“Welcome, everyone, to the final of the Outer Banks Classic.” Dom’s voice, enhanced by the microphone he held in the center of the court, broke through her thoughts. “Today’s final features two athletes from right here at OBX, Indiana Gaffney and Jasmine Randazzo. Ladies, please approach the net for the coin toss.”
Jasmine tore her eyes from the crowd and pushed all thoughts of Teddy Harrison out of her mind. She glanced over at Indy, and if it was possible, the blond looked even more nervous than she had in the tunnel. There was no way to predict how a player would respond to the pressure of an important match. Some players, like Penny, were immune to it. Others battled with the nerves until they learned how to deal with them, and some players, no matter how talented, never overcame the fear of the big moment.
It was time to prove to the world—and Dom—what kind of player she was and, while she was at it, show Indiana Gaffney she was in way over her head.
“Out!” the line judge called, arm shooting out, indicating wide.
“Game, Randazzo,” the chair umpire said.
Across the court, Indy stood, hands on her hips, staring at the ground beneath her feet. Her shoulders rose and fell with every breath, coming hard and heavy as they neared the end of the first set in the best-of-three-set match.
Jasmine had spent the days leading up to this match shortening her reaction time and prepping her return game in anticipation of facing Indy’s killer serve. So far, all that preparation was proving unnecessary. She was playing well, but her 5–1 lead in the first set was due more to Indy’s self-destructing than anything Jasmine was doing. Indy’s serve was all over the place, and the rest of her game was inconsistent—she sprayed forehands and backhands with plenty of power but no accuracy and planted herself behind the baseline, leaving the front court wide open.
Indy was playing right into her hands as Jasmine forced her to scramble all over the court. The weather was cooperating, too. The sun was beating down on them, and slowly but surely, the velocity of Indy’s serve was dropping, giving Jasmine an even larger advantage.
She checked the clock in the corner of the court. The match was only twenty minutes old. Jasmine was serving, and after she won this game, she would take the first set.
“Quiet, please,” the chair umpire said, admonishing the crowd, most of whom had lost interest in the one-sided match and started conversations.
Jasmine approached the baseline and waited for Indy to do the same. She had the mental edge in the match and she wasn’t about to relinquish it. Solid shots, nothing too crazy,allowing Indy to make the mistakes, and the first set would belong to her.
Finally, Indy stepped up to the baseline, bending at the waist, racket held out in front of her as she shifted her weight left to right.
Jasmine tossed the ball into the air, then, instead of hammering through the back of the ball, she hit through the side. It was a subtle adjustment, no more than a millimeter or two, creating a slice spin on her serve and forcing Indy to lunge out wide.
Indy got there, blocking the ball back. Jasmine charged the net, taking a swing on the run and smacking the weak return into the opposite corner, giving Indy no chance to retrieve it.
“Fifteen–love,” the umpire said.
The crowd applauded politely.
Jasmine pulled a ball from the hidden pocket under her tennis skirt and compared it to the offering from the ball girl. She returned the fluffier one and looked to Indy, once again bent at the middle, physically ready to receive the serve but, from the look on her face, mentally all over the place.
This time Jasmine stuck to her flat serve. She didn’t have a ton of power, but what she lacked in velocity, she made up for in control. The serve drew Indy to the center of the court, allowing her to return it but opening up the corners. Jasmine shifted her feet, angling her body as she hit a forehand. Then, as Indy’s momentum carried her across the court, she moved up again, taking the next shot off Indy’s racket and burying it deep into the opposite corner.
“Thirty–love.”
Jasmine couldn’t hold in her smile as Indy chucked her racket against the ground in frustration. Tennis, at the highest levels, was more a mental game than anything else. If a player couldn’t keep her head, she didn’t have a chance against one who could.
She served again, a measured, solid serve right down the middle of the court. It was even slower than her last. Indy’s body buckled as she misjudged the velocity. She stepped into the forehand, a harsh grunt forcing its way out of her lungs as she sent the ball sailing long and deep across the court.
Jasmine stepped out of the way, letting the ball fly by her.
“Out,” the line judge shouted.
“Forty–love.”
She had three set points, three chances to close this one out and be halfway to the championship.
Across the court, Indy stood flat-footed, racket ready, but her shoulders slumped and her back was stiff. She looked beaten. Jasmine fired a serve as hard as she could down the middle of the court, but Indy didn’t even react. She simply turned and moved back to her chair at the side of the court.
Jasmine pumped her fist. Looking up into the crowd, she found her dad, applauding like a madman, a large, silly grin spread across his face. One more set. All she had to do was keep steady for one more set. Defense, patience, and a cool head, that’s all it would take.
“Game,” the chair umpire said. “Randazzo leads, one set to love.”
PATHETIC, TOTALLY PATHETIC.
Indy fell into her chair and took her towel from the ball girl. She buried her face into it, muffling a scream, before tossing it over her head, trying to create some shelter from the blistering sun; the heat and humidity were teaming up to torture her.
