The thwack of tennis balls echoed across the courts, sharp and rhythmic — until, as always, a rugby ball came hurtling over the wire fence and landed with a crack right in the middle of Court Three.
Jiji froze mid-serve, her racket hanging loose in her hand. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
On the field beyond, a chorus of laughter broke out. She could spot them instantly — Gerard Gibson and his gang of idiots: Hughie Biggs, Johnny Kavanagh, Patrick Feely. The so-called golden lads of the rugby team.
“Oi, Gibson!” she shouted, storming toward the fence. “You planning to ruin every practice this week, or is this a new record?”
Gerard was already jogging over, grin in place, eyes bright with mischief. “Relax, princess. Just a stray ball.”
“Stray ball my arse! That’s the third one today!”
He leaned against the fence, shoulders still heaving from practice, the picture of lazy confidence. “Maybe the universe is tryin’ to tell you somethin’. Like to move your court somewhere else.”
“You’re impossible,” she snapped.
“And you’re loud,” he shot back, but his grin softened a fraction. He liked when she got like this — flushed, furious, eyes blazing. It was better than anyone else yelling his name on match day.
“Maybe if you could actually control the bloody thing—”
He sighed dramatically and stepped through the gate onto the tennis side. “Alright, alright. You win, yeah? We’ll practice our aim next time.”
“Good,” she said, crossing her arms, though her heart sped up at how close he’d gotten.
He tilted his head, smirking. “You know, you’ve been at me since we were twelve. Thought you’d have run out of insults by now.”
“Maybe I’d have stopped if you and your gorilla friends stopped wrecking our courts!”
“Gorilla friends, is it?” he laughed, then added, quieter, “You really think I’m not strong enough to play, aye?”
Jiji blinked, thrown by the sudden shift in his tone. “I said you— you probably couldn’t even pick me up, that’s all.”
For a heartbeat, something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Then, before she could take a step back, he moved.
In one easy motion, Gerard bent, hooked an arm under her legs, and lifted her clean off the ground — one-handed.
“Gerard—!” she gasped, hands flying to his shoulders. The world tilted, her racket clattering to the court.
He stood there, holding her effortlessly, a small grin curling his mouth. “Still think I’m not strong enough, lass?”
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. Her heart thudded hard against her ribs, a wild, dizzy rhythm. No one had ever picked her up like that — not without hesitation, not without complaint. And the look on his face wasn’t mockery; it was something warmer. Something dangerous.
Her throat tightened. “Put me down,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure she meant it.
He didn’t move right away. His gaze searched hers, careful, steady. Then, softly — not teasing this time — he said, “Are ya happy now, lass?”
Something in her chest cracked open. All the noise, the anger, the years of being too much — it just… fell away.
She stared at him, eyes wide and glassy, caught between confusion and relief.
Gerard smiled faintly, lowering her back to the ground like she was made of glass. When her feet touched the court, she still couldn’t look away.
“Didn’t think so,” he murmured, voice rough with something almost tender. “But I’ll get there.”
And before she could speak, he was already walking back toward the field, rugby ball under his arm — leaving Jiji standing there, breathless, holding her racket like it was the only thing keeping her upright.