I have to get this fury out of me.

I tell Mum I’m going to the courts for another round at practising. She gives me a brief nod; as long as I’m not doing anything useless like flicking through Instagram posts on my phone or staring absent-mindedly out of the window, it’s fine. In fact, she seems rather happy at me doing this. I can almost see the thoughts running through her head.

Maybe the suspension was good. If she’s off school and focussing on her tennis, she’ll certainly improve.

Although she doesn’t say it, I know she’s right.

And there are thoughts going through my own head too. Like Amias’ text.

Although I go to the park every day I’ve never seen anything like that.

I cling onto that comment almost as tightly as the bit about my eyes.
As I turn the corner and the park comes into view, I can only pray that he’s there.

The sun warms my back as I reach the courts. But, once inside, instead of focussing on which court is best to play on, I look further past the fence to the patch of grass, and the bench which is now occupied.

Grinning, I run to the fence, curling my fingers round the hard, metal wiring.

“Hey!” I call out to the figure.

He turns, and I see the high cheekbones again, the angular jaw, the gentle sloping of his nose. His eyes seem to twinkle in the sunlight.

“Amias,” I say, sounding breathless.
His smile is wide as he recognises me.

“Chandy,” he answers as he gets up from the bench.

The way he says it makes my breath hitch in my throat. Not the abrupt, mocking tone of Megan, nor the tired voice of my mother. His is lyrical, flowing like the wind that tickles my cheek.

Shandy.

Bubbling.

He comes closer, resting his palms on the fence also. Instead of the wind, it’s his breath that tickles my cheek.

“You never explained why you liked Macaroni Cheese.”

I look up at him, at the unfathomable brownness of his eyes.

“I just do,” I say. My voice nears a squeak. “It’s like you and curry.”

His smile grows wider. His dimples are like ripples. “And why did you leave so soon?” His voice only laces with concern.

“My mum took my phone,” I confess. “She needed it before ten.”

“And what did you do to deserve that?”

I pause, leaning back a little. Do I need to tell him every aspect of my life?

Despite me not saying anything, he nods as though understanding I’m not ready to talk. It makes something swell up in my chest.

He glances at the courts behind me. “Better take one before the usual little people come along.”

I like the way he calls them ‘little people’. Not toddlers, not children. But little versions of ourselves.

“Little people are too annoying,” I reply. It’s no good when I’m trying to practice having fifty kids running around at your feet.

“Just hit them with your killer serve,” he says with a smirk.

“Knock ’em down.”

“Like pins in a bowling alley.”

The laugh building up escapes my lips. He seems pleased.

“May I join you?” He gestures to the court.

“What? So we can knock down little people together?”

“If you want. But my aim won’t be very good.” He begins walking towards the gate. I follow him, the gate running in-between us. “That’s why I’ve decided you’re going to be my teacher.”

“I’m going to teach you tennis?”

“Yes,” he replies. “And I will pay you in hugs.”

“Seems fair,” I tease.

He’s come to the gate now. That’s when I realise that he has a tennis racquet case slung over his shoulder.

We assemble by the net of an empty court. When he takes out his racquet I examine it.

“Not too bad,” I say, handing it back to him. “I just think the handle needs re-strapping.”

“Great.” He flexes his hand. “Where do we begin?”

I teach him how to hold it. Like you’re wielding an axe, I say. And then when Amias nods and proceeds to raise the racquet above his head, face set, muscles taut, I have to fight to stop myself bursting into a fit of giggles.

“No,” I say. “Like this.”

Accidentally, my hand brushes his. I jerk back, eyes flitting to his face to see his reaction. His eyes turn to mine, confused.

“Like what?” he says.

Realising he doesn’t feel the spark I do, I tentatively draw his arms into the right position. His skin is as soft as a baby’s, smooth and dark. But I don’t tell him that.

We practise the swing. First slowly, and then quicker until wind whooshes past my ear on every swing. I get the tennis balls and throw a few at him. He swings at them helplessly; most of barely nick the net and we’re not even at the baseline.

“Quicker,” I say. “Brush past the ball and bring your arm round your shoulder.”

He does as I say. The next one is better than the last.

Maybe, I think, this is something I could do as a summertime job.

If it includes coaching hot boys, may I add.

By the time an hour’s gone by, he’s onto the backhand, switching between the two as I feed him balls from the other side of the net.

“You’re improving massively,” I say as we take a break.

He checks his phone and seems to be startled by the time. “I have to go.”

I nod. “Okay.” I want to ask him whether he’ll be here again. Whether he’ll want another lesson. Maybe it’s just another excuse to stare at his ridiculously long eyelashes, but I find myself not caring.

He turns to me, face serene, devoid of the hurry and rush I saw in them before.

“Thanks for this,” he says. “I mean it.”

I can feel my cheeks getting warm.
“And about payment—” he adds.

“No,” I jump in. “No payment. Really.”

He seems relieved. Then his cheeky smile comes back.

“Once you teach me, we’re going to play together and I’m going to win.”

“Oh, is that a challenge?” I mock-hiss.

He chuckles. “I’d stay and play and beat you but I have to go.”

“Next time then.”

I pause, gauging his reaction. He only smiles harder.

“Tomorrow?”

I frown. Tomorrow I have training. But what about after?

“Is six okay for you?”

He checks his phone again as it beeps this time and then nods. “It’s a date.”

Then he’s collecting his stuff and is gone.

I’m left thinking about that last line long after I leave.