Page 1 of Break Point

Chapter 1

Jaden Johnson

The morning sun slices across the north end of the court as the Pacific Ocean breeze drifts over the rolling hills behind the stands. The Oregon coastal air smells sweet. I can hear my fans, even though they aren’t real. They’re chanting my name.

Jaden, Jaden, Jaden.

“Take it in, ladies. One of you will be on this court next spring in front of the biggest crowd in college tennis. Give yourself a minute to really think about that. Close your eyes.”

I do as Coach Kelsey instructs, but I don’t need to work my imagination too hard. I practically hear the pop of the ball before my serve zings across the net, then clips the inside corner for an ace. I’ve envisioned this court—my time—since I was ten years old. A member of Cordon University’s storied Mighty Storm women’s tennis team. Home of my tennis idol, Kathrine Maltese, four-time Wimbledon champion, youngest women’s Grand Slam titleholder in history, and namesake of center court in Cordon’s tennis complex.

“You’re smiling.”

I crack an eyelid and glance to my right, where the voice came from. I recognize Taryn Wombach from the group chat Coach started for the incoming freshman players. My mouth twitches up on the side closest to her.

“That’s going to be me,” I say.

She snickers, then blinks her focus to the still net.

“Center court? As a freshman? Pfff. Maybe next year,” she says softly.

My smile stays put, and I shake my head.

“This year.” It’s a promise.

There is no room for doubt. In my own head, Jaden Johnson is a phenom. In the real world? I’m a walk-on scraping together every penny to be here. No scholarship and no sweet NIL deal . . . yet.

“All right, grab your things. We’ll meet in the Memorial Union in fifteen minutes for your orientation and to get to know your fellow athletes, and remember . . . you represent Storm Tennis now. Everything you do reflects on us.”

Coach Kelsey claps through her words. She’s not the warm-fuzzy type, her hard eyes rimmed with a permanent tan outlining the shape of her Oakleys and spiked blond hair always framed inside a Cordon U visor. I can’t wait to play for her.

I pull my gear together and follow the upperclassmen through the tunnel that leads to our lounge and locker room. Rich, dark wood is paired with leather loungers and lush, deep-gray carpeting. This space is nicer than my family’s apartment. I find my locker quickly, the first one right inside the door. It’s a tight spot, and if I’m not careful when I change, I’m going to give anyone in the hallway a show. The door flings open, nailing me in the hip, as that thought crosses my mind.

“Sorry.” Taryn cringes when our eyes meet.

“It’s fine. Better I learn the hazards with a smack on my ass than a knot on my head.” I rub the spot where the door clipped me. It’s going to leave one of those black-and-yellow bruises. I can tell.

I stuff my equipment into the locker as Taryn pivots, eyeing the names on the doors until she comes back to her own.

“Looks like we’re neighbors.” I push my locker shut and lean against the wood, out of the door’s path.

Her bleached blond hair is woven into dozens of tight braids, the metal ends of her septum ring poking out. I’m surprised she didn’t just push the tips up to hide it. I’m sure it’s why Coach spent five minutes listing the types of jewelry she will not allow during match play. Septum rings? Number one.

“We’re gonna be tight, me and you.” Taryn’s raspy voice has that tinge of coastal salt air that comes from growing up on the beach. I’ve researched everyone in my incoming recruitment class. Two girls from Minnesota, one from a small town in upstate New York—she was ranked fourth in the nation for our year—and Taryn, a Southern California native who can’t play the net but serves like a machine.

I feel solid about my head-to-head challenges against anyone in my class, and our upperclassmen haven’t been the strongest competitors the last two seasons, so despite Taryn’s scoffing at the idea, I’m confident I’ll be able to crack the starting squad this year.

I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth as I study my neighbor, a chain hooking a wallet into the back pocket of her baggy jeans, her well-worn canvas shoes torn in places that look intentional. She’s California cool, ripped right from a longboard ad. I’m not good at making friends—I see everyone as competition—but maybe we can be allies. For a while. Until I need to beat her.

“You want to walk over to the union together?” Taryn gives her locker an extra bump with her hip, stuffing her oversize bag inside, and I nod.

The juniors and seniors on our squad are probably already there. The wonder and newness of Cordon’s campus has probably worn off for them. Taryn seems less awed than I am, likely because she grew up in a place where moss grows on everything and misty clouds paint the sky at dusk and dawn. When you come from the tumbleweeds and gravel landscapes of Phoenix like I do, anything green wows the soul. I’m not sure I’ll ever be tired of life here.

Taryn holds the tall glass door open for me as I enter the massive mission-style building. The intense smell of buttered popcorn assaults my nose the second I step onto the tiled floor.

“I guess we know what they meant by snacks,” I joke.

Both of us tilt our heads up and to the left, following the scent. My mouth waters instantly.