bookrebus Chapter 700: Tennis Doctor? Just a Tennis Clown
Chapter 700: Tennis Doctor? Just a Tennis Clown
Let’s not talk about this for now.
Just after Pete Laimbeer finished saying these words, the originally tense atmosphere on the court seemed to solidify a little.
The noise in the audience seemed to be suppressed by an invisible force, with only the slight whimper of the wind blowing across the fence in the distance.
The sun shines through the clouds onto the red clay court, and the mottled light and shadows illuminate the figures of the four teenagers, as if some omen of fate is quietly approaching.
Henry Nobel III stood behind the teeing area with a faint smile on his face.
He gently raised his right hand and stroked the handle of the tennis racket in his hand with his fingertips. It was an almost frivolous yet chilling action.
His team uniform shone slightly in the sunlight, and the faintly visible silver chain around his neck swayed gently with his movements, like a silent provocation.
He was like an elegant and dangerous cheetah, waiting for the best time to attack.
He slowly took a few steps back, his steps so light that they made almost no sound, as if the red soil beneath his feet was not a playing field but a soft carpet.
When he stopped at the spot where the tennis ball landed, his face with a playful smile met the gaze of Alan Hopkins opposite him.
Alan Hopkins stood near the baseline, sweat from his forehead slid down his cheeks and dripped onto the ground, leaving a brief trail of water.
There was a barely perceptible hesitation in his eyes, a subconscious uneasiness, like a crack that was gradually widening.
Henry Nobel III did not rush to hit the ball, but swung the racket slowly, his movements so calm that they seemed almost deliberate.
His arms were smooth and his muscles bulged slightly beneath his tracksuit, but they didn't look overly strained.
At this moment, time seemed to slow down, and an indescribable sense of oppression filled the air.
And just after this seemingly ordinary blow, Alan Hopkins on the opposite side suddenly felt dizzy, and the scene in front of him began to distort.
He blinked, trying to regain consciousness, but the strange feeling remained with him.
He saw that the smile of his opponent, Henry Nobel III, seemed to grow even wider, even a little weird.
The spectators, referees, and scoreboards around the court all blurred into one, as if the whole world was left with only him and the figure standing there holding the racket.
He wanted to move his feet, but found that his body seemed to be restrained by some invisible force, and even the simplest raising of his hands became extremely difficult.
At this moment, the tennis ball that had just bounced up was easily hit back by Henry Nobel III before he could react.
The speed of the ball was not very fast, but its trajectory was extremely strange, as if it had some kind of gravity, pulling the eyes to follow its direction involuntarily.
It flew over the net, brushed Alan Hopkins' shoulder, and finally hit the baseline and bounced out of bounds.
0-15!
The numbers on the scoreboard jumped, and the red lights looked particularly dazzling in the sunlight.
Hey!
A crisp snap of fingers pierced the air, as if coming from a distant place, and as if exploding right next to the ears.
Alan Hopkins woke up suddenly, his forehead covered in sweat and his chest heaving violently.
He staggered back a few steps, his eyes filled with disbelief and anger.
"What a joke! What a joke! Are you fucking kidding me?!"
His voice was hoarse and trembling, and his lips kept twitching, as if he was trying hard to suppress some emotion that was about to explode.
His hands were tightly gripping the racket, his knuckles turning white, but even so, he couldn't stop his body from shaking slightly.
However, this is far from over.
Pete Lambiel stood aside, with a faint smile on his face.
He did not take action directly, but watched everything happening with an almost playful look.
Every time the opponent served the ball, he would silently use his ability to pull Alan Hopkins into that trance again.
And after scoring, he would wake it up lightly, as if everything just now was just an illusion.
boom!
Another clean return, accompanied by the jumping numbers on the scoreboard.
0-30!
boom!
0-40!
boom!
2-0!
It wasn't long before Peter Lambiel and Henri Noble III, both of whom Alan Hopkins had always despised, made him lose his serve.
His face was covered in cold sweat, and his neatly combed hair was wet with sweat and stuck to his forehead.
My legs felt as heavy as if they were filled with lead, and every step I took felt like I was struggling in the mud.
Rocky Melody's condition was not optimistic either. His breathing was rapid, his face was pale, and his eyes showed deep fear.
Adrenaline was secreted crazily in the body, but this stimulation did not bring about an increase in strength. Instead, it made their nerves even more tense, as if they would break at any time.
In just half an hour, Alan Hopkins, who was once arrogant, aloof and contemptuous, was now like a fly trapped in a spider web. The more he struggled, the tighter he got entangled.
The vice-captain of the Free State U-17 team looked truly unsightly at the moment.
From initial astonishment to hopelessness, from hopelessness to numbness, and then from numbness to despair, he fell into the abyss step by step, without any power to resist.
As for Rocky Melody, the calmness and rationality he had built up completely collapsed at this moment.
He slumped to the ground, gasping for breath, his chest heaving violently as if all the oxygen in the air had been sucked out.
His eyes were vacant, his fingers scratched the ground unconsciously, and he muttered something to himself, but no one could hear clearly.
In this process, Henry Nobel III always took the initiative to attack, using his elegant yet deadly style of play to force his opponents into a desperate situation.
Then, Pete Lambiel would take over and use his understated hypnotic skills to completely tear the opponent's mind apart.
Even Pete Lambiel was too lazy to divert his weaknesses.
He exposed all his weaknesses nakedly in front of Alan Hopkins, as if mocking the other's inability to fight back.
He deliberately exposed his flaws, but when the opponent was about to seize the opportunity, he easily strangled it in the cradle.
Under such circumstances, the rhythm of the game was completely controlled by them.