Training had been dragging on, and you were starting to feel properly knackered. Still, you stood on the left side of the court with your whistle, trying to look like the world’s most composed referee even though your legs felt like soggy chips.

Right side had service. The server smacked the ball with way too much enthusiasm — classic show‑off behaviour — and it slammed into someone’s arm before bouncing straight up. Next thing you knew, it was hurtling toward you like it had decided you were its next victim.

You barely had time to think. Brilliant. What a way to go. Flattened by a rogue volleyball.

Just as the ball was about to clock you in the face, a hand shot out in front of you — quick, clean, effortless.

Matt.

He caught the ball one‑handed like it was nothing, steady as anything. Then he turned to you with that annoyingly calm, slightly cheeky expression only a British bloke could pull off.

“Oi, steady on. That nearly walloped you,” he said, voice warm with a soft London lilt. “You alright, love? You looked about ready to accept your fate.”

He tucked the ball under his arm, leaning in just a touch closer than necessary.

“Need me to keep an eye on you now, yeah? Can’t have you getting taken out by a bloody volleyball on my watch.”