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My wicked ace had a downside—tendonitis in my right elbow. But it hadn’t bothered me in weeks.
Not that Jason needed to know that.
Not that he believed me anyway.
“Bullshit.” He ran a hand through his graying blond hair. Prematurely graying, he liked to remind me. “You melted down. Again. And why? The line judge was right. You saw the replay. Your shot went out and that was enough to throw the entire match?”
“It wasn’t just the call. The crowd was rooting against me. And that prick, Finn, was up to his old tricks.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you to ignore him?”
“Ignore his racist comments?” I asked snidely. “Spoken like a true white man.”
But the anger that had flared so hot—and had seemed so important during the game—was gone now, leaving only the ashes of guilt and more than a little shame for letting my dad down.
“I know Finn’s a bastard but you’re letting him derail your career.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t want to play anymore.”
My agent sighed and fixed me with a pitying look I hated. “If I were a coach, I might have some technique to help you, but I don’t. You can’t keep doing this. Take it seriously, Kai, or quit, but it’s killing me to see you squander your talent. You could be right up there with—”
“With Nadal or Federer,” I finished. “I know. I could be better than those guys. Number one if I wanted.”
“And? So?”
“It’s just a game, Jase. Just knocking a ball back and forth across a net. It’s not curing cancer.”
He rubbed his eyes. “You’re a prodigy, Kai. You know how many kids would give their left arm to be as good as you?”
“I never asked to be a role model,” I said sharply. “And I never will be.”
“No, because that would require taking responsibility for your talent.”
Brad Finn entered the changing room after talking to reporters and signing autographs. His genial, friendly smile instantly morphed into a snide sneer neither the cameras nor his adoring fans would ever see.
“Thanks for the prize money, Solomon. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you. Is the ATP going to have you sign my check directly? Because that would be a real time-saver.”
“At least you acknowledge you can only win when I give it to you,” I said, rising to my feet. I wasn’t the tallest bloke on the Tour by a long shot, but F
inn was “short” by tennis standards. I towered over him.
Finn held up his hands. “My rank and bank account thank you.”
I smiled tightly. “As they should. You’d be rubbish without me.”
Brad’s snarl deepened but Jason grabbed me and pushed me out of the room before things got ugly. In the hallways, press and Tour officials wanted to wrangle me for an interview on my “meltdown” and “tanking the match.” But we pushed past the crowd out to the rear parking lot of the stadium. The black asphalt was so hot I could feel it beneath my shoes.
“Finn is right,” my agent said. “You’re handing him wins. Money. Points. A better ranking. And for what?”
“I play how I want to play. Points, rank, and money don’t mean shit.”
“The cash doesn’t? You probably had more fines this year than prize money. You want to take care of your mother, don’t you?”
I whirled on him, the afternoon sun blaring down on us. “Mum is taken care of. Always. But if you’re worried about your own paycheck…?”
Jason glowered. He wasn’t a typical cut-throat agent but a good guy. It was probably why I kept him around.
He reminded me of my dad.
