Page 80 of Break Point

I slide my hand down her hip and pat the hard case of her phone pressed against her thigh. “When you decide you’re ready, everyone will be there for you.”

She moves my hand back up to her waist, then slides both of hers around my neck and tilts her head, ready to kiss me.

“I don’t need everyone,” she says. “I just need you.”

Epilogue

Jaden

Six Months Later

My dad is constantly quoting that LL Cool J song about comebacks lately. I’ve listened to the song a hundred times, and I can’t lie—there is nothing about my comeback that aligns with LL’s swagger.

This battle has been marked by grit. And failure. Oh, man . . . so much failure. But I’ve made it right to the steps of the goal a twelve-year-old me scribbled on the pages of a notebook once.

Become number one.

I’m her. College tennis’s top seed. One win away from sewing it into the record books. My name engraved in Cordon lore right next to Kathrine Maltese. There were days when I thought about giving up. I tried to quit more than once. But Bryson was always in my ear, reminding me of who I am. What I want. What I deserve.

I’m ruthless at practice. I have zero patience for myself sometimes. I’m harsh, in fact, on my failures during games. But I’m also resilient. And that’s something my epilepsy taught me. Resilience is that place where grace and tenacity intersect, and I’ve worked hard on letting the grace part seep through more often.

I started my podcast the week I went back to practice. Bryson was my first guest because, well, duh. The pair of us garnered a decent audience right out of the gate, mostly Cordon students and alumni. But thanks to our Score fame, word spread quickly. That first episode just crossed a million listens this week, and the numbers aren’t slowing down.

A million pairs of ears have heard me own my epilepsy. They’ve listened to me talk about the reservations I had about stepping on the court again, and the irrational thoughts that still invade my head sometimes. They also heard about the little girl who watched Kathrine Maltese win her fourth major, and how she begged her dad to take her to the thrift store so she could buy a tennis racket with her allowance. And they learned about the first time Bryson and I met, and then a tiny fib about how the Score app paired us up for a second chance. There’s truth at the root of it—if it weren’t for Amelia posting an ad online looking for brand ambassadors, I never would have filled out an application. But that part is our story. All the public needs to know is we were a match, and we haven’t been apart since. Mostly.

Sharing my story only amplified Score’s popularity. And last month, Amelia sold her creation to a major online dating company based in Dallas for several million dollars. I think, perhaps, the best moment of all was when her father had to break out the expensive stuff and toast his daughter, and her . . . what did he call it once? Cockamamie scheme.

In less than a year, she turned a bunch of zeros and ones—isn’t that what coding is?—into serious cash. I didn’t really expect her to take on my challenge when I asked her to do it again, this time with a made-to-order app that would help support my parents’ new food truck venture. When the dust settled from losing the restaurant, they managed to scrape enough cash together to buy an old bus. I thought they were nuts, but after hours of sweat equity, and some discounts thanks to the job my mom took managing the home improvement store by our apartment back home, that bus cleaned up well. They haven’t rolled it out yet, so to speak, but the soft launch at the county fair got them a lot of attention. I take full credit for the name, though.

Nacho Average School Bus.

The Nacho Average Food App launches this summer.

“Jaden, the court is ready.” Taryn pops her head into the quiet locker room just as I pull my phone out for one final video.

“I’ll be right there,” I say.

She smirks, seeing my phone in my hand.

“You’re really going to do this?” Her mouth puckers on the verge of a nervous laugh as I shrug.

“I’ve got no choice. He made it a bet.”

“I know you think my relationship is weird, but you and Bryson take the cake, lady. Hurry up. If you make the Stanford player wait, they’ll start taunting you for stalling.”

“Let them,” I say as the door shuts behind her.

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes to center myself. I’ve been trying to take meditation seriously the last few months. I’m a natural skeptic of most things other than sheer willpower and muscle, but I feel like some of this mindful breathing BS I made fun of at first is actually working.

I haven’t had a seizure since New Year’s Day. When I did, it was usually because I’d skipped my meds, but the added stress of staring down my final season and recommitting to my goals didn’t help. Bryson’s mom, Liv, says stress is the devil’s paintbrush, and she may be right. But I’m done being Satan’s canvas.

After visualizing the final point in my mind one last time, I open my eyes and press the live button on my phone. It’s still wild to me that hundreds of followers sign on to listen to what I have to say the minute I turn the streaming on. It’s not a power I take lightly. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time. But I really think people are going to want to see this. And if it puts more eyes on women’s tennis, then that’s a huge bonus.

“Hey, everyone.” I wave, bunching my hand like a toddler. I grimace because I promised myself I’d stop doing that. I don’t know why I get so nervous. It’s not like I can actually see the people watching me.

“We’re here. I’m about to head out to center court here in Orlando to take on Shayna Griffith from Stanford. It’s going to be a brutal match, and I’ve only played her once before, junior year. We split because we ran out of time and it was only a friendly, which is basically a scrimmage for zero points. No splitting today, though. One of us is walking away on top. I’m ready.”

I hold up the water bottle that Bryson makes me carry around everywhere I go. It’s become a superstitious thing for me now, so I bring it to my matches as well. It’s a puke shade of green, and it’s covered in tiny pink avocados. It’s so ugly I love it. I chuckle when a comment rolls through shouting out Sarge, as I’ve affectionately nicknamed the bottle.