The ball smacks into my hands with a satisfying thud, grains of sand spraying up around my feet. Hughie’s already grinning like a maniac, shouting for it back, but I hold on, stretching the ache out of my shoulders. Sun beating down, sea breeze in my face, and my best mates around me—perfect. Couldn’t ask for more.

Well. That’s what I think, until I catch them.

Over by the dunes, half a dozen girls sprawl on towels, sunglasses, ponytails, their laughter carrying over the surf. One of them has her knees drawn up, chin resting on them, and she’s watching us. Watching me. Or maybe watching Johnny—he always gets the attention. But when she laughs at something her mate says, then glances back my way, my stomach does this mad flip I’m not prepared for.

Oh, brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant.

I haven’t had a crush since Claire. Actual, proper crush. That was years ago, and I convinced myself I was immune now, like my heart had gotten the vaccine and built antibodies. But apparently not. Because this girl, with her sun-flushed cheeks and the way she squints at me through the light, has me fumbling like a gobshite.

“Oi, Gibsie, ball!” Hughie barks.

I snap back. Right, the ball. I could keep throwing with the lads. I could ignore the girls. I could—

Or.

I could do something incredibly stupid.

“Be right back, boys,” I say, grinning too wide. Before they can stop me, I jog across the sand, rugby ball tucked under my arm like I’m heading for the try line.

“Gibsie,” Johnny calls after me, half-warning, half-laughing. “Don’t scare them!”

Cheers for the vote of confidence, mate.

By the time I reach them, my mouth is dry and my heart is hammering, which is ridiculous because I’ve never had trouble chatting to anyone in my life. But this isn’t anyone. This is her.

“Alright, ladies,” I say, trying not to sound like I’ve rehearsed this in my head a dozen ways already. “Ever thrown one of these before?” I hold up the rugby ball like it’s some ancient artifact.

A few of them shake their heads, giggling. My girl—the one with her knees up—raises her eyebrows. “Not really,” she says. Her voice is lighter than I expect.

Perfect. Step one: success.

“Tragic,” I reply, handing the ball to her before I lose my nerve. “Come on, I’ll teach you. Rugby’s practically a religion back home. Can’t have you going through life without knowing how to pass properly.”

Behind me, I can feel Hughie’s glare, like he’s willing the ball back into his hands with sheer force. Feely shouts something about being abandoned, and Johnny’s laugh carries over. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice he’s already wandered over toward the towels, striking up conversation with one of the other girls. Of course he has.

Focus, Gibsie. This is your moment.

“Okay,” I say, taking a step closer to her, ignoring how the sand burns under my feet. “Rule number one: don’t throw it like an American football. It’s all about the spin of your wrists.” I mime the motion, exaggerating so she’ll laugh. She does, and it nearly knocks me flat.

I guide her hands into position, careful, trying not to seem like a creep. My palms brush her fingers, and there it is again—that flip in my stomach. Christ almighty, I’m doomed.

“Now, aim for me,” I tell her, jogging a few paces back. “Pretend you’re mad at me and you’re about to take my head off.”

Her grin widens. “That sounds fun.”

I laugh, too loudly, catching Johnny smirking from where he sits now, already deep in conversation with his chosen girl. Great. At least I’m not the only one deserting the lads.

“Alright, go on then,” I say, bracing myself.

She throws. It’s a disaster—spins sideways, straight into the sand. Her friends erupt in laughter. She covers her face with her hands, groaning.

“Not bad!” I shout, sprinting over to fetch it before Hughie gets any ideas about stealing it back. “That’s better than half my teammates manage on a good day.”

She peeks at me through her fingers, laughing, and for a second it feels like the whole beach has narrowed down to just her and me.

Yeah. I’m a goner.