The thud of rugby balls echoed across the pitch, followed by shouts and laughter. Every time one of those bloody things went rogue, it ended up on the tennis courts — always her court.

Jiji Lamont caught the latest ball mid-bounce, glaring across the fence toward the field where Patrick Feely and his mates were practicing. The smug bastard was laughing with Johnny Kavanagh, like the sound of breaking rackets wasn’t the bane of her existence.

“Feely!” she shouted, throwing the ball hard enough that it sailed over the fence and landed near his feet. “Keep your bloody cannonballs to yourself!”

Patrick looked up, still grinning. “Maybe if you could aim, you’d be playin’ a real sport, Lamont!”

“Oh, piss off!” she snapped. “You wouldn’t know coordination if it hit you in the head — which, frankly, I’m praying for.”

That got the lads laughing. Hughie let out a low whistle. “Feely, I think she fancies you, mate!”

Patrick just smirked, jogging toward the fence. “Fancies me? She’s been lookin’ at me like that since we were ten.”

“Yeah — like I want to kill you!” Jiji shot back, marching over to meet him. Her ponytail bounced, fury glowing in her eyes. “You think you’re so tough, just ‘cause you play rugby and spend all your time showin’ off? You’re not even that strong.”

Patrick arched a brow. “Not that strong, huh?”

“You couldn’t even pick me up if you tried,” she said before she could stop herself.

The words hung there, bold and reckless.

Patrick’s grin turned slow, dangerous. “Careful what you wish for, lass.”

Before she could take a step back, he reached forward — strong, sure — and lifted her like she weighed nothing, one arm hooked under her legs, the other bracing her back.

Her breath caught. Her hands clutched his shoulders on instinct.

He wasn’t struggling. Not even a little.

The court went quiet except for the faint hum of the wind, the soft smack of tennis balls far away. Jiji’s heart was hammering against her ribs, too fast, too loud. Every lad before had made her feel like she was too much, too heavy, too hard to love — and yet Patrick Feely was holding her like she was made of air.

His smirk faltered, just barely. “Still think I’m not strong enough?”

She stared at him — wide-eyed, breathless. Her lips parted, but no words came.

Patrick’s tone softened. “Are ya happy now, lass?”

She should’ve been furious. She should’ve shoved him, yelled something sharp to save face. But all she could do was look at him — confused, undone, like something had cracked open inside her.

He looked right back, all teasing gone from his eyes. For a moment, they just stood there — him steady as stone, her heartbeat echoing between them.

Then, gently, he set her back on her feet.

“Didn’t think so,” he murmured, brushing off his hands, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “But I’ll take the silence as a compliment.”

And before she could find her voice again, he jogged off toward the field, leaving her standing on the court — heart still racing, palms trembling, and a truth she wasn’t ready to admit burning in her chest.