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“There it is,” Drew says from the sideline, his voice carrying across the court. I turn to see him nodding, his arms still folded. “That’s the version of you we brought you here for.”

“Hey, whose side are you on?” Adala quips.

“Katie’s. We’re her coaches.”

Adala laughs, and the sound finally helps me relax. I’m reminded that while the Kensington Classic is only two weeks away, the world won’t end if today isn’t perfect. Adala and Drew are my advocates. They’re here for me. And I suspect that in the long run, they’ll become my London family too.

I reset my feet and call for the next ball. This time, I’m ready for it.

Twenty-Seven

By the following Tuesday, the sting of what happened at the pub has dulled. Max and I still text each other to check in, but the conversations are careful and painfully polite. Like two people trying not to press on a bruise just to see if it still hurts.

Most of our conversations look something like this now:

Katie

Did you get at least six hours’ sleep?

Max

Yes.

Katie

Good.

Max

Did you make it home all right?

Katie

I did.

Katie

Did you get lunch?

Max

Going now.

I’ve tried to be respectful and give him space, but there is so much I’ve wanted to tell him or ask his advice on. Like getting a second opinion on flats. Instead, I’ve had to rely entirely on my unofficial older brother, Theo.

“We’ve ruled out South London. The Leytonstone flat is still a contender. Where is it that you’re heading today? West or North London?” Theo asks over the line.

“Richmond. I think that’s technically West London? I’ve lost track.” I’m currently slumped in the corner seat of a nearly empty District line carriage.

Richmond, like Stratford, is a suburb of London, about a half hour from the city center. Just the opposite direction. “Is it a good area?” I ask. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Yes,” Theo says, sounding like he’s shifting into that authoritative, data-driven gear. “Think of it like the Winter Park of Orlando. A large green area. More village-like than Leytonstone.”

I love it when Theo provides me with a visual I can actually understand, which isn’t all that often. When you’re a world-renowned roller-coaster engineer, you tend to view the world in terms of things that are entirely too engineering-centric.

Winter Park isn’t Orlando. At least not the version most tourists know. It’s quieter, older, and, in my opinion, much prettier, with brick streets, oak trees, and little cafés and boutiques. It feels like the kind of place you settle into instead of just passing through. I’ve been hoping to find something like that here.

“Good to know,” I say, watching the graffiti-covered buildings gradually give way to pockets of streets lined with trees and small parks.