The crack of a hurley echoed across the field, followed by a distant thunk and a curse that carried on the wind.

Jiji Lamont didn’t even have to look up. She knew that sound — the telltale flight of yet another stray sliotar flying off course and into her tennis court.

Her racket hit the ground with a frustrated smack. “For God’s sake!” she shouted, glaring across the fence. “Can’t you hurlers keep your bloody balls to yourselves?”

Across the way, Joey Lynch turned, still holding his hurley, his hair sticking up from sweat and the wind. He looked half amused, half guilty. “It’s called practice, Lamont. We can’t help if you lot built your little princess court next to a man’s field.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” she fired back, marching toward the fence. “You couldn’t hit a target if your life depended on it.”

He grinned — that infuriating, slow grin that had gotten him out of trouble his whole life. “Jealous you’re not the target, love?”

“I’d rather be dead,” she hissed.

Alec Dempsey and Podge Kelly snickered from behind him, whispering something crude that made Joey smirk wider.

“Why don’t you lot go pester someone else?” Jiji said, grabbing the sliotar that had rolled near her foot. “You break one more racket, and I swear I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Joey teased, stepping closer to the fence. “You gonna whack me with your wee racquet, is that it?”

“I’ll whack you with the whole bloody net if I have to.”

Her teammates were watching now — half entertained, half mortified — as Joey leaned on the fence between them, cocky as ever.

“You talk a big game, Lamont,” he said, his voice dipping low. “But you don’t really mean half of it, do ya?”

“I mean every word,” she snapped. “You’re not even that strong, Lynch. You couldn’t even pick me up if you tried.”

It was supposed to be a jab — something sharp enough to make him back off. But instead, something flickered in his eyes.

He stepped through the open gate before she could blink.

“Wanna bet?” he said.

“Joey—”

And before she could finish, his arm was around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground — one-handed, effortless, like she weighed nothing.

The air left her lungs in a startled gasp. Her racket clattered to the court.

He wasn’t even straining. Not one muscle trembling.

“Still think I’m not strong enough, lass?” His voice was low now, rough at the edges, the teasing almost gone.

Jiji froze. Her heartbeat was a wild, uneven thing. No one had ever lifted her like that — no one could. Every word her parents had ever said, every cruel whisper from past boyfriends — too much, too heavy, too loud — scattered like dust.

And Joey Lynch, with his muddy boots and cocky grin, was holding her like she was the softest thing in the world.

“Are ya happy now, lass?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her throat tightened, her gaze caught on his — confused, broken, and somehow… relieved.

He studied her, his smirk faltering when he saw the look on her face — all that fire gone quiet.

“Jiji,” he said, softer now. “Hey.”

She blinked, snapping out of it. “Put me down, Lynch.”

He did — gently, like he was afraid she’d shatter if he didn’t.

For a second, neither spoke. Then, with a weak attempt at bravado, she muttered, “You’re still a pain in the ass.”

Joey grinned again, but his voice was softer. “Aye. But now you know I can lift one too.”

He turned, heading back to the field, his lads snickering behind him. But when he glanced over his shoulder, he found her still watching him — cheeks flushed, hand pressed to her chest, like she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

And maybe neither could he.