“Third code violation, Mr. Solomon. Audible obscenity and game penalty. The win goes to Mr. Finn.”
Fuck Mr. Finn. Fuck this ump and fuck this stupid game.
My serve.
Stick-up-their-arses tennis-pros thought serving wimpy underhand shots was poor sportsmanship. As if I cared what anyone else thought. It was a legal maneuver, so I used it. I bounced the ball once, faked the toss up, and then served underhand.
Finn raced up for it and barely got a racket on the ball as it limped over the net. His return landed on my side, and I watched it bounce without making the slightest move for it.
“Love-15,” the ump said over another chorus of boos.
Finn shot me a dirty look, but he didn’t have to worry. I had no intention of wasting any more energy giving his racist arse a good game.
I lobbed an easy serve over the net and Finn sliced it to my backhand. I watched it go past, my racket never leaving my side.
“Love-30.”
The boos grew louder. I grinned sourly, bounced the ball and knocked another soft serve over the net. An easy shot. Finn raised his racket to deal me a winner. I turned my back on him and bent over to show him exactly where he could put his return. He slammed the ball to the rear corner of the court, and I slowly sauntered back to the baseline under a torrent of boos.
“Love-40.”
The ball girl—or ball woman, as she looked to be in her early twenties—offered me my towel, keeping her eyes politely down, as per protocol. As I took it and wiped the sweat from my face, she ventured a peek and a small smile. The crowds might’ve had a love/hate relationship with me, but women straight loved me: on the court, on last month’s cover of Sports Illustrated, and most definitely in the sack.
I shot the ball girl a wink, tossed her the towel, and meandered to the baseline to serve. Just to change things up and fuck with Finn, I pretended to underhand, then tossed the ball high and slammed a proper overhead.
Startled, Finn barely got his racket up to keep the ball from whacking him in the balls. His shot hit the tape, teetered for a second, and then fell over on my side.
“Game,” the ump said, barely heard over the boos that were raining down on me. “The set is now 2-0, in favor of Mr. Finn.”
I held up my hands and turned a small circle to address the sold-out crowd. Goading their boos.
If that’s what you give me, that’s what you’ll get.
Again, Dad’s disappointed face swam before me.
“Play because you love it, Kai. Play because you want to.”
The whisper of his advice was drowned by the boos and hisses of the crowd; drowned under Brad’s ‘half-breed’ comment that was an echo of those I’d heard at school growing up. But what did it matter? Dad was dead, and this crowd could kiss my arse. The entire sport of tennis could piss off. I played how and when I wanted to play.
And even after defeating three other players to get to the finals, and only one set away from victory…I didn’t want to play anymore.
McEnroe: I’m starting to feel your Aussie frustration with your home player. That ball that was called out set Kai off and he never recovered. He’s tanking the match.
Cahill: Such a shame. Kai has the potential to be one of the greatest tennis stars of a generation. He can’t seem to stay out of his own way. We want to love him, as talented as he is, but whatever demons he’s harboring make it difficult to root for him.
McEnroe: What does this mean for his chances at the Australian Open in a few weeks?
Cahill: Your guess is as good as mine. Trying to figure out what Kai Solomon is thinking is above my pay grade. He’s earned enough points to qualify for the Open but after today, he’ll be fined for his behavior and risks being banned from professional tennis altogether.
Kai
“Are you kidding me?”
Jason Lemieux fumed while pacing a small circle. My agent was waiting for me in the changing room after the match, hands on his hips, frothing at the mouth. I’d put his mild Canadian demeanor to the test.
“It was the finals, Kai,” Jason said, waving his arms. “The last match. You were poised to take home the win. What the hell happened out there?”
I shrugged. “My elbow was acting up. Didn’t want to aggravate it for the Open.”