Was she just fishing for compliments, or did she really believe those things? She looked completely miserable.
“Miri,” I said. “Maybe you should take a look in the mirror sometime. Girls would kill to look like you. Your hair is amazing, and you’re tall and thin…”
“I wasn’t always thin,” she muttered. “I used to be fat.”
I didn’t know if I believed that. I couldn’t imagine Miri being overweight, but she obviously thought she had been. I shrugged. “So what if you were? You’re not now. And you can be nice. I’ve seen you with Hamish, and you’re always laughing together. He’s a good guy. Give him a bit of credit.”
Miri bit her lip. I could see she was near tears. “He is a good guy,” she said. “That’s why I feel like such a shit. Dray is using all that stuff I told him about Hamish to try to get him to lose a match. Did you know there was peanut butter smeared on the lid of that Powerade he put in Hamish’s bag? I could smell it. Hamish could have died!”
Well, that was one mystery solved.
“And I took his medallion. And set his clock back an hour.” Now that she’d started, the confessions came rolling in.
“But why?” I asked.
“The photos,” said Miri. “Dray said if I don’t help him, he’s going to post them on Facebook. I’ll probably get kicked out of the tournament, and Hugo will drop me like a brick, and Hamish…”
I could see her dilemma.
“But we can’t just sit around and do nothing. Maybe we should go to Hugo. If you explain everything, I’m sure he’ll…”
Miri was shaking her head. “No. No way. We can’t go to Hugo. He’s got a zero-tolerance policy on alcohol and drugs. He made that clear right from the start.”
“Or at least warn Hamish?”
“No! That would be the fastest way to get those photos splashed all over the Internet. We can’t tell Hamish.”
I thought for a minute, but there didn’t seem to be any other solution. “Then we just have to get those photos off Dray. Once they’re gone, it’ll just be his word against ours. Unless…” I’d done it once. I could probably do it again. “Unless we get some proof of our own.”
I told her about the photos I’d had of Dray and Colby Barrett, and the conversation I’d overheard.
Miri looked shocked. “Colby! I knew he was ambitious, but I didn’t think he would resort to this.”
“It does seem a bit extreme,” I said. “I mean, who cares if you’re number one or number two in the rankings? It’s how you play on the day that counts.”
“You don’t know Colby’s family,” said Miri with a shake of her head. “They’re old-school tennis from way back. His dad and his grandfather played competitively, and both of Colby’s brothers achieved number-one-junior ranking by the time they were sixteen. He’s spent his whole life trying to live up to expectations.”
“And now he’s trying to make sure of it by taking out the competition,” I said. “Miri, we can’t let that happen. I’ll tell you what we’ll do…”
chapter thirteen
I went searching for Dray while Miri went to find Hamish and make sure nothing stopped him from getting to his next match. I didn’t know how I was going to get Dray’s phone, but he would have to meet up with Colby Barrett sometime soon. And when he did, I would be there to video the whole thing.
It took me more than an hour to find him. I searched the courts, the lockers, the food alley. Even sent a kid into the men’s bathroom to see if he was in there. Finally, I spotted him coming out of the administration office. The look on his face sent a chill through me. I didn’t know what he’d been up to, but he looked awfully pleased with himself.
On the other hand, maybe this was my chance. If he thought he had Hamish wrapped up, perhaps he’d head off to find Colby Barrett and collect his reward. Slipping in behind him, I followed him to the courts. He wasn’t in any hurry. He stopped in at the pro shop and chatted to the guy behind the counter for a while, coming out with nothing but a couple of energy bars. Not the kind Hamish liked. The shop was still out of those. Knowing now what was going on, I figured Dray must have bought out the whole week’s supply at the beginning of the tournament. He meandered over to court 3, where Colby Barrett was playing singles against a short stubby kid with a freakish ability to get the ball back over the net despite his height disadvantage.
Watching him play, I had to admit that Colby was good. Really good. His serve was textbook perfect and deadly accurate. Maybe not as powerful as Hamish’s, but he could place the ball within millimeters of the line. Being tall, he could cover the court in a couple of giant strides, and his basic strokes were as perfect as his serve. I could see why he was a contender for the number-one spot. What I didn’t understand was why he would jeopardize his whole tennis career for that ranking when he had the capability to win it on his own merit. Sure, if he made number one, his family would be proud of him. He would have lived up to the family name, shown his dad and brothers that he was as good as them. But if he got it by cheating, he would always know that he didn’t really deserve it. And if anyone were to find out he’d cheated…
Dray was on the move again. I shadowed him to the food alley. The smell of fries and donuts reminded me I hadn’t had breakfast, so when he got in line at one stall, I dashed down to Fresh and grabbed a wrap. I didn’t want to lose him, but my stomach was growling like a fiend, and I still had another match to play later. Luckily, when I snuck around the corner to have a look, he was still lounging next to the stall, waiting for his burger.
From there he went straight to court 6. Miri and Hugo were sitting in the stands. It was Hamish’s singles match. The quarterfinals. If he won this one, he’d move on to the semis tomorrow morning and then the final in the afternoon. I slid into the seat next to Miri.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said casually. “No dramas. You?”
I shrugged. “Nothing much happening.” I nodded toward the other end of the stands, where Dray was perched in the top row.
Hamish was down 4–3. His opponent was a thin wiry teenager with curly red hair. Before every serve, he pushed it back off his forehead and readjusted his cap. Then he threw the ball up for the toss and launched himself at it like he was charging a dragon. It worked, though. The power he got on his serves was phenomenal. Especially for such a skinny kid.
“Who is this guy?” I asked Miri.
“Owen O’Brien,” she said. “It’s his first year on the circuit.”
I remembered the skinny girl who had partnered with Emily Hunt in the doubles. “Chelsea O’Brien’s brother?” She had the same body type as Owen and the same kind of power game.
“How should I know?” said Miri irritably. “He needs to work on his technique.”
Poor technique or not, he was playing well. He held serve, and Hamish was down 5–3. I could see Hamish was trying to figure out how to handle this guy. What were his weaknesses? What would give Hamish the edge he needed to win? He couldn’t let this kid break his serve again, or he’d be out of the tournament. Which was exactly what Dray Yule and Colby Barrett wanted.
Hamish served, a power shot to the backhand side. The kid blocked it back, setting up Hamish for an easy forehand. Again he powered it onto the backhand. They rallied back and forth on the baseline, time and time again, with Hamish pounding the kid’s backhand until finally he got what he wanted. The ball landed short. Hamish ran in and knocked a drop shot over the net.
It was a good strategy. Owen O’Brien loved to slog it out on the baseline. Power was his game, and when Hamish got into a power match with him, they were on a pretty even playing field. Hamish was better than that though. He played Owen’s game as long as it suited him, moved him well back behind the baseline, then hit him with something different. A drop shot at the net, a backhand slice, a wide short ball that sent the kid running and more often than not won Hamish the point.
Hamish held his serve easily, and then it was O
wen’s turn. Hamish would have to change his tactics now. With Owen having the serve advantage, Hamish would have to make sure he didn’t set him up for a winning shot with his return.
Hamish’s eyes were glued on his opponent as he waited for the serve. Owen flicked his hair back, readjusted his cap. Hamish was on his toes, already moving forward. The ball came at him, hard and wide, but Hamish was there. He returned it crosscourt with a forehand that was almost as fast as the serve had been.
Owen hit it back, fast and deep, trying to draw Hamish into the rally. Instead, Hamish moved around and sent it down the line on the backhand side. A winner.
It didn’t take a mind reader to see how desperate Owen was to win this match. It could be the upset of the tournament, one of the top seeds beaten by a newcomer. He adjusted his strings before setting up for the serve, glaring down the court at Hamish like he was trying to psych him out. A quick fix of his hair, then he tossed the ball up for the serve.
An ace. I had to hand it to him. He was good. It takes a lot to ace Hamish Brown.
His next serve was just as fast. Hamish got it back through sheer luck. His return was weak though, straight down the middle of the court, and Owen moved in for the kill. He hit a flat forehand onto the backhand side that barely skimmed the net.
Come on, Hamish, I thought, wanting to scream it out. I wanted him to win so badly, watching the game was almost painful.
Owen O’Brien didn’t let up on his power serves. He knew they were his trump card, and I couldn’t blame him for using them. They were working beautifully. Luckily, the next one hit the tape and flew out. Second serve. I held my breath. This was Hamish’s chance.
The serve landed half a meter inside the service court. It still looked fast to me. I would have had trouble getting it back.
Hamish casually pivoted around and hit it with a backhand that had so much topspin, the ball bounced and powered on as if it had hit a turbo booster. The kid clipped it with a one-handed backhand, but it flew out. The score was even again at 30 all.
Hamish won the next point with a drop shot after a long rally, then Owen hit another winning serve straight past him. The score was deuce.
Then it was Hamish’s advantage. And deuce again. I was so intent on the game, I almost forgot about Dray. It was only when Hamish had finally won the game with a backhand across the net at an almost impossible angle that I glanced up at the top row. Dray was still there. His face was tense, his hands clenched. I didn’t think he’d be going anywhere until this match was finished.
Hamish held his serve in the next game. Owen had a lot of fight in him. He didn’t make it easy. And when it was his turn to serve, he ramped up his power serves and aced Hamish three times in the one game. They went into the tiebreak.
There was quite a crowd around the court now. The game had gone over time. The stands were full, and people stood outside the fence, watching the two guys battle it out.
In a tiebreak, the players alternate serving, with each player serving twice before the switch. It didn’t leave a lot of room to get ahead. Hamish and Owen fought it out point for point, the scores staying level. I could see they were both tiring. Hamish wasn’t moving quite as quickly as he usually did, and Owen’s serve was starting to slow. That, if anything, gave Hamish the edge, I thought. The kid’s power serve was all that was keeping him in the match.
The score was 9 all, and Owen was serving. He wiped the sweat off his face and adjusted his cap. He looked exhausted. It had been a tough match and had gone way over time. He threw the ball up and brought his racket around. I think he knew when he hit it that it wasn’t going in. It slammed into the net.
You could almost see Hamish rubbing his hands together. A second serve was just what he needed. Owen sliced it out wide, but there wasn’t much pace on it. Hamish had plenty of time to get there. He did a full backswing, then hit it short over the net. The kid made a halfhearted attempt to get to it, trotting toward the net. He knew there was no way he would make it.
At 10–9, Hamish served an ace and the match was over. There was a huge round of applause as Hamish and Owen shook hands.
“He’ll be one to watch over the next year or two,” said Hugo.
I glanced over at Dray. He was leaning back in his seat. I thought he’d be devastated that Hamish hadn’t lost after all. That was what he was hoping for, wasn’t it? But he just sat there. Waiting. For what?
Then I saw. At the court gate, Hamish was talking to an official.
Hugo and Miri went down to see what was going on. I needed to keep an eye on Dray. If he’d had a hand in this, he might give something away.
Miri was back in less than five minutes. Hugo and Hamish had gone off with the official.
“What’s going on?” I said. Dray was still in his seat. He looked awfully pleased with himself.
“It’s a drug test,” said Miri. “Just routine. They do them sometimes. When it gets close to the final.” She was trying to sound unconcerned, but I could see she was worried.
“Do they test everybody?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “It’s a random test. Unless they have reason to suspect somebody. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
I wasn’t so sure. I looked up to where Dray had been sitting, but he was gone.
chapter fourteen
I was worried about Hamish, but there was nothing I could do, and we had a match to play. It was the quarterfinals. I should have been excited. Pumped and raring to go. Instead I felt like I had lead in my sneakers and ice fog in my brain. Miri wasn’t on the top of her game either, and between the two of us, we botched up the first couple of games pretty badly.
Our opponents were another pair of sisters, as different from the Wong sisters as you could get. They were both blond, but that’s where the similarity ended. The older one was tall, slim and powerful, like Miri. Miri figured she’d be playing her in the semis if they both won their next singles. The younger one was much younger, maybe twelve or thirteen, and still looked like a kid. It was obvious she thought she was pretty good though. She threw a little tantrum whenever she thought we made a bad line call. I thought someone should take her to the optometrist for an eye checkup.
At 4–1, I could see the little kid thought they had it in the bag. And I wasn’t so sure I disagreed with her. We’d made stupid mistakes, letting the ball slip through the center line between us, missing easy volleys, lobbing the ball to have it smashed back at us, double-faulting. And double-faulting again. It’s those sorts of things that can lose you the match. The sisters weren’t winning it. We were losing it. And badly. But the smug look on the kid’s face really riled me. So what if she was twelve years old and playing in the 16 and Under? She just wasn’t that good, and without her sister and her own dodgy line calls, she’d have been done long ago.
“That pipsqueak’s really starting to piss me off,” said Miri as we switched ends. “If she calls one more of my serves out, I’m going to ask for an umpire.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “I can’t believe she called that last forehand out.”
“Tell you what,” said Miri with a gleam in her eyes. “We’re going to teach that kid a lesson. Pelt her with everything you’ve got. We’ll see how good she really is.”
And we did. If she was at the net, we fired the ball straight at her. If she was on the baseline, we made her run. Power forehands, short backhand slices, drop shots. She caught on pretty quickly. She knew what we were doing, and it made her mad. She stamped her foot when she missed a shot, smashed her racket on the court when we aced her. The next time we changed ends, I could hear her complaining to her sister. Loudly. I think everyone in the whole court heard her.
Gradually, we clawed our way back. We weren’t playing great tennis, but we didn’t stink either. When the score reached 4–5 against us, we thought we might have a chance to win. It was Miri’s serve.
She bounced the ball a couple of times, threw it up and served it at about 150 k’s to the short kid’s backh
and. The girl threw her racket out and dived for it.
A perfect serve, I thought.
“Fault!” called the kid.
Miri’s jaw dropped, and I think mine did too.
“That was in,” said Miri, approaching the net.
“No, it wasn’t. It was long.” The girl’s jaw was pushed out stubbornly.
“It was in,” said Miri.
“It wasn’t!”
I glanced at the girl’s sister. She looked like she wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere.
“Maybe we should replay it?” she said.
“No,” said Miri. “I’m requesting an umpire.”
It doesn’t happen very often, but any player can request an umpire if he or she doubts an opponent’s line calls. The hitch is that the umpire comes from the opposing team. Which meant that Miri’s umpire was the sisters’ dad.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s finish this off fair and square. I’ve noticed you two have been playing to Kara an awful lot. Let’s keep it clean. No bullying.”
Bullying? We were playing to the weaker team member. It was called strategy.
The kid’s smug smile as she walked back to the baseline was enough to set anyone off. Miri was smoldering. She smashed a serve at Kara that almost took her head off.
“Fault!” called the umpire, aka Kara’s dad. He pointed a finger at Miri. “I’m warning you. One more trick like that and I’ll disqualify you.”
I didn’t know if he could do that or not, and I didn’t want to find out. I gave Miri a meaningful look. Cool it.
“If she can’t handle the hard serves, she shouldn’t be playing in the 16 and Under.” Miri was looking at me, but the comment was clearly aimed at the dad. He chose to ignore it.
Miri popped in a soft serve just over the net. The kid ran for it and lobbed it back. Miri could have gone for an overhead smash and probably would have won the point. Instead she hit a soft forehand to the girl, nice and easy. The girl brought her racket back and let fly with a forehand. I tried to volley it, but it flew out across the tramline.
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