Break Point: BookShots Read Online Free PDF

a screen showing the build-up to Wimbledon. A young reporter was linking clips of recent matches with gossip and speculation.
    Keller said, ‘How’s your drink?’
    They had ordered cocktails. It was a cocktails kind of place. Except that Keller had a tournament to win and Foster had a long drive home, so both of them had chosen alcohol-free options and neither felt entirely satisfied with the result.
    ‘Not too shabby,’ Foster said. ‘By the way, you’re on TV.’
    And there she was on the screen, going through her paces on the training court earlier that day. Then inevitably the screen came back to the reporter, who started gesturing to the camera, before he was replaced by shots of Keller at the French Open, throwing herself to the floor and running from the court in tears. Then back to the reporter at Wimbledon, who looked partly concerned and partly amused by Keller’s behaviour. Then he was gone again, replaced by the pictures of Keller on the practice court. Across the court Foster could see himself, leaning back in the green chair and watching Keller serve.
    Suddenly he leaned forward, because he noticed someone else in the shot. On the walkway between the courts a man in a baseball cap was filming on his phone. That wouldn’t be unusual, but the strange thing was that he wasn’t filming Keller on the court; he was filming Foster as he sat on his own at the side. In the bar, Foster pulled out his phone and took a photo of the TV screen.
    A few seconds later the scene from the practice courts was gone and the programme ended altogether, replaced by coverage of another disastrous one-day test match for England’s cricketers. Keller decided to head up to her room.
    ‘I’ve got a match tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got a feeling Maria’s going to push me hard in the warm-up.’
    He went up with her, just to check the place out.
    ‘Not bad,’ Foster said as they walked through the solid wooden door. ‘Not bad at all.’
    The room was luxurious, occupying a corner of the building and framing the city behind floor-to-ceiling windows. There was a grand writing desk and a couple of sofas in the outer room, with a low-slung coffee table between them. The bedroom had built-in cupboards, deep, plush carpet and a stylish ottoman. The marble bathroom featured a walk-in shower next to the glass outer wall, so that residents could suffer vertigo while they washed.
    ‘You going to be alright?’ Foster asked.
    ‘I’ve got a Netflix subscription and a box set of
Better Call Saul
to work through,’ she smiled.
    ‘Perfect night in,’ Foster said.
    He was halfway into the corridor when he turned and said, ‘When you close this door, keep it shut.’
    ‘I promise,’ she said, and held up her wrist to show that she was still wearing the alarm watch. Then she waved her hand and he smiled, turned and left. He checked the door behind him and headed back to the bar. He ordered a beer and pulled out his phone to look at the photo of the guy in the baseball cap. He soaked him in, looking for clues. The shape of him. The way he stood. The way he held the phone. Because this was the start of it. The hunter was becoming the hunted.

CHAPTER 8
    KELLER’S FIRST-ROUND MATCH was against a Bulgarian qualifier, and she dismissed her in straight sets. She was supreme, smashing her opponent in less than an hour.
    Keller and Rosario met Foster in the players’ café twenty minutes later. Keller rolled her eyes as Rosario debriefed her as if Foster were invisible.
    ‘And you need to be on the court,’ Rosario said, building to the crescendo of her argument. ‘Not driving through the traffic to a hotel room.’
    ‘I played well today. What’s the problem?’
    Rosario threw her hands in the air.
    ‘You need to make the quarter finals just to pay the hotel bill.’
    Foster said, ‘That’s a pretty good motivation.’
    Rosario glared at him as if she didn’t have words to describe her anger. She turned her shoulder, to