Read Online Break Point: BookShots by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Patterson
Ads: Link
onto the court with new determination and fired five explosive shots across the net. Basilia had no answer for any of them, and the crowd cheered as Keller clawed her way back into the match. Under pressure, Basilia went for the line and missed, giving Keller a set point. The American spun her racket in her hand, staring across the court as Basilia bounced the ball, tossed it high and double-faulted. Keller held her arms to the sky and roared like a Roman gladiator slaying an opponent.
The rest was easy. Keller dismantled the world champion blow by brutish blow. At the far end of the court, Marta Basilia looked like thunder. If Keller’s theory that Basilia had given her the black roses to get inside her head was correct, then the plan had backfired spectacularly. No matter how hard Basilia hit the ball, Keller hit harder. No matter how precise her angles were, Keller threw herself at the ball and found an even better return.
Eventually, Keller served for the match. Her first serve was an ace, straight down the middle of the court, kicking high past Basilia and thumping against the green tarpaulin behind her. The second serve was almost as good, flying wide of Basilia’s forehand. Another ace. Basilia screamed and cursed into the afternoon air. The crowd gasped and then giggled until the umpire settled them. Thirty–love. Halfway there. Keller fired the next serve straight into the net. She stepped back and shook the nerves out of her shoulders. Foster watched the crowd. Nobody was moving. Nobody was breathing. Nobody was doing anything but watching Keller, two points away from a place in the final. She bounced the ball and instead of opting for a softer serve, she put everything into it. Basilia had stepped into the court, not expecting such a fierce delivery. The ball kicked right in front of her, flying hard into her body. She was a supreme athlete, but even she could not twist herself into a shape that would allow her to play the ball. It smashed into her ribs, making a hollow thump that the whole crowd heard. Keller held up a hand of apology and returned to the baseline.
‘Forty–love,’ the umpire said.
Match point.
Foster didn’t breathe. If Keller’s stalker had a sense of drama, which apparently he did, then this was a critical moment. A dangerous moment. To the crowd, Keller was looking invincible. To Foster, she was exposed and vulnerable. His eyes scanned the crowd and he was drawn to a movement. A baseball cap, on the far side of the crowd. Climbing the stairs towards the exit. But as quickly as Foster spotted him, he was gone. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was something. He wasn’t sure, and without being sure he couldn’t leave Keller unwatched.
Where was Tom Abbot?
Kirsten Keller went through the usual routine of bouncing the ball twice, looking once down the court and tossing the ball high into the air. It was an exact replay of the final point at Roland Garros, where she had collapsed and forfeited the game.
Not this time
.
She smashed the ball hard down the court. Basilia desperately got a racket to it. It looped high into the air and hung there for what seemed like an eternity. The world slowed down and the only thing that moved was Keller, powering into the court and leaping at the ball like a striking panther. She put everything into that shot: the bitterness and humiliation of the loss in Paris, the anger at the black roses, the grief of losing Maria Rosario. The crowd burst into wild, ecstatic cheers and drowned out the umpire as he said, ‘Game, set and match, Miss Keller.’
She pumped her fists, shook hands with Marta Basilia and turned to each corner of the stadium, acknowledging the crowd with her racket held aloft. She looked to the stand and tried to pick out Foster, but he was already moving, trying to get to her. Basilia headed straight for the players’ locker room. Keller hung back, enjoying the moment. She’d undone the hoodoo of Roland Garros. Maria Rosario would have
The rest was easy. Keller dismantled the world champion blow by brutish blow. At the far end of the court, Marta Basilia looked like thunder. If Keller’s theory that Basilia had given her the black roses to get inside her head was correct, then the plan had backfired spectacularly. No matter how hard Basilia hit the ball, Keller hit harder. No matter how precise her angles were, Keller threw herself at the ball and found an even better return.
Eventually, Keller served for the match. Her first serve was an ace, straight down the middle of the court, kicking high past Basilia and thumping against the green tarpaulin behind her. The second serve was almost as good, flying wide of Basilia’s forehand. Another ace. Basilia screamed and cursed into the afternoon air. The crowd gasped and then giggled until the umpire settled them. Thirty–love. Halfway there. Keller fired the next serve straight into the net. She stepped back and shook the nerves out of her shoulders. Foster watched the crowd. Nobody was moving. Nobody was breathing. Nobody was doing anything but watching Keller, two points away from a place in the final. She bounced the ball and instead of opting for a softer serve, she put everything into it. Basilia had stepped into the court, not expecting such a fierce delivery. The ball kicked right in front of her, flying hard into her body. She was a supreme athlete, but even she could not twist herself into a shape that would allow her to play the ball. It smashed into her ribs, making a hollow thump that the whole crowd heard. Keller held up a hand of apology and returned to the baseline.
‘Forty–love,’ the umpire said.
Match point.
Foster didn’t breathe. If Keller’s stalker had a sense of drama, which apparently he did, then this was a critical moment. A dangerous moment. To the crowd, Keller was looking invincible. To Foster, she was exposed and vulnerable. His eyes scanned the crowd and he was drawn to a movement. A baseball cap, on the far side of the crowd. Climbing the stairs towards the exit. But as quickly as Foster spotted him, he was gone. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was something. He wasn’t sure, and without being sure he couldn’t leave Keller unwatched.
Where was Tom Abbot?
Kirsten Keller went through the usual routine of bouncing the ball twice, looking once down the court and tossing the ball high into the air. It was an exact replay of the final point at Roland Garros, where she had collapsed and forfeited the game.
Not this time
.
She smashed the ball hard down the court. Basilia desperately got a racket to it. It looped high into the air and hung there for what seemed like an eternity. The world slowed down and the only thing that moved was Keller, powering into the court and leaping at the ball like a striking panther. She put everything into that shot: the bitterness and humiliation of the loss in Paris, the anger at the black roses, the grief of losing Maria Rosario. The crowd burst into wild, ecstatic cheers and drowned out the umpire as he said, ‘Game, set and match, Miss Keller.’
She pumped her fists, shook hands with Marta Basilia and turned to each corner of the stadium, acknowledging the crowd with her racket held aloft. She looked to the stand and tried to pick out Foster, but he was already moving, trying to get to her. Basilia headed straight for the players’ locker room. Keller hung back, enjoying the moment. She’d undone the hoodoo of Roland Garros. Maria Rosario would have
Similar Books
