"Love all!" The umpire bellowed over his microphone in unconvincing French. I saw how he sat in his high chair, now and then correcting his bad posture, scratching his knee, rolling his eyes at the hollering crowd at every point, then speaking bad French, telling them to be quiet.
I spent most of the first set staring at the umpire, taking my mind off of the players in front of me, groaning as they strike the ball again and again.
"Hannah," My mom eventually broke my stare as I watched the ref secretly take a bite of his BLT for the fourth time that deuce. I looked at her. My eyes doubled back on me and I winced at the pain of the Parisian sun in my eyes.
She looked down at me, smiling. It was always her dream to come to Paris, let alone watch the tennis courtside with her daughter, and it had finally happened. I smiled back.
"Make sure you keep an eye on this Rodriguez backhand," she whispered to me. I could hear the smile in her words. She loved this sport, yet Roland Garros was the competition she always wanted to watch live. With me.
"Coach Charles said it was the best in the game, that he could teach you it," my smile faded, again with the coach Charles. When my old academy got shut down a couple of years back, she got a tip-off that some retired pro had moved to our neighbourhood. Now all he talks about is how I haven't improved since he first started coaching me six years ago. Since I was 11.
Coach Charles (or should I rather say Coach Charles Muller) was an undeniably good coach, though. He got me into form for all the tournaments I played and I got ranked thanks to his lessons of intense pain and suffering. Mom was ecstatic when the results came out, saying she'll take me here as a treat.
I look up at mom again. She's smiling. I grin. Yeah, let's be better, Hannah.
"Four Love," the umpire shouts, his French somehow sounding better when his mouth is stuffed with sandwich.
Rodriguez began the point serving, his serve was one of the best in the game. I watched in awe as he seamlessly slid up and down the court. His backhand was a thing of beauty. Learning that type of shot could mean Charles never shouting 'alles, alles!' or swearing at me in French ever again.
"Sweetie, I'm going off to the bathroom for a bit. Stay here, ok?" Mom spoke as she patted me softly on the shoulder, snapping me out of it again. I nodded.
"Thirty- fifteen," the ref speaks in his awful accent.
Rodriguez faces the ball-kids, asking for two balls, smiling as they shake and fumble to give them to him. He bounces the luminous scrap a bit before tossing it up into the sky, bending at the knees; 'Use your knees, Hannah darling' Charles echoes through my mind.
Rodriguez strikes the ball, the pop coming out of his racket a loud noise which echoes across the stadium. His opponent stands no chance, miss-hitting the ball into the sky. "Ace!"
I applaud, as does the rest of the stadium. However, I catch Rodriguez's gaze. His eyes are wide open. I look up and see what he's staring at.
Coming at increasing speed is none other than that very ball, ready to strike me on my noggin. Then suddenly, that blinding Parisian sun almost eclipses, the red in my now shut eyelids turns darker and another applause bellows across the stadium.
"Next time, I'll bring a glove for you," a low voice speaks. I can hear the vibration of his vocal box. He is so close.
Are you kidding??!!!????
Did some guy really just save me and say that??? And the whole stadium can see me right now?
He moves away, however reluctantly, as I cling to his sweater.
"They've stopped looking," he whispers to me. Unconvinced, I look up and notice Rodriguez is once again talking to the ball-kid behind him.
"Phew," I exhale, keeping my fingers pinched on the guy's sweater.
Wait-
I let go quickly, and he sighs deeply. Rude.
He's still on my side of the box, his body weight resting on his arm closest to me, the ball still in the other.
"Thanks, by the way," I awkwardly let out after a while. He's still where he was 2 minutes ago; hand almost in my seat. I haven't moved, and he still smells like vanilla.
"Sebastian," he blurts out. I chuckle.
"Sorry?"
"It's my name. Sebastian Dalfors." He grins at me. Vanilla, curly black hair, tanned skin, freckles, green eyes, Sebastian.
"Hannah Batista,"
YOU ARE READING
When Love Wins
Romance"Should've brought you some cricket gloves," Where she only plays this godforsaken sport for him, always aimlessly trying to buy his time. And he has been obsessed with her for just as long as she has.
