Chapter 30 Match Point
A cross the net, Declan Vale smiled like he had already won the part of the match that mattered.
Nico hated that smile.
Not because it was confident.
Confidence was clean. Confidence earned its place on a court. Nico could respect confidence, even from an opponent he wanted to beat so badly his teeth hurt.
Declan’s smile was not confidence.
It was memory.
It was every word he had said when cameras were not close enough to catch the blade. Every comment dressed up as a joke. Every insult delivered quietly so Nico looked like the only ugly thing in the frame.
It was Nico’s mother in someone else’s mouth.
His family turned into bait.
His temper turned into proof.
His silence turned into a noose.
And now Declan stood on the opposite baseline, bouncing a ball slowly, leisurely, like they were not one match away from deciding the championship.
Like this was fun.
Nico rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip.
His right wrist throbbed beneath the fresh tape.
Not badly.
Badly enough.
Mel had cleared him with so many conditions that Jace had started calling him Terms and Conditions Reyes until Coach Hart threatened to make him run stadium stairs. Nico could play, but he had to be smart. No unnecessary strain. No ego swings. No overhitting through pain.
Smart.
That was easy for people to say when their entire future was not sitting inside one taped joint.
From the sideline, Coach Hart watched him with arms crossed, his face unreadable beneath the brim of his cap.
Jace stood beside the bench, jaw tight, hands clenched around a towel he had been pretending not to twist for the last five minutes.
And Lena—
Nico did not look at her yet.
He knew where she was.
That had become its own kind of danger.
He could feel her near the media area, standing behind the low barrier with Talia, laptop bag at her feet, hands folded around her phone. Not posting. Not performing. Not smiling for anyone.
Just there.
The knowledge settled inside his chest, low and steady.
Not alone.
The chair umpire called, “Players ready.”
Declan spun his racket once. “Ready.”
Nico nodded.
The first game belonged to Declan.
Not because Nico played badly.
Because Declan came out targeting the wrist immediately.
Drop shot.
Short angle.
Deep backhand.
Another drop shot.
Again and again, he dragged Nico forward, then pushed him wide, forcing quick adjustments and late grips. Every rally seemed designed less to win the point and more to ask Nico’s wrist how much truth it could hide.
Nico chased down the first drop shot and flicked it cross-court.
Winner.
The crowd clapped.
His wrist screamed.
He did not react.
Declan tilted his head from across the net, smile still soft.
“Looks tender,” he said as they passed between points.
Nico kept walking.
No answer.
Good.
One point.
One breath.
No clip.
Declan won the next two.
Then the game.
The scoreboard changed.
Vale 1, Reyes 0.
Jace shouted from the sideline, “Early. It’s early.”
Nico bounced the ball for his serve.
Once.
Twice.
His wrist pulsed in warning.
He switched the ball to his left hand, shook out his right carefully, then set again.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Lena shift.
Not dramatically.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But he did.
Of course he did.
She had noticed the wrist.
Of course she had.
He could almost hear her voice.
You are allowed to be angry. You are not allowed to hand him your future because he borrowed your pain.
Nico inhaled.
Served.
Ace.
The crowd erupted.
Declan’s smile flickered.
Good.
Nico served again.
Fault.
Pain sparked up his forearm.
He clenched his jaw.
Second serve.
Declan attacked it, driving the return hard to Nico’s backhand. Nico reached, caught it late, and sent it long.
Fifteen-all.
Declan walked behind his baseline, bouncing lightly on his toes.
“Careful,” he called, not loudly enough for the umpire to intervene. “Wouldn’t want to make it worse before scouts get a full look.”
Nico stared at the service line.
Do not look at him.
Do not answer.
Do not give him anything.
He served again.
The first set became a war of inches.
Declan played pretty tennis.
That was the infuriating part.
He was good.
Clean footwork. Sharp hands. Controlled aggression. He disguised drop shots beautifully and changed pace with the kind of patience that made every rally feel like a trap being assembled in real time.
Nico had always known Declan was talented.
He just hated that talent did not require decency.
At four-all, Nico earned break point after a twenty-two-shot rally that left his lungs burning and his wrist hot beneath the tape.
Declan walked to the baseline slowly.
Too slowly.
Then he looked past Nico.
Toward the stands.
Toward the Westbridge side.
Toward Lena.
Nico’s grip tightened before he could stop it.
Declan saw.
His smile returned.
“She still taking notes on you?” Declan asked softly. “Or is this part off script?”
Nico’s blood went cold, then hot.
Do not.
The word inside him sounded like Lena.
Then Coach Hart.
Then his mother.
Then himself.
Do not.
Declan served.
Nico stepped in and crushed the return down the line.
Clean winner.
The crowd roared.
Break.
Nico turned away before Declan’s smile could recover.
At the bench, Jace slapped the towel against his own shoulder like he needed something to do with his body.
“Yes,” Jace breathed. “That’s it. That’s it.”
Coach Hart’s voice came low. “Breathe, Reyes. He wants emotional tennis. Do not give it to him.”
Nico took his water bottle with his left hand.
His right wrist was throbbing now.
He did not look at it.
Coach Hart did.
So did Lena.
Nico felt her gaze like touch.
Finally, he let himself look.
She stood across the walkway, one hand pressed near her mouth, eyes fixed on him. The moment their gazes met, her hand dropped.
She did not smile.
She did not mouth encouragement.
She only looked at him like the outcome mattered and he mattered more.
Nico swallowed.
Then nodded once.
Small.
Only for her.
Her eyes softened.
That was enough.
He served out the first set.
Barely.
Seven-five.
Westbridge exploded.
Jace yelled loud enough to embarrass several ancestors.
Coach Hart clapped once, sharp and approving.
Declan walked to his bench with his jaw tight for the first time all match.
Nico sat and wrapped his left hand around his water bottle because his right needed rest and his pride needed supervision.
One set down.
One set closer.
One set more for Declan to dig.
The second set turned uglier.
Declan stopped smiling as much.
That made him more dangerous.
He attacked Nico’s wrist without apology now. Short balls. Low slices. Heavy returns jammed into the body. Anything that forced Nico to adjust late, absorb impact, twist when he should not twist.
At two-three, Nico missed an easy forehand by three feet.
Pain shot through his wrist so sharply his racket almost slipped.
The crowd murmured.
Declan saw.
Of course.
He walked past the net on the changeover and said, “I’d retire before I embarrassed myself.”
Nico kept his eyes forward.
Declan leaned slightly closer.
“But then again, your family’s used to watching you make things hard.”
The world narrowed.
Not to red.
That would have been easier.
It narrowed to silence.
To Declan’s mouth.
To the memory of his mother’s voice saying, No rush, mijo. I love you.
To Sofia asking if Lena was fake or real.
To the old report in Coach Hart’s file.
To every person who had known pieces of his pain and still managed to discuss him like he was a risk assessment.
Nico’s fingers tightened around the towel.
Hard.
Too hard.
His wrist flared.
“Nico.”
Lena’s voice.
Not loud.
Not official.
She should not have been that close.
She stood near the barrier now, eyes locked on him, face pale but steady.
One word.
His name.
Not a plea.
An anchor.
Nico breathed.
Once.
Twice.
Then he turned away from Declan and walked to his bench.
The crowd had not heard.
The umpire had not heard.
But Coach Hart had seen enough.
His voice was low when Nico sat.
“Look at me.”
Nico stared at the court.
“Reyes.”
Nico looked up.
Coach Hart held his gaze. “He cannot beat you clean if he keeps reaching for dirt.”
Nico’s throat worked.
“Then make him play tennis,” Coach Hart said.
Something inside Nico steadied.
Not healed.
Not calm.
But steadier.
Make him play tennis.
Fine.
Nico did.
He lost the second set six-four.
Not because he broke.
Because his wrist was getting worse and Declan was too good not to use it.
The match split.
One set each.
The championship score around them tightened into a knot.
Every other court had finished.
Westbridge and Eastmont were tied.
Everything came to Nico and Declan.
Final set.
Court One.
All eyes.
Of course.
The announcer’s voice rang through the complex, telling spectators the decisive singles match would determine the regional champion.
Cameras shifted closer.
Reporters leaned in.
Scouts stopped pretending they were casual.
The whole venue seemed to hold its breath.
Nico walked to the baseline.
Declan stood across from him, no longer smiling.
Good.
Let him feel pressure too.
The final set was not pretty.
It was survival with lines.
Nico shortened points when he could. Came forward more. Took risks. Declan answered with brutal patience, stretching rallies, making Nico hit one more ball, one more backhand, one more painful recovery.
At three-all, Nico saved two break points.
At four-all, Declan saved three.
At five-five, Nico slipped chasing a drop shot and caught himself with his left hand, rolling away from the right wrist just in time. Lena made a sound from the barrier.
He heard it.
His chest tightened.
He wanted to tell her he was fine.
He was not.
He got up anyway.
At six-five, Declan serving, Nico earned match point with a backhand pass that made the crowd erupt so loudly the court vibrated beneath his shoes.
Match point.
Regional championship.
Nico stood behind the baseline, sweat running down his spine, wrist screaming, lungs burning, heart steady in the strangest way.
Declan bounced the ball.
Once.
Twice.
Then he looked across the net.
The smile returned.
Small.
Last weapon.
“You know,” Declan said softly, “your mother is probably watching.”
Nico’s grip tightened.
Declan tossed the ball in his hand.
“Try not to make her look foolish again.”
There it was.
The blade.
The old wound.
The invitation.
Nico felt the entire world lean toward him, hungry for his reaction.
He heard the crowd.
The cameras.
Jace muttering something under his breath.
Coach Hart going still.
Lena somewhere behind him, probably not breathing.
Nico closed his eyes for half a second.
He saw his mother.
Not in an apron from Declan’s stolen photo.
Not tired behind a phone screen.
Not as a weapon in someone else’s hand.
He saw Carmen Reyes on a cracked public court, clapping like he had won the world because he got three serves over the net.
He opened his eyes.
“You don’t know anything about love,” Nico said.
Quiet.
Calm.
Only Declan heard.
Declan’s smile faltered.
Then he served.
Wide.
Nico moved.
Pain flashed through his wrist as he stretched for the return, but he caught it clean enough to float the ball deep. Declan attacked, driving Nico wide to the backhand. Nico sliced low. Declan came forward. Nico guessed right and lobbed.
The ball rose into the pale afternoon sky.
Too short.
Declan smashed.
Nico ran.
His shoes burned against the court. His wrist throbbed. His lungs tore open.
He reached the ball on the bounce and flicked a forehand cross-court.
Somehow, it landed in.
The crowd screamed.
Declan was already there.
Volley.
Sharp angle.
Nico changed direction.
Pain.
White-hot.
He almost lost the racket.
He did not.
The next ball came fast to his body.
He blocked it back.
Declan stepped in, eyes bright, smelling blood.
Another drop shot.
Of course.
Nico sprinted forward.
His legs were heavy.
His wrist useless.
His heart impossibly clear.
He reached the ball low, scooped it up the line, and for one perfect second, Declan was wrong-footed.
The ball passed him.
Barely.
Declan lunged and caught it with the edge of his frame.
The ball floated high.
Short.
Nico moved in.
The entire court held still.
He had one shot.
One.
Put it away.
End it.
His wrist screamed before he swung.
Nico gritted his teeth and drove through the ball.
The shot clipped the tape.
For one breath, no one knew which side it would fall on.
Lena’s hand flew to her mouth.
Jace stopped mid-shout.
Coach Hart stood frozen at the sideline.
Declan stared up at the net cord, eyes wide for the first time all day.
The ball balanced on the white tape.
Rolled.
Hung.
Then began to fall.