Opposites Attract by Nora Roberts Page B

game. At the base line Ty crouched, ready to spring for Michael’s serve. The air was heavy, the sky thick with rain-threatening clouds so that the light was dreary. Ty didn’t notice. He didn’t notice the stadium full of people, some dangling through the railing, some hanging from the scoreboard. He didn’t notice the shouts and whistles that were either for or against him.
    Tennis was a game of the individual. That was what had drawn him to it. There was no one to blame for a loss, no one to praise for a win but yourself. It was a game of motion and emotion, both of which he excelled in.
    He had looked forward to meeting Michael in the semis. The Australian played a hot, passionate game full of dramatic gestures, furious mutters and pizzazz. There were perhaps five competitors Ty fully respected, Michael being one of them. Wanting to win was only a step below wanting a challenge. A fight. He’d grown up scrapping. Now the racket was merely an extension of his arm. The match was a bout. The bout was one on one. It had never—would never—be only a game.
    The Australian was a set up, with his momentum still flowing. Ty’s only thought at the moment was to break his serve and even the match. Thus far he had spotted no weaknesses in his opponent’s game. Like a boxer, he watched for the opening.
    He heard the sound of the ball hitting the sweet spot of the racket before it rocketed toward him. It landed deep in the corner of the service court, beautifully placed. Ty’s mind and body moved as one as he sprang for the return. Defense, offense, strategy all had to be formulated in a fraction of a second. Strength had to be balanced with form. Both men sprinted over the court for the rally, faces glowing with concentration and sweat. The roar of the crowd rose to meet the distant thunder.
    Thus far, the ratio had been nearly ten to one in favor of ground strokes. Ty decided to alter the pace and go with power. Using a vicious left-to-right slice, he shook Michael’s balance. Ty blasted away at the attempted passing shot, barely shortening his backswing. Michael couldn’t reach the backhand volley, let alone return it. Love-fifteen.
    Shaking the damp hair back from his face, Ty returned to the base line. A woman in the crowd called out what could have been a congratulations or a proposition. Ty’s French wasn’t strong enough to decipher the phrase. Michael’s serve sent up a puff of smoke. Before his return was over the net, Ty was at midcourt and waiting. A testing ground stroke, a sharp return. A tricky topspin, a slice. Michael’s decision to try to lob over Ty was a mistake. The smoking smash careened off the court and into the grandstands. Love-thirty.
    Michael walked a complete circle, cursing himself before he took his position again. Casting off impatience, Ty waited. Crouched, swaying side to side, unblinking, he was ready. Both players exploited angles and depths with ground strokes. There was a long, patient rally as each watched for the chance to smash a winner. It might have been pure showmanship if it hadn’t been for the sounds of exertion coming from the two players.
    A UPI photographer had his motor drive humming as he recorded the game. He framed Ty, arms extended for balance, legs spread for the stretch, face fierce. It crossed his mind as he continued to snap that he wouldn’t want to face that American on any playing field.
    Gracefully, with an elegance belied by his expression, Ty executed a backhand with a touch of underspin. Michael’s return thudded against the net. Love-forty.
    Angry and shaken, Michael punched his first serve into the net. Having no choice at game point, he placed his next serve carefully. Ty went straight for the volley and took the net. The exchange was fast and furious, the players moving on instinct, the crowd screaming in a mixture of languages. Ty’s wrist was locked. The ball whipped from racket to racket at terrifying speed. There were bare seconds between