“You don’t want to aggravate the injury.”
I knew where this conversation was heading. “I can’t withdraw. That’s out of the question. That’s off the table.”
The trainer nodded. “I understand. Do you want tape?”
“Is Ms. Parker-Barrow able to continue?” the chair umpire asked.
“Yeah. Let me tape up her ankle.”
The trainer wrapped me up with tape. Around and around, my foot, my ankle, and up my calf. The tightness was uncomfortable, but I suspected discomfort was going to be the least of my problems.
The trainer took my hand as I stood. Pain sliced through me. Visions of me hobbling across the backcourt as Maria hit balls right by me passed through my head.
“Play will resume. Thirty seconds.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Many athletes played hurt. Tennis players were no exception. This might be the only Open final I’d ever play. I couldn’t let this slip from my grasp. I wouldn’t.
The crowd clapped as I took my spot near the baseline. Maria had one more serve. It didn’t seem likely I’d be able to return it, but I was one point up in the tiebreaker. If she won this point and I won both points on my serve, the match would be mine. I rolled my shoulder, wondering how much power I’d be able to put behind my strokes. Not being able to move quickly was going to be a much bigger problem.
Maria bounced the tennis ball—once, twice. I could see the intensity on her face. She wasn’t going to let up. She tasted victory. I saw it in the line of her body.
Maria tossed the ball. Her racket sliced the air. The ball echoed as it slammed into the hard court. It was out of my reach and I didn’t bother to move toward it. It was an ace.
Everything was tied up. I wanted to win so bad I was shaking.
I dug deep, summoning every bit of mental toughness I could find. I imagined Zane in the ring. There was no way to avoid being hurt as a fighter. Blows always landed at some point. You had to block it out. I had to block it out. My eyes searched for him in the crowd. He was there, standing. He nodded and I knew he was telling me to finish this thing.
I hobbled to the line. I squeezed the ball hard in my hand. It was an old familiar friend. The scratchy felt. The rubbery give.
I twisted my racket in my hand, searching for a comfortable grip. The stages of a perfect serve ran through my mind. I bent my knees. The ball flew from my fingertips. I felt a sharp pull in my shoulder as I swung.
When I connected with the ball, the serve was solid. When I landed on my feet, excruciating pain stole my breath. Spots floated before my eyes. Wow. Just wow. I pushed it away. I had to push it away.
The ball twisted through the air and grazed the centerline on the other side of the net before bouncing away into the backcourt.
“Advantage Parker-Barrow. Championship point.”
One point. One point stood between me and the championship. Could I pull off another perfect serve? I limped to my position.
Bend. Toss. Swing. I realized as soon as my racket connected that the serve lacked power. The ball was coming back at me and I knew it. I knew it before it cleared the net.
Unexpectedly, Maria chose to block the ball, stripping it of its pace. It floated back over the net, seemingly miles from where I stood, flatfooted at the back of the court. My dream slipped from my grasp. I launched myself forward and hit the ground on my side. I slid a few inches and stretched my body to the max. My hand was at the bottom of the racket. The ball hit the top of the frame and popped into the air. I watched, helplessly, as it arced into the air toward the top of the net. It hit the tape and fell to the ground—on Maria’s side.
I’d won.
I was a US Open champion. A glorious rush spread through my body. The screaming crowd sounded a mile away. I rolled to my knees. Maria was there, extending her hand. I took it and she helped pull me to my feet.
She clasped me, tapping me on the back. “Great match. You deserve it.”
I thrust my arm in the air, racket in hand. The crowd exploded. Everything was a blur as my head spun and my blood raced.
~ * ~ * ~
Zane
My hands fisted and I lifted my arms in the air, yelling. Most people around me were simply clapping, but I couldn’t restrain myself. Jo had won. She’d won.
I knew that wonderful feeling.
I wanted to jump right down on the court and sweep her into my arms. She’d shown such courage—such grit. I’d known she had it, but I wasn’t sure she knew. She did now. Everyone knew now exactly what she was made of. She hadn’t let go of her dream. She hadn’t let go for an instant—even when the odds were against her. Now she’d reap the rewards.
It wasn’t just a seven-figure check, though that was nice. It wasn’t just her name engraved on a championship trophy. It was knowing that in her chest beat the heart of a champion. She had it—the determination, the talent, the fortitude to take it all the way.