The fifth set begins in a state of suspended animation. My legs are no longer parts of my body; they are heavy, wooden pillars that I have to command to move with every ounce of my brainpower.
1–1.
I serve. The ball feels like a lead weight. I toss it, and for a split second, the lights of Centre Court flicker in my blurred vision. I hit the serve—110 mph. Safe. Weak.
Luke is on it instantly. He rips a return that catches the line, but I've already anticipated it. I slide—actually slide on the grass, a move that should tear my ligaments—and flick a backhand pass.
He volleys it back. I lob. He smashes. I dig it out.
The rally goes to thirty shots. Thirty-five. Forty.
My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Boom. Boom. Boom. The sound of the ball is the only thing keeping me conscious. I hit a short slice, and Luke, gasping for air, trips over his own feet. He falls. The ball bounces twice.
2–1, Roki.
I don't celebrate. I don't even look at him. I walk to the changeover chair and collapse into it. My father is leaning over the railing, his face inches from the security glass. He isn't shouting "Good job" anymore. He's just whispering one word, over and over, like a mantra:
"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."
Luke Caine is supposed to be tired. He's supposed to be the "Golden Boy" who folds when the lights get too hot. But as he stands up for the fourth game, I see something shift in his eyes.
He isn't looking at his box for instructions. He isn't checking his strings. He's looking at the court with a strange, haunting smile.
2–2.
He holds his serve in four straight aces. He's found a rhythm that defies physics. It's as if the pressure of the fourth-set tiebreak broke something in him and released a version of Luke Caine that doesn't care about "The Prince" or "The Legacy."
He's playing for the pure, terrifying joy of the struggle.
"You're fast, Roki," he says as we cross paths. His voice is a gravelly whisper. "But I've been running my whole life, too. Just in a different direction."
I realize then: I'm not the only one with a ghost. He's been running from the expectation of perfection. I've been running from the reality of poverty.
3–3.
The tension in the stadium is so thick it feels like it might spontaneously combust. Every time I bounce the ball, the silence is so absolute I can hear the air conditioning hum.
I'm serving at 30–40. Break point. If Luke breaks me here, he serves for the match at 5–3.
I toss the ball. My shoulder screams. I hit the serve wide, and Luke lunges, hitting a miraculous return that lands on the very back of the baseline. I sprint back, my sneakers screaming on the dirt patches near the back wall. I hit a defensive squash shot, just trying to keep it alive.
Luke is at the net. He has the whole court. He could hit it anywhere.
He looks at me—really looks at me—and tries to drop-volley it short.
I dive. I don't think. I just launch my body through the air like a goalkeeper. My racquet connects with the ball an inch from the grass. It flies over the net, clipping the tape, and dies on his side.
The crowd erupts into a sound that is more like a roar of pain than a cheer.
Deuce.
I look at my hands. They are covered in grass stains and blood from the dive. I look at my father. He's holding his chest, his eyes wide.
For the first time, I realize the "deadline" isn't for him. It's for me. If I don't win this, I'll never know who I am without the struggle. I'll just be the boy who almost made it.
"Not today," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Not today."
Chapter 16: The Hour of the Wolf
4–4.
The match has reached a level of quality that seems impossible for two humans who have been running for nearly six hours.
Luke is hitting winners from his knees. I'm hitting passing shots while running backward. We are locked in a "Power of Wills" that has transcended the sport.
At 40–40 in the ninth game, we have the longest rally of the match. Fifty-two shots.
The ball crosses the net like a golden thread, weaving a pattern of exhaustion and defiance. We are both sobbing for breath, our grunts turning into screams with every strike.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Luke hits a cross-court forehand that pulls me off the court. I sprint, my vision going black at the edges. I swing blindly.
The ball hits the frame of my racquet. It lobs high into the air—a moonball.
Luke waits for it. He settles under it. This is the match. This is the moment. He swings for the smash... and he misses the "sweet spot." The ball flies long.
5–4, Roki.
I'm one game away. The "deadline" is screaming in my ears. I can see the finish line. I can see the end of the debt, the end of the fear, the end of the ticking clock.
But Luke Caine is standing at the baseline, and he's laughing.
"Is that all you've got, Roki?" he shouts, his voice echoing under the roof. "Is that all the 'Street Fighter' has left?"
I feel a surge of cold fury. He wants a war? I'll give him a war.
"I'm just getting started, Luke!" I roar back.
The umpire calls for new balls. The final act is about to begin.