Page 67 of Break Point

Her sweaty body folds around mine as she drops her gear bag and keys to the floor.

“How was practice?” My mouth tastes like acid uttering those words. I wonder if I’ll ever go to practice again.

“Awful. We’re going to get our asses kicked next week. Good thing it isn’t spring. You’ll be back and number one by then. I refuse to play doubles with anyone else.” She hasn’t let go yet, which is good because it keeps her from seeing the skepticism on my face as she hugs me like a missing person finally returned home.

“When can you come to practice?” she says, finally letting go of her grip on the back of my shirt. I brace myself on the counter with one palm as she steps back to meet my eyes. “You are coming back, right?”

I let out a heavy breath. My dad was right. Bryson too. I have to try. But I’m terrified of what version of me is going to show up the next time I set foot on the court. I’m not worried about having a seizure. I’m worried about not being my best self.

I’m worried . . . about losing.

“I’ll be out tomorrow. Easing back in. That’s the term Coach keeps using. Easing. Because that’s how I roll, slow and steady.”

My friend holds my stare for a beat, then breathes out a short laugh.

“As slow and steady as a pro wrestler in an antique shop,” she spits out.

“That’s quite the analogy.” I can’t disagree with her, though. I’m not sure I know how to hold back.

“I’m sorry I left this place a mess. I didn’t know you were . . .” She wanders into the living room and rounds the edge of the sofa. Her eyes flash wide when she spots the empty floor.

“Your underwear? Yeah, I found them. I put them in your room. And are the boxers . . .”

“None of your business,” she huffs, pursing her lips and hitting me with one more hard look before snagging her bag from the floor and dragging it into her bedroom.

I follow behind her and push my way into her room for once. She puts her hands on her hips in response, so I take my small act of resistance all the way, flopping on her bed and propping my head up in preparation for my own inquisition.

“Hey!” She cuts her protest short when I quirk a brow, groaning in defeat and pushing her shoes off with her heels. She climbs onto the bed next to me, and we face one another like best girlfriends ready to share secrets.

“Things with Corbin are getting real. Like real real.” She’s been on again, off again with her brother’s best friend for a while now, but I’ve sort of always known that she wants more out of things with him.

“Have you told Kai?” I suspect telling her brother is what’s standing in the way of whatever the next step is between them.

She rolls to her back and grabs the heart pillow from her bed, hugging it to her chest. Corbin gave her that last year. She won’t sleep without it.

“Kai will kill him. He won’t kill me because, well, family. But he’ll kill him. And then I won’t have him. So, yeah . . . there you have it.” She rolls her head to the side, and I shift to nestle in a little closer.

“I know, my problems are so stupid compared to yours. I’m sorry,” she says, pouting her lips.

“No, your problems are refreshing. There are solutions to yours,” I say, inserting an unintentional hefty dose of real life into the conversation. It seems to morph my best friend’s expression from swooning forbidden-love crush to soul-crushing empathy in a matter of seconds.

“I’m really sorry this happened to you.” She swallows hard as her eyes get glassy. We haven’t talked about it alone, she and I, but I know she was there when it happened. I remember seeing her face in flashes. I heard her voice.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I say.

“You didn’t mean to,” she says, and I nod against the pillow in agreement.

We lie together for a long while, simply staring at one another and feeling scared about so much, too much to even put words to. The quiet is nice. And so is the company. And for the first time in weeks, I drift off to sleep without feeling a vise grip at my heart for fear of waking up to see Bryson’s or my parents’ terrified expressions looking back at me.

Chapter 25

Jaden

Taking classes online definitely opens up my schedule. I don’t exactly love watching videos of my professor’s finance lectures, though. Somehow, hearing him through my EarPods makes the already dry subject matter that much more nap inducing. But playing the videos at one-and-a-half times the speed helps, plus it’s freed up more time for practice on my own. Unfortunately, it seems as if there aren’t enough extra hours to get back to where I was. I’m always a beat behind, and that’s hitting returns off the machine. I don’t know what I’m missing, but I’m hoping Aaron can help.

The training room is rarely empty, but with football out of town and basketball preseason not yet underway, I’ve found the small window of time when I can slip in without a million eyes watching me. I’ve been back on campus for a little over a week, and despite not posting anything with Bryson for the app since my episode, the clamor for content from us—me—hasn’t slowed down. If anything, it feels like the demand has only grown. I don’t know what to say to people, though. It’s not about the app anymore, or even me and Bryson. It’s about me and the salacious details of where I’ve been. My privacy.

My epilepsy.