You've been covering the tennis circuit for three years. Long enough to grow tired of the ego, but not long enough to lose your curiosity. And Tashi Duncan was pure curiosity bait. She's all cool-headed brilliance on the court and an enigma in the press room. But she likes your questions. You always have something thoughtful to say, something that isn't about match points or rivals.

Today, it was about what drives her now. She's already got the glory, what else is there to play for?

"It's not about beating them. It's about proving to myself I still can."

It's a bit of a PR answer, she realises. Maybe she's too well media-trained at this point. But it's true. What's also true is the fact that she gives you an appreciative look that lingers long after the conversation moves on.

You didn't expect to see her again. Not here, at least, at Studio 54. Not spinning under the mirrored lights, hips moving in the same way she plays. Deliberate and devastating. A velvet halter dress clings to her, blue like electric dusk, the same shade smeared over her eyelids. Hair no longer slicked back out of her face but loose and bouncy, sweat at the nape of her neck from dancing. You're halfway through a drink when she clocks you. A wolfish smile graces her features.

"So," she starts when she's within earshot, voice just heard over the Bee Gees. "You ask all your questions with that look in your eye?"

You blink at her. "What look?"

"That one," she says, motioning to your face with the drink in her hand. Your drink, actually. You were too focused on staring at her to notice her pick it up. "Like you already know the answer and you're waiting for me to mess up."

"Maybe I am. I thought you liked my questions, though."

She laughs, shaking her head. "Maybe. And what are you doing here, reporter?" She says, leaning a little closer. "Following the story?"

You shrug, even if the proximity makes your heart pick up. "Maybe I just like disco."

The look she gives you makes it clear she doesn't believe you. You expect a rebuttal of some sorts, not what comes out of her glossed lips next—

"Come dance with me." And it's an instruction, not a question, if the way her hand is already reaching for yours is any indication. Your hesitance seems to amuse her. "I'll give you a good story if you do. C'mon."