in her lips and nods.

“I understand. It’s hard for him to be here, too, but not as hard, I’m sure.” I glance across the court, where Bryson is bouncing on his feet and holding Taryn’s racket in his right hand, taking practice swings. He’s overacting, trying to make this a safe space for me. But I can see the tiny flexes in his jaw. He’s gritting his teeth.