Break Point by Kate Jaimet Read Free Book Online

getting out of town before the entire street woke up and discovered my mother perched in the Tree like the Lorax, except less cute and fuzzy.
    I got off the Greyhound in suburban Toronto and took a city bus to the Ontario Racquet Club. It was a far cry from the Donalda. The club had about the same level of elegance as your average Walmart store. But what it lacked in ritziness, it made up for in size. The echoing concrete hallways stretched for miles, branching off into massive gyms where rows of sweaty people worked out on exercise machines. Outside, acres of tennis courts lay splayed under the baking sun.
    I played my first elimination round on Friday afternoon. It was a tough match that went to three sets and left me dripping with sweat and tasting salt every time I licked my lips. I beat my opponent, though, and then I checked the board to see which player I would face in the second elimination round, on Saturday morning.
    The name I saw made me burn.
    It was Mike Baron.
    Mike had a fighting look in his eye and a cocky sneer on his lips when I met him in the locker room the next morning before our match.
    â€œYou trashed my club. I’m gonna trash you,” I said.
    â€œFat chance, loser,” Mike snarled back.
    Out on the court, Mike played my style of tennis. He hit big, hard serves and power strokes from the baseline. He was a tough kid, full of grit and anger.
    We played long, grinding rallies, driving the ball at each other full-force, grunting like animals, with the sweat flying off our faces and the hot, smoggy air burning our lungs. It was hand-to-hand combat, down in the trenches, fighting for every inch of ground. When we came up for air, we were tied 6-6 in the first set. Neither of us had broken the other’s serve. Neither was anywhere near conceding defeat.
    We traded points in a grueling tiebreaker, then Mike took the lead at 12-11, with my turn to serve. I went on the attack with a monster serve that should have left Mike reeling, but he stuck out his racket for a block shot and put the ball in play. Another jaw-clenching rally followed.
    With every hit, I imagined ramming the ball down Mike’s throat. We stayed deadlocked for eight hits, ten hits, twelve hits, until finally he powered it past me for the point and won the tiebreaker 13-11.
    We both knew it could have gone either way. We both knew that we would grind each other into the ground before one of us came out victorious.
    The next set was a replay of the first, except this time I came out on top, half through luck and half through stubborn bloody-mindedness. Now we stood tied at one set apiece. On the break before the third set, I sat in my courtside chair, guzzling water, feeling the burning in my lungs and my legs and wondering how I would dig deep enough to win the final bout against Mike.
    Then someone called my name. I looked around and saw Maddy’s face pressed up against the fence.
    â€œLet’s go, Connor!” she shouted.
    The sight of her sent a jolt of energy through my body. What was she doing here? What was she doing watching me? Wasn’t Rex playing an elimination match on some other court? Wouldn’t she rather be watching him, the winner of the Donalda tournament, the top-ranked junior in the province?
    I waved at Maddy, then jerked my thumb across the net toward Mike. Earlier in the week, I’d filled her in on my suspicions about him.
    She nodded. “Cream him, Connor! Take him down!”
    Take him down. Yeah, I’d take him down, for Maddy’s sake and to get justice for what he’d done to my club.
    I opened the final set with a screaming serve. Then I followed up with a series of punishing forehands that Mike beat back with grim aggression. On and on we fought as the scorching sun inched toward its high point in the noonday sky. I felt the burning in my skin, muscles, throat and lungs. Every point was a battle, and we held each other in a death grip, each of us straining to bring