Seven months. That's how long it's been since Dayson was last in this room.

I glance round at the pastel-blue walls that Mum and I so carefully painted when we first moved here. Around the room, I've placed up various certificates celebrating my tennis success. My mum wanted to frame them but I said they weren't that important so they're held up by only a strip of sticky tape.

The cabinet lies to the end of the room next to the wardrobe. It sits almost bare, but Mum is so convinced that now that I'm training with an elite team, it'll be crammed full in the summer.

I can only hope so.

Tennis is my dream. It always has been ever since I picked up the half-broken racquet lying neglected on someone's garden front. There'd been no label on it, nothing, and yet I still felt drawn to this rickety old thing. A week later, mum had brought it to a local sports repair shop, and I remember the feeling that buzzed in my stomach as we bounded to the courts. Oh, how badly I wanted to play.

I wasn't very good at first. Instead of hitting the ball, my racquet would swing through empty air, leaving me disappointed but determined.

Mum started up classes. We learned together, hitting balls over nets until eventually our forehand became so strong that we could probably wound an unexpecting victim.

And then Mum's arm went bad.

It had been mother's day. She'd spent the night out with some of the other mums from my school. They'd met down at the pub for a few drinks and catching up. It'd been late when she'd come out of it, icy winds biting at the scarf around her neck. She told me she'd been ever so slightly tipsy but her vision and mind were both perfectly clear as she stood to cross the street. She turned her blonde head both ways to check for traffic and, assuming there was none, stepped out into the road.

And then the motorcycle hit her.

She tells me this bit clearly. She remembers it well, she says. She fell to the floor like a ragdoll, pain hissing up her arm. There was a stifled gasp and then someone tapped her shoulder, rolled her whole body over when they saw she wasn't responding. The biker's eyes met hers. He'd taken the helmet off, and she remembered his face perfectly. Those deep-set, brown eyes.

The wail of the sirens pierced my ears. Twelve-year-old me clinging to her for dear life as she was wheeled up into the back of the stuffy ambulance.

The bike had hit a nerve in her arm. Her elbow joint was so stiff it creaked when she moved it.

She couldn't play tennis with me anymore.

So I played for the two of us.

The creak of the door jolts me from my thoughts. For some reason, the door has to sound like her creaking elbow, but I don't ponder on that thought much longer.

"Yes?" I say.

Like seven months ago, her head peeks round the side. I take in her blonde hair turning grey at the roots. She'll have to go to the salon to get them done again. She'll probably go to the same place that she works at. Maybe they could give her a discount for being an employee. But then I doubt Andre will let her.

"Stop moping around," she says.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are." She strides in and gestures to the collecting on mugs on my desk. "What do you call this?"

"Being a teenager," I reply with a grunt.

"No, I call it moping after Dayson."

"It's been seven months."

"Exactly. Which is why you need to get out of the house. You haven't been practising this week - why not go to the courts and try some serves?" Her kind smile almost has me smiling until I remember that she can't play with me.

"Okay." I scoot off the bed. "Just let me get ready."

I think about Dayson as I pull on a clean pair of leggings. I think about his sandy hair, cool blue eyes, pink, soft lips that I've kissed so many times. That deep laugh as he pulled me closer, trapping my legs in his and rolling us both onto the bed.

I grab my racquet and I'm out of the house before I can even start reminiscing about his toned abs.

Ah. Good times.

* * *

The sun warms my back as I trudge down the mud-dried path to the courts. The park is in full swing this summer, but luckily the courts aren't too full. I slip through the gate, letting it slip heavily between my fingers. I stride across the tarmac, breathing in its unique smell, and place my bag down by the net.

I take up three balls and stand at the baseline, gripping the racquet in a way that only feels natural. The sounds from the playground behind me fill my ears. Shrieks from the children as their parents swing them higher and higher, up and up.

Families. Something Dayson had promised me.

I launch myself into the first shot, throwing the ball in the air so that it covers the white-hot sun. And then it falls down just enough for me to whip my arm down on it so that it shoots like a bullet and whistles into the net.

I straighten up. Grunt. I'm out of practice.

And then the bubbling kids' laughter sets me off again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a father pushing his son on the swing, his mouth open in a wide laugh as both father and son giggle uncontrollably.

The image hits at my chest like a gunshot.

Fathers. I had one.

But he left me.

I throw myself into the shot, feeling the power in my veins, coursing through, igniting into what feels like a flame.

This one barely skips the net.

Baring my teeth at the quivering net, I take the last ball, bow my head, feeling the sweat already forming.

You're too muscly, Chandy.

I toss the ball in the air.

I never see you, Chandy.

See its bright yellow fuzz. Like the sun. My sun.

You've moved on with that tennis group, Chandy.

It's falling.

Baby, I think it's best if we go our separate ways.

The scream vibrates through me, ripping my throat raw. My arm comes down with full force, and for a second I think I'm wielding a sledgehammer, not a racquet. I feel the pleasing jolt as the ball smacks with the racquet and the air that sweeps past my arm in sympathy.

The ball shoots like a crazed greyhound after a hare and squeezes itself through the green metal slots on the other side.

Hitting a boy right on the head.

He seems stunned by it for a second until he finally comes to and he stares pointedly at the ball that rolls to feet. Then he raises his eyes to me.

Me.

His dark complexion stands out in the bright harshness of this world. Even from here, I can see his dark eyes, contemplating me, the angular shape of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones.

My God. He's beautiful.

And then he bends down to pick up the ball. I watch as he throws it slowly up and down in his hand, a small smile creeping to his lips.

I hold my breath as he rummages around in his pockets. Around me, the silence seems deafening. I notice the playground has quieted down, and one glance behind me tells me why. Parents stare at me, children in their grip.

Whoops. Must have been the scream.

Ah, fuck it.

The normal hubbub soon returns and I'm forgotten about once again.

I turn back around. Through the fence, I can see that the boy has finished with the ball. He clicks a pen in his satisfaction, staring down at the masterpiece.

Then he rises. Steels his gaze in mine.

He draws his arm back and lobs the ball high over the fence. It bounces a few times before rolling to my feet.

It seems to buzz in my hands. I turn it.

Then I realise.

In big letters he's written:

07231854670

Call me x

I allow myself a small intake of breath. Glance back his way.

But he's gone.