Chapter 12

WAYNE STATE LAW SCHOOL

The drive south was long. Flat. Endless.

I-95 stretched out like a gray ribbon through Georgia, then into Florida. The landscape changed—pine forests giving way to palms, billboards advertising theme parks and orange juice, the air growing thick and humid.

Wake Forest was over. I'd graduated in the spring.

Tennis was over—had been over for years. But I'd kept showing up for matches. Like a zombie. Body broken, wrists taped, ankles aching. The dream had died in 1985— the injuries, everything that broke. But the scholarship required me to play. So I played. Going through the motions because I had to.

Now I was finally done with that obligation.

No more pretending. No more showing up to courts when the spark was gone.

I didn't have a plan.

The condo near the Colony was still the same. And now my mother was there, with Anna. Dad was back in Indiana, working at the hospital. Sean was still in college.

The Florida sun was relentless. The same sun that had baked the courts where I'd trained a decade earlier. Where Nick had first seen something in me. Where everything had started.

Now everything was ending.

I pulled into the driveway. Turned off the engine. Sat for a moment.

My mother appeared in the doorway. "You're here," she said.

Just like that.

The Condo

The clothes came flying out the door on a Tuesday evening.

Shirts first. Then jeans. Then shoes—one landing on the concrete walkway, the other bouncing into the grass.

I stood there in the Florida heat, staring at my belongings scat-tered across the front of the condo.

I'd moved in after Wake Forest. Paid rent. Got a job. The deal was I'd teach Anna tennis three times a week—she was twelve, enrolled in a school for gifted kids. I was twenty-two.

In the fall, I started dating a guy seven years older than me. My mom did not like him.

"You need to be home by ten-thirty," Mom had said.

I'd stared at her. "Mom, by the time I get across the bridge, I have to leave by nine fifty, the latest."

"Those are the rules."

The drawbridge went up so I was late. It was 10:40 pm. And now my clothes were on the concrete.

##### Leaving

I bent down. Picked up the mound of clothing and carried it to my car.

Mom appeared next to my car. "Where are you going?" she asked.

I looked at her. Looked at the pile of clothes in my arms.

Looked back at her.

"What does it matter?" I said. "You just kicked me out."

I loaded everything into the trunk. Slammed it shut. Got in the driver's seat.

She was standing next to the car when I drove away.

The Academy

I slept on a friend's couch that night. Stared at the ceiling. Tried to figure out what came next.

The next morning, I drove to the Academy.

The gates. The courts. The place I'd lived from age twelve to eighteen. The place that had shaped everything—my body, my game, my understanding of what it meant to push past limits.

I walked through the main building. Past the courts where kids were already drilling. Past the pro shop. Down the hallway to Nick's office.

The door was open.

Nick was at his desk, papers spread out in front of him, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. He saw me, held up one finger.

I waited.

He finished the call. Hung up. Looked at me. "Hey Nick!"

We talked. I told him what happened.

"You can work here," he said. "Chip will get everything set up for you. And you can stay in one of the condos."

Just like that.

The LSAT

I coached that spring while I studied for the LSAT.

Kids on the courts, drilling forehands, running volleys. The same drills I'd done a thousand times. My wrists still ached. My ankles were taped every morning. But I could teach.

I realized I was only prepared to teach tennis, work retail, or go back to school. In my family, you had to be a doctor, lawyer, or engi-neer. Since I'd majored in history, law school it was.

Besides, I'd met a lot of lawyers because of tennis. Sports agents, attorneys. Maybe that was something I could do.

The LSAT came in June. I took it. Sent applications.

Wayne State Law School in Michigan sent an acceptance letter in July. Early enrollment for fall.

Michigan. Near my Granny's house. I called her.

"Can I stay with you?" I asked.

"Of course," she said. Her Belfast accent thick even after decades in Michigan.

I packed the car. Drove north.

Granny's House

Warren, Michigan was flat and quiet and blue-collar.

Brick ranch homes lined the streets—single-story, tan brick, low-pitched roofs, attached garages. Wide driveways. Flat lawns. Mature trees casting shadows across the sidewalks.

The house sat at the top of a horseshoe-curved street. The same house she'd lived in since I was three years old. The same house where Grandda had lived until he died when I was twelve.

I pulled into the driveway. Turned off the engine. Sat there for a moment.

The front door opened. Granny stood there, small and sturdy, her hair white now, her face lined but warm.

"Come on in, love," she called.

I grabbed my bag and walked up the path.

Inside

Inside, the house was as I remembered.

The living room with its floral couch and matching armchair.

The television in the corner—always on, always tuned to the news or a game show. The smell of tea and something baking.

"I made scones," Granny said. "Sit down. I'll put the kettle on."

I sat at the kitchen table. The same table where I'd eaten break-fast as a kid. The same table where Grandda used to sit with his newspaper and his cigarettes, coughing into his hand.

Granny brought the tea. Strong, with milk. A plate of scones with butter and jam.

"You're staying as long as you need," she said, sitting across from me.

"Thank you."

"It's good to have someone in the house again." She smiled. "Gets quiet, you know."

I looked around. At the photos on the wall—Grandda in his younger years, standing beside a car. Granny on their wedding day. A photo of me as a little girl, sitting on Fresca, their white German Shepherd, my hands buried in his fur.

Grandda had died in Florida. The night before he was supposed to watch me play tennis for the first time. He'd been coughing—two packs a day for decades—and then he'd fallen to his knees in the living room of the condo. Handed Granny his wallet. Pulled her close. Kissed her.

That was it.

He never made it to the courts.

And Granny had been living alone in this house since.

"You're a great roommate," I told her one morning a few weeks later.

She smiled. Patted my hand. "You're not so bad yourself."

Law School

Wayne State Law School started in August.

The building was mid-century modernist—concrete, clean lines, rectangular windows. Institutional and serious. It sat on the edge of Midtown Detroit.

Inside, the hallways were lined with corkboards covered in flyers

—bar events, legal clinics, summer clerkships, outlines for sale. The lighting had that fluorescent yellow glow, and the air smelled like book dust and coffee and winter coats drying near the radiators.

The classrooms had descending rows of wooden desks with black metal frames. Chalkboards that squeaked. Professors who paced back and forth with casebooks in hand, calling on students without warning.

Everyone had cases highlighted with neon markers. Outlines were traded like currency. The sound of pages flipping, pens click-ing, highlighters squeaking filled the room.

I sat in the back. Took notes. Tried not to draw attention.

Some of  the classes were interesting. Constitutional law.

Contracts. Things that had structure.

Others were not so much. But I was getting through.

Too Intense

A few weeks in, I was invited to join a study group.

I said yes. Showed up at the library with my materials.

My cousin was a year ahead of me in law school. He'd given me all his outlines, all his notes. I'd already gone through them, synthe-sized them, created practice drills, mapped out study schedules.

I spread everything out on the table. Color-coded. Organized by topic.

The other students looked at the materials. Then at me.

"We should do timed drills," I said. "Run through hypotheticals.

Build muscle memory for the exam format." Silence.

One of them—a guy in a Michigan sweatshirt—leaned back in his chair.

"You're too intense. This is not going to work for us." he said. I blinked. "Oh. Sorry."

I gathered my materials. Put them back in my bag and left.

The Right Group

A week later, I found another group.

Smaller. Quieter. Three students who met in a corner of the library on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

They didn't say I was too intense. We studied. We got along. It worked.

I stopped trying to make law school like tennis.

It wasn't tennis. It wasn't about drilling until your body broke. It wasn't about pushing past pain to prove something.

It was just something I had to get through.

Evenings

That night, I sat at Granny's kitchen table with my casebook open in front of me.

The tea she'd made me an hour ago had gone cold. I hadn't touched it.

In the living room, the television murmured. Wheel of Fortune.

Granny's favorite.

I turned a page. Read the case. Highlighted a sentence. Turned another page.

Through the doorway, I could see Granny in her armchair, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the screen.

The house was warm. Quiet. Safe.

Outside, the Michigan wind rattled the windows. I turned another page.

DYKEMA GOSSETT

The hallway outside Contract Law was crowded with first-years comparing notes. Not about the exam we'd just taken. About summer positions.

"So where are you going?" someone asked.

"Miller Canfield," a guy in a Michigan sweatshirt said. "Corpo-rate department."

"Nice. I'm at Honigman. Litigation."

They turned to the girl next to them. "What about you?" "Dickinson Wright. They called last week."

Everyone had something. Everyone had lined up their summer clerkship—the position that would set them up for second-year interviews, for getting hired after graduation. Getting a good first-year position was everything. If you didn't get one, you were behind. Forget catching up.

I walked past them toward the library.

Behind me, someone laughed. "My dad knows someone at Dickinson Wright. He made a call."

"Lucky. My uncle got me into Miller Canfield." "Yeah, well, my mom's friend is a partner at—"

Their voices faded as I pushed through the library doors. I didn't have anything.

The job fair had been in March.

Wayne State set it up in the student center. Each law firm sent a recruiter—usually a junior lawyer, someone a few years out of school. Each firm got one of the small offices on the second floor. Students signed up for time slots, went office to office, fifteen minutes per interview.

I'd signed up for everything. Submitted my resume. Waited.

Got three callbacks. Mid-sized firm downtown. Bloomfield Hills. Another downtown firm. Each time: polite questions, careful notes, professional smiles.

Each time: no offer.

I'd bought the suit for those interviews. Ann Taylor, sale rack. Black, conservative. Single-breasted jacket, straight skirt. I'd tried it on in the fitting room, looked at myself in the mirror. Professional. Composed.

It hadn't mattered.

A lot of my classmates were from Michigan. They all seemed to have connections. My dad knows someone at X. My uncle knows someone at Y. Casual mentions over coffee, in study groups, walking between classes. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I was an outsider. Again. The same pattern from SMU. I didn't

fit. Didn't have the right connections, the right background, the right something.

I sat at one of the long wooden tables in the Arthur Neef Law Library, staring at my casebook without reading it. Around me, students highlighted cases, took notes, whispered about their summer plans.

What do I know?

I turned the page. Didn't see the words. Who do I know?

I didn't know anyone. Just Granny and the Irish side of the family.

I closed the casebook. Wait.

Wake Forest.

I'd graduated from Wake Forest. Maybe there was someone—an alumnus in Michigan who might be willing to help.

I went to the reference desk. Asked if they had information about Wake Forest alumni associations.

The librarian pointed me to a directory. There was a small Wake Forest alumni association in Michigan. I wrote down the contact information.

That night, at Granny's kitchen table, I called.

A woman answered. I explained who I was—recent Wake Forest graduate, first-year law student at Wayne State, looking for connec-tions in the Michigan legal community.

"I can send you a list of names," she said. "Alumni who are practicing attorneys in the area."

"That would be wonderful. Thank you."

The list arrived a week later. I spread it out on Granny's kitchen table.

It was short. Maybe ten names. Firms scattered across Michigan

—Grand Rapids, Ann Arbor, Detroit.

I scanned them. Looked up each one in the phone book, checking addresses, practice areas.

There. A judge. Michigan court. Graduated from Wake Forest.

I kept reading. Her husband worked at Dykema Gossett.

International law and contracts. James Blake.

Dykema Gossett.

I knew the name. Everyone knew the name. Founded in 1926.

One of the most prestigious defense firms in Michigan.

I stared at the entry. This was crazy.

But it was a door. Maybe.

The next day, I found Jake and Sarah in the student center. We were sitting at our usual table, eating sandwiches.

"I'm trying to get an interview," I said. "At Dykema." They looked at each other.

"What?" Jake asked.

"I'm working on it. Still figuring it out."

Sarah set down her sandwich. "Everyone knows that they don't hire first years."

"Yeah," Jake said. "Good luck with that."

"I know, right?"

"You might have better luck second year," Sarah said. "That's when the real recruiting happens."

I nodded. Picked up my sandwich. "Thanks," I said.

They went back to eating. Started talking about something else. I didn't say anything.

That night, I sat at Granny's kitchen table. She was watching Wheel of Fortune in the living room. The tea she'd made me had gone cold.

I stared at the alumni list. At James Blake's name. They don't hire first years.

I picked up the phone.

The next morning, I called from Granny's kitchen table. The phone rang twice before someone answered. "Dykema Gossett, how may I direct your call?"

"James Blake, please."

"May I ask what this is regarding?"

I took a breath. "If you could just let him know that I am a Wake Forest graduate and I am looking for some guidance."

Silence.

Then: "Hold please."

I waited. Listened to the hold music. Through the doorway, I could see Granny in her armchair, watching the television.

The line clicked.

"This is James Blake." His voice was warm. Curious.

"Mr. Blake, thanks for taking my call. My name is Lisa Pamintuan and I am a first-year law student at Wayne State. I grad-uated from Wake Forest, and I understand you're also connected to Wake Forest through your wife. I was hoping for some guidance since I am new to this area."

"I can see how you might find my wife," he said slowly. "How did you find me?"

"I did my research."

He was quiet for a moment. "Can you come in tomorrow?" I nearly dropped the phone. "Yes, sir. Yes I can."

"Lynda will call you back with the particulars." The line went dead.

I hung up. Stared at the phone. He'd said yes.

Lynda called two hours later.

"This is Lynda DeKeyser, Mr. Blake's assistant. He'd like to see you tomorrow at ten a.m. Renaissance Center, Tower 400, fifty-second floor. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful. We'll see you then." She hung up.

I sat at Granny's kitchen table. Stared at the note I'd written.

Renaissance Center. Tower 400. 52nd floor. 10 a.m.

Tomorrow.

Tuesday morning, I drove to Detroit.

The Renaissance Center rose from the riverfront like something from another world. Seven interconnected glass-sheathed towers, the central one soaring seventy-three stories into the sky. Five and a half million square feet. The tallest building in Michigan. The glass caught the morning sun, reflecting it back in sheets of light that made me squint.

I'd seen it from a distance before. Everyone in Michigan had. But up close, it was massive. Intimidating. The kind of building that made you feel small just looking at it.

I parked in a lot a few blocks away. Grabbed my briefcase—empty except for a pen, a legal pad, and a copy of my resume.

I wore the suit I'd bought for interviews. Ann Taylor, sale rack. Black, conservative. The same one I'd worn to those other firms. The ones that hadn't called back.

I walked to the Renaissance Center. Through the revolving doors into the lobby.

The space was enormous. Marble floors. High ceilings. People in suits moving with purpose. I found the bank of elevators, checked the directory, pressed the button.

The elevator rose. I watched the numbers climb. Thirty. Forty.

Fifty.

The doors opened.

The reception area was all dark wood and leather. A woman sat behind a desk, phone to her ear, typing. She looked up when I approached.

"I'm here to see James Blake," I said. "I have an appointment." She smiled. "Have a seat. He'll be with you shortly."

I sat in one of the leather chairs. Set my briefcase on my lap. Waited. The office was quiet. Phones ringing softly in the distance. The hum of air conditioning. Through the windows, I could see the

Detroit River, Windsor visible across the water. "He'll see you now."

I stood. Followed her down a hallway.

She stopped at an open door. Gestured for me to enter. I saw the nameplate first.

Brass. Polished. Mounted on the wall beside the door. JAMES BLAKE

Blake.

I stopped. Stared at it for half a second.

Blake. Irish name. Mostly Irish. Small percentage English, but mostly Irish.

The receptionist was waiting. I stepped inside.

The office was huge.

Partner's office. Windows along one wall overlooking the river. A massive desk—dark wood, polished to a shine. Bookshelves lined with legal volumes. Leather chairs facing the desk.

James Blake stood when I entered. Smiled. Extended his hand across the desk.

"Lisa. Thank you for coming in."

I shook his hand. "Thank you for seeing me." "Please, sit."

I sat. Set my briefcase beside the chair.

He settled into his chair, leaned back slightly, folded his hands on the desk.

"So," he said. "Tell me about yourself."

I took a breath. "I competed internationally in tennis. Started training at the Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy when I was twelve, stayed until I was eighteen. I kept my amateur status so I could play in college at Wake Forest."

He nodded. "That's quite a commitment."

"It was. Training every day. Tournaments, travel, the whole circuit. But I had injuries—chronic tendonitis in both ankles, my wrists. By the time I graduated, my body was done."

"So you decided on law school."

"My parents said I had to be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. But since I graduated with a history degree, I was only prepared to teach tennis, work at Burger King, or go to law school." I smiled. "So I decided to go to law school."

He laughed. A real laugh, warm and genuine.

"That's honest," he said. "Most people try to make it sound more noble in interviews."

"How are you liking Wayne State?"

"It's good. The program is strong. Some of the classes are really interesting—contracts, criminal law. Things with clear structure. I like understanding how the pieces fit together."

He nodded. Picked up a pen, tapped it lightly against the desk. I took a breath.

"May I ask?" I said. "Blake... you must be Irish, right?" He stopped. Set the pen down. Looked at me.

"I am," he said slowly. "Family's from Galway. What made you ask?"

"I recognized the name. Blake—it's usually Irish. And I'm half Irish myself. My mother's from Belfast."

He leaned forward. "Your mother's from Belfast."

"Yes. I'm living with my grandmother in Warren right now—she's Irish, immigrated from Belfast years ago. My cousins are Irish too—their mom is my mom's sister. I've spent time there with family. The Falls Road area."

He smiled. A real smile, different from the professional one he'd worn before.

"Belfast," he said. "I know it. My family's from Galway origi-nally. Came over in the twenties. But we've been back. I know the North."

"It's complicated there." "It is."

He leaned back in his chair. But his posture was different now.

Relaxed. Open.

"So you're living with your grandmother," he said. "In Warren." "Yes. She's been there since I was three. My grandfather passed

away when I was twelve, so it's just her now. The house is quiet. She makes tea three times a day."

He smiled again. "Sounds about right." "It is."

He glanced at my resume briefly, then looked back at me. "Have you traveled much?" he asked. "Beyond Belfast?"

"Some. London, obviously—had to go through there to get to Belfast. Paris once, for a tournament. Most of my travel was for tennis. Florida, California, different states for competitions. I played a tournament in Germany once—Munich. And Italy, Rome."

"Rome is incredible," he said. "The history, the architecture. You should go back when you have time to actually see it."

"I'd like to. But it was always for tennis, so I didn't see much beyond the courts and the hotel." I smiled. "I rate cities by their locker rooms."

He laughed again. Louder this time.

"That's the most honest thing I've heard in an interview all year," he said.

"I spent some time in Spain a few years ago," he continued. "Barcelona. Incredible city. The food, the culture. Have you been?"

"No. Spain's on my list, though."

"You should go. And if you like history, you'd love it."

"I went to Jamaica a few years ago," he said. "Beautiful. The beaches, the water. Very different from Michigan winters."

I smiled. "I can imagine."

"What about the Caribbean? Ever been?" "No. Never made it that far."

We sat there for a moment. The conversation had shifted.

Warmed. The air felt different.

He leaned forward, folded his hands on the desk.

"One of my biggest clients," he said, "does work in Abu Dhabi." I looked at him. "Abu Dhabi?"

"Yes. International contracts, trade agreements. It's complex work, but fascinating. The legal systems, the cultural considerations. Very different from domestic law."

"Wow," I said. "I've never been there."

He paused. Looked at me. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"Well," he said. "Maybe that will change." I didn't move. Didn't breathe.

He leaned back slightly.

"I'd like to offer you a paid internship," he said. "International

law department. This summer. You'd be working with that client, actually. Learning how we structure these agreements, how we navi-gate the complexity of international trade."

I stared at him. "Really?"

"Really."

I tried to keep my voice steady. Tried not to show how much this meant.

"Thank you," I said. "I won't let you down." "I don't think you will."

We shook hands. He walked me to the door. Told me Lynda would be in touch about start dates and details.

I walked back to the elevator in a daze. He'd offered me a paid internship.

Dykema Gossett. International law. Abu Dhabi client.

I pressed the button. The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside.

As the doors closed, I saw my reflection in the polished metal. I was smiling.

The following week, I wore my suit to Wayne State.

Jake saw me first. We were in the hallway outside the library. "Why are you dressed up?" he asked.

Sarah walked over. "You have an interview?"

"No," I said. "I have to go pick up my employee badge over at Dykema."

They stared at me. "What?" Sarah said.

"Dykema Gossett. I got a paid internship. I start in two weeks." Silence.

Jake's mouth was open. "You're serious," Sarah said. "Yeah."

"But—how did you—"

"I called. Asked for an interview. They said yes." They kept staring.

"I have to go," I said. "Can't be late."

I walked away. Didn't look back. But I could feel them watching. The summer started in June.

James Blake was exactly as I'd hoped—smart, patient, willing to teach. His long-time assistant, Lynda DeKeyser, was warm and professional, the kind of person who made you feel welcome without making a fuss about it.

I worked hard. Researched cases. Drafted memos. Sat in on client calls. Learned how international contracts were structured, how trade agreements worked, how to navigate the complexity of cross-border law.

The Abu Dhabi client became my focus. I learned the legal frameworks, the cultural considerations, the way business was conducted across continents.

James had a sense of humor I hadn't expected. Dry, quick. One afternoon, I brought him a memo I'd drafted. He read it, made a few notes in the margin, then looked up.

"You know what the difference is between a good lawyer and a great lawyer?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"A good lawyer knows the law. A great lawyer knows the judge." He smiled. "But an excellent lawyer knows when to order lunch."

He handed the memo back. "This is solid. Now go get some food. You've been here since seven."

Another day, I was struggling with a contract clause. He came over, looked at my notes, then at me.

"You're thinking too small," he said. "This isn't just about Detroit. Or Dallas. Or Winston-Salem. There's a whole world out there. Abu Dhabi, Singapore, London. The law crosses borders now. That's where the interesting work is."

He tapped the contract. "Think bigger." I did.

One afternoon, about three weeks in, James called me into his office.

Lynda was there too.

"The partner next door is gone for the summer," he said. "Trav-eling. His office is empty."

I nodded. Wasn't sure why he was telling me this. "We think you should use it," Lynda said.

I blinked. "What?"

"It has a big bay window," James said. "Great view of the river.

You'll like it."

"I—are you sure?"

Lynda smiled. Walked to the door, opened it. "Come on, I'll show you."

She led me down the hall. Opened a door. The office was enormous.

Corner office. Floor-to-ceiling windows along two walls. The Detroit River stretched out below, sunlight glinting off the water. Windsor visible across the border. A massive desk—dark wood, polished to a shine. Leather chairs. Bookshelves. The kind of office partners spent entire careers working toward.

"This is—" I couldn't finish the sentence.

"Yours for the summer," Lynda said. "Might as well enjoy it."

I walked to the window. Looked out at the river, the city, the sky. Lynda stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. She glanced at James,

who'd followed us down the hall, then back at me.

"Your friends from law school," she said. "Why don't you invite them for lunch sometime?"

I turned. "What?"

"Call them. Invite them downtown." She tilted her head slightly. "I'll make sure they get the full treatment."

Her smile widened just a fraction. She knew exactly what she was offering.

I called Jake and Sarah that night from Granny's house. "Want to come downtown for lunch next week?" I asked. "Sure," Jake said. "Where?"

"Dykema. I'll give you the address." They agreed. Sounded curious.

The day they arrived, I was sitting at the massive desk in the

partner's office. Papers spread out in front of me. The river gleaming through the windows behind me.

Lynda met them at reception.

I could hear her voice in the hallway. Warm, professional. "You're here to see Ms. Pamintuan? Right this way."

She walked them through the firm. Past conference rooms. Past other offices. The kind of tour you gave to important clients.

Then she opened the door to the partner's office. Jake and Sarah stepped inside.

Stopped.

Stared.

I was sitting at the desk. Windows behind me. River view. The whole setup.

They looked at me. At the office. At Lynda standing in the doorway.

"What would you like for lunch?" Lynda asked. "We have menus from several restaurants nearby. Italian, Japanese, American—what-ever you prefer."

Jake's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Sarah just stared.

Lynda waited, patient, professional, like this was completely normal.

"Um," Jake finally managed. "Italian?" "Wonderful. Sarah?"

"I—yeah. Italian is fine."

Lynda nodded. "I'll place the order. It should be here in about thirty minutes. Make yourselves comfortable."

She left. Closed the door behind her. Jake and Sarah stood there.

"You're sitting in a partner's office," Sarah said. "For the summer," I said.

"With a river view."

"Yep," I said, with a hint of a smile.

Jake walked to the window. Looked out. Looked back at me. "No one is going to believe this!" he said.

"I know!" I said. "Now I have witnesses."

We all laughed.

I worked at Dykema that summer. Got paid. Learned international law. Sat in that office with the river view and the massive desk and the leather chairs.

Every morning, I'd drive to the Renaissance Center. Park. Ride the elevator up. Walk into that office.

Every morning, I'd stand at the window for a moment before starting work. Look out at the river. At Windsor. At the city.

I'd seen the nameplate. Recognized the pattern. Took the risk. And it had worked.

The normal channels had rejected me. Campus recruiting, firm interviews, the system that worked for everyone else.

Jake and Sarah had said it: They don't hire first years.

But I'd found another door. Made the call. Walked through. And now I was here.

The last week of August, James called me into his office. "Sit," he said.

I sat.

He leaned back in his chair. "You did good work this summer." "Thank you."

"Lynda tells me you're a quick study. Good instincts." I didn't know what to say to that.

He picked up a pen. Tapped it on the desk. "You've got options ahead of you. Different paths you could take. Don't rush it. Take your time figuring out where you fit."

I nodded.

"If you want to come back next summer," he said, "there's a place for you here."

I looked at him.

"I mean it," he said. "Just let me know." "Thank you," I said. "I really appreciate that." He smiled. Stood. Shook my hand.

I walked out of his office. The door was open.

IMG

Second year, second term. I needed a summer job.

First year had been Dykema Gossett—the Renaissance Center, James Blake, international law, the partner's office with the river view. Jake and Sarah still brought it up. "Remember when you got Dykema?" Like it was a legend.

James had left the door open. Come back, he'd said. There's a place for you here.

It was a good option. Prestigious firm. International law. A mentor who believed in me.

But I'd been thinking about something else. Sports. The business side of it. Contracts, negotiations, sponsorships. How teams were structured. How deals were made.

I'd grown up in that world. I knew it. And I wanted to under-stand how it worked from the legal side.

My cousin's personal injury firm had made it clear I was welcome. He was a partner. His brother—a year ahead of me at Wayne State—was clerking there. The jokes had already started. "It's becoming a family firm." People laughed when they said it, but the message was clear.

I wasn't ready for that.

I sat at Granny's kitchen table one evening in March, staring at my casebook without reading it. Through the doorway, I could hear Wheel of Fortune playing in the living room. Granny's favorite.

IMG. International Management Group. Sports and entertain-ment. The biggest in the business.

I needed to find a way in. I picked up the phone.

I called Nick first.

The Academy's 800 number. The receptionist answered on the second ring, warm and familiar.

"Hi, Lisa."

She always recognized my voice. "Hi. Is Nick around?"

"He's on the court. Want me to get him?"

"No, that's okay. I actually need Ted Meekma's number. In Cleveland."

"Oh, sure. Hold on."

She came back a minute later with the number. I wrote it down on the back of an envelope. Thanked her. Hung up.

I stared at the number. Ted Meekma.

I'd known him since I was ten. He'd been one of the founding coaches at the Academy when it opened in 1978. Later, he went to law school, became Nick's lawyer, then moved to IMG when they bought the Academy. Now he was an executive in Cleveland.

I was nervous. I didn't know why exactly.

Maybe because Ted had been there. In Nick's office. When my mother was trying to keep control over what I was doing. When everything was complicated and I was twelve years old and caught in the middle.

Or maybe because this felt like asking for something I wasn't sure I deserved.

I picked up the phone. Dialed. It rang three times.

"Ted Meekma."

His voice was the same. Warm. Steady. "Ted, it's Lisa. Lisa Pamintuan."

"Lisa! How are you?"

"I'm good. I'm in law school now. Wayne State. Second year." "That's great. Nick mentioned that. How's it going?"

"It's going well. I actually—" I paused. Took a breath. "I'm looking for a summer internship. I'd like a chance to work for IMG. If there's anything available."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Let me see what I can do," he said. "I'll make some calls." "Thank you. I really appreciate it."

"Of course. I'll be in touch." We hung up.

I sat there, staring at the phone.

He'd said he'd see what he could do. That was something.

Three days later, the phone rang.

I was in my room at Granny's house, studying for contracts. I heard Granny answer in the kitchen.

"Lisa! Phone!"

I walked into the kitchen. Took the receiver. "Hello?"

"Lisa, this is Ted. I talked to some people. They'd like to inter-view you. Can you come to Cleveland?"

I nearly dropped the phone. "Yes. Absolutely. When?"

"How's next Tuesday? Three p.m." "Tuesday is perfect."

He gave me the address. IMG offices. Downtown Cleveland. "Thank you, Ted."

"You're welcome." I hung up.

Stood there in Granny's kitchen, staring at the note I'd written. Cleveland. Tuesday. 3 p.m.

I had four days.

I ironed my suit on Monday night.

The same Ann Taylor suit I'd worn to Dykema. Black, conserva-tive. I'd had it dry-cleaned after the summer, and it had been hanging in Granny's closet ever since.

I set up the ironing board in the living room. Granny was watching television, but she glanced over.

"Big interview?" she asked. "Yeah. Cleveland."

"That's a long drive." "Three hours."

She nodded. Turned back to the television.

I pressed the iron along the jacket's lapels, smoothing out the creases. Then the skirt. Then the blouse I'd wear underneath.

When I finished, I hung everything on a hanger. Carried it upstairs. Laid it across the chair in my room.

I polished my shoes. Black pumps, low heel. Practical. Then I got out a map. Spread it across my desk.

Warren to Cleveland. I-90 East. Straight shot, mostly. But I wanted to make sure. Wanted to know exactly where I was going, how long it would take, where to exit.

I traced the route with my finger. Calculated the time. If I left by nine-thirty, I'd have plenty of buffer. Traffic, construction, anything unexpected.

I folded the map. Set it on the passenger seat of my car. Everything was ready.

Tuesday morning, I woke up at nine.

Showered. Dried my hair. Put on jeans and a t-shirt—comfort-able for the drive.

Granny was in the kitchen, making tea. "You want some breakfast?" she asked.

"No, I'm okay. I'll grab something on the way." She nodded. Poured herself a cup. "Drive safe." "I will."

I grabbed my briefcase—empty except for a pen, a legal pad, and a copy of my resume. Picked up the suit on its hanger. Carried everything to the car.

The suit went in the back seat, laid flat so it wouldn't wrinkle. I got in. Started the engine. Pulled out of Granny's driveway.

The streets were quiet. I drove through Warren, then merged onto I-90 East.

The highway stretched out ahead of me, flat and straight. The sun was high, the sky clear.

I drove.

I got to Cleveland at one o'clock. Two hours early. Plenty of time.

I found the address—a tall building downtown, glass and steel, modern. I drove past it once, checking the entrance, the parking situation.

Then I started looking for a place to change.

I drove around the block. Then another block. Looking for a gas station, a fast-food place, anywhere with a bathroom.

Finally, I saw one. A gas station on the corner, two blocks from the IMG building.

I pulled in. Parked. Grabbed the suit and my briefcase. Inside, I asked the attendant where the bathroom was. He pointed toward the back. "Around the corner."

I walked through the narrow aisles—motor oil, candy bars, ciga-rettes—and found the bathroom. Single stall. The door was scratched, the lock loose.

I went inside. Locked it behind me.

The space was cramped. Barely room to turn around. The mirror above the sink was scratched, cloudy in places. The fluores-cent light buzzed overhead.

I hung the suit on the hook on the back of the door. Took off my jeans and t-shirt. Folded them. Set them on the closed toilet lid.

I pulled on the skirt. Zipped it. Then the blouse. Buttoned it carefully, checking each button. Then the jacket.

I turned to the mirror.

The reflection stared back at me. Professional. Composed.

I smoothed my hair. Checked my collar. Adjusted the jacket's shoulders.

I looked ready.

I picked up my jeans and t-shirt. Folded them into my briefcase.

Grabbed the hanger.

Unlocked the door. Walked back through the gas station. The attendant didn't look up.

I got in my car. Set the briefcase on the passenger seat. Checked the time.

Two-forty. Perfect.

I drove the two blocks to the IMG building. Found a parking garage nearby. Pulled in. Parked.

Sat there for a moment. Took a breath.

Then I got out. Grabbed my briefcase. Walked to the building.

The lobby was all marble and glass. High ceilings. People in suits moving with purpose.

I walked to the reception desk. "I'm here for an interview," I said.

The woman behind the desk looked up. Smiled. "Name?" "Lisa Pamintuan."

She checked her computer. Nodded. "Tenth floor. Bank of elevators on your right."

I walked to the elevators. Pressed the button. Waited. The doors opened. I stepped inside. Pressed 10.

The  elevator  rose.  I  watched  the  numbers  climb.  Five.

Seven. Ten.

The doors opened.

The reception area was sleek. Modern. Dark wood and leather chairs. A woman sat behind a desk, typing.

I approached. "I'm here to see—" I paused. I didn't actually know who I was meeting with. "I have an interview at three."

She looked up. Smiled. "Lisa?" "Yes."

"Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly."

I sat in one of the leather chairs. Set my briefcase on my lap.

Waited.

The office was quiet. Phones ringing softly in the distance. The hum of air conditioning. Through the windows, I could see down-town Cleveland—buildings, streets, the lake in the distance.

Five minutes. Maybe ten.

Then the receptionist looked up. "Mr. Meekma will see you now." I blinked.

Ted?

Ted was going to see me?

I stood. Followed her down a hallway.

She stopped at an open door. Gestured for me to enter. I stepped inside.

The office was large. Not huge, but substantial. Windows along one wall. A desk with neat stacks of papers. Bookshelves. Leather chairs.

Ted stood when I entered.

He smiled.

Not the professional smile you give a stranger. Something warmer. Something that said, look at you. All spiffed up.

"Lisa," he said. "Come in. Sit."

I sat. Set my briefcase beside the chair.

He settled into his chair. Leaned back slightly.

"So," he said. "Law school. Wayne State. How's it going?" "It's good. The program is strong. I'm learning a lot." "What are you interested in? What kind of law?"

"I'm not sure yet. I did international law last summer at Dykema Gossett. That was interesting. But I'm keeping my options open."

He nodded. "That's smart. You don't have to decide right away." We talked for a few more minutes. About law school. About the

Academy. About Nick.

Then he glanced at his watch. Stood. "I have a meeting," he said.

I stood. Shook his hand.

"Thank you, Ted. For everything." He smiled. "You're welcome."

I walked back to the reception area. Sat down again.

Waited.

A few minutes later, a young woman appeared.

She was maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Wearing a suit not unlike mine—black, conservative, professional. Her hair was pulled back. She carried a folder.

"Lisa?" she said. I stood. "Yes."

"I'm Jennifer. Come with me."

I followed her down a different hallway. She opened a door to a small office. Gestured for me to sit.

I sat. Set my briefcase beside the chair.

She sat across from me. Opened the folder. Glanced at my resume.

"So," she said. "Tell me about yourself."

I took a breath. Gave her the same answer I'd given James

Blake. Tennis. The Academy. Wake Forest. Law school. The versa-tility of a law degree.

She nodded. Took notes.

"What are you hoping to get out of a summer internship?" she asked.

"I want to learn how a company like IMG operates. The busi-ness side of sports and entertainment. How contracts are structured, how deals are negotiated. I want to see how the law applies in a corporate setting."

She nodded again. Made another note. Then she set down her pen. Looked at me.

"We don't have any internships left in Cleveland," she said. My stomach dropped.

"But," she continued, "we have openings in some of our other offices. Would you have a problem going somewhere else?"

"No," I said.

She smiled. Picked up her pen again.

"Have you heard of the Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy?" she asked. "It's one of our properties."

I stared at her.

IMG had bought it when I went to college. Nick still ran it. Did you even read my resume?

Tennis. The Academy. It was all there. Right in front of her. But I kept my face neutral. Professional.

"Yes," I said. "It's a very famous academy." She nodded. Made a note.

"We have an opening there," she said. "Legal department. Working with contracts, sponsorships, that kind of thing. Would you be interested?"

I tried not to smile.

"Yes," I said. "I'd be very interested."

"Great. I'll have someone reach out to you with the details." We shook hands. She walked me back to the elevators.

I pressed the button. The doors opened. I stepped inside.

As the doors closed, I saw my reflection in the polished metal. I was going back to the Academy.

I drove back to Warren in a daze.

The highway stretched out ahead of me, flat and straight. The sun was bright, the sky clear.

I'd done it.

IMG. The Academy. A summer internship. But it was different this time.

I wasn't going back as a player. As a kid with a racquet and a dream.

I was going back as a law student. As someone who understood contracts and negotiations and the business side of the game.

Ted had been there when I was ten. When I first arrived at the Colony, when Nick saw something in me, when the blizzard gave me a door and I walked through it.

Now Ted had opened another door. And I was walking through again.

The Academy. Again.

But everything had changed.

I pulled into Granny's driveway just after six. Turned off the engine. Sat there for a moment.

I grabbed my briefcase. Got out of the car. Walked up the path. Opened the door.

"How'd it go?" Granny called from the kitchen. I walked into the kitchen.

"I got it," I said.

She smiled. "Of course you did."

I sat at the table. She poured me a cup of tea. Set it in front of me.

I wrapped my hands around the cup. Felt the warmth. The Academy.

I was going home.

‍