Epilogue Jaden
Epilogue
Jaden
Six Months Later
My dad is constantly quoting that LL Cool J song about comebacks lately. I’ve listened to the song a hundred times, and I can’t lie—there is nothing about my comeback that aligns with LL’s swagger.
This battle has been marked by grit. And failure. Oh, man . . . so much failure. But I’ve made it right to the steps of the goal a twelve-year-old me scribbled on the pages of a notebook once.
Become number one.
I’m her. College tennis’s top seed. One win away from sewing it into the record books.
My name engraved in Cordon lore right next to Kathrine Maltese.
There were days when I thought about giving up.
I tried to quit more than once. But Bryson was always in my ear, reminding me of who I am. What I want. What I deserve.
I’m ruthless at practice. I have zero patience for myself sometimes.
I’m harsh, in fact, on my failures during games.
But I’m also resilient. And that’s something my epilepsy taught me.
Resilience is that place where grace and tenacity intersect, and I’ve worked hard on letting the grace part seep through more often.
I started my podcast the week I went back to practice.
Bryson was my first guest because, well, duh.
The pair of us garnered a decent audience right out of the gate, mostly Cordon students and alumni.
But thanks to our Score fame, word spread quickly.
That first episode just crossed a million listens this week, and the numbers aren’t slowing down.
A million pairs of ears have heard me own my epilepsy.
They’ve listened to me talk about the reservations I had about stepping on the court again, and the irrational thoughts that still invade my head sometimes.
They also heard about the little girl who watched Kathrine Maltese win her fourth major, and how she begged her dad to take her to the thrift store so she could buy a tennis racket with her allowance.
And they learned about the first time Bryson and I met, and then a tiny fib about how the Score app paired us up for a second chance.
There’s truth at the root of it—if it weren’t for Amelia posting an ad online looking for brand ambassadors, I never would have filled out an application.
But that part is our story. All the public needs to know is we were a match, and we haven’t been apart since. Mostly.
Sharing my story only amplified Score’s popularity.
And last month, Amelia sold her creation to a major online dating company based in Dallas for several million dollars.
I think, perhaps, the best moment of all was when her father had to break out the expensive stuff and toast his daughter, and her .
. . what did he call it once? Cockamamie scheme.
In less than a year, she turned a bunch of zeros and ones—isn’t that what coding is?
—into serious cash. I didn’t really expect her to take on my challenge when I asked her to do it again, this time with a made-to-order app that would help support my parents’ new food truck venture.
When the dust settled from losing the restaurant, they managed to scrape enough cash together to buy an old bus.
I thought they were nuts, but after hours of sweat equity, and some discounts thanks to the job my mom took managing the home improvement store by our apartment back home, that bus cleaned up well.
They haven’t rolled it out yet, so to speak, but the soft launch at the county fair got them a lot of attention.
I take full credit for the name, though.
Nacho Average School Bus.
The Nacho Average Food App launches this summer.
“Jaden, the court is ready.” Taryn pops her head into the quiet locker room just as I pull my phone out for one final video.
“I’ll be right there,” I say.
She smirks, seeing my phone in my hand.
“You’re really going to do this?” Her mouth puckers on the verge of a nervous laugh as I shrug.
“I’ve got no choice. He made it a bet.”
“I know you think my relationship is weird, but you and Bryson take the cake, lady. Hurry up. If you make the Stanford player wait, they’ll start taunting you for stalling.”
“Let them,” I say as the door shuts behind her.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes to center myself. I’ve been trying to take meditation seriously the last few months. I’m a natural skeptic of most things other than sheer willpower and muscle, but I feel like some of this mindful breathing BS I made fun of at first is actually working.
I haven’t had a seizure since New Year’s Day.
When I did, it was usually because I’d skipped my meds, but the added stress of staring down my final season and recommitting to my goals didn’t help.
Bryson’s mom, Liv, says stress is the devil’s paintbrush, and she may be right. But I’m done being Satan’s canvas.
After visualizing the final point in my mind one last time, I open my eyes and press the live button on my phone.
It’s still wild to me that hundreds of followers sign on to listen to what I have to say the minute I turn the streaming on.
It’s not a power I take lightly. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.
But I really think people are going to want to see this.
And if it puts more eyes on women’s tennis, then that’s a huge bonus.
“Hey, everyone.” I wave, bunching my hand like a toddler. I grimace because I promised myself I’d stop doing that. I don’t know why I get so nervous. It’s not like I can actually see the people watching me.
“We’re here. I’m about to head out to center court here in Orlando to take on Shayna Griffith from Stanford.
It’s going to be a brutal match, and I’ve only played her once before, junior year.
We split because we ran out of time and it was only a friendly, which is basically a scrimmage for zero points.
No splitting today, though. One of us is walking away on top. I’m ready.”
I hold up the water bottle that Bryson makes me carry around everywhere I go.
It’s become a superstitious thing for me now, so I bring it to my matches as well.
It’s a puke shade of green, and it’s covered in tiny pink avocados.
It’s so ugly I love it. I chuckle when a comment rolls through shouting out Sarge, as I’ve affectionately nicknamed the bottle.
“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.
The final point clips the net, then lands in, securing my win, and I collapse on the court from sheer exhaustion and joy. I’m mindful to fold my hands over my face and make it obvious that I’m lying here willingly, for good reasons, but I give myself the moment to simply cry the good tears.
I peel myself off the ground and find my way to the net, closing my arms around my competitor. Shayna promises to beat me next time, but rather than looking ahead for once, I sit in the moment and live my now.
My feet move toward him automatically, and even though my racket is poised above my head and I’m clapping against the head with an open palm as a way to thank everyone for pushing me today, I’m really only focused on one fan. My biggest fan. My once nemesis turned love of my life.
My fiancé.
“Guess you were right,” Bryson says, hanging over the railing to pull me into a hug. I cry against his chest as he kisses my head. “You’re number one.”
“And you said yes,” I say, shaking with happy tears.
I fall away just enough to hold his face in my hands.
“Crash, I said yes the moment we met. But I’ll say it in front of any witnesses you want. You didn’t even have to ask, but of course, in pure Jaden Johnson form, you beat me to it.”
He pulls a ring from his pocket and slips it on my finger, and it’s the most perfect piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen. It’s simple, a platinum band with what looks like a tennis ball pattern etched along the sides and a princess-cut diamond standing tall in the center.
“Yes,” I say, giving him the chance to hear it from my lips as well. And I promise to keep repeating it with every challenge we face.
As far as moments go, this one is definitely a ten.