Chapter 7

The Florida air was heavy in Bradenton—thick with humidity, cut grass, and chlorine drifting from the pool. Some mornings the wind carried the smell of burnt oranges from the Tropicana plant, sweet and acrid at once, a reminder that even paradise had its machinery.

At the Academy, the machine never stopped. And the machine needed architects.

The Machine

The Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy sat on thirty acres at 3500 West 34th Street in Bradenton. What had been a tomato field was now a grid of courts, dormitories, training facilities—a purpose-built machine designed to produce champions.

It wasn't beautiful. It was functional. Courts stretched in rows, sponsor banners flapping, the smell of cut grass and fresh paint still lingering.

But it was Nick's. Finally, his own facility. His own vision made real.

Nick Bollettieri — The Vision

Nick wasn't new to me. I'd already lived under his roof. But at the Academy, his presence carried a different weight—not just personal, but systemic. He was the vision, the magnet, the face of the machine.

Before he became the most famous tennis coach in the world, Nick Bollettieri was a paratrooper in the U.S. Army. That military past never left him—the clipped commands, the sharp calibrations, the way every drill felt like a mission. The academy was often called a "boot camp." The discipline, the toughness, the uncompromising standards were all born from that rhythm.

His philosophy rested on three pillars: Discipline. Responsibility. Effort. No shortcuts. No excuses. You showed up, you worked, you earned your place—or you didn't.

He paced the courts with gravel in his voice and fire in his eyes, demanding precision, demanding that you prove yourself every single day. He could spot weakness instantly. But if he saw some-thing in you—a spark, a weapon, a toughness—he would amplify it, showcase it, make sure the world noticed.

He had trained Jimmy Arias, whose forehand became the precursor to the modern game. At the Academy, that forehand was the signature shot every player had to learn.

But I was small. With my traditional grip, I struggled to hit that forehand with the same force.

Nick saw it.

Instead of forcing me into the mold, he told me my backhand was my weapon. While the other players practiced forehand swinging volleys, the instructors fed balls to me for backhand swinging volleys.

One day, he called over someone with a sketchpad. "You see her? That backhand. I want you to sketch her backhand."

He had it drawn for one of his first instructional books. My form, captured in pencil lines. No name on it—he took sketches of everybody—but I knew it was mine.

In a place where sameness was the system, Nick gave me permission to be different.

Julio Moros — The Spine

If Nick was the face, Julio was the spine.

Julio had been with Nick from the beginning. His authority wasn't loud—it came from presence, from knowing he had seen hundreds of kids come through those gates and could tell exactly who would make it. Earning Julio's respect mattered more than almost anything.

Nick might give you the spotlight, but Julio decided if you stayed in it.

He kept the schedules running, the courts maintained, the rota-tions smooth. When something broke down—a net, a cooler, a kid collapsing in the heat—Julio fixed it. Quietly. Efficiently.

Decades later, Raffy and I flew down for a reunion. As soon as Julio saw us—thirty years gone—he broke into a smile, wrapped us in hugs, and gave us a golf cart tour of the 600-acre campus.

The place had grown into an empire, but Julio was the same.

Chip Brooks — The Heartbeat

If Julio was the spine, Chip was the heartbeat.

Julio kept the Academy running behind the scenes. Chip was on the courts every day, feeding balls, correcting grips, drilling mechanics until they became muscle memory.

His authority came from rhythm. The endless feeds. The sharp eye that caught every flaw. He wasn't just another coach—he was the Academy's pulse.

He had a Kentucky drawl that stretched syllables into music.

Every morning on Court 1, he'd call out names. When he got to mine:

"PARMINtwan."

Not Parminuan. Not even close. PARMINtwan.

It became my name. Every day, throughout my Academy years.

Even thirty years later, at the reunion, he grinned and said it again: "PARMINtwan."

Chip's drills were relentless. Forehand. Backhand. Over and over until your legs burned and your lungs screamed. And then one more ball. Because Chip demanded endurance, not perfection. The ability to keep going when your body wanted to quit.

The Henderson Brothers — Discipline of Body and Spirit

Raymond and Mike Henderson were brothers who felt like opposites.

Raymond lived in the gym—strict, physical, tied to the grind of weights and conditioning. You saw him when you were pushing through reps, when the only way out was through.

Mike was everywhere else—in the condos, on the courts, in study hall. Religious, soft-spoken, protective. Cool, laid back, always had a smile. Super fit. He'd graduated from Carson-Newman College in 1979, a Little All-American in basketball.

At the Academy, he was the conditioning coach—the one who pushed us through agility drills and track runs until we thought we'd collapse.

Raymond: discipline of the body. Mike: discipline of spirit. Together, they framed the Academy's nights and off-court hours.

Carolina — The Line Between Order and Chaos

Carolina was the youngest, and the only woman in that core group of men who ran the Academy.

At the time, I thought she was mid-thirties. In truth, she was probably twenty-one, twenty-two.

She kept her distance because she was so close in age to us. That distance was her armor in a testosterone-charged world where weakness wasn't tolerated.

Clipboard in hand, posture straight, she didn't need to raise her voice. Her authority came from steadiness.

When she pressed the button on her walkie-talkie, things happened.

The Architecture

Together, they were the architecture of the Academy.

Nick: the vision. Julio: the spine. Chip: the heartbeat. The Hendersons: discipline of body and spirit. Carolina: the line between order and chaos.

Each one different. Each one essential.

Without them, the machine would have collapsed. With them, it never stopped.

Codes

My mother had insisted on one condition: if I was going to live in the dorms, I had to room with the older girls. The younger ones, she thought, were too wild, too much like me. The older girls, surely, would be more mature.

What her mother didn't realize was that the older girls were worse.

They had already mastered the tricks—sneaking out, bending curfew, finding ways to make the grind bearable with laughter and rebellion. They were sharper, bolder, and far less innocent than the younger ones.

For me, it was perfect. I was thrown into the deep end, surrounded by girls who could push me on the court and teach me the unspoken rules of survival off it.

It wasn't just training anymore. It was initiation.

The Code

At the Academy, we shared everything.

Clothes. Cassette tapes. Racquets when someone's broke mid-practice. Shampoo. Tampons. The last granola bar in someone's drawer at midnight when you were starving after evening drills.

It wasn't charity. It was survival.

But there was a code: you asked first. You returned it. You respected the code.

That's just how it worked. That's what made it work.

Without the code, we were just a bunch of kids fighting over scraps in a machine that didn't care if we made it or not.

Laundry Wars

Even laundry had its own code.

There was a row of washers and dryers in each building, always humming, always in use. Everyone had their quarters ready.

It was understood: you didn't leave your clothes sitting. Not in the washer. Not in the dryer. Too many kids, too few machines.

If you forgot, if you didn't watch the clock, your laundry wouldn't wait for you. Someone else would pull it out, set it aside, and move on.

It wasn't personal. It was survival.

One afternoon, I came down to find my clothes in a heap on the folding table. I'd been two minutes late. The girl who'd moved them didn't even look up.

I folded my clothes, loaded another batch, set a mental timer. I wouldn't be late again.

The Pool

After dinner, kids drifted toward the pool. Some broke into groups, inventing games, chasing each other until someone inevitably got tossed in—clothes and all.

The first time it happened to me, I surfaced sputtering, hair plastered to my face, shoes waterlogged. Raffy was doubled over laughing on the deck.

"Welcome to the Academy," someone yelled.

I climbed out, wrung out my shirt, and grinned. I belonged.

Phone Lines

Beside the pool stood a bank of public phones. There was always a line.

Some kids had calling cards. Others called collect. I called collect. I'd dial the number, wait for the operator's voice.

"Will you accept a collect call from Lisa?"

The voices on the other end—Mom, Dad, Sean—were a lifeline to a world that felt far away. But every call had a timer. You couldn't stay on long. There were always other kids waiting.

Mail call happened by the pool too. Envelopes and packages handed out, names called. A letter from home could change the whole mood of a day.

Prison Breaks

There was always a plan.

A whispered scheme to sneak out after lights-out—to the boys' dorms, or to the 7-Eleven down the road. It felt like a prison break, complete with lookouts and timing drills. The trick was to know when Tim or Stevie, the instructors, were patrolling.

The threat was clear: if you got caught, you could be kicked out.

That was the rule.

I had my own rule. I wouldn't go unless Jimmy or Carling were going. Because I knew the truth: Nick wasn't going to kick them out. They were untouchable. And if I was with them, I was untouchable too.

It wasn't fear that kept me in check. It was calculation. Even in the chaos of dorm life, I understood the hierarchy. I knew how to play the game.

The Kitchen Window

The afternoon lockdown was one of the Academy's strictest rules.

We had to be on the courts by 1:05 p.m. Before practice started, an instructor or security guard would walk through the condos, checking every room. Then they'd lock the doors. They stayed locked until practice was over.

It was getting hot. Really hot. The kind of Florida heat that made the air feel like a wet blanket pressed against your face.

Some of the girls had an idea.

The kitchen window could be opened from the inside. If someone stayed behind—hidden—they could unlock it after the check, pop out the screen, and escape to the courts through the window instead of being trapped inside.

They looked at me.

I was small. I could fit under the kitchen sink.

So that was the plan. I crawled underneath, wedged myself between the pipes. The girls stacked paper towels in front of me, blocking the view. One of them bent the window screen just slightly

—enough that we could pop it out later.

Then they left. I waited.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe longer. Hard to tell when you're folded up under a sink, barely breathing.

Then I heard the door.

Footsteps

They moved through the condo slowly, methodically. I heard them checking under beds, opening closets, looking anywhere a kid might hide.

My heart pounded. I didn't move.

The footsteps came closer. Paused. Moved on. Then the front door closed. The lock clicked. Footsteps going down the stairs. Fading.

I waited another minute. Maybe two.

Then I unfolded myself from under the sink, unlocked the window, popped out the screen, climbed through, locked the window behind me, and sprinted to the courts.

Made it.

The machine had rules. But we had codes.

The Cover

One night, Gina hadn't made it back yet. The whispers started, panic spreading through the dorm. Steve, one of the coaches, was on the stadium court, and if he asked, I was supposed to cover.

The deal was simple: "Just say you saw her. Say she's on her way."

I had always told myself I wouldn't lie. But that night, I did. I said what needed to be said. I bought Gina time.

It wasn't about breaking rules. It was about survival. About loyalty. About understanding that at Nick's, the rules were never as clear as they seemed.

The Unspoken Rules

The codes weren't written down anywhere.

You learned them by watching. By making mistakes. By being corrected—sometimes gently, sometimes not.

You learned when to keep your head down and when to speak up.

You learned who to trust and who to avoid.

You learned that loyalty mattered more than honesty, and that the hierarchy was real even if no one acknowledged it out loud.

You learned that survival wasn't just about tennis.

It was about understanding the system. Navigating the codes.

Knowing when to bend and when to hold your ground.

And you learned that the machine didn't care if you figured it out or not.

It just kept turning.

Whether you kept up was your problem.

How The Ball Bounces

The routine had become automatic.

The alarm went off at six-thirty. I rolled out of the bottom bunk, feet hitting beige carpet.

Raffy was already moving above me, rustling through her bag. Ei folded her sheets with precision. Another student was trying to finish homework that was due.

We had thirty minutes to get dressed and get to the cafeteria.

Breakfast was the same as always. Bagel, peanut butter and jelly, orange juice. I ate fast. By eight we were supposed to be on the courts.

Morning Drills

At 8:05, we were on the court next to Stadium, stretching. Hamstrings, quads, shoulders, wrists. The sun already warm, the air already thick.

By 8:30, we moved to Stadium Court.

Steve was already running the drill. Same rhythm as every morning. No errors. Next ball before you'd finished thinking about the last one.

Nick stepped behind me. I could feel him there, just off to the side, watching my footwork, my preparation, my follow-through.

"Get under the ball," he said. "Under." I adjusted. Next ball, got under it more. "That's it," he said. "Again."

I hit another. Better contact. Cleaner. "Good. Next."

The next player stepped up to the baseline. Nick moved on.

No name. Just "next." That's how it worked. You were part of the drill, part of the machine. Not special. Not singled out. Just next. At nine, we switched to volleys. Approach shots, split-step,

punch the volley deep. Then two-on-two volley drills—quick hands, sharp reflexes, communication with your partner.

The sun climbed higher. My shirt stuck to my back. At 9:30, Nick clapped his hands. "OK, next group."

We grabbed our racquets and water bottles and left the court. The guys were already waiting at the fence, ready to take our place.

One of the other instructors was waiting at the edge of the courts. He divided us up for match play—pairing us by level, by who needed what, by who Nick wanted tested.

We moved to the other courts. Singles matches. Scratch matches

—no score kept for tournaments, just rankings within the Academy. Who got court time. Who got Nick's attention. Who moved up to Stadium Court permanently.

Match play went well. I won in straight sets. By eleven, we were done.

Lunch

Same cafeteria. Same setup.

Sandwich, chips, water. Sat with Raffy and Ei.

The conversation drifted—someone's match, someone's blister, someone's family visiting next week.

I stayed quiet. Listened. Ate.

At some point, Raffy glanced at me. "You doing okay?" "Yeah," I said, yawning. "I just could not sleep."

She nodded. Didn't push.

No one asked why I was here. No one asked about the tourna-ment I'd withdrawn from a few weeks ago. It was just accepted. I was here now. That was enough.

Afternoon Courts

By 1:05, we were back on the courts.

More drills. More matches. Different focus—strategy now, patterns.

At 4:30, conditioning. Agility drills first. Cones lined up across

the court, the whistle sharp, the rhythm unforgiving. We sprinted forward, shuffled sideways, backpedaled, lunged. Over and over. The Florida sun pressed down, sweat stinging my eyes, the clay dust sticking to my socks.

It wasn't just exercise. It was survival. Every drill was a race—who could finish first, who would get called out for slowing down. No one wanted to be last. You could feel it in the way kids pushed past their limits, lungs heaving, faces tight with effort.

Then the mile on the track. The air was heavy, the heat relent-less. We weren't running to get through it. We were running to be the best. Every stride was proof, every lap a contest. No one slowed. No one stopped.

By the time we finished, the competition itself was the point. It wasn't about aching or fatigue—it was about proving you belonged, proving you could keep pace with the machine.

The Shortcut

It was a Thursday. Three weeks in. Maybe four.

I'd been working out with Raymond Henderson in the weight room—learning how to tape my ankles properly, how to build strength without bulk, how to protect the parts of my body that were already starting to hurt.

When I finished, I needed to get back to the dorm before dinner.

The quickest route was through the study hall.

I walked out of the indoor center, crossed the parking lot where Nick's car sat in its usual spot. His office was next to the study hall—I could see the low building ahead, fluorescent lights already glowing inside even though study hall didn't start for another hour.

Study hall had two doors. South and north.

I headed for the north door, planning to cut straight through to the walkway that led to the dorms.

But as I got closer, I heard voices. Nick's gravelly voice. Unmistakable.

And Ted. He'd been at the Colony years ago, then left for law

school. Now he was back, working for Nick—not on the courts anymore, but as his lawyer, handling the business side.

They were standing just outside the study hall, between the building and the tennis courts. There was a walkway there—hidden by bushes, out of sight from most angles.

I slowed.

I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. But I couldn't help it.

Nick's voice was tight. Frustrated. "This is not going to work. If her parents don't stop interfering, it's not going to work."

A pause.

Ted's voice: "You mean, Lisa."

"Yes." Short. Clipped. "They won't let her go to the Bahamas. They should stick to being parents. If they're gonna interfere, then I can't help her. It's fine if she wants to stay here and train, but that's it."

Ted murmured something I couldn't make out. I tried to get closer, but then they would see me. I stood there, frozen, my heart pounding.

Instead of walking out in front of them, I turned around and went the long way.

By the time I got to the dorm, I could not stop crying.

The Bahamas

The next week, everyone left.

Raffy, Carling Bassett, Pamela Casale, Vanessa, Jill Hethering-ton. Some of the boys too. About ten kids total, all expenses paid, flying to Nassau for a professional exhibition.

Nick was sending players. Everyone knew some top-ten-ranked players were in the mix. Good exposure. A chance to see what that level looked like up close.

I told everyone my parents wouldn't let me go. I didn't tell them what I'd overheard.

For a week, I trained with kids from other groups. Younger play-ers. Older players who weren't quite good enough for Stadium

Court. The rhythm stayed the same—wake, breakfast, drills, lunch, courts, conditioning, dinner, study hall, lights out—but the faces were different.

It felt like being demoted without being told.

The Hat

When everyone came back, they were tan and loud and full of stories.

I was sitting on the pool deck when they arrived. Raffy found me first, grinning, but Richard was with her.

Richard Schick. Raffy's boyfriend. From New Jersey. Maybe twenty years old. He was at the Academy too—not training full-time, just visiting, around.

He walked over, tossed something at me.

"Hey kiddo," he said. "You missed a great trip." I caught it. A hat.

Not a touristy hat with "Bahamas" stitched across the front. A legit hat. Simple, clean, the kind you'd actually wear.

"Thanks," I said.

He shrugged, grinned. "Figured you should have something from it."

I wore that hat everywhere after that. To the pool. Around the dorms. It became part of my uniform, a small claim of identity in a place built for sameness.

But every time I put it on, I thought about what I'd overheard.

If her parents don't stop interfering, it's not going to work. They should stick to being parents.

It's fine if she wants to stay here and train, but that's it.

I understood what it meant now.

Nick would give me court time. He'd teach me. He'd put me on Stadium Court and correct my form and tell me I was doing well.

But he wasn't going to get between a student and the parent.

Even if the student wanted it.

I still had my scholarship. I still had a place here.

But the doors he could open—the tournaments, the opportuni-

ties, the connections—those required full commitment. And if my parents were going to block access, Nick wasn't going to waste his resources pushing.

It wasn't personal.

It was just how the ball bounces.

Dinner, Study Hall, Lights Out

The days kept moving.

Dinner in the cafeteria. Raffy's laugh cutting through the noise.

Trays clattering into the return window.

Study hall with Chip Brooks at the front, stopwatch ticking, wooden door creaking open and closed as he paced the aisles. The fluorescent lights buzzing. Pages turning. Silence enforced.

Lights out at ten-thirty. The fan pushed warm air in slow circles.

Someone down the hall was already asleep. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. Granny and Grandpa were in Michigan. That's what I told myself.

Not gone. Just far away. And I was here.

In the rhythm. In the machine.

Learning what it cost to belong.

The Mental Game

I was fourteen when Valerie came to the Academy.

Not as a full-timer. She was a day student—living off campus, going to school at Bradenton Academy, training at Nick's during the day. She had a car. Freedom I didn't have. A life outside the gates.

But everyone knew who she was.

She was the one to beat in the midwest. She'd started playing at six. When I started she had already been winning tournaments. By the time I got good, she was already dominant. Her lobs would

bounce over my head. Her consistency wore me down. Her experi-ence buried me.

12-0. That was the record.

And she made sure everyone at the Academy knew it.

The Tournament

There was a tournament at the Academy that spring. Good players from all over Florida, plus the Academy kids. I saw Valerie's name in the draw. We were seeded to meet in the quarterfinals if we both won our matches.

And we did.

She cruised through her side of the draw. I cruised through mine.

The day before our match, I was in the cafeteria when I heard her voice carry across the room.

"Yeah, I've never lost to her," Valerie was saying, loud enough for half the tables to hear. "Not once. Twelve and oh."

She wasn't being mean. Just stating a fact. Laughing with the group of girls around her—Academy kids, local players, everyone drawn to her easy confidence.

I kept my head down, stabbing at my food.

Seriously? I thought. We're playing each other in the quarters?

Raffy, sitting across from me, caught my eye. She threw her hands up. "Oh, commmme onnnnn. You cannot be serious. You are going to kill her."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Duude." She leaned forward. "You are going to kill her."

I didn't answer. But something in Raffy's voice—steady, certain, almost annoyed that I'd doubt myself.

The Morning Of

I woke up before the alarm. Not nervous. Just ready.

By the time I got to breakfast, I was already mentally on the

court. I grabbed a bagel with peanut butter and jelly, toasted. Coffee. Raffy sat next to me.

"Are you ready?" "Of course."

She grinned. Didn't need to say anything else.

After breakfast, we filed toward the courts. The draw was posted, matches lined up. Coaches stood with clipboards, calling names.

And then I heard it—Chip Brooks' voice, stretching syllables into music the way only he could:

"PARM-in-twan… you're up. Court 3."

It was the same mispronunciation he'd used every morning for years, but now it carried a different weight. Not just warm-ups. Not just drills. This was a match. A chance to rewrite history.

I nodded, stepped forward, racket bag slung over my shoulder. Court 3. Valerie.

The Match

The court wasn't Stadium Court. Nick wouldn't have put it there. I was expected to win. Valerie was the newbie here—day student, not a full-timer. It didn't matter that she was 12-0 against me. That was two years ago. A mental block. Ancient history.

I shouldn't have lost to her back then. Now? Now I was going to prove it.

The match was on one of the back courts. Hardcourt. Nothing special.

I walked onto the court at ten a.m. The sun already high, the air thick with Florida heat. Valerie was already there, stretching at the net. She looked up when I walked in, smiled.

"Hey, Lisa."

"Hey."

No edge in her voice. No trash talk. Just Valerie, confident, relaxed, ready to make it 13-0.

We warmed up. Forehands crosscourt, backhands, volleys,

serves. My hands were steady. I gripped the racket, felt the weight of it, the familiar texture of the grip.

Some of the Academy kids gathered on the benches outside the court. I saw Raffy. She nodded once. Steady.

I saw Michael. He caught my eye, grinned. "You got this." I nodded.

The umpire—one of the coaches—called us to the net for the coin toss. Valerie won. She chose to serve.

Well, that was stupid of her.

Everyone knew my return game was better than my serve. That's what Nick had drilled into me for two years. Attack the return. Take it early. Don't give your opponent time to set up.

Valerie had her forehand. Heavy topspin, safe, reliable. I had my backhand. Flat, angled, the weapon Nick had praised and sketched for his book.

She had lobs. Those damn lobs that used to bounce over my head when I was ten.

But not anymore.

Just don't look at her, I told myself. Don't look. Play your game. Play patterns till you have the opening. You know what to do. When she lobs, take it out of the air. She can't bounce it over your head if you take it out of the air.

First Game

Valerie served. I stepped in, took the return early, drove it deep to her backhand. She floated it back—safe, high, defensive.

I moved forward. Hit my approach shot down the line. Winner. 0-15.

Next point. She hit one of her famous lobs. I tracked it. Took it out of the air with a backhand swinging volley.

0-30.

I could see it register on her face. A flicker of surprise. The lobs weren't going to work this time.

Valerie served again. I attacked. Crosscourt return to her fore-hand. She hit it back with topspin. I absorbed the pace, flattened it

out, sent it back low and hard. Long rally till I found an opening. She netted it—forced error.

0-40.

By 0-40, I could feel the rhythm settling in. This wasn't the old matches. This wasn't me scrambling, defending, hoping. This was me controlling the court. Taking balls early. Dictating play.

Valerie double-faulted. First game: at Love.

First Set

The pattern continued. Valerie would serve. I'd attack the return, move forward and hit a swinging backhand volley or angle a ball crosscourt to her backhand to take her out wide to open up the court for the next shot.

When I served, I kept it simple. Get the first serve in. Make her play. Let the patterns do the work.

At 3-1, Valerie tried to change tactics. She started hitting her forehand harder, going for more angles. But I'd seen this before. Nick had drilled it into me: when opponents get aggressive out of desperation, stay patient. Let them make the errors.

She did. Forehand wide. Forehand long. Backhand into the net. At 5-2, I was serving for the set. Valerie fought. Extended rallies.

Made me earn it. But I didn't back down. I kept the ball deep, waited for the short ball, moved forward, finished.

At 40-30, set point, I served down the T. She returned it cross-court. I stepped around my forehand—not my usual play, but I felt it—and ripped it down the line.

Winner. First set: 6-2.

Second Set

Valerie came out sharper. She knew what was at stake now. If I won this match, 12-0 was over.

She held her first service game. 1-0.

I held mine. 1-1.

The set stayed tight for a few games. We traded holds. She tried to junk the ball.

But I wasn't worried. I'd been here before. Two years at the Academy, drilling every day, learning to play patterns, learning to wait for the opening.

At 3-3, Valerie hit another one of her lobs.

Seriously?

Took it out of the air. Done. Next.

Between points, I told myself, look at my strings. And during the point, look for the writing on the ball.

I broke her serve that game. 4-3.

Switch sides. Remember the wind. You can hit harder on this side—against the wind.

Held mine. 5-3.

Now to break her serve. Play point at a time.

She fought. Made me work for every point. But at 30-40, match point, she hit her forehand—her weapon, the shot she'd beaten me with twelve times—and I stepped in. Took it on the rise. Hit my backhand—flat, angled, low—crosscourt into the open court.

She ran. Got her racket on it. But the ball sailed long. Match over.

6-2, 6-3.

After

Valerie walked to the net. She didn't look angry. Didn't look crushed. Just... surprised.

She gave me a limp handshake and a quick, "Nice match." I nodded. Didn't know what to say.

She gathered up her racquet bag, towel, and Igloo quickly and left. I could see she didn't want to talk to her mother. Her mother had been sitting on the bench the whole match—clipboard in hand, marking down each point. Tracking every error, every winner, every pattern. The way tennis parents do when they're invested in the outcome.

Valerie walked right past her.

I looked around. Michael was there. He grinned. "Raffy left after the first set," he said, laughing. "She said she was bored."

I smirked.

"I said you were going to win. No problem here."

Later

That night at dinner, Raffy walked in waving one finger in the air. "Noooo moorrrre, noooo moorrrre," she sang, rolling her R like

music. "No mooorrrre twelve and ohhh!"

Her voice carried across the cafeteria, playful and certain, like a chant.

We laughed and I said, "No more."

Something had shifted. Not just the record. Not just beating Valerie.

I could see my groundstrokes and volleys had improved, but this was the first time I had evidence that I was also mentally tougher. The Academy had built that. Nick had built that.

And now, everyone knew it. Including me.

We never played each other again after that. The draw always put us in different sections. Different tournaments. Different paths.

12-1.

That's where the record stayed. Forever.

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