Miguel’s expression changed.
“Harrison.”
“What?”
“The juniors are due on court.”
“Five minutes.”
Harrison bounced a ball.
He looked at Jamal.
“You want to hit?”
Several people nearby turned.
Not everyone.
Enough.
Jamal felt his stomach tighten.
He knew this kind of moment.
Not this exact one.
Different versions.
Adults asking him to prove something because they had already decided what his answer should be.
At a park two years earlier, a man told him:
“Show me a real serve.”
At school, a coach once said:
“You sure tennis is your sport?”
At a sporting-goods store, a clerk recommended beginner rackets even after Jamal told him exactly what string tension he used.
None of those incidents were tragedies.
That was almost the point.
Small assumptions accumulated quietly.
Harrison tossed him a ball.
“First to three points.”
Jamal caught it.
Miguel stepped closer.
“You don’t have to.”
Harrison heard.
“Of course he doesn’t.”
He smiled toward Jamal.
“I’m just giving him a chance to say he beat Harrison Cole.”
Preston laughed.
Charles too.
Jamal looked at Harrison.
“Three points?”
“Three.”
“Serve or return?”
The question changed Harrison’s expression slightly.
“You serve.”
Jamal nodded.
He walked to the baseline.
Miguel looked at him.
Really looked.
Something about the way Jamal adjusted his grip made Miguel’s eyes narrow.
Not a beginner.
Jamal bounced the ball four times.
Harrison stood near the opposite baseline, loose and confident.
He had played tennis for forty years.
Club champion twice.
Still competed in regional senior events.
Not professional.
Very good.
He expected a child’s serve.
Fast maybe.
Wild.
The kind talented kids hit when they want adults to notice speed more than placement.
Jamal tossed.
His motion was compact.
Left shoulder turned.
Knees loaded.
Racket dropped behind his back.
Then accelerated cleanly through contact.
The ball kicked wide into the service box and jumped shoulder-high off the clay.
Harrison barely touched it.
The return flew into the fence.
Silence.
Not complete.
A few people kept talking.
But everyone watching the point stopped.
Jamal looked toward Miguel.
Miguel’s mouth had opened.
Harrison stared at the mark in the clay.
“Lucky serve.”
Jamal said nothing.
Harrison retrieved another ball.
“Again.”
Jamal bounced.
Second serve.
This one went down the T.
Less pace.
More precision.
Harrison reached it.
Returned deep crosscourt.
Good ball.
Jamal moved early.
Split step.
Two quick adjustment steps.
Forehand.
Heavy topspin into Harrison’s backhand corner.
Harrison recovered.
Backhand slice.
Short.
Jamal moved forward immediately.
Not rushed.
Recognizing.
He took the ball above the net and sent a controlled forehand behind Harrison.
Winner.
Two-zero.
A man behind the fence whispered:
“Jesus.”
Jamal heard.
He pretended not to.
Harrison’s smile had disappeared.
Miguel folded his arms.
“Jamal.”
The boy looked over.
“Where did you learn that?”
“Public courts.”
Miguel almost laughed.
“No.”
Jamal looked down.
Harrison stepped to the baseline.