She's back ~ L. Hamilton

50. | Netflix

The sun came and went. Disappearing and reappearing behind the cloud.

Today I'd wanted a change of scenery for practice. So me and Marco had packed up our equipment and headed down to the local tennis club.

It's the main one, where all the other tennis players are practicing ahead of Roland Garros. I had spotted Nicki volleying back and forth on another court when I walked in.

As nice as the change of surroundings was nice, it had massively backfired. People had began to gather at the fences that surrounded our court.

It was horrible, all of them looking through the fence at me, I felt like I was in a zoo.

I glance around me, looking at the fence. I hate this. I hate this so much.

It's one thing for a huge crowd of people to be watching me in an arena at a tournament. But this is another thing entirely, I know that everyone standing at the fence is here for me, staring at me. Watching me and analysing every mistake or slip up I make.

I don't doubt for a minute that when I log online later photos of me right now will be sprawled across various tabloid.

Everyone will be shocked that I'm actually practicing, and not lying down and accepting defeat.

But I also know I don't want to leave. Because then the headlines will read 'Ricciardo runs away from crowd, is the pressure too much?' And I think that's even worse.

I let my mind wander to what another person would do in this situation.

A normal celebrity would probably wave to the crowd, smile brightly and thank them for being here, before going over to the fence and entertaining them, signing their T-shirts and tennis balls, take photos with them.

But that wasn't me. It's never been me.

I dislike people. I try to keep my human contact with strangers to a minimum.

And I also think I've been doing that for so long, that even if I wanted to go over to the fence and sign their tennis balls and take photos with them, i wouldn't have the foggiest clue how to.

I'd just make a fool of myself. I'd say the wrong thing and then the tabloids would complain about how I waved my hand wrong or some shit.

"Do you think they will go?" I said to my uncle, lowering my voice

"Nope" he replied, popping the P "I think the longer we stay here the more people that will arrive"

"Why don't we leave then? We have a court back at our rental"

"Not happening, you know as well as I do that in leaving it just adds fuels to the fire. Come on, only 20 minutes left and then we're done for the day"

"Alright" I nodded.

I flipped my racket in my hand.

The white biker shorts I was wearing were long stained from the orange clay, and the shirt I was wearing wasn't much better.

I hate clay.

I hate it so much.

It feels disgusting on my skin, it's even worse when it's actually hot and the clay starts to stick to the sweat.

It's also frankly dangerous. The ground is so slippery, you have to learn a whole new way of playing to play on clay. Because you can't just stop when you run for a ball, and if you try you just keep sliding, so you have to be able to adapt to the conditions and be able to fire the ball back while skidding across the clay.