Page 18 of Breakpoint

Dani finally stepped inside, mouth wide open. “Holy fucking shit. This is a lot of books.” Dani ran her fingertips along the spines. Some of the authors she had heard about but never read. There was Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Alice Walker, Jane Austen, and even John Grisham and Stephen King.

“A good book takes away my anxiety about playing.”

“You have anxiety? You seem so calm out there, like nothing affects you. They call you a machine.” Dani sat down on the couch in the room, making herself comfortable in Jaz’s favorite spot. And honestly, Jaz didn’t mind it.

“Well, the machine moniker and persona were something my sport psychologist, Emily, helped me craft to deal with my anxiety. I never started out to have this career or dream that I would ever have these numbers. But when you start winning, you become the favorite, and people expect you to win all the time. The pressure and expectations became suffocating, but winning was a hard drug to turn away from, especially when I actually am better than everyone else. The persona helps me know that the woman across the net can’t touch me.

It allows me to feel uber-confident against everyone.

To go out there and steamroll anything in my path.

It helped me to get used to the pressure of being the favorite at every tournament. ”

Mike had suggested Emily when he first started coaching Jaz.

She had a tendency to get in her own head and let all the outside noise affect her.

Emily came in to navigate the turbulent waters of Jaz’s mind.

She helped her manage the pressure, deal with the highs and lows of the tour, and maintain her focus.

“Do you really think a sports psychologist helps? It seems so, so not like you,” Dani asked.

Jaz went to lean on a wall opposite Dani. “Or who you thought I was?”

Dani gave her a hat tip. “Touche.”

“Like I mentioned before, tennis at this level was as much a mental game as a physical one, and Emily was crucial in keeping my head in the game. Every match was a battle, not just against the woman across the net, but against the constant pressure, the weight of expectation. Being the top-ranked American woman is a coveted title, and every opponent had me in their crosshairs. I’m expected to win, but at the same time, the world is watching and waiting for me to falter, to show a crack in the armor. ”

Dani looked circumspectly at Jaz. “Maybe I’ve never really felt that type of pressure. I get an adrenaline rush before matches, but it never overwhelms me.”

“What did you do in college, then? You were the best player in the country. You didn’t feel pressure to sustain that?” Jaz wondered.

A quick answer came from Dani. “I partied. Sometimes I even played better with a slight buzz still in me. ”

Jaz was taken aback by that response. “Well, you can’t do that now. Raw talent will only get you so far.”

“Why not? I still like to go out and party. Have a few drinks, enjoy the fun, and the spoils of my career. It can’t be all work and no fun, Jaz.”

“Why not? Winning is fun.” Jaz smiled at herself. “Hell, I should have had more wins. But that’s the perfectionist in me.”

“But you win all the time. What do you have besides that?” Before she could respond, Dani continued, “Though I understand having to live up to expectations. With my family name, people expect certain things of me and to be automatically dominant like my parents.”

Jaz nodded in agreement. “The pressure is real. There’s so much, and not just on the court, but to being famous.

I’m sure you can tell that I don’t enjoy being a celebrity and well known.

When I started winning suddenly, sponsors clamored for my attention.

I wanted to just escape it. With Emily's suggestions I’ve won ten Grand Slams.”

Dani laughed. “That was a humble brag.”

“I don’t need to brag when I’m that good, Dani,” she replied honestly.

Jaz heard before she saw the sharp intake of breath and a shocked look on her face. “You called me Dani and not Daniela.”

Jaz blushed and shrugged one shoulder. “Well, that’s what your…friends call you, right?” It felt like a struggle for Jaz to even say the words friends.

“So we’re friends?” Dani looked at her with so much hope in her eyes.

“I wouldn’t call us besties,” Jaz admitted, “but I can at least call you by your preferred name. I mean, you call me Jaz….It takes a while for me to grow to trust someone. But it happens. You know, once every decade.”

Dani laughed at her. “Even when I’m driving you crazy because I can’t be on time?”

“I’ve just learned to tell you forty-five minutes before we actually need to get together,” Jaz admitted.

“What?!?” Dani looked shocked with mock outrage. “Eh, I don’t blame you. My parents used to do the same thing, but now everyone I work with usually goes on my schedule, so it never matters if I'm late.”

“Girl, it still matters. If Beyonce can be on time for everything, so can you!” Jaz shot back. “Professionalism matters, Dani. You’re now a professional tennis player. You’re a good player, but you could be great.”

The blush crept up Dani’s face at the compliment.

Jaz didn’t dole them out often, but when she did, she meant it.

They looked at the different titles in the library, Jaz pulling out some of her favorites that she also had on e-book, just in case she wanted to re-read them while traveling.

It was a moment, and a shift in that room.

A shift to a friendship. The first that Jaz could ever remember really having that wasn’t Brandon or someone on her payroll.

Then they started texting. It started when Dani left for Eastbourne in England and sent Jaz a picture of a book from a store in the airport that she thought Jaz might like.

Jaz had actually read it and gave Dani her thoughts about it.

Dani then tried to find a book that Jaz hadn’t read.

That continued until the texts changed to discussing Dani’s matches and tactics, to just random thoughts about their days.

Dani was actually really witty and had this effervescent thing about her that made Jaz wonder what she was doing and thinking.

So what she said to Brandon was true. They were friends.

Jaz didn’t know if she had ever had a real adult friend before.

The last friend she could remember was Lena.

Before that, Stacey from middle school and they drifted apart when Jaz started playing tennis more regularly.

Everyone else around was on her payroll, even her brother, so it was often hard to discern if they were really her friends, if they wanted to be, or because they were paid to be.

The attendant at the end of the tunnel gave them the signal. “Ladies, we’re ready to go.”

Jaz closed her eyes, focusing on her breath.

Inhale. Exhale. Slow, deliberate. Brandon’s voice, calm and steady, echoed in her mind, “Control what you can control, Jaz. Your breath, your focus, your game.” The anxiety was still there, a nervous flutter in her stomach, but it was now tempered, a fuel to her fire. She was ready. She was in the zone.

She was Jaz fucking Mason. She walked into Centre Court, beside Isla Harper, ready to go to battle and hopefully avenge the loss from the Australian Open.

The match went by in a blur, and next thing she knew, they were tied five-all in the second set.

Jaz was already up a set and didn’t really want to have to play a third.

Her hamstring was aching, and her back was barely holding up. She needed to end this match now.

She had to hold serve her and break Isla’s to prevent going to a tiebreak. She lifted her arm to begin her serving motion, and the ball jumped off her racket and flattened right along the T-line before exploding back up with a sharp kick to the right.

Ace.

She pumped her fist to the crowd as she walked to the other side of the baseline to serve again.

Despite the mild weather, Jaz had a clear sheen of sweat across her brow.

Isla had great all court coverage and was fast as shit.

It seemed like no matter where Jaz placed the ball, it was always going to come back.

She had to work hard mentally and physically to mix things up and keep Isla on her toes to force her into errors to win a point.

She had held serve and was now waiting to see if Isla could do the same.

Everything around her stopped while she was waiting for the ball, anticipating what would happen.

Even after playing for close to two hours, Isla’s lefty slice serve was still crisp.

Jaz didn’t even get a chance at the first two points of the game, one out wide and a second down the middle that she barely got her racket on.

At 40-love, Isla finally played a shot in her strike zone, and Jaz was ready.

She took the ball early for a forehand down the line, but it just went out.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. Now they would have to play a tiebreaker for the second set. They changed ends, ready to do battle for the second set, and Jaz hoped for the last set of this match.

In the tiebreak, the rallies continued to be fierce, and the level of play didn’t diminish.

Leading 6-4, Jaz knew she was close. She adjusted her grip on her racket, the worn tape a familiar comfort in the sea of swirling tension that was Centre Court.

She was playing against the weight of expectation, the pressure of the moment, the demons that whispered doubts in the quiet corners of her mind.

That she was too old, that she still didn’t belong.

It wasn’t just a physical game; it was a mental chess match, a battle of wills, and Jaz refused to fold.