Break Point

Chapter 1

THE NEHBL

I WASN’T ALWAYS like this. The sharp edges, the outbursts, the heat in my chest that flares before I can stop it. It built over time. It crept in quietly, until it was the only way I knew how to be.

Sometimes, the rage erupts through my mouth as sharp, venomous words. Other times, it spirals down my arms, propelling my racket and leaving me wondering if it’s skill or fury driving the shot.

What I need right now is precision, clarity, and control.

That’s what I’m aiming for, but I constantly find myself caught up in a powerful whirlwind of both physical and verbal outlets.

It usually comes down to unleashing a vicious left-handed backhand that leaves my opponent stunned.

Or snapping at the chair umpire with something like, “Aren’t you the most corrupt official in the game?

” as I just did, after a line judge called my ball out when it clearly touched the line.

You’d have to be legally blind to miss it.

“Watch the time, Miss Freeman. You’re pushing the clock,” the chair umpire warns in my direction.

He ignores my last words. I barely exhaled them, acid still scalding my tongue.

I know I’m “hindering the flow of the game” by glaring, but we have history.

Today’s assigned chair umpire, Chad Armstrong, knows my complex personality all too well. And I’m well-acquainted with his flair for applying the rulebook like it’s sacred text.

He feels so-so about me, and the feeling is mutual.

I try to calm down. I really do, but I can’t. Not when we’re in the second set of the US Open women’s final. I’ve already lost the first set and am on the brink of losing the second.

Thanks to Chad’s poor judgment, it’s deuce when it should’ve been advantage in my favor.

I shoot him the deadliest nod, laced with reluctant compliance, biting my tongue to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

Then, I turn my attention to Zoya freaking Kruschenko.

I take my position, go through my ritual, and blast an ace to wipe that little smirk off her face.

“Advantage, Freeman,” Chad announces on the mic.

There you go.

Zoya remains silent. She’s probably not even breathing, like the well-oiled, high-performance robot she portrays to be, but I can imagine the shit running through her head.

Drew, my agent, said her team’s got their sights on my Rolex deal.

But I’ve already been sent the ambassadorship paperwork, it just hasn’t been announced yet. Tough luck.

Rolex came knocking after I won my first Grand Slam at Roland Garros a few months ago, at “THE TENDER AGE OF 17,” as the headlines put it. The only tender thing about me is the skin on the back of my neck, sizzling under the harsh afternoon sun.

I’ve played Zoya four times. Lost four times. And every one of those losses eats at me. I can’t let this one be the fifth.

As much as I hate to admit it, Zoya is tearing me apart from the inside out. She’s wormed her way into my head, eating away at my soul. She’s got me thinking about a luxury watch ambassadorship and the number of times she’s beaten me.

Crap.

I’m succumbing to the pressure. I want this too much. Need this so much that my bones are vibrating with expectation.

We’re at 6-5. I’m losing. I desperately need to take this to a third set.

God knows I’ve sacrificed more than anyone could imagine just to have the privilege of standing on this court and tossing the ball in the air.

But not before I drag my left index finger down the straight line of my nose, pinch my left earlobe, touch my hair, brush my right eyebrow, and bite my lower lip.

I do it so fast you’d miss it if you blinked twice.

I serve hard, and Zoya returns with power. Time bends. My shoes squeak against the acrylic, the ball thuds on the strings, and my breath catches on impact. Sweat drips down my temple as I sprint into position and fire the ball back to her side.

“Deuce,” Chad calls out over the microphone.

I take it. This time, the ball was clearly out. I don’t bother lifting my gaze from the service line. Bop, bop, bop goes the ball as I bounce it six times. The scent of new fibers exploding in my nostrils calms me in an instant.

I’ve got this.

Only I don’t.

Zoya is blonde, tall, and willowy, with feline eyes of the lightest shade of blue. She reminds me of my mother, which only makes things worse. It always has. It always will. My need to crush her is primal. Chemical. Zoya might stand at six feet, but what I lack in height, I make up for in wrath.

Nose. Ear. Hair. Brow. Lip.

The NEHBL. My ritual. My anchor.

My father thinks it’s cute, but I once overheard my mom call it The Neurosis. She can call it whatever she wants, as long as I’m allowed to do it in peace before each serve. Not that she attends my matches, anyway.

I don’t mind the curious stares from the crowd, either.

It’s become a bit of a spectacle, or so I’ve been told.

By Drew, of course. He’s the living, breathing, and smoking definition of a busybody.

But he’s practically family now. He was my father’s agent when he played for the Yankees, and once I started pursuing tennis professionally, I inherited him.

Or he inherited me. It’s still up for debate.

It’s hard to admit that I’m exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Zoya must be, too, but she’s trained to repress and hide every trace of fear, pain, or emotion.

Meanwhile, I’m her opposite in every way.

I wear my emotions on my sleeve, burning and exploding every time. It ought to sells more tickets, too.

We volley, pushing each other to the brink with every return.

Moan. Swish-pop.

Grunt. Swish-pop.

I’m the moaner; she’s the grunter.

Moan. Swish-pop.

Grunt. Swish-pop.

She goes crosscourt, fast and deep. I’m late.

Damn it …

“Match point, Kruschenko,” Chad announces into the mic, pressing his lips like we’re taking too long and he’s got somewhere better to be.

My mind goes into a panic. I’m paralyzed. So much so that when I NEHBL and toss the ball high above me, I realize I’ve forgotten to bite my lip—the L in NEHBL. But I channel the fury into a perfect serve, forcing Zoya to counter with a two-handed backhand return.

Shit! I needed an ace.

We battle through an explosive volley. Moaning, grunting, and dragging our mini-skirted souls across the court.

Zoya changes the tempo. A tight, angled drop shot that dies past the service box.

Hell, yeah. I sprint. I know my limits, and damn it all, I get there.

But the ball stays low, barely off the ground, and there’s nothing I can do with it. I reach for it on the slide, but it skims off the frame and goes into the net.

I’m still crouched when the crowd gasps.

One, two, three seconds of confusion cloud my vision before it hits me.

Zoya’s fist pumping. She smiles and covers her face with her hands.

What just happened?

“Game, set, match, Kruschenko. Two sets to love 6-4, 7-5,” Chad announces, probably celebrating on the inside.

I don’t move.

I don’t blink.

I stand there, stunned, as the roar swells around me. And Zoya? She’s already walking over to shake the umpire’s hand like she didn’t just ruin my life with physics.

Somewhere, far in the depths of my mind, I can hear the words: Shake it off and let it be. So I take a deep breath that does nothing to stabilize me, and I thrash my racket against the court because I’d rather have my right arm disjointed from my body than let it fucking be.

Chad is getting a kick out of calling out a code violation into the microphone.

And all I can think about is how that ball from a few points back wasn’t out.

So I reach deep within and stop to glare at the man, pointing my intact racket at him as he sits calmly on his literal and figurative high chair, with his resting umpire face on.

I unleash my rant. In Spanish.

“?Vendido de mierda! ?Vete al ca—!”1

“Belén!” someone reprimands me, cutting me off.

But my vision is a long, dark, claustrophobically narrow tunnel, and the only thing standing on the other side of it is Chad, who’s now calling a verbal abuse code violation.

You don’t need to speak Spanish to realize I was insulting him, although it’s best if he doesn’t go asking around for a translation.

I have no clue who shouted at me. It was probably Elliot, my coach. So I keep my mouth shut and resume the christening of what used to be my favorite personalized purple Neel Ultex racket against the ground.

Frustrated, I toss it to the side. That thing is never going to bend or break because of “technology and shit.”

My knees threaten to buckle on me as a wave of humiliation, disappointment, anger, sadness, and fear overcomes me.

I fall to my knees and bring my hands to my face, quietly horrified at the excruciating and unbearable silence around me.

The stadium is filled with nothing but the dense sound of my pathetic, uncontrollable sobs.

“Get up.”

It is in fact Elliot.

He gently grabs my arm and pulls me up from the ground. I walk away and head for the tunnel with my head down. His hands on my shoulders feel like he’s dragging the leftover pieces of me away into the locker room.

Dad and my brother Robbie stand at the threshold, waiting for me.

“Get Drew on the phone,” Dad orders Robbie as the three of us step inside.

“He’s sitting out there,” Robbie replies, looking at his screen while he texts. “I’m sure he’ll—”

“Just get him on the damn phone,” he snaps back as I walk over to the bathroom sink to splash my face with cold water.

I dare to look at my reflection in the mirror, wanting to recognize myself, but I can’t.

I want to understand how to control the chaos inside me and learn how to quench the overwhelming anger, but I wouldn’t know where to start.

It’s overpowering and all-consuming. All I want is to scream, but I manage to momentarily contain the rage by throwing more water on my face.