Page 86 of Power Moves
He’s still wearing his shoes but he’s taken off his blazer and tie. Everyone else has gathered under the shade of the canteen adjoining the courts.
‘You ready?’ I call.
‘Ready,’ confirms Archie, and the crowd quietens.
I’ve opted to serve. Four quick aces are all I need to end this. At the other end of the court, Archie is jiggling his feet, as though priming his toes for rapid-fire movement.
I serve and my racquet lands plum on the ball, the charge of energy from my shoulder, forearm and wrist fuelling it over the net at a hissing speed. It bounces low and deadly in the far-left corner.
‘Ace,’ claps Boss.
Larry groans. ‘C’mon Archie.’
‘Warming up,’ Archie calls back, seemingly unperturbed.
I smirk to myself as I walk to the other side of the court. I don’t even bother asking if he’s ready this time. My next serve sizzles past the net and into the far right of the quadrant. Ace again.
Boss cheers. The media crew heaves with a collective groan. Kendra wonders out loud if they should all head home before this gets embarrassing. The power within me builds.
Archie manages to hit my next serve but it lands on the net and falls back towards him, dribbling like a slug. This is so easy I’m actually enjoying it.
‘Should we play another game?’ I call, bouncing the ball like I’ve got it on a string.
‘That was always the plan,’ retorts Archie.
Um no, that wasneverthe plan. But whatever. Watching him crumble is opening my eyes to a new kind of pleasure.
I swing my racquet so hard that my shoulder twitches. The ball whizzes like a bullet and hits the tape of the net, seems to hover for a second like a Golden Snitch, then falls neatly across the net.
‘Let!’ yells Larry, but he seems to be the only media person still watching. Most are already following Kendra to the bus.
I serve again, not as fast this time, however the ball skims deep into the right-hand quadrant. I win the game.
A long-forgotten energy torpedoes through my body. I haven’t played tennis since Mum died. Flexing my fingers around the foam rubber of the handle, I realise I’ve missed this. It doesn’t matter that Jessie was born with the serve, Maxy got the speed, and I got nothing but spirit. I can still win a point. And sometimes, I can win all the points—as Archie is helping me demonstrate.
I hit the spare balls over to him, probably harder than I need to. When the second one shoots across, he has to jump out of the way. His gaze locks on mine. I raise my eyebrows in challenge. He cocks his head and the corner of his lip curls ever so slightly, which is like napalm to my core. He’s not won a measly point but he’s still arrogant enough to find this amusing. My grip tightens on my racquet. He better be fucking good with topspin.
Archie serves and it’s powerful thanks to those giant arms but it lacks precision. I return it easily, sending him cross-court, but he’s ready for it this time and strikes it back. My footwork is a bit shoddy—I expected the ball to go deeper given how strong he is, but it’s lost its speed and instead of being able to slice it back, I respond with a wonky backhand—still impressive to the naked eye, but a dog’s breakfast by Mum’s standards.
The slower ball gives Archie time to prepare his ground-stroke and he sends it diagonally. We rally like this for anobscene amount of time: me anticipating big moves from him; him hitting incongruously soft lobs that wrongfoot me and negate my return slice. By the time I finally win the point, it’s possibly one of the longest rallies I’ve ever had. I turn to the crowd, waiting for my rapturous applause, but there’s almost no one there. Boss appears restless, as though he’s been waiting for a pause in play.
‘The media team are assuming defeat,’ he calls.
In the distance I see Larry gesticulating wildly in the bus window, our tennis battle of the ages completely forgotten as he tells his latest tall tale. Even the mayor is gone, which is irritating because I was only playing this game for him. ‘I’ll meet you back at the hotel, Mill,’ Boss says, turning towards the car park.
‘You’re not going to wait?’
‘Why wait? It’s a sure victory.’ He waves and heads to the Audi.
I’m properly annoyed now. I’ve been railroaded into this stupid game, my silk shirt might be permanently tie-dyed with sweat and now I’m stranded all alone with Archie.
‘Should we call it quits and head back too?’ he calls as the media bus reverses out of the car park.
I turn to him. If he thinks I’m giving him a lift back in my hire car, he’s delusional. ‘You’re still on serve,’ I retort, tossing him a ball. The only thing worse than continuing to play would benotcontinuing to play. I’m beating him fair and square.
The next point follows a similar pattern to the last: big serve, crap returns, bad footwork, lots of running. Eventually Archiesends up a lob, and I smash it back across the court thinking I’ve finally got him but his gorilla arm somehow reaches the ball and it floats over the net like a badminton shuttlecock before I can clock its trajectory. He’s won a point.
‘C’mon!’ he yells, clenching his fist.
