Forty, Love

Three games in and both teams were sweating bullets. The Magicians’ Association of Tennis, the MAT, wrote the rules, but frankly, college tournaments didn’t teach players professionalism. With all the chaotic volleys and explosive shots, it seemed as if anything went in amateur matches. Not so for the United States’ Mage Nationals. The USM Open was nothing like those matches back in school. Gerald Hayes learned the hard way.

He wished he knew before reaching the semifinals.

Since his university days, Gerald could hardly believe magic tennis still existed. Hundreds of thousands went down the drain to fix damaged courts, and to an extent, the specialized rackets for mages. There was a reason Fire had been banned across the board. At least the other three categories could be controlled—the worst earthquake didn’t compare to a wildfire.

Luckily, Gerry had never touched a single flame. He specialized in a subgroup of the officially marked Water element: Ice. Sure, it had its problems. Stray ice made the court impossible to play on—for obvious reasons. This wasn’t hockey. Although, Gerald often thought, the amount of injuries said otherwise. Which is why the USM Open was lukewarm at best. Unlike college, you couldn’t infuse elements into the ball. Penalties were ruthless. This time, the last doubles team had been disqualified. An Earth player had used the ground to trip the other team—during their second serve, no less. Should’ve let the point go, was Gerry’s reaction. It was obvious to him. Couldn’t hit the other players directly, but anyone could manipulate the court.

You could also hit the ball with magic.

How was it any different from ‘infusing’ the ball? Gerry wondered, for many years. His teammate, Trevor Thorne, also wondered this on occasion, though he would explain it himself. He reminded Gerry that rules were meant to be broken. Naturally, Gerry disagreed quite strongly—even so, nothing kept them from mocking each other’s beliefs. A straightedge, straight-A student and his B-minus partner in crime. They usually had a laugh about it, but it wasn’t so funny now.

Magic tennis matches were, on paper, meant to be quicker than regular tennis: three games, three sets, no advantages. It certainly was fast-paced. Game-set-match hit within an hour in a majority of cases, a pattern garnered from amateur tournaments. Outsiders assumed every match was the same, even for the USM Open. But anyone familiar with the sport knew how it really went. Contesting faults took the fun out of the game, yet many national tournaments had at least one argument per match. At present, Gerald and Trevor were stuck in limbo for the second set. 

“Really wish you were an Earth player right about now,” Gerry said, swilling water like he’d traversed a desert. He crumpled the bottle the same way he’d click pens when his stress levels skyrocketed.

Trevor Thorne stared blankly. “That’s what, the fifth or sixth time you said it?”

Gerry gripped tighter. “Who’s counting?”

“Me, dumbass.”

The thin plastic crackled.

“And would you stoppit? I’m getting hives, Gerry.”

“Sorry,” he replied, yet squeezed the empty bottle again.

Trevor wiped the sweat from his brow, tossing his towel onto the bench. He exhaled, a breeze whirling up from his heels. Some of the air caught his teammate’s attention.

“Hey, send me one of those, Trev—I’m melting over here!” Gerry whined.

Without a word, but with a wry smile, Trevor raised his hand, palm downward. His finger twitched ever-so-slightly. The gust would have turned Gerry’s hair into a birds’ nest, if it hadn’t been tied into a low bun. A few strands still came loose.

“Haaah…” Gerry sighed, patting his beard. Cold air was always refreshing. “Thanks, I needed that.”

Their coach gestured to them from afar—this break was over, but their opponents’ dispute wasn’t. The server, Adam Espinosa, had kept a lengthy ramble going with his coach and the chair umpire. He refused to accept the accusation that he’d went outside the lines again.

In the last set, a similar fault had awarded Gerry and Trevor a winning point. The other way around. Instead of a serve, Adam’s receiving hit threw the ball high over the net. It landed, as tennis balls do. Everyone knew it was an inch from the alley line. Adam did too. Not unlike his current conniption, he claimed it was good—an inch away inside the court. He challenged it then, and lost. Somehow, the guy didn’t learn to shut his mouth.  

Gerry calmed his nerves once he heard the next call.

“Double fault,” said the official, “point Hayes.”

A serenade Gerry could waltz to. It would be a bumpy road to three more points, but it was a start. He strolled past the baseline, halting at his place, and began performing a few warmup squats. Settling on his signature closed stance, he awaited the serve. His baby blue irises were dead-set on Espinosa. 

Trevor jogged over, nodding at Gerry. Adjusting his distance from the net, Trevor carefully watched the other opponent, Zacarías Silva. Trevor didn’t show his anxiety, but Gerry caught onto his quirk. He typically shifted his right foot forward. In this moment, Trevor did exactly that, except he also kept tapping his visor with the racket. Gerry knew why.

Zac wasn’t a bad guy; on the court, he merely played with elegant cruelty. His friendly personality didn’t make him any less terrifying. Gerry panicked at the very idea of Zac’s deadly slice. If Silva had served the first game in the initial set, they would’ve lost both.

Good thing Adam’s serving, Gerry mused. He ogled the other side, planning his defending shot. The other guy had a powerful overhand, but he often feinted the direction of the ball. Like Trevor, Adam favored the Wind, and boy did he use it. His favorite spell seemed to be…

“Forty, fifteen,” the umpire shouted. “Game point!”

No time to think. Adam was readying his hand.

Gerry saw him twirl the racket. Zac seemed to move his head in response.

The ball soared.

THWACK!

It landed smack-dab beside Gerry’s foot—he felt the impact with his heel. His mind cursed with every word he could remember.

“Net!”

At the umpire’s judgement, everyone froze. Now Adam was cursing up a tornado, resorting to Spanish, yet hurling regular old English obscenities when he got the chance. The censors would have a field day with this.

Gerry made sure he was watching this time. Adam didn’t linger on his next serve.

THWACK!

It bounced. Then a second echo of the taught strings against the ball. Zac stepped away from the net just in time, backhanding Gerry’s volley. Between them, their hits sounded faster and faster, while Adam sidestepped behind the service line. Zac pointed his racket to the sky. The hardcourt fissured. A jagged slab jutted from the ground, slamming the ball at an angle—a topspin!

But Trevor already kicked his body into the air.

The crowd roared and hollered. Trevor had smashed the volley into the ground, flawlessly hitting within the lines. His chest rose and fell as he walked. From the stands, his mother jumped up, arms open and waving wildly. Trevor shook his fist.

When Trevor turned to his teammate, they both grinned ear-to-ear.

“We’re winning this,” Trevor mouthed.

Gerry directed a look at the other team, his expression implying “don’t jinx it.”

“Forty, thirty,” came from the chair.

Adam threw the ball. As Gerry feared, the unthinkable happened. His opponent went for an underhand serve, the arc too high, and its distance too vague. It touched the center line. Gerry dropped to his shoulder, rolling as he swung the racket. Not even close. The ball bounced a second time—game over.

“Ace! Game, Espinosa!”

All confidence drained from Gerry’s face, along with the tan. He didn’t anticipate a service ace from Adam. It happened too quickly; the shock made him lose focus, nearly throwing him off balance. He stumbled forward, counterweighing the wobble.

“Hayes, c’mere!” his coach exclaimed.

Gerry reluctantly trudged to the side. Trevor followed, patting him on the back.

An organized discussion ensued among them, though Gerry let his teammate take the reins. Trevor was arguing something about their plays. Maybe it was a plan, or the coach was reprimanding him. Gerry didn’t care. The heat was bearing down on him, and the tension didn’t help; he wasn’t listening.

When he heard “Wind shot,” his head jerked.

“What?” Gerry sputtered.

The coach motioned an “okay” with his hand, and went into the stand again. Trevor returned the gesture. A smirk left a dimple on his cheek.

“We got the go-ahead to try something,” Trevor said, barely moving his lips. “I’m marking it.”

To mark the ball was a colloquialism for infusing it—using magic to change its direction. Wind players were notorious for getting away with it; if they were skilled like Trevor, the shot left no evidence. Gerry looked from his friend, to the coach, and then back. “No, Trev. If any of the line umpires see it, they’ll—”

“You’re throwing the match?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m saying don’t play dirty.”

A callous, determined aura glossed over Trevor’s eyes. “The chances they’ll catch it is next to none. I need one of your good serves, so I can follow-up.”

“Trev, I’m not winning like this.”

“Coach counted. We have to score over one—we’ll be tied if they win a perfect game,” Trevor placed his hand on Gerry’s shoulder. “Right now, if we don’t give it all we’ve got, they can overtake us.”

Gerry didn’t speak.

“You want to get into the finals, right?”

Pulling his headband off, Gerry let his arms fall to his side. A racket in one hand, and his sweat in the other. It didn’t matter if Trevor would be the offender; letting him cheat made Gerry an accomplice. This wasn’t what the Gerry from the past wanted. He wished for fair matches. He earned those wins. His family—mother, father, and sister—they cheered Gerry on no matter how many games he lost.

“Yeah. Fine, let’s go,” his voice told Trevor. It was the mind and heart that kept a secret.

Two can play weatherman.

Gerry slapped his frigid hands against his face.

The Ice player tossed the ball into the sky, pointing ahead—a glowing circle opened above him. Ice burst forth. Across the net, Adam braced his knees and swung, catapulting the speeding blur. Gerry wound up his arm. Shards bloomed from the racket, its sweet spot colliding with the oncoming shot. The ball whizzed low, hitting between the baseline and the center. Gerry’s racket came loose, frame hitting the ground, skidding to a halt.

Zac tried to return it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that was a double bounce. Double bounce, there,” an announcer from the radio stand rambled.

His cohost repeated a similar phrase, chuckling. She added, “Let’s get the instant replay! Hoo, was that a shot, or what? And poor Gerry’s lost his racket!”

Plain as an empty page, it was a point for Hayes and Thorne.

“Fifteen.”

And in the next volley, Gerry feigned a slip. Zac’s slice went through.

“Fifteen, all.”

Trevor couldn’t prepare the shot—his own gale only rustled his hair.

“Fifteen, thirty.”

Gerry smiled coyly at his teammate, who was glaring intensely, cheeks burning red.

“Fifteen, forty. Break point.”

Adam yelled triumphantly. He punched Zac playfully, and began drilling his fist into his teammate’s arm. Zac heaved in breath.  Staring blankly, he tapped Adam with the back of his hand, distracting him. The look on Adam’s face was priceless. Gerry watched him trip over a stone, and another, and one more before the guy figured it out: Zac sprouted rocks from the court. Frowning a bit, Adam stopped moving. He broke into a laugh. The pair soon went off, rallying jokes as they went to their bench.

Things weren’t as jovial on the side of Hayes and Thorne.

“What were you doing?” Trevor muttered, closing in on Gerry’s face.

Gerry recoiled. His childish grin was impossible to mask. “Sorry, it’s the sun.”

“You’re really being like this,” his teammate backed off. “All right. I’m not missing. I swear if you pull a fault, I’m done, Gerald.”

“I won’t.”

“You better not.”

If his piercing, fern-colored eyes could ignite, Trevor was ready to combust, marching to the court as he clutched his racket by the throat. Gerry would have apologized, but he figured it would’ve been useless. He couldn’t pacify the beast he encouraged.   

Besides, Gerry thought, searching for a new tennis ball. He doesn’t need to act pissy—it’s the second set.

Serves without magic were normally difficult for Gerry. It was far too tempting to be flashy, and with all the cameras around, he was compelled to play the crowd. They were quiet. Gerry noticed a few had leaned forward in their seats. This wasn’t going to end without a bang, not if he carried the ball.

Let’s try something completely different.

 Into the air it went, tugged by gravity.

THWACK!

No magic, all force, and with the best overhand Gerry could pull off.

 Adam’s backhand instigated the volley, spinning the ball laterally. It was in, beyond the center. Gerry extended his reach, chipping the frame of his racket, but it was worth the close hit. Back and forth. Forth and back. Zac and Trevor only returned a single volley each. Frantically matching the path of the ball, Trevor’s dance failed to lend him an opening. Only Gerry could intercept. Once the shot had bounced too far, Trevor’s struggle was in vain.

“Break!”

The ball spun awkwardly, whipping backward after its second bound. Although its jumps should’ve become weaker, the third hop sent it spiraling the opposite way. A fourth switched the direction once more—by the fifth, the ball finally rolled. It tapped against a line umpire’s shoe.

People whispering, shaking their heads, crowing as the instant replay focused on the ball.

“What’s this?” the female announcer started. “Looks like they’re calling down the chair again. He’s saying Espinosa’s shot didn’t land naturally.”

The host sounded just as concerned, voice low and heavy. “Could be a marked ball. Bold move, but what was he thinking?”

Gerry walked to the net; Trevor was leaning over it, watching as Adam protested to the official. Zac’s arms were crossed, his hands folded and hidden, racket pressed into his side. The man gave Gerry and Trevor a shallow, pursed smile. If it could be considered a smile at all.

“Hey,” murmured Gerry, nudging his friend, “that could’ve been us.”

Nothing from Trevor. The crowd booed, drowning the open stadium; the radio broadcast was churning on about the result.

“Code violation, illegal shot,” was the umpire’s final decree. “Game, set, match, Thorne and Hayes—”

Gerry didn’t hear the rest, and he didn’t need to. More importantly, Trevor wore an uncanny expression, stoic in every manner, save for a glint in his eyes.

“Too bad,” his chin tilted up, before he angled his head to Gerry’s side. Trevor spoke, half his gaze shown clearly, a faint emotion in his tone. “Sometimes people get too reckless.”

A puff of laughter spouted from Trevor’s lips, and he coughed. His wide grin passed onto his befuddled teammate. Somehow, after the closest sets they’d ever played, Thorne and Hayes won another match. Not by a desperate comeback, but a rookie mistake. It didn’t make sense for Adam to mark the shot—he and Zac were on the defensive. They were winning the game.

Gerry’s mind clicked.

“Bastard, you didn’t!” the exclamation was barely audible. Gerry was shivering from both fear and glee.

Trevor stretched his arms, resting them behind his head.

“Who knows?” he replied, “In the end, it’s your call.”

Well, no sense in letting this go to waste. After all…

It was Adam’s fault.