Chapter 2

Dad loved tennis the way some men loved golf. Obsessively. Religiously. With a devotion that bordered on the spiritual.

So when he found a medical conference at the Colony Beach & Tennis Resort on Longboat Key, Florida, it felt like divine inter-vention.

A chance to satisfy his professional obligations while indulging his passion. A working vacation that actually worked.

For us kids, it was just Florida. Warm. Different. A break from Indiana's gray winter grip. We had no idea what we were walking into.

The Colony wasn't just a resort. It wasn't just another place with a couple of courts tucked behind the pool where guests could swat balls around between margaritas.

The Colony Beach & Tennis Resort was the place for tennis. Twenty-one courts spread across the property like a small kingdom dedicated to the sport. Professional. Serious. The kind of place where tennis wasn't a hobby—it was the point.

It looked like something from a movie. Like paradise, if paradise had perfectly maintained hardcourts and palm trees swaying in the Gulf breeze.

I was ten years old. And I'd never seen anything like it.

Indiana was flat and cold and practical. The courts back home were functional—chain-link fences, cracked asphalt, nets that sagged in the middle. You played tennis there because you loved tennis, not because the setting inspired you. The beauty was in the game itself, not the backdrop.

But the Colony? The Colony gleamed.

Everything was white and green and blue—the courts, the build-ings, the sky, the water. The sun hit differently there. Warmer. More generous. Like it was personally invested in making everything look better.

The beach stretched out endlessly. Sugar-white sand meeting turquoise water that seemed too perfect to be real.

And everywhere you looked: tennis courts.

Courts with windscreens. Courts where people who actually knew what they were doing were hitting balls with a crispness and purpose that made the game look different than it did back home.

This was where real tennis happened.

Sean and I got enrolled in the day camp—the resort's program for kids whose parents needed them occupied while they attended conferences or played their own matches.

It was fine. Fun, even. We'd hit balls. Play games. Spend time on the beach.

But I kept watching the tennis courts. The ones where the serious players trained. The ones where you could hear the rhythm of rallies, that steady pop-pop-pop of ball meeting strings, over and over.

Hypnotic and purposeful.

I wanted to be on those courts.

The Invitation

It happened on the beach.

Sean and I were doing whatever kids do on beaches—building something in the sand, probably, or jumping waves—when we met a girl around our age.

Friendly. Easy to talk to. The kind of casual vacation friendship that forms in minutes.

"You guys want to go play tennis?" she asked. Sean looked at me and shrugged.

"Sure," I said. "Come on," she said.

We followed her off the beach, past the pool, toward the courts.

She walked like she knew exactly where she was going. Like she'd done this a hundred times before.

When we got to the pro shop, she went inside and came back with racquets for all of us.

"These okay?" she asked, handing them over.

I nodded. The racquet felt good in my hand. Better than the one I'd brought from Indiana.

Sean decided to watch.

Court One

What surrounded Court One at the Colony wasn't concrete or glass or anything that felt modern. It was wood.

Low-rise, weathered, Florida-coastal structures—cedar-colored siding, wide overhangs, slanted roofs, balconies running the length of the second floor. They looked more like upscale beach lodges than hotel blocks. Sun and salt had softened everything. Nothing was sharp. Everything was bleached a little pale by the Gulf air.

But on the west side of the court, there was something different. A tall white building. It rose above the others—clean lines, bright stucco, a vertical contrast to the horizontal sprawl of the rest of the resort. A flight of stairs led up its side, taking you to balcony seating that overlooked the court like a gallery.

That building changed the feel of Court One.

The balconies wrapped along the edge like a continuous porch

—people leaning on railings with drinks in their hands, chairs pulled up close, doors standing open behind them, curtains moving in the breeze. You weren't playing in front of a crowd. You were playing inside a living building.

Palm trees grew between the courts and the walls, their fronds cutting through the sightlines. Black windscreen stretched along the fences, catching light and heat, holding sound inside.

The courts felt tucked into a wooden box of resort life—tennis pressed into the middle of where people actually lived, ate, and walked.

But Court One felt different. Not grand. Contained. But elevated.

The white building gave it height. The staircase gave it layers.

The balconies gave it presence.

When someone shifted in a chair above you, you heard it. When someone leaned forward, you felt it.

It was a court surrounded by architecture that watched. And that made every rally feel larger than it was.

At some point while we were hitting, a man in a red Fila shirt came out and stood watching.

Dark hair. Thick Italian mustache. Legs tanned from the Florida sun.

Sunglasses that never seemed to come off. A swagger that filled whatever space he occupied.

He didn't say anything. Just watched.

Sean sat on the bench, swinging his legs, racquet across his lap.

The Rally

My new friend and I started to rally.

And I hit the ball back. Again. And again. And again.

I didn't have the biggest serve or the strongest forehand.

But I had something I'd developed through hundreds of hours on Indiana courts with Ken yelling at me to keep the ball in play, to outlast my opponent, to refuse to be the one who missed first. And I was fast.

I just hit the ball back. Clean. Solid. Over and over. When a ball went wide, I chased it down. Scraped it back. When a ball went deep, I adjusted. Got there. Returned it.

I didn't miss. I wouldn't let myself miss. I didn't go for winners until I had an opening. No unforced errors.

The man in the red shirt kept watching.

Leaving

Then I saw my parents walking toward the courts.

Dad waved. Time to go.

I handed the racquet back to the girl. "Thanks," I said. "That was fun."

"Meet us at the beach tomorrow?" she asked. "Yeah, okay."

I started walking toward my parents. That's when the man called out. "What's your name, dear?"

His voice had that New York edge—direct, no softness around the words.

I stopped. Turned around. "Lisa," I said.

He walked closer. "I'm Nick Bollettieri," he said. "You have a great backhand. But you need to work on your forehand."

I rolled my eyes. "I know," I said. He smiled.

Then he turned to my parents.

The Conversation

I stood off to the side while Nick talked to my parents.

He was explaining something—gesturing toward the courts, toward me.

I couldn't hear most of it. Just pieces.

"...tennis academy..." "...live here..." "...train full-time..."

Dad was asking questions. Mom was listening, holding Anna. Then Nick did something I'll never forget.

He took a racquet—the one I'd just handed back to the girl—and demonstrated a forehand.

A perfect motion. Smooth. Fluid. Exactly right.

Then he did it again—but this time, at the moment of impact, he broke his wrist.

Showing them. Explaining.

My forehand.

The one the coaches back in Indiana had been trying to fix for months.

The one that worked, mostly, but wasn't quite right.

Nick had seen it. In those few minutes of hitting. He'd seen exactly what needed to change.

And he was showing my parents how to fix it.

I watched his hands move. Watched him demonstrate the motion again and again.

Watched my parents nod. Listen. Ask more questions. Then I saw my mother shake her head.

The Answer

When my parents came back over, I knew. "She should come," Nick had said.

I'd heard that much. His voice carried even from across the court.

"She belongs here." My heart had jumped.

Come here? To this place? Where someone like Nick could fix what others couldn't?

But my parents were shaking their heads.

"You're too young," Mom said to me quietly. "You're only ten years old."

Dad agreed. "It's too far."

I could see Nick still standing there, hands on his hips, watching

us.

He'd pushed—I could tell from my parents' expressions. But they were firm.

Polite, but firm. No.

But then Nick called out as we started to walk away. "Wait."

We stopped. Turned around.

Nick walked over. "Look," he said to my parents. "I have an exhibition tomorrow morning. Just so she can see what it's like to train here. Let her play in it. No commitment. Just so she knows."

My parents looked at each other.

"It's just an exhibition," Nick said. "Tomorrow morning. She can meet the other players. See what we do."

Dad looked at me. Then at Mom. "I don't see why not," he said.

Mom hesitated. Then nodded. "Okay. Just the exhibition." Nick smiled. "Good. Be here at nine."

He looked at me. "My dear, you'll see what real training looks like."

I stood there on Court One, surrounded by those wooden build-ings with their watching balconies.

The door had opened.

Just a crack. Just enough for me to see tomorrow. To play in an exhibition. To meet the other players. To see what training at Nick's academy actually looked like.

My parents had said no to the academy. But they'd said yes to tomorrow.

And tomorrow was enough. For now.

The Exhibition

The next morning, we arrived at Court One at nine.

The balconies were already full—resort guests with coffee cups, leaning on railings, settling into chairs. Parents with cameras. A few people I recognized from the day before.

More than I expected.

The court was set up differently than yesterday. A line of junior players stood along the baseline. Some I knew from around the Colony. Others I'd never seen before.

One of the pros took me onto the court and introduced me to the others.

"Just do what they do. You'll get the hang of it," Steve said. They all looked older. Taller. More confident.

Well—everyone was always taller than me.

Nick stood at the net, hands on his hips, surveying the scene.

He wore blue that morning—Fila, the real kind. Not the versions you bought in a pro shop, but the sponsored-player kit with the big FILA logo patch stitched onto the chest. Only the top players got that patch. It meant something. Even if I didn't fully understand the politics of sponsorships yet, I knew enough to recog-nize that patch as a kind of rank.

His shirt was tucked in tight, pulled flat across his torso the way military men wear their uniforms. Nick had been a paratrooper, and you could still see it in the way he stood—feet planted, shoulders squared, chin lifted like he was surveying a drop zone instead of a tennis court.

The blue, the patch, the posture—they all worked together. He didn't need a microphone. He didn't need to announce authority. He wore it.

"Welcome," he called out to the crowd. "Thanks for coming this morning. What you're about to see is how we train at the Colony. How we build champions."

He gestured toward the line of players.

"Some of these kids you've seen around. Some of them you haven't. But all of them are learning what it takes to compete at the highest level."

I stood at the end of the line, trying to look like I belonged there.

Sean sat in the stands with my parents. I could see Mom bouncing Anna on her knee, with that same uncertain expression from yesterday.

The Drill

Steve stood at the net with a basket of balls.

"Okay," he called out. "Backhand side. Three forehands."

The kids in line shifted automatically. No confusion. No ques-tions. They knew exactly what to do.

He started feeding balls. pop–THWACK   pop–THWACK   pop–THWACK

The first player hit three forehands, then sprinted to the back of the line. The next player was already at the baseline. Three more balls. Back to the end. A conveyor belt.

We kept moving. Hit your three balls, sprint to the back, jog in place while you waited. Over and over.

I watched the rhythm for a moment, trying to understand it. Then it was my turn.

Three balls came at me. I hit them—not great, but over the net. Then I ran to the back of the line, legs already burning, and started jogging in place with everyone else.

The drill continued. The pro kept feeding. We kept rotating. Nick stood off to the side, talking to the crowd. Not directing us

—we didn't need directing. The pro had it handled. Nick was working the audience.

"Look at their feet," he said, gesturing toward the court. "Always on their toes. Always moving. Little steps. Always adjusting."

The crowd watched. Some leaned forward on the balcony rail-ings. Others took photos.

We kept going. Three balls. Sprint. Jog.

The Introductions

After a while, Steve called out, "Pick up the balls."

We all scattered, collecting balls from around the court, using our racquets like a waiter's serving tray and stacking a pyramid of balls on it before dropping them back into the baskets.

Then Brian Gottfried walked onto the court. Not tentative. Not waiting for permission. Like he'd been here a thousand times before and knew exactly where he belonged.

He picked up a racquet, stepped to the baseline, and started hitting with the pro.

The difference was immediate. The rhythm changed. The ball sounded different—crisper, heavier, perfectly struck every single time.

Nick didn't wait.

"Some of you may already know him," he said, his voice carrying across the court. "He's been ranked as high as number three in the world. Most recently, he was a finalist at the French Open."

He paused. "Brian Gottfried."

The applause was louder this time. Brian didn't acknowledge it.

Just kept hitting. Smooth, effortless, like breathing.

Then Steve gestured to Kathleen.

She stepped up. She wore blue and white. Fila. Ponytail pulled tight. She moved onto the court with the same confidence Brian had

—like this was routine. Steve fed her balls.

"Kathleen Horvath," Nick said to the crowd. "Last year she was number one in the nation in the twelve-and-unders. Number two in the nation in the fourteens. Watch her."

Applause echoed through the custom stadium.

Kathleen kept hitting. Steady. Precise. Every ball exactly where she wanted it. Every ball was six inches from the baseline.

Then Steve gestured to Jimmy to start hitting with Brian and Kathleen.

Jimmy stepped onto the court. Jimmy's forehand was different than everyone else's. Heavier. The ball made a sharper sound coming off his strings.

Even before Nick spoke, you could hear it. This was not the old continental-grip forehand everyone used. This was something new.

The Bollettieri Forehand

Nick stepped closer to the crowd.

"This," he said, "is Jimmy Arias. Fourteen years old. Already one of the top junior players in the country. You're going to hear his name a lot."

More applause.

What he was about to explain—I didn't understand it then. Not really. But I understand it now.

Nick was teaching a forehand built on aggression. A forehand that said: hit first, ask questions later. And Jimmy was the proof standing right in front of us.

The stroke started from the ground up—hips, core, shoulders—everything rotating through the ball. The take-back was compact, almost tight. That compactness was the point. It let the body explode forward, let the weight transfer cleanly from the back leg to the front, let the racquet accelerate like a whip.

The contact point—mid to high—was perfect for the semi-western grip Jimmy used. The ball jumped off his strings with topspin that looked almost impossible for a twelve-year-old.

It was the beginning of the modern forehand. And we were watching it happen in real time.

Nick turned to the crowd.

"Most people hit the forehand wrong," he said, loud enough that no microphone was needed. "They swing like they're pushing a shopping cart. No power. No whip."

He slapped his own hip with the flat of his hand. "Power comes from here. From the body. Not the arm."

He pointed at Jimmy. "Watch this kid. This is the modern forehand."

Jimmy stepped to the baseline. Steve fed him a ball.

Jimmy's take-back was short—almost nothing. Just a quick coil, the racquet face closed, his left hand pulling across his body like he was winding himself tighter. Then a blur. The ball cracked off his strings and shot deep into the court with a sound that made people on the balcony lean forward. And he let his arm go.

Nick grinned. "You hear that? That's acceleration. That's racquet-head speed. You don't teach that with a long, pretty back-swing. You teach it with rotation."

Steve fed another ball. Jimmy stepped in, uncoiling again—hips, shoulders, arm—his whole body turning through the shot.

"That's the Bollettieri forehand," Nick said. "You'll be seeing a lot of it."

People murmured. Cameras clicked. Someone whispered, "My God."

I thought, how does he do it? It looks like his arm is going to fall off.

"You want to know how champions are built?" Nick said. "You're looking at it."

Jimmy jogged back to the baseline, ready for more.

And the guests—sunburned, curious, leaning over the wooden railings—watched like they were witnessing something being invented right in front of them.

Nick didn't introduce everyone else. Just those three. The rest of us were part of the backdrop—the kids who made the system work, who showed what the training produced.

We went back to the conveyor belt.

"Okay," the pro called out. "More forehands."

We rotated through again. Three balls each. Sprint to the back.

Jog in place.

Lisa's Turn

Toward the end of the exhibition, the pro said, "Now each of you is going to hit until we tell you you're done."

I watched. One player hit ten balls till he was done. The next player hit five balls till she was done.

Then Nick called me up to hit.

"This is one of our youngest players." I stepped up to the baseline.

I'd just watched Brian, Kathleen and Jimmy hit—watching how

hard they struck the ball, how penetrating their shots were, how the ball exploded off their racquets with authority.

I wanted to do that.

I wanted to hit as hard as them. As straight as them. To show everyone that I could keep up despite being the youngest and smallest one there.

What I didn't calculate was exactly how much smaller I was. How much less strength I had. How different the physics were when you weighed seventy-five pounds instead of a hundred and fifty.

I wound up and swung with everything I had. Trying to generate the same power I'd just watched them produce.

The ball hit my strings and drove them straight into the net. I heard a few people shift in the stands.

The pro fed another ball. I tried again. Same result. Net. My face burned.

I could feel everyone watching. My parents. Sean. The crowd on the balconies. Nick.

Then I heard his voice. Not angry. But loud. Laughing hard.

Slapping his leg.

"She's trying to hit the felt off the ball!"

A few people laughed with him. The kind of laughter that comes when someone points out something obvious.

"She's trying to hit as hard as the others," Nick continued. "She can't figure out why the balls are going into the net."

I heard every word. My parents heard it. Sean heard it. Brian Gottfried heard it. Everyone heard it.

My face was on fire.

But I didn't look up at the stands. I didn't look at Nick. I kept my eyes on the pro. Waiting for the next ball.

And when it came, I adjusted.

I didn't swing as hard. I focused on getting the ball over the net first. On making contact cleanly. On using the technique I actually had instead of trying to mimic players twice my size.

The next ball went in. Clean. Solid. Over the net and deep into the court. And another one. And another one.

"There you go, next!" Nick said.

The player behind me ran to the baseline.

I sprinted to the back of the line and kept jogging in place.

The Drill Continues

The conveyor belt kept going. Backhands. Then volleys. Then overheads.

Nick kept working the crowd between rotations, gesturing toward a player, pointing out a technique.

Steve kept feeding balls. We kept running. Kept hitting. Kept jogging in place in line.

My shirt was soaked. But so was everyone else's.

After

When Nick finally called time, the crowd applauded.

We lined up again along the baseline. Nick said a few words—thanking people for coming, inviting them to ask questions.

Parents started coming down from the balconies, approaching the court.

My parents came over.

I was still catching my breath, still feeling the burn in my legs and the embarrassment of those balls in the net.

Mom looked worried. Dad looked thoughtful. Then Nick was there.

The Conversation

"So," Nick said to my parents. "You saw what we do. This is how we train. Every day. This is what she'd be doing."

Dad nodded. "It's impressive."

"She's got something," Nick said, gesturing toward me. "You saw it. She adjusted. That's what separates kids who make it from kids who don't. She doesn't give up. She figures it out."

Mom shook her head. "She's ten years old."

"But she's ready," Nick said. "Brian was nine when he left to train with me." He gestured toward Brian Gottfried, who was packing up balls nearby. "Nine years old. And he got to number three in the world."

He looked at me, then back at my parents.

"She should come train here. Full-time. Live here. My academy."

There was a pause. The same pause from yesterday. Dad glanced at Mom. Then at me. Then back at Nick.

"We appreciate the opportunity," Dad said carefully. "But she's too young."

Mom shook her head. "I'm sorry. The answer is still no." Nick held her gaze. Then he nodded.

"Okay," he said. "But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

He turned and walked back toward the court, already talking to another parent.

We stood there—me, my parents, Sean—in the Florida heat. The exhibition was over. The answer was still no.

I looked back at Court One. At the wooden buildings with their watching balconies. At the line where I'd stood with Jimmy and Kathleen and the others.

At the place where I'd hit balls into the net and then figured out how to get them over.

At the place where Nick had seen something in me. The door was still closed.

But I'd seen what was on the other side. And I wanted it more than ever.

The Blizzard

The next morning, Dad was watching the news.

I came out of the bedroom to find him standing in front of the television, coffee cup in hand, staring at the weather map.

But now the anchor's voice filled the condo: "...unprecedented snowfall expected across the Midwest. The National Weather

Service is calling this a historic winter storm. Indiana and Illinois are bracing for what could be the worst blizzard in decades..."

The screen showed a massive white system moving across the country. Swirling. Enormous.

"...predictions of up to three feet of snow in some areas. Winds up to seventy miles per hour. Whiteout conditions. Residents are urged to stay off the roads..."

Dad set his coffee down.

"We need to leave today," he said.

Mom came out of the bedroom with Anna on her hip. "What?" "The blizzard." Dad gestured to the TV. "It's coming in a few

days. Airlines are already cancelling flights. If we don't leave today, we won't be able to get out at all."

He was already moving, already calculating. Doctor-mode.

Triage.

"I'll call the airline. See if I can move the flights up."

Mom looked at the television. At the massive white system covering half the country.

"Today?" she said quietly.

"Today," Dad confirmed. "We have to get a flight out before they're all cancelled."

He picked up the phone and called the airline. "Yes, four plus an infant, today if possible... yes, I'll hold."

The Decision

We started packing.

Not the slow, methodical packing we'd planned. Frantic packing.

Throwing things into suitcases. Making sure we had everything.

Sean was excited. "A blizzard! That's so cool!"

Anna fussed in her playpen, picking up on the tension. But my mind was already working.

Christmas break was almost over. School started back next week.

But when this blizzard hit, schools would close. Everyone knew it. You couldn't have schools open in a blizzard like this.

I felt something shift inside me.

Like tumblers in a lock clicking into place.

The logic was so clear, so obvious, that I couldn't understand why everyone else wasn't seeing it.

"Why should I go back?" I said. Everyone turned to look at me.

"Why should I go back when schools are just going to close anyway?"

The words came faster now. The argument building itself.

"The blizzard's going to hit. Schools are going to close. What would I do at home? Just sit there waiting for the snow to stop?"

"Lisa—" Mom started.

"But here I could train. I could keep working. It makes sense." I wasn't begging. Wasn't pleading with tears or tantrums.

I was presenting a case. Logical and clear.

"Dad has to go back because he's a doctor. But school's going to be closed anyway. So why go back to sit in a house during a blizzard when I could be here, training?"

I could see Dad processing it.

See the doctor-mind that dealt in triage and priorities working through the logic.

He couldn't argue with the facts: the blizzard was coming. Schools would close. I would be sitting at home doing nothing while he worked impossible hours at the hospital and Mom managed a baby and a house in a blizzard.

Dad covered the phone receiver. "She's not wrong," he said quietly.

Mom's face tightened. "No. Absolutely not."

Dad looked at her for a long moment. Then he went back to the phone.

"Yes... four tickets for today... yes, I'll take them." He hung up.

"We're leaving at five," he said. "Let's finish packing." That was it. Decision made.

Mom didn't say anything else. Just went back to folding clothes, her movements sharp and deliberate.

I went back to the bedroom.

The conversation was over.

The Colony

We went to lunch at the Colony before heading to the airport.

The restaurant was open-air, right on the property. You could see the courts from the tables. Hear the sound of balls being hit.

We sat down. Ordered.

Nobody said much. The conversation from the condo hung over everything.

I kept looking at the courts. At Court One with its wooden buildings and watching balconies.

At the place where I'd hit balls yesterday. Where Nick had seen something in me. Where Jimmy and Kathleen and Brian had shown me what was possible.

I was going home today.

Back to Indiana. To a blizzard. To sitting in a house with nothing to do while Dad worked impossible hours and Mom took care of Anna.

The food came. We ate. Then I saw Nick.

He was walking through the restaurant, talking to someone.

Gesturing with his hands the way he always did.

He saw us. Changed direction. Walked over to our table.

"Hey," he said, smiling. "I heard you're leaving early. The blizzard?"

Dad nodded. "Have to get back before it hits. Flight's at five." "Smart," Nick said. He looked at me. Then back at my parents.

"Listen, if you're open to it—Lisa could stay here. I have a few of the older girls living at my house. Kathleen's there. Jimmy too. She'd be well taken care of."

There was a pause.

Mom's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Dad set down his water glass.

I looked at my parents. Said nothing.

"Full scholarship," Nick continued. "Room and board. Every-

thing. She can even enroll in school down here. We have students going to a private school. I think she's got what it takes."

Another pause.

The restaurant noise continued around us. Forks on plates. Conversations at other tables. Somewhere on the courts, the sound of a ball being hit.

Dad stood up. "Can we talk for a minute?" Nick nodded. "Of course."

They walked a few steps away from the table. Not far. Just enough for privacy.

I watched them. Dad's back to me. Nick facing me but looking at Dad. Talking quietly. Dad asking questions. Nick gesturing with his hands, explaining.

A minute. Maybe two.

Then they walked back to the table.

"Nick said we can see his house," Dad said. "See where Lisa would be staying."

Nick looked at my mom. "My wife Diana's there now. She can show you around." He pulled out a pen, wrote an address on a napkin. "It's about ten minutes from here."

He handed the napkin to Dad.

"Take your time," Nick said. "Look around. Ask Diana anything you want. Then call me and let me know."

He walked away. Back to whatever he'd been doing. Leaving us sitting there with the napkin on the table.

The House

We finished lunch quickly.

Nobody said much. The napkin with Nick's address sat in the middle of the table like a question we hadn't answered yet.

We got in the car. Dad drove.

Ten minutes through Longboat Key. Past palm trees and the Gulf. The Florida sun blazing overhead.

Nobody spoke. Sean played with his seatbelt. Anna made noises in her car seat.

I stared out the window, my heart pounding. Dad pulled into a driveway.

The house was modern. Sleek. Not huge, but designed with purpose. You could tell this wasn't just a house—it was a training facility that happened to have bedrooms.

We got out of the car.

A woman opened the door before we could knock. Diana. She was warm. Welcoming.

"You must be the Pamintuans," she said. "Nick told me you were coming. Please, come in."

She showed us around.

The living room. The kitchen. Everything clean and organized. "This is where the girls stay," she said, leading us down a

hallway.

She opened a door to a small bedroom. Bunk beds. Simple.

Clean.

Mom looked around. Taking it all in. Measuring safety in her head.

"How many girls live here?" Dad asked.

"Four right now," Diana said. "Five with Lisa. Jimmy has a room on the other side of the house."

She showed us the bathroom. The schedule on the wall. Meal times. Training times. School times.

Mom was quiet. Just looking. At the room. At the bunk beds. At the place where her daughter would sleep.

We stood in the living room.

"Can I use your phone?" Dad asked Diana. "Of course." She gestured to the kitchen.

The Decision

Dad walked into the kitchen. Picked up the phone. Dialed.

The rest of us stood in the living room. Waiting.

I could see Dad through the doorway. See him talking. See his face.

But I couldn't hear what he was saying.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

What if he was saying no? What if seeing the house had changed his mind?

Mom sat down on the couch. Anna on her lap. She looked tired. "Mom?" I said quietly.

She looked at me.

"I don't want you to go," she said quietly. "But your father's right. You'd just be sitting at home during this blizzard. And you want this so badly."

Her voice caught. "I just... you're so young." "I know," I said.

"You're ten years old," she said. She wiped her eyes.

"But I've watched you these past few days. I saw you at that exhibition. I saw how you looked at those courts. How you looked at Nick and those other kids."

She paused.

"You belong here," she said. "I don't want to admit it, but you do."

I didn't know what to say.

Sean was wandering around the living room, looking at things.

Oblivious.

Anna grabbed at Mom's necklace.

I kept watching Dad in the kitchen. He was still on the phone.

Still talking.

Then he nodded. Said something else. Hung up. He walked back into the living room.

Looked at Mom. Then at me. My heart stopped.

"Okay," he said. "It's done."

For a second I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. "You're staying," he said.

Relief hit me so hard I almost couldn't breathe.

"For two weeks," Mom added, her voice careful. "We'll see how you're doing. Then we'll decide about enrolling you in school down here."

I nodded. Two weeks. That was enough. I'd make it work. Mom closed her eyes. Nodded slowly.

Diana smiled. "We'll take good care of her," she said. "I promise."

Goodbye

We didn't have much time.

The flight was at five. They needed to leave soon to make it to the airport.

We stood in the driveway.

The Florida sun beat down. Hot. Bright.

Their rental car was packed. Their flight was in a few hours. It was time.

Mom hugged me first.

She held on longer than usual. Her hand on the back of my head.

"Call us," she said. "Every week." "I will."

"Be safe."

"I will." "Be smart." "I will."

She pulled back. Looked at me. Her eyes were red but she wasn't crying.

"Be sure," she said. "I'm sure," I said. And I was.

Dad hugged me next. Quick. Tight. "Work hard," he said.

"I will."

"Listen to Nick." "I will."

"Make us proud." "I will."

Sean hugged me too. He seemed confused about the whole thing. "See you later," he said.

"See you later," I agreed.

Anna was in Mom's arms. I touched her cheek. She grabbed my finger with her tiny hand.

"Bye, Anna," I whispered.

She smiled at me. No idea what was happening. No idea I was staying and she was leaving.

Then they got in the car.

Mom in the passenger seat. Dad behind the wheel. Sean in back next to Anna's car seat.

The engine started.

Dad backed out of the driveway.

I stood there and watched them drive away.

Watched the car turn onto the road. Watched it get smaller.

Watched it disappear.

Gone

They were flying back to Indiana. To a blizzard. To a world that was about to be buried in snow.

And I was here.

In Florida. In the sun. At Nick's house.

With a bedroom I'd never slept in and girls I hadn't met and a future I couldn't see but knew I wanted.

Diana stood on the porch behind me. "Are you okay?" she asked.

I turned around.

Picked up my tennis bag. "Yes," I said.

After They Left

The blizzard hit Indiana a few days later.

Just like the forecasts predicted.

My parents had made it home before it hit. Dad called when the storm started. They were safe. Snowed in, but safe.

"Schools are closed," he said. "Looks like it'll be at least two weeks."

I was right. The logic had been sound.

I trained at the Colony. Lived at Nick's house with Kathleen and the other girls. Worked on my serve. On my footwork. On the fore-hand Nick was teaching everyone.

Two weeks passed.

I was doing well. Training hard. Keeping up with the older kids.

No problems.

Then the forecasts started coming again.

Another storm system building. Moving toward the Midwest.

February. Maybe worse than this one.

The Call

One Sunday in late January, the call was different.

"Lisa," Dad said. "Your mother and I have been talking." I could hear Mom in the background.

"You've been doing really well these past two weeks," he said. "Nick says you're keeping up with everyone. Working hard."

A pause.

"We're seeing reports of another blizzard. Could hit in February.

They're saying it could be as bad as this one." He paused.

"We remember last year. 1978. That was... it was a nightmare.

Multiple storms. Schools closed for weeks." I waited.

"So we've decided," Dad continued. "You can stay at Nick's house for the rest of the school year. You'll go to the same private school the other kids there are attending. Small classes."

My heart started pounding.

"That okay with you?" Dad asked. "Yes," I said quietly.

More than okay.

Everything I'd wanted.

Not because they'd changed their minds about me being too young.

But because they were afraid of more blizzards. Afraid of schools closing again and again like last year.

The door hadn't opened because I'd proven myself. It had opened because of a blizzard.

But I didn't care why. I was in.

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