Chapter 42 #2
I’m not the same girl who lost last year and threw a hissy fit on his watch.
I paid my dues.
Faced my demons.
And now I’m back, refusing to drop my chin and look the other way.
We meet at the net for the coin toss.
“Heads,” I call.
It lands on tails.
Zoya chooses to serve.
Figures.
I scan the stadium and walk toward the bench.
My people are exactly where they should be.
Dad is in his Yankees cap, camera in hand, and ready to film.
Robbie and Gemma sit side by side, probably still recovering from that kiss.
And judging by the way they keep stealing glances, this time they might not overthink it. Maybe this time they’ll let it happen.
Drew’s on the phone but waving energetically and flashing his pearly whites my way.
And Henry? His eyes are locked on me like I’m the only thing that exists in this entire arena.
Mom has now quietly taken her seat.
I wave at the crowd, but not at my family. I can’t. If I lift a hand, I might break.
Zoya’s already stretching on her side of the court, cool as ever, pretending to be deaf to the noise. I don’t know how she does it, how she looks so unbothered while I’m out here barely holding it together.
She doesn’t look at me. Not once. She doesn’t need to. She’s already owned this court once before and watched me unravel at my defeat.
I reach my chair and set my bag down. Unzipping it, I pull out a purple Neel Ultex racket, the same model I thrashed last year.
But not this year. No racket tantrums, no matter the outcome.
I kiss the frame, and those who get the joke laugh. I stretch it, cradling the racket like a baby. More laughter.
Then I settle.
Drew will be thrilled, and so will my sponsor.
But it’s time to get serious.
I bounce on my toes and force air through my lungs.
As I walk to the baseline, a ball kid tosses me three balls. I choose two and tuck one into the built-in shorts under my violet, custom-made pleated skirt.
Adidas designed the whole look for tonight. It’s soft lilac and crisp lines. The cropped, collared top feels classic with an edge. It’s the kind of outfit that moves with me and transcends time.
Warm-up feels like a blur. The sound of the crowd, the pop of the ball, and the umpire’s voice blur together, like background noise I’m barely registering.
Game face on.
Let’s go.
Zoya serves first. She holds at love. Not the start I wanted.
Then it’s my turn. Two unforced errors, a rushed approach, and a double fault.
Shit.
I sit during the changeover and press the towel over my face, not just to dry off, but to get a second alone with my thoughts.
She’s controlling everything. The pace. The angles. The noise.
Mom’s words pop back in my head: She hates the net. She avoids it unless she has no choice.
Next point, I throw in a low slice that skims just over the net.
She charges forward, off balance, and swings wide.
The crowd reacts. And I’d bet my bottom dollar that whatever came out of her mouth wasn’t fit for a lady.
Good.
This isn’t just a match.
It’s a war of wills.
And I’m done playing on her terms.
SECOND SET
Zoya took the first set 6-4.
I fought for it. God knows I did. But she was cleaner, smarter. Colder.
We’re tied at 3–3 in the second, and I’m still playing catch-up. Every ball she hits feels like it’s dipped in acid. It’s sharp, corrosive, and designed to make me doubt everything I’ve trained for.
Henry’s last words before leaving the locker room resonate inside my head: “It’s your court. Take it back.”
Then comes the rally. Seventeen shots that shock my system and leave me breathless. She pushes me to my limit from corner to corner, baseline to baseline. I slide, moan, stretch, and lunge for a backhand slice I have no business reaching. It clips the net and barely crawls over.
Zoya gets there, but she’s a beat too late.
She nets it.
4–3, me. First break of the set.
The crowd explodes like someone flipped a switch. The roar swells so loud that Chad has to ask for silence over the mic. It takes a few beats for the audience to settle.
Then, from the top row, a guy yells, “Marry me, Belén!”
Without thinking, I shout back, “Get in line!”
The place bursts into laughter, but the noise dies down in time before Chad has a full-blown meltdown.
And just like that, focus clicks into place.
I pull her forward with a drop shot. She gets there late and dumps it in the net. 5–3. I do it again on the next point, this time with a sharp angle, and she overhits it wide.
She does hate the net. I can see it in the way her feet stall, just for a beat, before charging in. It’s not her safe space. That’s not where she shines. The mask stays on, but I can feel the hairline fracture.
Mom was right.
But Zoya doesn’t crumble. She regroups and holds her next service game quickly. 5–4.
I serve next, hoping to close the set, but I can’t. She breaks me after a long deuce, staying aggressive and fearless.
We’re tied again. 5–5. This could swing either way. But I refuse to let her take control.
She steps up to serve, riding momentum, firing two winners down the line and forcing me into three more deuces. But this time, I don’t fold. I hold my ground.
And I break her. 6–5.
My time to serve now.
I take my time between points, wiping my face, bouncing the ball exactly six times, NEHBLing like I have all the time in the world. I stop rushing. Stop playing at her pace. My hands are on the controls now. I’m dictating the tempo.
Set point.
I glance at the ball and NEHBL. Without stopping to think, I kiss it. A new step. A risky one. One I haven’t tried since I was eight.
I NEHBLK.
God, I hate how it sounds. I shouldn’t mess with my ritual. Not in the most important final of my entire career so far.
But I do it because something inside me begs me to try it.
The ball flies up, and I moan out a breath as I swing.
I serve wide, flat and fast. Zoya stretches and barely gets her strings on it. The return floats short. I charge in without hesitation and send a forehand down the line with everything I have.
Yes!
I fist-pump.
“Game and second set, Freeman. Seven games to five,” Chad announces into the mic, competing with the crowd’s roar.
It paid off. I don’t know if I’ll ever do it again, but I’m officially open to considering the K after this.
Henry’s shaking his head like I’m the most unbelievable necia he’s ever met, an open, easy laugh breaking across his face.
Flashing a grin, I give him a subtle air kiss. Nothing extra. Just enough to let him know: That was for you.
THIRD SET
The silence is deafening as we take our positions after the changeover. We’re midway through the set, standing at 3-2.
Zoya’s game face is still on, but cracks of fatigue are showing. Her footwork is heavier, her towel breaks are stretching longer, and her flawless porcelain skin is blotchy. Even her signature slicked-back ponytail looks like it’s giving up.
I probably look like shit too, but I’ve never been one to pretend something I’m not. What you see is what you get. For better or worse.
My turn to serve.
Zoya’s pacing like a ravenous caged animal on her side of the court. The match is slipping through her fingers. She can feel it. We both do.
I bounce the ball, NEHBL, and launch a bomb.
Ace.
15–Love.
We rally. I lure her in with a drop shot and burn her with a clean passing shot down the line.
30-Love.
She glares at me, adjusting her strings like they’re to blame for coming up short.
It fuels her, awakens her, making her attack the next serve with a vicious return. I barely get a racket on it, and she finishes with a backhand winner.
I can’t get cocky.
30-15.
We go in for another long exchange. This time, I go too soon for the angle, and it clips the net.
30-30.
I wipe my face, stall for breath, and step up to the line.
I NEHBL and serve. Not my best work.
Zoya lunges forward and charges the net. I go for a lob, but it falls short. She smashes it.
30-40.
Break point.
I cannot afford to lose this game.
I NEHBL. Serve. Flat and fast to her backhand. She scrambles and barely gets it over the net. I take control as we trade shots. Ten balls. Twelve. I’m so fucking tired. But I’m not backing down. Not now. Not when I see it … an opening.
I whip a forehand screaming into the sideline, and it lands flush.
Chad calls, “In.”
The crowd goes wild, and I fist-pump close to my face.
“That was out!” Zoya barks in her heavy Russian accent, raising a hand.
I don’t even flinch. Chad’s ego has this covered. He hates being second-guessed more than he hates double faults. He lifts a finger and presses his mic.
“The ball was in. No challenge remaining,” Chad calls. “Deuce.”
Zoya storms to the baseline.
She’s cracking.
The next two points are mine, and so is the set.
Zoya barely holds her next service game. Grunting, gritting her teeth, and muttering to herself between points. She scrapes through, but her confidence is fraying. The tension is visible. Audible. The crowd is picking up on it, the silence becoming thicker and heavier to bear.
I don’t let up.
On my serve, I stay aggressive. Mix up the pace. Make her guess wrong. I dominate the game with clean shot-making and sharper decisions. There’s no hesitation. No overthinking.
I hold at love.
5–3.
Zoya’s serving to stay in the match.
But it doesn’t feel like I’m one game away from winning.
It feels like the match could go on forever if she holds her serve. Like she could find a second wind, and I might not have one left.
A subtle panic sets in my spine. I don’t know how much longer I can hold when I’m about to combust. What if my body gives out on me?
What if—
I blink hard, my vision blurring for a second too long.
I shake it off.
Zoya aces me out wide on the first point. No surprise. She’s not going quietly.
0–15.
Her next serve jams my body. I block it back on instinct, but she’s already closing in, volleying the ball away with a grunt.
0–30.