Page 3 of Breakpoint
Jaz again tried not to roll her eyes at the question including the obvious ascertain surrounding her age and how long she had been playing. “I think that just shows my longevity in this game.”
The questions about Daniela Kappas continued, relentlessly and persistently.
Was Jaz worried about the younger generation?
Did she see Daniela Kappas as a threat? More questions, all centered on Daniela, the phantom player who wasn’t even present, her ghost somehow more compelling than the flesh-and-blood woman who had just fought her heart out on Centre Court.
Jaz felt a surge of frustration, a wave of something close to indignation.
Here she was, a seasoned veteran who just gave her everything out there today, a player who had reached the pinnacle of her sport multiple times, only to be overshadowed by the hype surrounding a newcomer.
It was as if her defeat, her pain, were merely a footnote to the burgeoning narrative of Daniela’s ascent.
She wanted to scream, to remind them she was the one who had reached the final, the one who had battled for every point, who had poured her heart and soul into the tournament .
But the rules of engagement were clear. Especially as a black woman in this sport.
She knew she had to be above reproach about everything and couldn’t step out of line for a second.
As the minutes ticked by, the press conference became an exercise in endurance.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it drew to a close.
Jaz rose from her seat, her legs stiff and heavy, and made her way out of the room, the glare of the cameras following her every move.
She managed a polite nod to the assembled journalists, a final act in the face of their insensitivity.
She was a warrior exiting the battlefield, defeated but not broken. She just needed a little time to heal her wounds and to find a way to forget about Daniela Kappas.
Scott’s knuckles kneaded into Jaz’s back, muting out the conversation around her.
Each stroke loosened the knots that had tightened with every forehand and backhand.
She felt the sharp pains in her lower back throughout the match, and it radiated down her butt and legs.
She closed her eyes, the rhythmic strokes of his hands a lullaby against the backdrop of the conversation in the room.
Scott moved lower to work his magic on Jaz’s calf, kneading and coaxing the knotted muscle into submission, eliciting a groan that was more relief than pain.
“Feeling better, champ?” he asked, his voice a soothing balm.
Jaz grunted, a sound of pure bliss escaping her lips. “So much. Think you could just do this for, like, the next three days?”
It was one perk of being a successful player; she got to travel with her own physiotherapist, and Scott gave the best massages.
His tall frame, honed by years of disciplined exercise, moved with an effortless grace.
He looked like he had been dipped in coffee, and his face, framed by a close-cropped beard, always held an air of focused intensity.
His dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, missed nothing.
He was an Adonis, if you were into that.
Thankfully, Jaz was not. And she would not make that mistake twice by getting involved with someone she worked with.
His strong hands could soothe the most stubborn knot and always had a seemingly endless supply of kinesiology tape.
He was a constant presence: stretching, massaging, and monitoring Jaz’s body with the diligence of a hawk.
Scott knew Jaz’s body better than she did, anticipating aches and pains before they even surfaced.
He was the guardian of Jaz’s physical well-being, the one who ensured that Jaz was always in peak condition.
“Your serve was definitely off today,” Mike murmured from the other side of the room.
“Yeah, but her court coverage was insane,” Brandon replied. “Look at those legs. Not even a hint of cramping.”
Jaz kept her eyes closed in the hole of the massage table. She didn’t even want to bring her head up to deal with this nonsense. “Guys, can we not talk about the match for a bit?”
“What’s your deal? You always want to do post-match analysis,” Brandon declared, likely from the kitchen area of their rental home.
“I’m still annoyed about the press conference,” Jaz moaned out as Scott hit a particularly rough spot .
Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably closer to thirty minutes, Scott stepped back. “All done,” he announced, wiping his hands on a towel. “You’re good to go.”
Jaz sat up slowly, stretching her arms above her head. She felt like a new woman, or at least, a slightly less battered version of her old one. She swung her legs over the side of the table and reached for her water bottle, taking a long, satisfying gulp.
“You hate the whole press process on a good day, so what’s new there?" Brandon quipped.
“It was all about Daniela Kappas,” Jaz spat.
“Who hasn’t made it past the quarterfinals of a single major tournament, but is suddenly a media darling.
They’re obsessed with her ‘fiery spirit’ and ‘tennis royalty’ making a splash.
‘Jaz, what do you think of Daniela’s serve?
’ ‘Jaz, do you feel threatened by Daniela’s rise? ’ It’s annoying as fuck.”
Kira cleared her throat from the loveseat.
“Jaz, you know how it is. The press loves a new story. And Daniela Kappas...” she trailed off, as if the name itself explained everything.
Kira had been her agent for the last fifteen years and was a whirlwind of energy and efficiency.
Standing only five feet four inches, her almond complexion and braids often made people doubt her, but armed with a phone that never seemed to leave her hand, she navigated the complex world of sponsorships, endorsements, and media appearances.
Kira was the shield, protecting Jaz from the distractions and demands that came with being a global sports icon.
She was also a shrewd negotiator, securing the deals that ensured Jaz’s financial future was as secure as her position at the top.
Jaz blew out a raspberry. “Every time I answer one of their ridiculous questions about Daniela Kappas, I’m contributing to the hype. It’s like they want me to pass her the torch. Well, I’m not ready to be relegated to the sidelines just yet.” She blew out another breath. “Okay, rant over.”
Jaz felt good getting that out of her system to the people closest to her.
This was her team. These people who followed Jaz around the globe were a well-oiled machine, a finely tuned ecosystem built to support one singular purpose: keeping Jaz at the top of her game.
They were more than just a team; they were a mobile family, a traveling circus of highly specialized professionals who anticipated her every need, both on and off the court.
But they were also the only people she could just be Jaz with.
They didn’t judge her, let her be surly when she was in a mood and didn’t care when she tuned them out because she needed some time to decompress.
Yes, she paid them, but it would be lonely traveling thirty weeks out of the year, competing all over the world for a place in history, without them.
Jaz expected a ‘hell yeah,’ but no one backed her up.
The room was silent. Mike finally cleared his throat, but Jaz caught his eyes looking towards Kira.
He then tilted his head towards Jaz. Jaz saw the conspiratorial look between the two, and then Kira looked towards Brandon.
At that moment, she knew something was up.
“What’s going on?”
“Jaz,” Kira started, “there’s been a… development. ”
Her eyes snapped towards Kira. “Development? What kind of development?”
“We talked to the US Olympic committee about you playing this summer,” Kira replied, choosing her words carefully. “In addition to singles, they want you to play doubles.”
The Olympic gold medal remained a glaring omission in her glittering trophy cabinet.
Four years ago, a nagging hamstring injury had kept her out of the Olympics and forced her to watch it from her couch.
The four years before that were basic apathy on her part and wanting to focus on the upcoming hardcourt season.
The first time she qualified in her early twenties, she was knocked out before the medal rounds.
The thought of ending her career with that void gnawed at her competitive spirit.
This was her final opportunity to get that elusive accomplishment.
Plus, the United States was the host country, with the games taking place in Atlanta, Georgia.
She quickly rewound what she had just heard, because she must have misheard . “Doubles?” Jaz hadn’t played doubles in over a decade. “Why would they want me to play doubles? With whom?”
She looked around at the faces of her team, wondering which one would confess what they all seemingly knew. Scott discreetly vacated the room, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
Kira bit the bullet. “Well….you’ve been paired with Daniela Kappas.”
Daniela. The name hung in the air like a sour note.
“Daniela Kappas?” Jaz’s voice was dangerously low. “Are you fucking kidding me?"
The girl who, if the reports were to be believed, was being groomed to knock Jaz off her pedestal as America’s top player. The one the media, the sponsors, everyone, was pushing to the forefront, eager to anoint a new queen.
“Apparently, they’re going for the ‘dream team’ angle,” Mike stated, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Two prominent American players, joining forces for national glory. Good for the sport, you know.”
“The Committee thinks it will be great for ratings,” Kira explained, still fiddling with her phone. “The veteran and the rookie, passing the torch, all that jazz. No pun intended. But they think the public will eat it up.”
Jaz had no doubt they would. It was a classic narrative. And she was cast as the aging champion, about to be dethroned by the young upstart. The symbolism of this pairing wasn’t lost on her. It was a passing of the torch, whether she was ready for it or not.
She shook her head. “No fucking way.”
Brandon jumped in, “Hey, can you all give me and Jaz a second to chat?”
Everyone nodded and left the siblings to talk.
“Look, Jazzy, I know it’s not ideal,” Brandon declared, his voice turning serious. Only he and their dad could get away with calling her Jazzy. To everyone else, she was Jaz or Jazmine. “But this is the Olympics. It’s bigger than just you and Daniela. It’s about representing your country.”
“I know that, Brandon. But I’m not about a spectacle.”
Brandon met her gaze, his expression serious. “They want you to win, Jaz. But they also want you to... mentor her. Show her the ropes. The USOC, and particularly our sponsors , want Daniela to be a success. Given her name and background, they need her to be the future of women’s tennis.”
“But that’s not me. Why would I help mentor someone to beat me? There are no friends on tour.”
Brandon cut in again, “Can you at least appear that you’ll work with her? You know practice together a few times. Besides, mixing things up could be exactly what you need right now. You’ve been stagnant for a bit.”
Again, only her brother could get away with saying that.
And coming from him could she look inside herself and admit he was right, but it still stung.
She wasn’t going to go out like that. “Why are you siding with them, Brandon? I thought you would be on my side? We’ve never gone out of our way to bow down to what others want us to do.
And no one is going to believe that after all these years on the tour, I want to suddenly practice and play with other players. ”
Jaz was well aware of how others on the pro tour saw her—the ice queen of women’s tennis.
“You can say you’re just prepping for the Olympics.” Brandon recommended, “Plus, we can’t have the sponsors believe you hate America’s new sweetheart, who happens to be white. We can read the headline now: angry black woman?” Brandon tossed out.
In other words, Jaz was supposed to partner and help the woman who was meant to replace her at the top. The irony was almost comical. “So what? You expect us to just magically become best friends and win gold medals?”
“No one expects you to be best friends,” Brandon interjected. “But you’re both professionals. You can put your differences aside for a few matches. And some promotion leading up to the Olympics. Maybe do a few sponsorship events and be seen together hitting together.”
“Fine,” she said finally, her voice firm. “I’ll do it. But if she tries to pull any diva antics, I’m serving the ball straight at her.”