Page 57 of Break Point

“You guys can’t sell,” I plead, my voice cracking. My mom sniffles and reaches for my hand, taking it from my father’s grasp. I turn my attention to her.

“We already have,” she says.

I know right then, all at once, that this turnaround trip wasn’t to watch me play. It was to break the news to me in person. It was out of respect, and for love of family. But also, my parents need to know I’m all right with all of it. They live for Beck and me, and as long as we’re all right, so are they.

So, despite how fucking sad I am about it all, I suck it up and put on a soft smile before covering the back of my mom’s hand and squeezing her softly.

“Well then, I guess . . . what’s next?” I tilt my head a bit, keeping my eyes locked on hers. She’s fighting tears, so I hold my own at bay. If one of us goes, we both will. We’ve always worked in concert that way.

“We’re not entirely sure,” she says after taking a deep breath. “It’s kind of exciting. Like our second act.”

Her gaze flits to my dad, and I look his way too.

“I’ve been thinking about teaching. There’s a program that would certify me in six months, and the high schools need trade instructors. I’d love to create the next generation of line cooks and chefs.”

My mom nods as we both take in my dad’s fantasy. I doubt a culinary teacher in Arizona public schools makes much, but they’ve always been good at living lean. Maybe if they both teach, and if they’re at the same school, or close enough to share a car. I guess it could work.

“Lots to think about, huh?” I wish I could muster a more excited reaction, but I’ve never been great at faking it. It’s a miracle I’ve gotten this far, no longer pacing or lamenting what went wrong.

“That’s right,” my dad agrees. “The world is our oyster.”

I roll my eyes at his corny expression as my mom does the same. So that’s where I get it from.

“I should get loose. My singles match starts in forty,” I say before getting to my feet and hugging each of them.

“Don’t forget about Slices!” Beck shouts as I make my way down the bleachers and back to the locker room.

I pull my gear out of my locker, the grip still warm from my volleying this morning. I worked up a good sweat, and sitting in the sun kept me loose. I don’t want to pull anything, though, so I’d better go through the motions and prep for my match the right way. Besides, Taryn will put me in my place if I skip a step.

The match before mine wraps early, and I take my opponent in two straight sets. I’m glad I won, but the competition wasn’t much. I could feel the weight of my parents’ news dragging me down while I played. My mind kept drifting to the look on my mom’s face and the false bravado my dad tried to show. I started this year feeling hopeful—an epic season waiting to be played, an NIL deal filling my bank, Bryson Moss becoming my . . . something . . . surprising me most of all. Now, though, it feels like everything’s falling apart. My head doesn’t feel right. I think it’s the stress of dropping in rank, and now my parents. But it’s hard to tell if that’s what’s making me play sluggish or if I’ve really lost my swing.

I need someone to challenge my game, to get me ready for the week ahead. Adrianne’s match zips by just as quickly, though her opponent was a bit tougher than mine as a one seed. I’m so wound with pent-up energy, and perhaps some frustration, that I serve up aces for our first doubles game when it rolls around. Despite a few bad swings, I manage to finish the tournament leading in aces and returns. Part of that is thanks to our run to the championship match for doubles. Taryn and I dropped one game but won out the rest. The one good takeaway for the day for me is seeing my friend’s face light up the moment they hand her the black-and-gold trophy. My normal fire, however, is incredibly dulled. I watch Adrianne stand on top of the award podium and bend forward as the chairman awards her a medal for first place. We get one as a team, as well, but those come in boxes that Coach divvies up later. The moment to shine is right now, and I’m nowhere near the spotlight.

I’m number two.

Chapter 21

Bryson

The trip home from Poly Tech is less than two hours, but knowing that Jaden isn’t her usual fiery self and I’m not able to lift her up in person makes it feel as if this bus is crawling along on rims. On a gravel road. In the rain. A hurricane-type rain.

We won a tough game, and the bus hasn’t been quiet since the moment we pulled out of the stadium lot. Our O-line has a tradition when we win conference games on the road of writing and performing their own raps on our drive home. They’ve come up with no less than eleven dis tracks about Poly Tech so far, and they’ve laid them all down thanks to this app Corbin found. At least they’re letting Ashton do the actual rapping this time. He’s good. Ollie, our right guard, and Nez, the center, usually take the lead, and they have zero sense of rhythm. It’s like listening to my anatomy lab TA read the periodic table to a bad drumbeat.

Normally, I’d be entertained. But all I want to do is talk to Jaden, and I’m not about to call her with a bunch of rowdy football players swearing in rhymes in the background. Instead, I’ll stick to texts.

Me: We have an hour left. Wanna tell me about your day?

I watch the response dots flicker, then fade a few times before she finally responds.

Jaden: No. But yes.

I chuckle silently and slip lower in my seat, stretching my legs out under the seat in front of me, where I’m fairly certain Coach is asleep with his enormous noise-canceling headphones on.

Me: Want me to go first?

Jaden: Only if you promise to share nothing but the bad stuff. Like, interceptions and sacks. No game-saving passes. I can’t handle your success.

I snicker and think for a moment of something embarrassing to share. I had a damn good game, and for once, I stayed on my feet the entire time. I did slide for a first down twice, and it was real grass, not turf, so my socks got grass stains. Probably not the level of devastation she’s looking for, though. I start to type so she knows my response is coming.