Prince of Tennis: A tennis legend that started from signing in

Chapter 698: Playing with the palm of one's hand, despair and unwillingness become the main the

"What?!!!"

A violent gust of air hit Alan Hopkins' face, and his pupils shrank into needles.

Just at that moment, he was highly focused throughout the whole process, even predicting several possible landing points in advance and adjusting his position.

But even so, he still couldn't see clearly how the ball passed him and scored.

"Oh my God! Is this a miracle?"

“I never thought that one day I would be so lucky to perform such a shot.”

The next moment, Peter Lambiel's voice slowly came over, filled with a tone of surprise.

However, the look beneath the glasses did not express the same surprise as the words expressed. Instead, it revealed an imperceptible hint of mockery, like an actor on stage performing emotions that did not belong to him. Every detail was just right, but it always lacked the authenticity.

In the audience seats on the sidelines, many people have stood up and are talking about it.

Some people waved their arms excitedly, while others frowned and talked in low voices, trying to analyze the trajectory and power source of the ball.

"call……"

Alan Hopkins' breathing was heavy, as if an invisible force was pressing down on his chest.

He stood near the baseline of the court with his hands slightly open, as if feeling every flow in the air.

His knuckles were white, and the edges of his nails were worn down to the point where their outlines were barely discernible from gripping the racket for so long.

Sweat slid down his forehead, dripped down his cheeks onto the red clay court, and was instantly absorbed by the dry soil.

At this moment, he stared intently at Henry Nobel III across from him. His eyes, once sharp as a knife, were now bloodshot, revealing a subtle hint of anxiety and uneasiness.

The opponent was leaning in front of the net, supporting the racket with his left hand and his right hand casually resting on his waist. His whole posture seemed relaxed, but in fact he was like a cheetah ready to pounce at any time.

Although he still didn't understand what the other party had done, the feeling of being completely suppressed was like a thin needle slowly piercing his heart, and every beat was accompanied by a dull pain.

Alan Hopkins's eyes swept over Peter Lambiel who was standing behind Henry Nobel III. The second singles player from the Swiss team was standing outside the serving area, playing with a tennis ball in his hand with a faint smile on his lips.

A thought came to Alan Hopkins' mind -

"Psychic power?"

"Or... have they seen through my weakness?"

His brows were furrowed like the Chinese character "川", and the veins on his forehead were throbbing slightly, like some kind of silent warning.

The sun shone through the clouds, enveloping him in a warm yellow halo, but that light did not seem to illuminate the haze in his heart.

Although this thought arose, he suppressed it in an instant.

Not for any reason, just because he is called the "Tennis Doctor".

How could someone who can understand his opponent's psychology and predict every move be easily seen through by others?

not to mention--

He is the vice-captain of the Free State U-17 national team and shoulders the trust and honor of the entire team.

He never allowed himself to make mistakes on the court, especially in such a crucial semi-final. He didn't think he would make any mistakes in judgment.

Therefore, he began to doubt everything except himself.

At this moment and here, he was completely trapped in a cyclical abyss of his own creation.

Every point lost was like a cage made of bricks and stones, and he was locking himself into this maze with no exit in sight.

The wind blew gently, carrying a hint of dust and sweat, and sporadic discussions gradually rose from the audience seats around the stadium.

While the Liberty supporters were whispering, trying to figure out the reason for Alan Hopkins's dip in form, the Swiss fans were already cheering loudly, rooting for their player.

Seeing their opponent's appearance, Henry Nobel III and Peter Lambiel both grinned.

The two exchanged glances, a tacit understanding flashing in their eyes. There was no contempt in their smiles, only the composure of a pure winner.

They seemed to feel that there was no need to continue to toy with such a stupid guy - after all, the balance of victory and defeat had already tilted.

However, even this open and honest smile looked like the blind arrogance of a weak person in the eyes of Alan Hopkins.

He pursed his lips, his eyes cold as ice, as if he had already engraved that smile deep into his memory, waiting to be settled one by one after the game.

"What are you laughing at?" Alan Hopkins spoke, his voice low and hoarse, as if squeezed out from the depths of his throat.

He stared at the two people opposite him with an extremely deep gaze, and then said in a cold voice: "Is victory certain?"

Henry Nobel III shrugged, still wearing that irritating smile: "We are laughing at the favor of the goddess of luck."

"Why didn't you return the ball?" Pete Laimbeer took over the conversation, his tone a bit teasing. "Are you taking pity on us?"

After he finished speaking, he showed a bitter expression again, as if he really felt sorry for Alan Hopkins' performance.

But in fact, every move and every word of his seemed like a carefully designed trap, just to further collapse the opponent's psychological defenses.

He walked slowly and reluctantly towards the serving area, the racket in his hand tapping the ground lightly, making a crisp rhythmic sound.

The clay court raised fine dust under his feet, and the sunlight shone through the glass dome on top of the venue, stretching his shadow very long.

With a slight sound, he threw the ball into the air, flicked his wrist, and the ball drew an arc in an almost lazy posture and flew to the backhand side of Alan Hopkins.

however--

It's still the same ball as before.

The tennis ball flashed past, landed at the baseline, and bounced lightly out of bounds.

40-30!

The Swiss U-17 team scored again.

The referee's voice echoed in the empty stadium, like a hammer hitting Alan Hopkins' heart.

He looked down at the tennis ball that rolled to his feet, as if it was not an ordinary rubber ball, but the last hope that carried all his pride and beliefs.

The air in the stadium was filled with tension and depression. The shouts and applause of the audience could be heard in the distance, but all of this seemed to be isolated from Alan Hopkins' world.

The only thing left in his world was this piece of red soil and the two opponents across from him with victorious smiles on their faces.

The wind blew, taking away the last bit of sanity.