Six years have passed.
The cramped house near the public courts is a ghost now. We moved to a city where no one knows my father's name—or his debts. But the "Green Mask" didn't stay behind; he just became a shadow. Every time a car idles too long outside our apartment, I see my father's hands shake. Every time I hit a double fault in practice, I feel the interest on those old sins accruing in my chest.
I am fifteen now. My shoulders have broadened, and my serve, once a desperate prayer, has turned into a 120 mph statement of intent.
The Qualifier: Marseille, France
The air in this indoor arena is biting, smelling of industrial heaters and old dust. This isn't the grand stage; this is the "Challenger" circuit—the shark tank where you fight for the scraps of points needed to turn pro.
Across the net stands a man ten years older than me. He has scarred knees and eyes that look like they haven't slept in a week. He needs the prize money for rent.
The score is locked in the third set. My breath plumes in the cold air like smoke. I don't have to look to know where my father is; he's tucked into the highest, darkest corner of the stands. It's a habit he's developed—staying invisible so he isn't found.
The opponent lobs a desperate, high ball—the exact kind of "pressure" shot that used to make my nine-year-old heart fail.
In the old days, I would have felt the "clock" ticking. I would have swung with a tight throat, praying the ball stayed in.
But today, I don't see a tennis ball. I see the face of the man who stood outside my door. I see the way my father looked when he thought he was going to die in front of me.
I don't just hit the overhead smash. I execute it.
The ball strikes the court with a crack that echoes like a gunshot. It screams off the surface, bouncing so high it nearly clips the rafters.
"Game, set, and match—Roki."
As I pack my bags in the near-empty locker room, a shadow falls over my bench. I expect my father, ready to tell me I did "good enough."
Instead, I see a pair of high-end, sponsored sneakers. I look up. A tall, lean guy is leaning against the locker next to mine. His blonde hair is cropped short now, and his eyes are sharper, but I'd know that "small smile" anywhere.
"You're still telegraphing that drop shot, Roki," the voice says.
It's Luke Caine.
He isn't the kid from the public courts anymore. He's the world #12, the "Golden Boy" of the tour. He looks at my frayed racquet bag and my generic shoes, then straight into my eyes—the eyes of someone who is still starving.
"I've been tracking you through the brackets," Luke says, his voice turning serious. "I knew you'd make it here eventually. But the players on the main tour? They don't just play for points. They play for legacies."
He reaches into his bag and tosses a gold-embossed business card onto my bench. It's for a high-stakes management firm.
"My father says you're a liability because of your 'family history,'" Luke says calmly. "I told him you're the only person I'm actually afraid to play. Get your points. I'll see you at the French Open."
The Vow
As Luke walks away, my father enters. He looks so much older now, his hair almost entirely grey. He spots the card on the bench.
"Who was that?" he asks, his voice thin and hopeful. "Was that an agent?"
I stand up, towering over him for the first time in my life. I take the card, rip it in half, and drop it into the metal bin. I don't need a manager to tell my story. I don't need a "Golden Boy" to give me a map.
"Just someone I'm going to overtake," I tell him.
I pick up my bag, feeling the weight of the graphite—no longer a burden, but a weapon. I walk toward the exit, not because someone is watching the clock, but because I am the one who decides when time is up.
"Let's go, Father. We have work to do."