The Underdogs (17 page)

Afterward she'd be worse off than ever, and I'd be there to catch her fall. Even so, I couldn't
fix
any of it. I knew then that our short, happy time out at the pool in the grass might be over. I stayed with her that day, and for the first time, I was getting truly panicky about her. Evie cried longer than ever, and nothing I did to comfort her could stop her bawling.

 

Before

Evie did eventually stop crying on that fateful Cookie Wednesday. I was with her when she finally shuddered to a stop. Later, when she was good and sure every single camper was gone for the day, she ran as fast as she could to the front desk and grabbed the first racket she saw. She headed back to Court 5, with me alongside her. But when we got there, the court was taken by Celia giving a post-camp private lesson to an old lady. I heard Evie's sharp intake of breath, which usually preceded tears, but I guess she was all out of water because she switched gears and galloped away without another crying jag.

I followed her back toward the main lobby, where she soon came to an abrupt stop and took stock. The indoor courts were empty and still lit, and no one was in the lobby to catch her hitting, so Evie took a chance and ran out to Court 1, where there was a five-foot-wide, ten-foot-tall bit of exposed concrete at the back of the court. It was no Green Monster—in fact it was a boring old beige—but it would have to do. She took a ball in one hand, tucked a couple of spares in her waistband, and started nailing the balls as hard as she could—forehands, backhands, swinging volleys—against the wall over and over.

Whack, thud, bounce,
whack, thud, bounce.

She was so furious that she was doing some seriously fancy footwork to get in position. Evie was so into it that she didn't notice someone moving stealthily out onto the court. Her ponytail was going wild as she swung, and that ball was the only thing she saw.

That someone heading for her was the god of tennis himself. I watched Goran walk out there, and I was annoyed for Evie because clearly he was going to kick her off. I hoped the ten minutes she'd been out there had been enough to get it out of her system, because Goran was about to give her the boot. But Court 1 was Goran's stage, and Lord knew whatever he did out there would be a crowd-pleaser for every club member who might walk by, so there was no fighting it. The Czech wonder, who should have been exhausted from training all day but was still going strong like the Energizer Bunny, was fixated on my friend as he walked out onto the court.

“Hey, Evie,” he said from across the net, his voice bouncing off the empty building's gargantuan walls. “I'm waiting for Will to finish work. Wanna hit with me for a minute?”

Evie gulped and looked like she was going to barf. For one thing, the guy had come out of nowhere. If she'd known he was anywhere in the vicinity she would never have set foot out on Court 1. Plus, I think that was quite literally the first time Goran had ever spoken directly to her. I mean, outside of polite hellos in a group of people or asking her nicely to get out of the way. She was too shocked to do anything other than nod, but I knew something was up. I ran inside to find out what the deal was, and went straight to the coaches' office. Evie wasn't stupid, and she'd already been brutalized once today. If they were setting her up to make fun of her, I was going to make them pay. Big-time.

I skidded to a halt outside their office, and on first glance I thought there was no one there, because the chairs were all empty, the desks vacant. But then I noticed Will standing in front of the office window like Thor or Atlas, strong and powerful, arms crossed high over his chest. His mouth was set in a serious line. I observed him watching intently as Goran tossed a ball to Evie. She zeroed in on the ball, skipped up to it, turned to her side, lowered her racket, and whacked it back to Goran. He returned it with a little less power. Evie wasn't exactly light on her feet, but she made it to the ball, set up, and hit it to him. It was weird; she never could've talked to Goran for more than three seconds without cowering in sheer terror, but put her a court's distance away and give her something to focus on and she was like Maria Sharapova on caffeine. Will turned to leave the office, and I moved out of sight and scooted off before he could catch sight of me. He headed out, walking toward the courts. I followed at a distance.

When Will stepped onto the court with me unobtrusively in tow, Goran raised his eyebrows and held up his hand to Evie, who had become red and out of breath. She nodded and let her racket fall by her side.

“I'll be right back! Don't go anywhere,” he yelled to her, pointing his racket at her.
Pointing at her
. I suspected Evie didn't care what Goran was up to. His paying attention to her was heaven, I knew. Let it end how it would. For now, she was a princess. Evie stayed put. I casually followed Goran, hanging back far enough so he wouldn't notice (I hoped).

“Did you see that forehand?” he said to Will in a very loud whisper. “I don't think the girl's ever had a lesson and she's already got topspin like that.”

Will nodded. He was gazing at Evie under his eyelashes.

“We need to evaluate her properly,” Goran went on, putting his hands on his hips, racket pressed against his thigh. “If she really has had no training, this could be … But I wonder … She must have had lessons at
some
point. I mean, with Lucky as her father, right?”

“I'm not so sure,” Will said. “Didn't you say she's here every day? I've never seen her do anything. Set foot on a court. Show an interest.”

“That's not really true,” Goran pointed out. “She does show an interest—we just never paid attention. She's been watching us all play for the past year or two. Remember when Wimbledon was on? She was always in front of that TV. Right, Chelsea?” He and Will both turned to me. “Your friend's been practicing, hasn't she?” Goran added. I guess I was caught, and I knew it was a rhetorical question.

Will said nothing.

“If we can get her footwork going,” Goran said, shaking his head. “If this is her having never had a lesson, it's—”

“I know,” Will said. He couldn't take his eyes off Evie, who was bouncing a ball on the ground, catching it, throwing it down. “I know. I'll take it from here.”

“Her feel with the ball reminds me of—”

“I know,” Will said one final time, turning to walk toward the net. He whipped around one last time to stop Goran, who was about to disappear under Court 1's back curtain.

“Hey,” Will said. “Keep this under your hat, okay? In case we're wrong, we don't want to put any pressure on this kid. Make her feel bad. You know.”

Goran nodded and headed inside, but not before throwing a shout and a wave to Evie, who looked as if she were going to pee her pants as she waved back. I stuck by Will, who beckoned to Evie. She scurried over to us. I could only guess she was too tired to be intimidated by the head elite coach standing in front of her.

“Hey, Evie,” he said.

“Hey,” she said. I realized then she wasn't asking questions about what the heck this was all about, and she was doing as commanded, because she thought she was in trouble for something. I could see it on her face.

“Evie,” Will said, “I'm going to throw you a few balls. I want you to aim for the baseline with every shot. Long and deep. Like the elites do. You understand?”

She nodded and returned to the baseline. She got into the ready position, sticking her butt out and swaying her lower body the way she'd seen the elites do on this very court. Will tossed a ball to her forehand and she nailed it down the line, but it sprayed way wide. She got ready for the next ball.

“Shake it off,” Will shouted from across the net. “Go again.”

He fed her five quick ones in a row, and she nailed them, some deep, some in, some out. “Okay, that's enough,” he said after about ten balls, and beckoned her over to the net. Evie stood there dutifully, racket at her side.

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at her. “Have you ever had a tennis lesson, Evie?”

She shook her head. “Um … no?”

“You must have hit the ball around with your dad. Even if it wasn't a real lesson, you've played with him at the park or something, right?”

She shook her head again.

“Never?”

“No,” she said, starting to catch her breath. “Lucky says I'm not an athlete.”

Will looked surprised, and then sorry for her. “Do you like tennis, Evie?”

She paused to think about that one. “I guess so,” she said after a few seconds. “I've never really played. I only hit on my own … because I get bored. Actually … yes.” She studied her racket, then looked back at Will. “I do like it.”

He nodded, eyeing her and, I think, gauging his gut feeling. This girl had come out of nowhere—and for all three of us standing out there at that moment, this was happening pretty fast. I could see it in his posture, feel it breathing from his skin: Will was going to go big or go home with my friend.

“What would you say,” he said, “if I offered to train you? To see if we can turn your raw talent into something?”

I think Evie and I were only somewhat clear on what “something” meant. I could tell she was stuck on the “raw talent” part. No one had ever told Evie she was talented at anything. She looked over at me, and I smiled back. Of course she should go for it.

“Evie, before you say yes, I want you to think about what this means,” Will said. “From what I've seen today, you have some real potential, but it's going to take work to see it through. You'll need to get up to train early in the morning, you'll need to work out in addition to your tennis practice, and you'll need to show up when I tell you to. When summer's over, you'll have to get up early and practice before school.”

He stood back and examined her. She met his eyes head-on, racket firmly in her hand and pointing toward the ground. She was taking him seriously and, I suspected, going over in her mind what his offer would mean to her life.

“Not everyone has the commitment it takes to become a champion. Can you stick with this, Evie? Will you do what I tell you, even if it's hard, and you're tired, and you want to stay in bed?”

Evie nodded. “I can do it,” she said. And in that moment, I thought, she believed she could. Will seemed to see it, too.

“We're going to need to teach you a few basics, get you in shape before you train with other kids,” he said. “Then we'll enroll you in the camp. We'll figure that out with your father and Gene when the time comes.”

“Um…”

“What?”

“My dad.”

Will sighed. I think he was finally seeing what he was up against. He was used to pushy tennis parents. Lucky was the anti–tennis parent.

“We'll cross that bridge with Lucky when we come to it,” Will said firmly. “You make sure you show up for me tomorrow and we'll go from there. Deal?”

A giant, genuine grin of joy crossed my friend's face then. “Okay.”

“We'll begin tomorrow, before camp starts. Seven thirty.”

“I'll be there,” she said. I saw something in her eyes I'd never seen before.

Will nodded. “Tomorrow.” He directed his chin toward her racket before turning to walk away. “Keep hitting against the wall. Another half hour tonight.”

Evie nodded and went straight for the ball hopper. I stayed with her and watched her hit for the next half hour, and I thought Will Temple was definitely on to something.

 

After

“You two are strange,” my mom said to Evie and me, and headed back to her swivel stool behind the reception desk. “But hey. Whatever floats your boat.”

She flipped through her out-of-date
People
magazine.
Phew.
Evie's weak explanation as to why we were sitting on the floor leaning on the wall outside the coaches' office—because we wanted a change of scenery—had passed muster. The real reason was that Detective Ashlock was back, and he'd grimly summoned Lucky and Patrick for a private discussion in their office.

Evie and I stayed still. We heard some mumbling from within, and then, clearly: “This is your last chance, Patrick. What happened in the women's locker room the night of the summer kickoff party? Tell me now, or tell me at the police station.”

Patrick responded nice and loud. “Oh, for God's sake. It wasn't
me
, Detective. It wasn't me who was weird and violent that night.”

Pause.

“It was Annabel.”

After Patrick dropped that bomb, we heard only
: Mmmhmm, mumble mumble.

Then we heard this semi-crisp exchange:

Ashlock:
So you grabbed her arm?

Patrick:
I had to—she was going to mumble mumble.

Ashlock:
But you physically touched her.

Patrick:
To stop her from beating me up!

Lucky:
Yes, mmmhmm, mumble mumble.

Patrick:
That's the thing. She flipped out. She seemed so upset—I could hear it, and I was kind of freaked out. She started screaming all this weird stuff, like, “He's not like the rest of them. He's not! I wish mumble mumble leave me alone!”

For the next few minutes we strained to hear what we could and were able to piece a story together. After Annabel had been spotted peeking out of the locker room, watching the pool party that night when Patrick saw her and went after her, she'd locked herself in a bathroom stall. She was crying, and Patrick heard it and went in. This is where it gets a little foggy for us eavesdroppers, but I gathered he called out to her. She ignored him, but he tried again, and finally he'd slipped under the stall because he was so worried about her.