Matchpoint

Chapter 24:

The sound of the ball thwack echoes across the court. Dom took the first serve, but the rally between us has been going for at least a minute.

My racket meets the ball with a loud crack. I return it cross-court, the ball spinning fast towards the baseline.

Dom's quick to react. With the snap of his wrist, he slices a backhand that skims over the net.

I keep hitting the ball back towards the baseline, each time aiming for the opposite side as my most previous shot.

This causes Dom to skid along the court. I've told Dom to hit either side of the court, but every five shots, he has to do something different. A spin shot, volley, or drop shot.

I've had to correct him a few times as he fell into the pattern of going left, right, volley, left, right spin, left, right, drop. I taught him a lesson when he did the drop shot as I had expected, and I simply smashed the ball towards the baseline. Dom seemed dumbfounded, his shoulders dropped, and his face fell.

Since then, though, he's seemed to regain some control and unpredictability.

I watch his stance, analysing the shift in his feet and the flicker of his eyes. He's quick to give away where he's thinking of hitting the ball. Even before I've hit it, he's thinking, analysing, and calculating. It's not a bad idea. Most players do it, but he seems to get fixated on that one spot, darting his eyes between me and the spot he wants to hit the ball towards.

He's thinking about a top spin. I can see it in the way he flips his racket. I can see it in the way he creeps forward off the baseline. I can see it, clear as day, in those eyes of his.

He's switched back to consistency, not spontaneity.

Immediately, he does as I think and sends a top spin my way. I intercept it and swing it far beyond his reach.

Dom turns, eyes watching the ball bounce to a stop. His shoulders sag, and his racket falls to his side.

"How'd you know?" Dom asks softly, helplessly as if he has just faced a massive defeat.

"Stance, eye movement, direction of hips." I shrug slightly, walking back to the baseline to set up another rally. "I want you to stop trying to structure your game. Don't fall into a pattern. Simply do whatever comes to mind, as it comes to mind."

"Easier said, then done." I hear Dom mutters as be heads back to the baseline.

"Fraser, no back chat, yeah?" I call, cocking an eyebrow at him. Both of our faces break into grins, and Dom shakes his head, an inaudible laugh escaping his lips.

I line my racquet up, the sun glistening behind it like a halo as I raise it to the sky. With a deep exhale, I bring up my other hand and smash down my racquet. In return, a crisp thwack echoes in my ears.

Dom makes a swift shot over the net, forcing me to run towards the net. I make a drop shot, and in response, a grunt of frustration relinquishes Dom's mouth. Nevertheless, he makes a hit, but slowly, giving me time to make my way over to it.

In my head, if I were a player, I'd expect him to do a lob, but as his coach, I hope he's going to aim for my far left corner.

I see him thinking it through, his eyes wandering to all sides of the court. Then suddenly, with the split flicker of his eyes, he becomes unreadable.

With the grace and poise of a perfectionist, Dom lifts his racquet, and I see him doing a lob. My heart drops. Until it doesn't.

Dom spins his racquet ever so slightly, and the ball goes spinning. It's unpredictable, I can't tell what happens when it hits the ground, the direction it will go in.