She's back ~ L. Hamilton

54. | Until then

The next morning, Liam doesn't show up. So it's just my uncle and me hitting.

"He just decides not to come? Not to practice?" my uncle asks as we rally a bit to warm up.

I send a soft shot back to him. "How would I know?"

My uncle frowns. "So you got into a fight, then."

"He doesn't like it when he's told the truth. What do you want me to do?" I said, shrugging

My uncle shakes his head and smiles. "The both of you...

"Hey, I'm here, aren't I?"

My uncle nods.

"I will check up on him later."

"Do whatever you want."

We run drills. My uncle pulls in a hitter last minute. It's not a vigorous practice. But it keeps me warm. Regardless, I'm putting the ball where I want it. I find myself more and more unbothered by the crowd watching me. They begin growing louder, more engaged, shouting, "Delaney!" and "Nous t'aimons!" With each perfectly executed groundstroke, I try to let their presence lift me up instead of scare me.

I am good. On any surface you put me on, I am good. This is a level of performance that I can allow everyone to see.

But then I notice my uncles attention turn toward one of the other courts, as fans all over the complex begin to hum. I look over in their direction.

Nicki Li is signing autographs as she walks onto the court with a hitter.

My uncle turns and looks at me. When he catches my gaze, there is nothing we need to say. I continue to hit for another few minutes.

"Vámonos," my uncle says. "That's enough for today."

I nod and start to gather my things. My hitter packs up. The crowd groans, disappointed I'm leaving. I think of Liam for a moment—how he would react. He would call out something witty to them, walk to the crowd lining up at the fence and sign their tennis balls and make them laugh. There's a woman here with a toddler, and I know that Liam would give the kid a high five.

But I can't think of how to do it without seeming forced. I'd have no idea what to say to any of them. I'd just stand there awkwardly.

I wave briefly and head out. We have to pass Nicki's court in order to leave the facility. And as we do, I stop and watch her.

She is serving balls straight to her hitter, one screamer after the next. My uncle whistles low.

Her form is untraditional. Because she is left-handed, a lot of players aren't used to her angles. But she also serves the ball in a stance that breaks most of the rules and in a form that breaks even more. She grunts so loud you can hear her in Brussels. Yet as the ball goes soaring off her racket into the service court, it looks deadly And that's not just a turn of phrase.

It seriously looks as if it is heading toward the clay so fast, with so much heat on it, that if it got you in the chest it might kill you.

"Vamos," my uncle says.

I nod but I don't move. I can't seem to take my eyes off her. I've seen her play in person before, but standing right next to her, watching her from maybe fifteen feet away, is ... It's beautiful to see.

When she finishes with the balls she has next to her, her hitter begins collecting them all, and she looks up and spots us. She waves.

"Hi," she says as she walks toward my uncle and me. "I tried to catch your eye when you were practicing earlier, but I don't think you saw me."