Page 75 of Break Point

“I scared him,” I say.

“You scared all of us. But we’re still here.” She pulls my hand up and presses a bright-green ball into my palm. “Now kick his ass.”

I smirk, however insincere it may be, and I have to admit the rise it seems to give my friend does make my heart swell.

“I’ll be right here, like the ball girl. And if you feel like you need a break, we’ll take a break. If you want to just stop because it’s . . . well, a lot, we’ll stop. Nobody’s trying to hurt you, J. We love you.”

I sniffle, trying to keep my roller-coaster emotions in check, and nod.

“I love you,” I tell her. She squeezes my arm, then shuffles backward several steps and flattens her back against the green padded wall.

I turn slowly and take in the view, trying to reconcile everything it meant to me once with what it symbolizes now. This is still the greatest college court in the country. It’s where my hero won her final college match before going pro. It’s where I pictured myself doing the same. I battle against the snapshots from my memories of that day, the frames that try to interrupt.

The brightness that flashed before my eyes just before I hit the concrete.

The acrid smell of rubbing alcohol and the sharp prick of a needle in my finger to test my glucose.

The blurred vision, and the spinning world that wouldn’t let my eyes find him.

Him.

Bryson.

The sheer terror on his face.

“One second,” I say, turning my back to him and his sister and Ashton, who are sitting just above him in the stands. I close my eyes after meeting Taryn’s gaze and breathe out slowly.

“It’s just a tennis court. Concrete, lines, and a net. The racket in my hand is mine. It knows my hand. I know these strings. This place is where I belong. I can do this.”

For just a moment, I hear it—a thousand voices cheering my name, rooting me on. When I open my eyes, they’re gone. But they were there. My dream is still there, fighting. Bryson is fighting.

It’s my turn to fight too.

I turn around and start to bounce on my feet. The heaviness is there, but the more I move, the lighter they feel. Muscle memory will carry me. I lift my head and pause my steps long enough to stare my opponent right in the eyes.

“Ready?”

This time, his smirk is real. I just hope he can maintain it, that I can maintain this feeling. All I need to do is win. Just once, and then I can decide for sure. I’m either done, or I’m going to keep fighting. I beat Bryson, which should be easy, then I beat Adrianne. Then . . . everyone.

“Serve,” Bryson says.

I bounce the ball three times, then hold it to the head of my racket, my focus zeroing in on the ball and nothing else. I breathe out through tight lips and arch as I toss the ball in the air. My racket slices through it, spinning it and sending it just over the net, catching the inside of the line for an ace that nearly clips Bryson’s knee.

“Whoo whoo!” Ashton shouts, whistling with his fingers. My lip inches up, and I’m not certain if it was the feeling in my arm or the praise that has me feeling the inklings of a spark. Perhaps both.

“Go on. Do that again. I dare you,” Bryson taunts.

I move to the other side of the baseline, my hands still buzzing with a mix of fear and energy.

“I can do this,” I say in a hushed voice that maybe Taryn can hear, but no one else. She’s heard me talk to myself plenty.

I bounce the ball three times, just like before, then pause with it pressed against the racket head.

Exhale.

I toss the ball, but the minute I look up, my chest is gripped with an icelike panic, so I let it fall to the ground.

“Are you okay?” Taryn says.