Break Point (8 page)
We rounded the bend at the University of Ottawa campus, where a mural on one of the buildings created the optical illusion of a huge pair of watching eyes. The mural was a landmark for me, a gigantic spectator. Sometimes, if there was no one else around, I would wave to it on my morning run. I could sense Rex beginning to flag, lagging half a step behind me, then a full step. I was tempted to speed ahead, to leave Rex in my dust for once. But how did I know he wouldn't cheat, double back early and beat me to the club? I wanted to keep him in my sights. I wanted to push him. I wanted him to feel the run in every muscle tomorrow morning.
We tagged the Laurier Avenue Bridge and turned. Heading back, I could feel him dragging down the pace. I played him like a fish on a hook. I slowed down a little to let him keep up. Then I sped up to make him push his limits. At last we left the bike path and wove through the side streets toward the club. Now I knew there was no shortcut he could take to cheat me out of a win. I put on the jets to pull ahead of him. Rex must have had some energy reserves left, though, because he pumped his arms and matched my stride. We rounded the last corner before the club. The girls were still hanging out on the front steps, drinking soda. I broke into a sprint. My thighs screamed, my legs burned, but I loved the pain because it meant I was winning. I heard Rex's heavy breathing behind me, but I crossed the club's walkway a full three strides ahead of him.
The way I felt, you'd think I had won the Boston Marathon.
“Good run, Connor.” Rex thumped me on the back. I was bent over double, trying to stop wheezing.
“Good run,” I said. And I meant it.
“Hey, a bunch of us are going out tonight,” Rex said when he'd recovered his breath. “Want to come?”
“No thanks. Tournament tomorrow.”
“Oooh, yeah.
Biiig
tournament.” Rex laughed.
I looked at him, so suave and self-confident. Maybe he didn't believe the rumors about the hidden wealth in the Archibald Cross cup. Or maybe he was so rich he didn't care. In either case, he waved as he took off on his bike with one of the girls hanging on behind him.
Maybe the tournament didn't matter to Rex. Since it was open only to club members, it didn't affect his national ranking. Still, it mattered a lot to me. And I knew one thingâa five-mile run and an evening of partying tonight was going to make Rex a whole lot easier to beat tomorrow.
The Archibald Cross Memorial Cup gleamed in the sunlight as players milled around on the lawn of the tennis club, waiting for the tournament to begin. Beside the table that held the cup sat an old man in a navy-blue suit. He had a bald head and a thick lower lip that stuck out like the spout of a teapot. He was the executor of old Mr. Cross's will, and it was his job to award the cup to the winner of the tournament.
I said hi to Maddy as I tossed my bag on the lawn and began to stretch. But she was so focused on the match ahead that she didn't answer. She didn't even glance at Rex when he sauntered onto the lawn, wearing Ray-Bans, a blue-and-orange Nike top and coordinated shorts.
Maddy was the only girl in the tournament. Some others had tried out, but they had fallen in the elimination rounds earlier in the week. Usually, a tournament would be split into different categories for guys and girls. But in this case, since there was only one Archibald Cross Memorial Cup, everyone was competing against each other.
Heading into the quarterfinals that morning, Maddy's opponent was a lumbering, ham-fisted kid with twice her brawn and less than half her technique. If I were placing a bet, I'd have bet on Maddy. But part of me desperately and disloyally wanted her to lose the quarterfinals, because if she made the semis, I'd be slotted to play against her.
At 10:00 am I headed onto the court for my quarterfinal match against William Sweet, a kid with a decent serve, a passable forehand and not much else going for him. For the past two weeks, I'd been working with the club pro, Armand, to add spin to my serve. I had transformed it from a powerful opening salvo into a truly deadly weapon. It did the job against William. He left the court after two sets with a stunned look on his face. I had barely broken a sweat.
Maddy made moose meat of her opponent, too, so at noon we found ourselves shaking hands across the net for the semifinal match. I wished her good luck, even though my only goal now was to knock her out and advance to the final.
I won the toss and took first serve. How to play it, I asked myself, as I dragged my heels to the baseline. My rule for playing against Maddy had always been not to cream her on the serve. But that was in practice. This was for real. And now my serve was more powerful than ever. It was a speeding, spinning missile designed to destroy my opponent on contact. I needed that weapon in my arsenal.
The best thing to do was pretend I wasn't playing against Maddy. I was playing a nameless, faceless opponent who needed to be eliminated in my ruthless drive to victory.
First serve. The ball went sizzling off my racket, hit the ground with a vicious sidespin and notched the first point of the game. I hit two more serves with the same deadly force, and I was up 40-love before Maddy even got a racket on the ball. On the final serve, Maddy managed a return, but I won the game on a backhand down the line. On a hot streak, I took the second game and muscled my way to victory in the third. By the fourth game, I really had forgotten I was playing against Maddy. She was only a moving target, and my goal was to put the ball as far away from that target as possible. My world consisted only of my body, my racket and the ball, working together in perfect harmony. Forehands, backhands, overhands, serves. The ball went singing off my racket. The points racked up until a final, beautiful backhand finished the set and I stood there dripping with sweat and surging with energy. I had won the set, 6-1.
I flopped into my chair at the sideline and squirted cold water down my throat and on my face. I toweled off the water and sweat. As I finished wiping my eyes, I glanced at the chair on the opposite side of the net. Maddy was sitting there, her jaw clenched.
“Well, that was humiliating,” she muttered.
The intensity in her voice hit me like a punch in the face. Suddenly, she was real again.
“Maddy, Iâ”
“Forget about it,” she said. “Game on, Connor.”
She turned away, took a slug of water, wiped the sweat off her face and stood up to signal she was ready to play. I watched as she walked toward the baseline. I watched the way her white tennis skirt swung with her hips and brushed against the dark skin of her thighs. I saw the anger in her hunched shoulders and it seeped into me, sucking away the joy of my first-set win. I wanted to patch it up with her. I wanted to feel her fling her arms around my neck the way she had done after my win against Mike Baron.
Would it kill me to let her win a game or two?
I hadn't figured out the answer to that question when Maddy's serve rocketed past me and she went up 15-love in the first game of the second set.
Focus, Connor.
Another serve came darting at me. I lobbed it back crosscourt at three-quarter speed. I was playing for time. I hadn't made up my mind yet what to do. My body ached to get back into that place of perfect harmony with the ball and my racket. I knew I could slip into it again if I just let myself. But I wasn't sure I wanted to, not against Maddy.
Maddy pummeled the ball down the line. I reached it with a lunge that sent it airborne like a baseball pop fly. Maddy smashed an overhead. I spun around, but it was too late to do anything. The ball caromed away. A cheer erupted from the lawn behind me.
I turned. Every girl in the club must have been there to watch Maddy fight for a spot in the finals.
She served again. I sent a return low and fast down the line. She netted the ball. 30-15. It didn't shake her. She was in good form on the next serve. Confidently, she arced her body back and whipped it forward, sending all her power into the ball.
Ace.
I couldn't get a racket on it.
40-15. Game point.
Maddy's serve came sailing into the forecourt. I sent it back with a shot to the baseline. Maddy whipped it crosscourt to my backhand. I hammered it to her backhand. She nailed it down the line, but I got there in time and smoked it crosscourt.
Maddy reached it and kept the rally alive. The crowd began to shout and whistle as we exchanged blows, drawing out the rally to ten shots, twelve shots, fourteen, sixteen. I thought I had her trapped on a deep backhand and came to the net to finish her off. But Maddy sent the ball looping over my head. I ran like a madman but couldn't reach it. It bounced just inside the baseline and went flying over the fence.
Game, Maddy.
A cheer went up from the crowd. Somehow, I felt like cheering too. Maddy looked so happy. She held her shoulders straight and bounced lightly on the balls of her feet.
I'm happy for her. How screwed up is that? I asked myself as I walked to the baseline and prepared to serve.
Really screwed up. You just lost, numbskull.
Yeah, but Maddy won
.
Really, really screwed up.
Okay, here's the deal, I told myself. I'll go back to my old rule for playing Maddy. Make it a fair game but don't cream her on the serve. Don't humiliate her. I can still win.
I tossed the ball and drew my racket back to strike. But I had spent the past two weeks honing my supersonic serve, and changing it now wasn't as easy as pressing a reset button. I missed my timing and sent the ball into the net. I botched the second serve as well. Suddenly I was down love-15 on a double fault. Talk about humiliation.
My next serve was a creampuff, and Maddy shredded it with a hit down the line. My concentration busted, I double-faulted on the next point, making it love-40. Triple break point. The crowd full of girls was chanting Maddy's name. I couldn't think straight. Somehow I sent a serve over the net and went through the mechanical motions of a rally. But I lost the final point on a badly placed shot that bounced wildly out of bounds, and Maddy went up 2-0 in the second set.
Before I knew it, the next game was over, and Maddy was up 3-0. The girls in the crowd were shouting hysterically. I grabbed a drink of water and stared at them until I caught sight of Armand standing off to one side.
He saw me looking at him and raised his hands in an exaggerated shrug as if asking,
What the hell?
I shrugged back.
He made a motion with his right arm that said,
Use your serve, man.
I turned away and walked toward the baseline. Use my serve? Of course, use my serve. At 0-3, now was the time, if ever, to make a comeback.
The question was, did I want to?
Maybe I should let Maddy win. She needed the moneyâif there was anyâto save the club. I only needed it for my own career. Didn't she deserve it more?
I bounced the ball hard against the clay court surface and felt it spring back into the cup of my palm. I knew I could make it dance and howl out there on the court, if I wanted to. All I needed was to want it.
Serve it up, Connor. What's it going to be?
Maybe I should let her win. But what would happen after that? It was only the semifinal match. No one was walking away with the cup until they'd won the final. And the final would probably be against Rex. Rex wouldn't throw the game for Maddy. If I let the weaker player advance just because I liked her or felt sorry for her, there was all the more chance that Rex would hoist the trophy at the end of the day. Once again it would be Rex the winner, Connor the loser.
Maddy must have known her chances of beating Rex were slim if she did advance to the final. But she was out there giving it her best shot, because it was the only thing she could do. Maybe I didn't have a better chance of beating Rex than Maddy did, but I had to try. I had to give it my best shot too.
I threw a perfect toss and struck the ball square and hard. It went sizzling past Maddy. She didn't even have a chance to stick out her racket for a block shot. I served another smoker and then another, ended on an ace and won the game. I stole the next game from her while she was still reeling and deployed my serve in the following game to tie up the set, 3-3.
The girls in the crowd fell silent. Maddy hunched her shoulders as she walked to the baseline. But I couldn't let her anger or my guilt throw me off. If Maddy were a weaker player, I could have toyed around with her. I could have eased off, let her score a few points, and then come from behind again to win. But she was too good for that. If I wanted to beat her, I needed to fight for every point.
I broke Maddy's serve in the next game and held serve in the following game to bring the score to 5-3 in my favor. Maddy fought for a comeback and narrowed the gap to 5-4. But then it was my turn to serve again. Win this game, and the semifinal victory was mine.
I sent a serve scorching across the net. Maddy blocked it, but it popped up high and soft. I sliced it back with a volley into the left forecourt at a devious angle. Her feet couldn't take her there fast enough to get a racket on it. 15-love. The next serve burned past her. 30-love. She fought back on the following point, blocked my serve and forced me into a long, hard baseline rally. I sent a forehand over with too much power and not enough topspin, and it landed just long of the baseline. 30-15. I aced the next serve and went up to 40-15. Match point.
I stood at the baseline and drew in my breath for one last serve. I forced myself not to think about Maddy, or the cup, or the fabled cash prize, or Rex Hunter, or anything beyond the ball in my hand and the circuit that connected my brain to my racket.
Play one point. One point.
I served hard into the deuce court. The block came back down the line. I whipped it crosscourt and set myself up for the return. I picked up the ball at the baseline and reamed it crosscourt again. She reached it with the tip of her racket. I charged the net as it came floating over. I hammered it into the far corner, saw it hit the ground at the junction of the baseline and the sideline, saw Maddy lunge for it and miss, saw the ball skim out of reach.