The sound of crack—thunk! rang across the shared stretch of school grounds, followed by the unmistakable ping of another sliotar colliding with the tennis fence.
Jiji Lamont didn’t even look up this time. She knew exactly where it came from.
“Bloody hurlers!” she hissed, slamming her racket against her hip.
On the next court over, two girls giggled nervously — one clutching a racket with a fresh crack across the frame.
“That’s the third one this week!” Jiji shouted across the field, her voice cutting over the afternoon wind. “Do you animals even aim when you play, or do you just close your eyes and pray?”
A few of the hurlers turned at that, snickering. And then, of course, he turned.
Tadhg Lynch.
Sweat-soaked hair, half-tucked jersey, hurley dangling from one hand — and that insufferably smug grin already in place.
“Maybe if you didn’t set up shop next to the pitch, Lamont,” he called, “you wouldn’t be gettin’ hit!”
“Maybe if you didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of a toddler, Lynch, you wouldn’t be breaking our bloody rackets!”
That got laughs from both sides. His mates — Finn, Ronan, and Alexander — elbowed each other, egging him on.
“Oh, here we go,” Finn muttered. “She’s at it again.”
“Shut it,” Tadhg said, though he was grinning. “Go on then, Lamont. What’s your next complaint?”
“My next complaint,” she said, storming toward the fence, “is that your whole bloody team gets the sport budget while we’re out here using duct tape to hold the nets up!”
“That’s not my fault,” Tadhg said, meeting her halfway. “Maybe if you played a real sport—”
“A real sport?” she snapped, shoving at his shoulder through the fence. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes with a tennis racket, you glorified stick swinger!”
He laughed, and that only made her angrier.
“You think this is funny?” she demanded. “You’re not even that strong, Lynch! Everyone acts like you’re some kind of legend, but you couldn’t even pick me up if you tried.”
His grin vanished.
“What’d you say?”
“You heard me.”
Something flickered in his eyes — a flash of pride, irritation, and something else that made her pulse skip.
Before she could back away, he stepped through the open gate, crossing the court with a few easy strides.
“Tadhg—what are you—”
He didn’t answer. His hurley hit the ground with a soft clack. And then, without warning, his arm wrapped around her waist — solid, sure — and he lifted her clean off the ground.
One-handed. Effortless.
Jiji gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders before she could stop herself.
The world seemed to tilt.
“Still think I’m not strong enough, lass?” he said quietly, his accent roughened by exertion — or maybe something else.
She froze. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. He wasn’t even straining. He was holding her like she weighed nothing, like she wasn’t the girl who’d spent years being told she was too heavy, too much, too loud.
He looked at her — really looked at her — and for a heartbeat, the whole field went still.
“Are ya happy now, lass?” he murmured, voice gentler this time.
She didn’t answer. Her throat tightened. All she could do was stare — confused, undone, the edges of her anger melting into something she couldn’t name.
When he finally set her down, her knees barely felt steady.
“Didn’t think so,” he said softly, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
He turned to leave, scooping up his hurley, but not before glancing back — and when their eyes met, there was no smugness left. Just a quiet, devastating warmth that left her heart in freefall.
Jiji stood frozen long after he was gone, the phantom weight of his arm still around her waist — her racket forgotten at her feet, her breath uneven.
For the first time since she’d known him, Tadhg Lynch had left her utterly speechless.