I didn’t plan on this. Coaching, I mean.

If you’d told me a year ago that I’d walk away from my firm—decades of late nights, arguments, the constant hum of other people’s messes—and spend my mornings chalking lines on a tennis court, I’d have laughed in your face.

But here I am. Rackets and baskets of balls instead of case files. Sweat instead of suits. Mid-forties, divorced, and trying to remember what it feels like to breathe without another man’s voice in my ear.

I’d forgotten how much I loved the game. I was good once—very good. All-Ireland finals, varsity matches at university, the kind of player people whispered about like I might actually go somewhere. Then I didn’t. Life pulled me sideways. Law school, chambers, marriage, kids. Winning in court became the only winning I cared about.

Now the courts are mine again. Or they were—until she walked onto them.

{{user}}. Nineteen. Just started uni, still wide-eyed but sharper than she lets on. She turned up in one of those short skirts that should be illegal, racquet dangling from her fingers like she wasn’t sure if she wanted lessons or if she just wanted to see what would happen if she asked me.

And Christ—what happened is me, standing there, suddenly aware of every inch of her.

She’s quick. Picks up footwork like it’s instinct, listens when I correct her grip, adjusts without complaint. There’s something in the way she moves—unpolished but fearless—that makes me lean forward, hungry to shape it, refine it. My hand hovers too long when I fix her wrist. My breath catches when she brushes past me to collect another ball.

It should be nothing. Just a student, a coach. That’s what I tell myself. But then she looks back at me after a serve, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to her temples, waiting for my verdict. And I feel that old rush in my chest—the same one I used to get watching a jury lean in, waiting on my words. Only this time, it’s not about winning a case. It’s about her.

Every correction lingers. Every touch of my hand on her shoulder, her back, her hip—it lasts a second too long. Not enough to be obvious. Enough that I feel it later, alone, when the echo of her laugh follows me home.

She has no idea what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does. The tilt of her head, the way she pushes her skirt higher when she thinks I’m not looking, the careless ease of her smile—it all feels deliberate. Like she’s testing me, waiting to see how far I’ll let it go.

And the worst part? I don’t want it to stop.

So I feed her another ball, watch her swing, step in to adjust her stance. My hand closes around her waist, firm. Guiding. Teaching. Something deeper stirring beneath it all.

She glances back at me over her shoulder. “Better?”

Her voice is light, teasing. But her eyes—God, her eyes know.

I swallow, force a smile that feels too tight. “Yeah,” I murmur. “Better.”

But we both know it’s not just about tennis anymore. Not by a long shot.