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probably run a mile, and her balls were firing a hell of a lot slower.
    I never spoke a word to her; I let my shots do all the talking. “You’re out of shape!” they screamed every time she raced for the ball but didn’t quite make it. “Power is no substitute for placement!” they laughed, as she exhausted herself with her slams.
    “Henry Lloyd owns this tournament!” they crowed, finally, when it was all over. No mind games. No distracting comments. Just tennis, pure and simple. It felt great.
    When I reach her, hand extended, I notice she’s got a little fan club walking across the court toward us.
    It’s the Reese’s gang. The ones who think “the bitch” is just “okay.”
    They watch me, slyly, as we shake. One whispers into the other’s ear, stifles a giggle. Something inside me turns, and the great, floaty feeling I just had evaporates into something more familiar.
    “Nice game,” I say, grasping her hand.
    “You, too,” she says. “Congratulations.” That’s usually it, so she tries to pull away from me. But I don’t let go.
    “You hit that ball
so
hard!” I say, smiling. “Almost like a man.”
    “Thanks,” she says. She actually tugs at this point, but I hold her in a death grip.
    “Do you lift?” I ask her. She looks puzzled.
    “You know, weight-room stuff. Because it shows. You look like you could bench-press … what?… a hundred fifty?” I flash her my most brilliant smile and release her hand. I don’t wait for a reply. Her mouth has opened into a perfect little O. I glance behind her and give a short, perky wave to the gaggle.
    “See you around, girls,” I say, before turning on my heel and striding to the umpire’s chair for the obligatory handshake.Eva and my parents are off to one side of the court. A few paces from them, I see Jerry Goss.
    When our eyes meet, he smiles calmly, and nods. Once.
    *   *   *
    He tracks us down at the hospitality tent, where we’ve gone to find cool drinks. I’ve located an icy lemonade for myself and am considering a very chewy-looking chocolate-chip cookie, when I feel a hand on my elbow.
    “Henry, do you think we could talk?” Jerry asks. I glance at Mom, who nods assent; Dad has taken a trip to the Porta Potties. Jerry Goss and I find a quiet table and chairs outside the tent. We sit, and he gets right down to it.
    “I enjoyed watching you play today,” he begins. “You have a good game.”
    “Thank you,” I reply. But it’s not lost on me that he says “good.” Not “great.” It occurs to me he’s seen a lot of players win state tournaments.
    “So let me ask you,” he continues. “What are your goals?”
    “My goals?” I repeat.
    “For your tennis,” he says. “What sort of player do you imagine becoming?”
    “The best I can be,” I say automatically. What does he expect I’d say?
    “And that means … what?” he asks.
    “Well”—I smile at him—“how about winning the Jersey 16-and-Under?” He shrugs.
    “Seriously,” he says. Then waits. Which surprises me.
    “You don’t think this is serious?” I reply, my voice rising a bit. “Those girls crying into their lemonade over there?” I gesture toward the hospitality tent. “They thought I was serious.”
    “If you think beating the stuffing out of a bunch of prep-strokers is serious tennis, then I’ve been misinformed,” he deadpans back at me. His eyes glitter like hard, blue marbles.
    “Let me fill you in on a little secret, Henry. Your opponents today? They suck. They’re high school athletes whose parents have paid for a lot of expensive lessons. They’ll collect a few plastic trophies, fill scrapbooks with clippings. One might even play in college. Which is fine. But I don’t think that’s what Henriette Lloyd has in mind for herself. Or am I wrong?”
    The player in me says not to respond right away. Not to reveal how insulting it is that this dude thinks the girls I beat are a bunch of losers.
    I take a long pull on my