She's back ~ L. Hamilton

124.| Expectations

A/n: there's been a few updates today so just make sure you have read the ones before hand so you don't get spoiled!!!!

The changing room is quieter after the match.

Not empty—just quieter. The noise from the stadium still hums somewhere beyond the walls. The air is cooler, calmer. Still.

I sit on the bench, one leg tucked under me, towel draped loosely around my shoulders. My racket is on the floor where I dropped it, slightly out of reach. I haven't bothered picking it up.

There's a knock at the door.

It's quieter than I expect. Careful.

I don't say anything.

The door opens anyway.

I glance up.

My dad stands in the doorway like he's unsure if he should be there. His gaze flickers around the room looking for me, before his eyes settle on me.

He shuffles awkwardly into the room, shutting the door behind him.

We haven't seen each other in months. Not properly. Not like this.

For a second, neither of us moves.

"Hi," he says.

It sounds... wrong. Not in a bad way. Just unfamiliar, like we're playing parts we haven't rehearsed.

"Hi."

He doesn't come too close at first, like there's an invisible line he's not sure he's allowed to cross.

His eyes flick briefly to the racket on the floor, the towel around my shoulders, the general evidence of everything that just happened.

"You played well," he says.

"Thanks"

He nods, like he expected that answer, then hesitates again. There's something in his hands—a book. Old. Worn at the edges like it's been opened and closed more times than it should have been.

"How are you -"

"Dad" I cut him off "we've never been close, not in a bad way or anything, we just haven't. I haven't seen you in months, I've gone years without seeing you. We're not close, and we really don't need to pretend to be now

He pauses, fidgeting with the book in his hands "that's fair, that's what I expected I suppose"

"What are you even doing here?" I ask "you weren't in the players box?"

"I came straight from the airport, only managed to catch the last round, watched from the general section" he says and I nod

"And you're here cause" I trail off, motioning to the room we were awkwardly sitting in.

He looks at it for a second before holding the book in his hands out to me.

"Marco wanted you to have this."

That makes me look at him properly.

"What is it?"

"He..." My dad exhales quietly, like even explaining this is heavier than he wants it to be. "We wrote it. A long time ago."

I take it from him, turning it over in my hands. It's plain. No title. No marking. Just a notebook, really.

It clicks

"This is the book?" I ask.

He nods.

The book.

The one I wasn't allowed to see. The one that was always just out of reach growing up, no matter how many times I asked.