Chapter 42 #3
Exhaling hard, I widen my stance. She serves to my backhand again, but I change it up and redirect it crosscourt, low and sharp.
She’s late.
15–30.
We trade heavy shots in the next rally. I start looping high, changing the rhythm. Her frustration is evident.
That’s right. Do the work.
She’s an aggressive player, we get it. I consider myself one, too. But if I’ve learned anything from Henry, it’s knowing when to be patient. When to buy time. When to mix it up.
She takes the bait and goes for too much, sending it long.
30–30.
She goes big on the next one, but the serve clips the tape and hangs in the air just long enough. I pounce, step in, and crush it down the line.
40–30.
Match point.
My legs feel heavier than they did a minute ago. My grip falters.
I’m not getting out of bed for the rest of the month after this.
Wait …
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
My toe curls, my body’s way of demanding a break it knows I won’t allow.
Not yet.
I plant my feet and wince through my teeth as Zoya readies herself to serve on championship point.
My championship point.
But the burn radiates up my sole, threatening to paralyze me if it moves up my calf, a path it usually favors.
Zoya doesn’t miss a beat. Her eyes flash with the cruel alertness predators are born with.
She sees me falter and bares her teeth like she smells blood.
I bend over slightly, pretending to fix my laces.
“Shhhit …” I mutter, stretching my toe inside my shoe, silently begging it to yield.
It seems like it will pass, but Zoya’s seconds away from serving if I’m lucky, and I might need a minute to recover. A minute I don’t have.
Murmurs roll through the stands until I hear the unmistakable chorus carried by dozens of voices. It’s faint at first, but the audience quickly injects itself into the match.
?Ay, ay, ay, ay … canta y no llores!
?Porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones!
Chad clicks his mic off without a word and a little more force than necessary. He gives me a tight look that reeks of don’t ride this too far, and adjusts in his seat, muttering to himself.
The song tells me to sing and not cry, but I break the second I spot Mom, who probably orchestrated this when she saw I was struggling.
She’s swaying from side to side with the rest of my people.
With a stadium full of strangers waving their flags like a house banner and singing for me like a war cry.
A warning.
?Ay, ay, ay, ay … canta y no llores!
?Porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones!
Zoya’s jaw tightens. She anxiously spins her racket in her hand and takes an extra second before bouncing the ball. She’s growing restless. She doesn’t seem to like being the underdog. Especially not when the entire arena just picked a side.
Chad’s barely holding it together. He seems to be on the verge of wanting to issue a warning to the crowd for failing to maintain decorum and providing excessive emotional support.
And … he just did.
It’s subtle. But he opens his mic and asks for silence after allowing the singing to go on for longer than I thought he would.
“Thank you,” Chad says, once the crowd dies down. “Play will resume. Miss Kruschenko to serve.”
Zoya’s lips purse, and her feline blue eyes narrow on me.
She serves like she’s out to kill me.
Inhaling deep through my nose, pain still lingering, adrenaline hijacking it, I respond in kind.
She attacks my backhand. I slice. She hits it crosscourt. I stretch. We trade blows, twenty shots deep, lungs burning, shoulders shrieking. But I stay in it.
She tries to finish it with a blistering forehand to the corner.
I guess it. Sprint. Slide. Put my racket on it.
She dashes forward, but I go low and fire a laser crosscourt, making her dive—
I hold my breath and see my entire life roll in front of my eyes.
She misses.
“Game, set, match. Freeman. Two sets to one: 4–6, 7–5, 6–3,” Chad announces in the most boring tone he could muster, like he’s ready to go home to his cats. I barely catch it through the explosion.
I drop to my knees, clutching my racket to my chest and kissing the rim. When I set it aside, my palms press on the court and you bet I kiss it. I spring to my feet with a little jump and fist-pump, crying out like a Viking who went for the kill and left no one standing.
Somewhere in the background, Zoya tosses her racket on the bench and approaches the net.
I pick up my pace to a jog and meet her there.
“I’ll see you in China,” she spits out, her palm sweaty and stiff as we shake hands. “If you make it past the fourth round this time.”
She’s quickly intercepted by the media.
A small crowd shouts my name, and they’re beckoning me forward, offering me a Mexican flag. I wrap it around my shoulders and do a victory lap while the rest of the crowd keeps cheering.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chad announces with a bit more grit. “Your 2011 US Open champion … Belén Freeman.”
Gemma tackles me with a hug. Robbie’s crying, his glasses so foggy he yanks them off his face before embracing me. Dad lifts me off the ground and twirls me around like I’m still his five-year-old girl winning her first Red Ball tournament at the country club.
Tim comes next. He’s not the most affectionate but he understands the magnitude of this moment. He hugs me, gives me a warm smile and says, “You made my blood pressure spike, but that was a hell of a match.”
Drew high-fives me and pulls me in for a quick hug. He reminds me we have a shit ton of media to attend to after this and hands me over to my mom.
She’s staring at me from a close distance, her eyes shining. Proud.
“The earrings didn’t fail me,” I say, sliding a finger over one of them.
“Oh, honey. It was all you.”
We crash into each other. Camera flashes going wild. The media circling us like famished sharks.
“You did it!”
I hold her at arm’s length and nod. She looks over my shoulder, and I follow her gaze.
Henry.
He’s hanging back, waiting. Patiently. And only walks over when I catch his eye.
“Kiss me,” I tell him when he slides his hands around my waist and pulls me flush against his chest.
“Say it again, and I might.”
He lifts me off the ground and kisses me. The crowd hoots and whistles, but he sets me down quickly. We’ll have all the time in the world to celebrate after this. It can’t be hurried or condensed by the rush of the moment.
“I’m so—” he cuts himself off to let out a sharp breath through his mouth, shaking his head as if he had previously vowed not to cry, but still did. “In fucking awe of you.”
He kisses my hair.
“You brought me this far,” I say, cupping his face, unwilling to let go. “You—”
“Nope,” he says, shaking his head like the necio he is.
“Okay, fine. We did. Take a little credit.”
Henry stares at me and parts his mouth like he’s ready to keep arguing. But it’s like something hit him. This is bigger than me and him. It’s about us. About what we can achieve together. About how far we’re both willing to go for each other. About showing up no matter what.
His eyes wrinkle, and the corners of his mouth lift into a smile. He nods, slowly, and everything around us dies down and blurs out.
“It’s you and me against the world, Bells.”