Page 81 of Break Point

“Anyhow, you know how Bryson and I have had this tradition all season of making bets before matches? In case you’re new here, basically how it usually goes is if I lose, I have to eat a packet of those disgusting rock candies he swears by. But when I win, there’s always some sort of prize of my choosing. I get to declare that prize here before every match. Well, today . . . I’m going big. Bryson? I know you’re watching. I see your little icon right there.” I tap the screen, and my finger briefly obscures the camera.

“If I can’t take this thing, then I will reluctantly sit down at a table and eat an entire soup bowl full of Pop Rocks.” My stomach turns at the mere thought of it.

“But if I win. No . . . when I win . . . you, Bryson Moss, have to marry me.” There, I said it. And three thousand people just heard me. “Okay, game on. Here goes.” I end the stream and stare off at nothing with my eyes wide for a blip. I actually went through with it.

My palms are sweating, and so are my armpits. Hell, my everything is sweating. Bryson and I have joked about crazy wedding proposals before. We’ve even talked seriously about getting hitched, as part of our plans after we graduate in two weeks. Bryson is sticking around at Cordon for grad school, while I’ll train close by for my first pro tournament.

“Jaden, seriously. You have to come out now,” Taryn says. “Also, holy shit, girl!”

I flash my deer-in-headlights look at her.

“What did I just do?” I shake my head, suddenly frazzled.

“I’m pretty sure you proposed,” she says. “And your dad is losing his shit over it.”

I slap my palm over my own face. This is not the right energy to walk out there with, but I can’t start my meditation routine over now.

“You better win, I guess.” She holds out her fist, and I drop mine on top.

“Guess so.”

I flip the locker door closed, leaving my phone and practice gear in my temporary locker before grabbing my gear bag and trusty Sarge to head onto the court. Taryn precedes me, leaving me to hang back with Shayna at the edge of the entry.

“You’re telling me you want to marry that pain-in-the-ass football player?” Shayna teases.

I cringe but pop open one eye and nod.

“I really fucking do.”

Shayna and I have known each other through tennis for years, despite only playing once. Women’s sports is a community that way. There are fewer of us in our given sports, and I think maybe it forces us all to be closer. Don’t get me wrong, the moment we step out of this tunnel, she’s my enemy. But for right now, she’s my friend.

“If you change your mind and fake an ankle roll, I’ll understand. But otherwise, you’re gonna have to earn it.”

I lift my chin as they call her name.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Once she makes it to her seat, the announcer calls my name, and the roar from strangers knocks me back a step. I haven’t heard people cheer for me like this since I was the runner-up for homecoming queen at the last football game. Bryson was sad we didn’t get paired for it, but I self-sabotaged and heavily campaigned for Kara Lynn Fisher. There are some crowns that simply fit cheer captains better than they do tomboys like me.

This is the prize I want. And I intend on taking it home. Along with the one for my finger that Bryson’s going to have to pick out with me this weekend, I guess.

I can feel his eyes on me as I take my seat. He sits in the same row every match. My father likes to pace, so he walks around the top level, while my mom and brother huddle in the small bit of shade on the north side of the court. Taryn’s usually next to Bryson, and I assume that’s where she’s seated now. I don’t dare look, though, because I won’t be able to avoid seeing his expression if I do. I like how it looks in my head—excited, happy, pleased, hopeful. Not . . . freaked out.

I take to the court and warm up my legs. Taryn volleyed with me for a solid thirty minutes, and my arm is ready. So is my head. Now, let’s see how my serve is feeling today.

I close my eyes and remember the way it felt the very first time I served an ace. After three bounces, I toss the ball and cut across it, tying Shayna up as it zips into her body after landing in by a hair.

“Fifteen,” the announcer calls.

I pull out the spare ball from the pocket in my shorties and chase the same feeling for the same result, and within minutes, I’ve served my way to claiming the first game. One down, eleven to go.

After dropping two games in the first set, I manage to clinch it forty-two minutes into the match. I’m feeling a bit fatigued, so I call time and head to my seat for a glucose packet and some electrolytes. I don’t know why I notice it now, and I’m not sure if I was meant to, but there’s a brand-new ball sitting on top of my bag with something scribbled on the side.

I hold the sugary packet in my teeth while I bend down to grab it. When I roll it in my palm, it reveals three letters—Yes.

I furrow my brow for a second but then realize it’s Bryson’s handwriting I’m reading. I drop the ball in my bag and flip around to find him standing in front of his usual seat, not freaked out, but calm and certain. His hands are tucked in the front pockets of his shorts, and the brim of his Cordon ballcap shades his eyes but not his smile. A few people near him begin to connect our gaze, and what starts as a few giggles and screams turns into a boy-band-sized sound wave.

By the time I step on the court again, the roar of my very real fans chanting my name shifts my internal gears to a new level. I don’t lose another set.