The Balls in Our Courts [F.SxO.CxT.S]

Chapter One

Amelia Clarke was too oblivious for the world she'd been born into; spunky and aggressive with a sharp mouth and quick tongue. Born to Irish-bred, American raised parents who could barely control her temper and energy that seemed to never die down. The only thing to keep her focus was the court, where her eyes narrowed on a straight shoot target. Her father, Colm Clarke, warned his precious, tennis champion daughter that her host family was less than willing to host a rowdy, bad mannered girl from America. Simply, she laid a big kiss on his cheek and said, "oh, da', I am the most behaved." Hardly, Colm had thought, but her reassurance eased him.

At his coat tail, she followed him up a dingy alley that was home to a whole lot of dust, trash, tobacco butts. All she ever known was her Boston home, which was admittedly nothing better. Birmingham was just an old version of the new. "This way," her father rushed, "we're running late-"

"For?" Amelia humored, "your prance around fancy buildings in France!"

He paused, slowly turning to his bold daughter, "now, Amelia, they are very kind in hosting you. Old friends of mine, you hear? You will, for your mother and I, be on your absolute best behavior!"

Mockingly, she did the salute, "yes, sir! Amelia reporting to duties, Sergeant Clarke!" His pause was in effort to understand how this girl processed a single thought.

"Come," he said, defeated, grabbing her wrist lightly. They approached a rather large door, and with one aggressive knock, a woman opened it just a crack, her smile lingering for a moment before she closed the door to release the chain latch.

Thin, colorish, and boastful hair, the woman was nothing like other Irish women. "Colm!" She greeted, grabbing him by his broad shoulders, pulling him in. Before saying much else, they shared an array of laughs, hugs, and cheek kisses. With a hard smack against his arm, "you haven't aged a fucking day, you fat arse!"

Her father twirled the woman, "couldn't say the same about you, you old hag!" Nothing was like Irish banter. What he really meant was 'it is so great to see you and you look beautiful' and she gladly accepted the compliment with another hit. Amelia, curious about the interaction, wondered how close they once were and if her mother had known. "Ah, Polly, this is my one and only, Amelia."

Amelia smiled, "it is I." Politely, she outreached her hand. "I want to thank you. My father said you'll kindly be hosting me while I train or while they tour the sites of Europe." She meant her American immersed, Irish removed parents who emigrated just at 18. Her father sighed in relief, she held her quick tongue and jokes.

Her father humored, "you have to be careful with this one, I tell you, Polly. She be quick with her words. Little brain, really, but sharp tongue." There were a few dry laughs from the opposite corner of the room. Four men turned to one another, grinning amongst themselves. Colm fixed his glasses, "Mary Joseph, little Tommy Shelby! My boy, you're big now."

The man grinned, "I'd say so, Colm. Closer to 40 than 18!" He slid off the banister in which he was resting, and shook Colm's hand. "Nice to see you again, how was your journey?"