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

Chapter Twenty-Four

A/N: Sorry, I been going on a whole revamp of this story and I just got a little burnt out. But I am back. I also created an update schedule for Autumn. Check my profile for it. :)

She was up, feeling a type of adrenaline rise from her stomach. Deep down, she knew she needed to drown out everything, but the court, ball, and him. The young boy, just a little older than she, across from her. From the seriousness plastered on his face, he was playing for something much bigger than a trophy. Amelia understood that. Fighting for honor, in a way. But unfortunately for him, she wore the same goal on her sleeve. They met at the tent, the line umpire holding a coin in his hands. Unlike most, she always chose tails.

"Good luck," she offered, but he used his ignorance of the English language to ignore her. Despite having had a full conversation with the Dutch gentleman just a bit earlier. She heard bits and pieces. "Viel Glück."

He looked at her, and smiled, "ah, you know Deutsche?"

"Ein kleines bisschen." Amelia put her thumb and index together. "Kleine, kleine."

He leaned in, and said, "fick dich-"

"Lovely."

"Ich scheiße auf dich!"

Amelia snorted. "Oh, Danke scöhon," she said before taking a step back and raising her middle finger. Sportsmanship. The umpire scolded her gently before flipping the coin, landing on heads. The German boy grinned, and said in German under his breath this match will be over by lunch. It was insulting to him that they undermined him by pairing him against Amelia. A girl.

"Begin!" The chair umpire called in their megaphone, and it echoed throughout the arena. "Meyer, Germany, 17. Clarke, USA, 16."

The young man sent a taunting wink to her as he took his spot. It was intimidating to experience that arrogance with all those people watching. Amelia did a scan over the audience, her eyes landing on Tommy. He was as stoic as ever, eyes boring into her soul, eating at her piece by piece. Unlike her father, she remembered. He'd come to her matches, smiling at her each time she looked over. Tommy Shelby offered nothing. Amelia looked back at her opponent as he raised his arm up, the speck of green in his hand. In the position, eyes zooming in on the ball. 1...he released it with a flick of his wrist. 2...it's in the air. 3...the artist hits his craft.

Less than a second to cross the court, and the ball is her's for just as long it takes her to meet it and swing her racket. Her worn trainers screeched against the rubber court each time she raced against the ball, grunting as she slammed the ball. But compared to him, her grunts were respectful. The boy hollered and cursed nearly every time he swung his racket. The audience looked left and then right, watching intently, almost in silence. Men spectated with their specks while women wore fancy gloves and held gold plated binoculars. Amelia seriously wondered if any of them actually understand the beauty of it all. No word could justify the way tennis made her feel.