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

Chapter Twenty-One: Part I

A/N: Thank you for all your support. I tried to do the full chapter, but they do better connect by two separate parts. Please enjoy and let me know what you think. 

"You'll play that girl," Tommy said. Neither of them were looking around, eyes focused on the stats board. Which one? She had asked without breaking eye contact with the chalked numbers. "Blue jumper vest, blonde hair...German." Amelia looked over her shoulder. Just across the court was a girl; about seventeen, tall and muscular...pretty. She played around with skirts that just met the length requirement. "She's below you."

Amelia looked up at him, brow cocked. "Then why am I playing her?" A bit miffed knowing it was most likely because there were no girls in her division ranking. No one could fool her. Amelia rolled her eyes and grabbed her racket to warm up, but Tommy stopped her, fingers pressing into her arm where the other bruises were still healing. Like a rotting apple; bruised everywhere. Her face was still healing from the French boy.

Tommy leaned down, whispering urgently in her ear. "Listen, you aren't here to make a statement. I don't even care if you win. There's someone I'm meeting with."

Amelia twisted her arm loose and asked, "in regards to?" A little smile tugged at the corner of his lips. In the stands was a gentleman in a black suit with a briefcase. He'd been scribbling in a leather bound book. Next to him was a younger man about two years older than Amelia. She studied him for a second before stating, "but I have a sponsor!"

Tommy nodded to the man. "I know, but he's not a sponsor. Think bigger, Amelia-"

"The French Open?" she said, a glint of desire in her eyes. It was her goal. Something of an end goal, really. She never considered beyond it. It was always the French Open.

"The Olympics-"

"The Olympics!? Mr. Shelby! No...the Olympics!? Next year? I can't possibly. They've already-"

"1928, Amsterdam," Tommy said, placing a hand on her back, pushing her towards the line up. "He wants to meet with you. Maybe Mr. Shelby will get you to one of those fancy training camps, eh? Wouldn't that be something?" Her eyes brightened at the idea; Amelia Clarke, standing on the middle pedestal holding a gold medal. But the smile quickly faded. He always did this. Everytime Tommy Shelby did something awful, he'd do something kind. Whether it be chocolates, jewelry, or whatever this was.

She moved away slightly. "That's...nice. Sure. Thank you, Mr. Shelby."

"Always," he said, reaching for her again only to land a kind pat to her head. "Just keep being a good girl, and you will get good girl rewards." Tommy left her alone, making his way towards the bleachers. He took a large inhale of smoke and kept it there before letting out a long stream of smoke. "Mr. White," he greeted. The short wiry looking man with a thin mustache and thinning comb over stood, flattening his three piece suit. They shook hands and Tommy sat next to him. "We talked on the phone."

"Your girl is over there?" he questioned, writing down her name. He was good, Tommy thought watching as he scribbled an almost accurate number for her height and weight. "You know, Mr. Shelby, girls can raise the length of their skirts now. I'm surprised she hasn't tripped over the length yet."

"I will keep that in mind," Tommy said before getting straight to the point. "There is a match in Paris, I'd like to get her there-"

"Impossible," Mr. White replied. "It's an international game. Slots have been filled for a year.-"

Tommy snorted, digging in his pocket for something Mr. White couldn't see until there was a shine reflecting off a silver clip. No business man can mistake what was folded; money. In fact, a lot of money. "If there is anything I have learned in my line of work, Mr. White," he started, a cigarette muffling his words. It hung barely by his lips. Mr. White put up his hand in protest, but Tommy ignored it. "It'd be good for her, eh? To get her on the radar for the Olympics-"

"Mr. Shelby," he said, regrettably. "I couldn't take your money. It wouldn't be fair to the dozens on the waiting list." Tommy counted ten pounds, twenty pounds, fifty pounds, one hundred, five, one thousand...licking his fingers between the bills. The man watched him count with a defeated look on his face. Without looking at him, Tommy handed him the money bound by a single silver clip.

"Two thousand," he said. The man sighed, tucking it away in his inner coat pocket.

"You won't be able to pay her way into the Olympics," Mr. White warned, clearing his voice and straightening his back. "It's something more than money." He turned to Tommy. "The Olympics are the biggest sporting event worldwide. It's the holy grail for every athlete ... .To play is to bring honor to one's country. Besides," he paused, pulling out a cigar from a golden case. It was the same Cuban's as Colm gave Tommy. "Have you decided who she'll play for? An American girl raised by Irish born parents now training in England."

"Britain,' Tommy said, emotionless. "She'll play for Britain."

Mr. White laughed lightly, and shook his head. "I could tell that you liked a good controversy. The IRA will be thrilled...one of their own martyr's sister playing for the fuckin' crown." Tommy hadn't considered that. Michael Clarke, the IRA. He hummed and looked over at Amelia, a purely Irish blooded girl. But she was so disconnected from her roots that she'd just as well play for Japan.

"She has no affiliation," Tommy said, pulling out his flask to take a swig.

"The IRA won't see it that way," he explained. "Nor would the Brits or the Americans."

Tommy side-eyed him. "Well, lucky for me, the IRA and I already have a questionable relationship."

There was a pause before Mr. White started to gather his belongings. "She won. I will see you in Paris, Mr. Shelby." When he stood, he turned and looked down. "You do have the legal paperwork, don't you?" Tommy's raised brow told Mr. White no. "You'll need to go to an attorney's office and get legal paperwork stating your authorization to take Miss. Clarke abroad with you. Her parents will have to sign it."

It was just another thing Tommy had to do. He brought Amelia back to Birmingham, but he had to prepare for Amsterdam. That is where Colm had written from last; Staying in Amsterdam. The canal is beautiful. Streets are nice. We'll set up here for the next few weeks. Address stated below. CC. In the attorney's office, they handed him a staple bound packet. His eyes skimmed it, finger tracing the words. Mr. White was right. It was an authorization, but it wasn't a simple parental permission. It was legal guardianship. The Clarke's would be willingly signing a temporary forfeit of parental rights.