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  TOPSPIN

  SONYA SPREEN BATES

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2013 Sonya Spreen Bates

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

  photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now

  known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bates, Sonya Spreen, author

  Topspin / Sonya Spreen Bates.

  (Orca sports)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0385-5 (pbk.).-- ISBN 978-1-4598-0647-4 (bound)

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0386-2 (pdf). -- ISBN 978-1-4598-0387-9 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca sports

  PS8603.A8486T66 2013 jC813’.6 C2013-902338-0

  C2013-902339-9

  First published in the United States, 2013

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013937056

  Summary: At a junior tournament in Melbourne, Kat finds herself caught in the

  middle of a plot to sabotage the star tennis player.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B PO BOX 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  16 15 14 13 • 4 3 2 1

  For my daughters, Meg and Claudia

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  chapter one

  Melbourne Park. Home of the Australian Open tennis tournament. Three main arenas, retractable roofs, commentator boxes, seven indoor courts, eighteen outdoor courts, warm-up areas, change rooms, pro shop, souvenir shops. All the greats have played here. Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal, Serena Williams, Victoria Azarenka…and me?

  Okay. So this wasn’t the Australian Open. It was a bronze-level tournament in the Optus Junior Tour. And I wasn’t Victoria Azarenka or ever likely to be. But the only time I’d seen anything remotely like this tennis complex was when I went to the US Open in New York. As a spectator, not a competitor. Now here I was. At Melbourne Park. As a competitor.

  I am a self-confessed tennis junkie. I started playing back in Vancouver when I was six. My parents wanted me to play softball, but after I struck out every time at bat for a whole season, they decided maybe I needed a different sport. As soon as they put a tennis racket in my hand, I was hooked. I haven’t looked back since.

  Not even when we moved to Sydney, Australia, six months ago. I’d been studying for final exams, training twice a week with Evelyn Ferguson and looking forward to a camping trip with Margie up at Whistler when school let out. Then Dad got a job offer, and everything spun out of control. Instead of mountain biking down Whistler Mountain, I’d landed at Rothmore High, repeating half of grade eleven and getting laughed at every five minutes for things I’d never even known existed. I mean, how was I supposed to know that “The Man from Snowy River” was a poem before it was a movie? Or that ANZAC was an acronym for the Australian and New Zealand armies who fought in WWI? Who knew there was such a thing as Australian rules football? Or that there were two different kinds of rugby?

  What I did know, though, was tennis. In Australia, tennis was a year-round sport. And Hugo Mansfield had agreed to coach me and set me up as Miri Tregenza’s doubles partner. So here I was in Melbourne, preparing to compete on the very courts I’d seen so many times on TV. To be honest, it was rather intimidating. Not that we were going to play in the main arenas or anything, but still.

  It was the day before the start of the tournament. We’d flown in that morning, and our courts were booked for our final training session. There were four of us—me, Miri, Hugo and his star player, Hamish Brown.

  It still felt kind of unreal that I was there at all. Hugo was the best junior coach in Sydney. Even I knew that, and I’d only lived there a few months. He trained a couple of kids at our club, but he didn’t take just anyone. You had to be serious about your tennis, and you had to be good. Scary good. I was under no illusions that I was in that category. I wasn’t Wimbledon material, but I loved the game. It was only good luck on my part that Miri’s doubles partner had injured her shoulder and was out for the rest of the season. Leaving Miri looking for a new partner. Enter stage right, me, Kat McDonald. That was a month ago, and now I had the next few days to prove to Hugo that he hadn’t wasted his time on me.

  It was a cold, overcast September afternoon, the beginning of spring, but it felt more like winter. No rain, which was lucky. I guess the rain in Sydney hadn’t reached Melbourne yet. I still wasn’t used to the reversed seasons. September and spring didn’t compute in my mind, but there it was. And despite North Americans’ illusion that Australia is hot all the time, winter in Sydney had been cold. Not cold-cold like Toronto or Calgary, but cold and wet. A bit like Vancouver. It felt good to be out and moving.

  I’d had a peek at the other kids as we’d walked through the courts. They all looked awesome, running drills or hitting serve after serve perfectly over the net. Miri and Hamish didn’t seem fazed by it. They’d both been playing the junior circuit for three years. I guess they’d played here at Melbourne Park plenty of times, and besides, they had a couple of days before the main tournament started. For me, qualifying rounds started the next day. I was a bundle of nerves.

  Hamish popped the ball over to Hugo and we started a rally. This was the first time I’d been on the court with Hamish. He had an awesome backhand. It never seemed to miss. And he was almost unbeatable at the net. His reach was so long, he got to the tramlines with a single step. He’d made it to the quarterfinals in the Australian Open Juniors last year, and I could see why.

  I, on the other hand, was a total disaster. I messed up the first two shots. Easy forehands that flew long when I wasn’t even trying to send the ball deep.

  Miri threw her hands up in disgust. I think I was fulfilling her worst nightmare. She had never wanted me for a partner in the first place. The first time we trained together, she eyed me like a piece of rotten fish. But beggars can’t be choosers, and she was stuck with me for the duration of the tournament.

  Not that she didn’t have reason to be frustrated. Miri Tregenza was like a shadow image of Maria Sharapova, tall and slim but with jet-black hair and olive skin that never turned bright red after a match like mine did. She played like Sharapova, too, minus the screeching. Hard-hitting and aggressive, she never let an opportunity slip by. She was one of the top seeds for the tournament—I think she was ranked number two to win. I knew she thought I was going to bring her down.

  “Come on, Kat, concentrate,” Hugo said.

  I tried to block everything out. Concentrate on the ball. Miri lobbed one onto my forehand and I shuffled into position. Backswing, follow through. The ball slammed onto my racket and arced perfectly over the net. Okay
, now we were in business.

  We rallied back and forth. A couple of shots went wild, but I tried not to let it get to me. I just concentrated on the next one. Topspin forehand. Shuffle back to center. Backhand slice. Move into the net and volley. Lob. Overhead smash. After awhile my brain switched off and my body took over, moving instinctively, anticipating the next shot. I felt good. Light, quick, powerful.

  Before I knew it, Hugo called time.

  “All right,” he said. “You’re ready. Get your stuff and we’ll head to the hotel.”

  chapter two

  With the rest of the day off, I headed back to Melbourne Park after checking into the hotel. It was only a short walk, and I wanted to get my bearings so I knew where I was going the next day. I also wanted to get a better look at my competition. Maybe that was a bad idea. Maybe I was freaking myself out for no reason, but it seemed important to know what I was up against.

  According to the schedule, I was on court 12 at eight thirty, playing a girl named Amelia Barrett. Not that that helped me any. I wouldn’t know Amelia Barrett if I ran her over with a ten-ton truck. But I could find court 12, and I could check out all the girls who were still training. If I beat this Amelia, I’d be up against the others anyway.

  I bought some sushi and a bottle of water at one of the vendors and meandered through the courts. There were some really good tennis players out there. I mean, they were all juniors, like me, but some really stood out. They were the stars of the future, no doubt about it. There were also some who were more at my level. They didn’t have quite the speed, power or accuracy. There was a weak backhand here and there, a flubbed volley. I could only hope they weren’t all in the divisions for younger players.

  When I got to court 12, I stopped to watch. There were two girls on the court who looked about my age. A tall blond girl with legs up to her armpits, and a shortish kid who looked a little younger, with short spiky hair. The blond girl tossed the ball up for a serve, brought her racket around and slammed it over the net for an ace. I hoped she wasn’t Amelia Barrett.

  I continued my wandering, heading behind the courts to where the shops were set up—a souvenir shop selling T-shirts and caps, a place to have rackets restrung, even a booth where you could clock the speed of your serve. The results were displayed on an electronic board above the backstop: 143 kilometers per hour, 152, 115, 127. I didn’t think I’d give it a try. No need to demoralize myself this close to the tournament.

  As I left the booth, I spotted Miri and Hamish near the food stalls. I started toward them, then changed my mind. They were deep in conversation, and Miri didn’t look happy. Quite honestly, I didn’t know why they were going out. Miri had been in a bad mood since the flight to Melbourne that morning. And it didn’t seem like Hamish was enjoying her company any more than I was. But it was none of my business. I turned the other way and went back to the courts.

  It became my business when Miri missed curfew that night. She wasn’t in the room when I got back. I didn’t think anything of it. It was still early, and I wasn’t Miri’s babysitter. But as it got closer and closer to 10:00 PM, when Hugo would be coming around to check on us, I started to get worried. Where was she, and what was she doing? Had something happened to her?

  At one minute to ten I got a text message. On my way. Cover for me. Miri.

  Great. Now what should I do?

  There was a knock on the door. I went to answer it, my mind racing. Did I cover for Miri and risk getting into Hugo’s bad books if he found out? Or did I tell him she wasn’t here and suffer Miri’s wrath for the rest of the tournament? Not an easy choice.

  “Everything set for tomorrow?” Hugo said, brushing past me into the room without being invited. “Where’s Miri?”

  “She’s…uh…in the bathroom,” I said.

  He glanced around. Luckily, the bathroom door was closed, so he couldn’t see she wasn’t there.

  “Oh. Well, about tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll go to the courts early so you can have a bit of a hit before it all gets going. Get the bugs out. And don’t worry about Amelia Barrett. She’s a little shrimp of a thing. No backhand. You’ll beat her easy. Not that I want you to get overconfident. Remember what we talked about. Don’t get rattled by the competition. You’ve got the goods. Just use it.” He glanced at the bathroom door. “What’s taking her so long?”

  “You know…girl stuff,” I said with a shrug.

  He moved closer to the door, and I held my breath.

  “Miri? On the courts at six thirty. Don’t be late.”

  “We’ll be there,” I said quickly. To my profound relief, he headed out of our room, and I closed the door gratefully behind him.

  Now, where was Miri?

  chapter three

  I was asleep, or close to it, when Miri finally showed up. I heard her keycard in the lock, and then she went into the bathroom. The door thunked closed behind her. I peered at the clock. Twelve forty.

  I was so mad, I felt like flying out of bed and demanding to know where she’d been. I’d been worrying about her like a mother, imagining all sorts of terrible things. Car accidents, muggings, abduction. How could she have done this to me? She wasn’t the one who had to play tennis in the morning. She had another day to prepare. But I had to be on the warm-up court in six hours, match play in eight. I couldn’t afford to waste precious sleep worrying about her.

  I flopped onto my side and closed my eyes. The water shut off in the bathroom. Within seconds the door opened, and light spilled into the room. I pretended to be asleep. I didn’t want to get into it with her now. It would just rile me up more, and then I’d never sleep.

  She snapped the light off and crept across the room to sit on her bed, less than a meter away from me. She’d been drinking. I could smell it on her.

  “Kat?” she whispered. “You awake?”

  Stubbornly, I kept my eyes shut tight. Whatever she wanted to talk about, it could wait until morning. Let her stew on it for a bit.

  She crawled between the sheets, and a short time later I heard her snoring. I lay staring at the wall. Wide awake.

  She slept through the alarm the next morning. When I came out of the shower, she was out cold.

  “Go away,” she said when I shook her awake.

  “Get up,” I said. “We’re due on the courts in half an hour.”

  She pulled the sheet over her head. “I’m not playing today,” she said. “My head hurts.”

  “Well, it serves you right,” I said. “What were you doing partying before a tournament? Hugo will kill you.”

  Her hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist. She flung the sheet off her face.

  “He doesn’t know I was out last night, does he?” she said furiously.

  I threw her hand off and glared at her. “No, he doesn’t,” I said. “But I don’t know why I bothered to cover for you. Where were you, anyway?”

  She ignored the question. “Kat, he can’t find out about this. You can’t tell him. He’ll make me withdraw. Promise me you won’t tell.”

  I shook my head in disgust. “Only because I need you for the doubles,” I said. “But you have to get up. If you blow this for me, Miri…”

  She lay back in the bed and covered her eyes with her arm. “Don’t freak out,” she said. “It’s just qualifiers.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I thought if I tried, I might strangle her.

  She sighed. “All right. You go. I’ll be there in a bit.”

  I was halfway through my warm-up when Miri finally showed. I didn’t hear what she said to Hugo, but he seemed to accept her explanation. Not that he looked happy about it. They sparred for a couple of minutes while I jogged on the spot, but in the end he allowed her to take his place on the other side of the court. Miri winked at me conspiratorially. Like we were in on it together. I just glared at her.

  We started rallying, but she may as well have stayed in bed, the way she was playing. I’d never seen her move so slowly. As she halfheartedly return
ed ball after ball, I got madder and madder. This was my final warm-up. I didn’t need to be chasing crappy shots. I needed to get my feet moving, get the blood pumping, hit some winners. By seven thirty, I was so wound up that even the easiest forehands were going wild. Hugo called us off the court.

  “I don’t know what you two were up to last night,” he said, “but you both better shape up. I didn’t come over here to get eliminated in the first round.” He turned to me. “Kat, you’ve got one hour. I suggest you go somewhere where you can get your head together.”

  He walked off and left me glaring at Miri. She shrugged. “You heard what he said. Go…meditate or something.”

  I went for a run.

  Back in Vancouver, I used to do cross-country in the off-season. Running always clears my head. The feel of the ground beneath my feet, the rush of air past my face, the pulsing of my heart. It blows the cobwebs out of my brain. So I turned my back on Miri and jogged off the court, through the grounds and out onto the street. Ignoring the morning traffic crawling through the city, I put one foot in front of the other until the anger melted away. The pounding in my head disappeared, and my muscles started to move like they should. I returned to court 12 half an hour later, out of breath but ready to play tennis.

  Amelia Barrett arrived with an entourage of supporters. Parents, brothers, grandparents, who all clapped and cheered wildly when she won a point. On my side was dead silence. I went out nervous but mildly confident. She had the disadvantage of being about five foot nothing. She also had an annoying habit of smoothing back her tightly bound chestnut hair before every point. If Hugo thought I could beat her, I probably could.

  I quickly discovered he was right about her backhand. It was definitely her weakest stroke. That didn’t mean she was a pushover. I had to fight for every point. She was quick on her feet and had an amazing forehand that she could place wherever she wanted on the court. I felt like I was running a marathon.

  I was up 5–4 when Hugo, Miri and Hamish showed up. After my run that morning, the long rallies were starting to take their toll. I knew I had to mix it up a bit. I couldn’t afford to let her run me around like she had been.