I lift my gaze and find Sam already looking at me. My heart snags as we lock eyes and a slow smile appears on his face. I snap my gaze away as my pulse starts to thunder in my ears. But by now only one thing is going through my head.
I want to beat you, Sam Delaney. I want to beat yousobad . . .
Liam hits a perfect serve. Sam returns it cross-court. But, in an ill-disguised bid to go easy on us, it’s a weak return and I decide to take my chance at the net. Unfortunately, Liam sprints forward with the same idea.
‘MINE!’ we yell, in unison.
I try to pull back, but I’m not quick enough. We collide amidst a crunch of racquets and limbs.
It’s true what they say about these things happening in slow motion. It’s like someone’s flicking through the pages of a flip book, illustrating a series of weird and wonderful contortions. Liam flying through the air. His elbow askew. Me slamming backwards. Both of us ending up on the ground.
There is a brief moment when I’m aware of the presence of pain but have yet to decide how bad it is. I glance at Liam, who’s clutching his arm, then at Sam, as he sprints from the baseline.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble to Liam, as Sam leaps over the net like some kind of movie stuntman. Only, by the time he’s hit the ground, Liam is starting to get to his feet.
The next thing I know, Sam is beside me.
‘You okay?’ he whispers.
My face feels cold and waxy, but I’m drenched in sweat.
I look down at my ankle and realise I’m not okay at all.
Chapter 20
When you’re British, there’s only one thing worse than getting injured, and that’s when it happens in public. Especially if it then results in people rushing to your aid, as you lie on the floor in a state of disoriented mortification. Far better to be left alone in excruciating pain, bleeding to death if necessary, than suffer the humiliation of all thatfuss. Turns out I feel just as strongly about this as I did in that final U15s match I played. Yet, rallies on other courts come to a halt. Heads turn. All eyes are on me. I attempt to shoo Sam away and insist,I’m fine,no really and truly, none of this is necessary,even as I hear the strangled sound coming from the back of my throat.
But he refuses to move from my side and the next thing I know, my brother is dashing toward us, rolling up sleeves like he’s about to perform some kind ofprocedure, even though his only medical training comes from watching the early seasons ofGrey’s Anatomy.
‘What happened?’ Jeff gasps.
‘I’m fine,’ I say again.
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ I hiss. We all glare at my ankle.
‘That’s going to be awatermelon,’ Jeff declares.
Then, without warning, Sam scoots down and slips an arm around my waist. ‘Come on, let’s get you up.’
My body responds to his touch with a flare of panic and heat. My skin breaks out in goosepimples and my heartbegins crashing in my chest. As I get to my feet, Jeff takes this as his cue to go to the other side to support me.
But it’s like trying to perform a three-legged race – nothing is coordinated or in tandem – and when it becomes clear my brother is not helping, he backs off, widening his eyes meaningfully at me, then Sam, as he does. Ever since that day of the court mix-up, Jeff has been demanding to know all the detail about how we met and what exactly happened between us. I’ve told him the answer isabsolutely nothing, which is essentially true. Even if I have omitted a couple of minor details, such as an earth-shattering kiss and the fact that I pined after him for an entire summer.
‘What else can I do?’ Jeff asks, clearly hating the idea of not being useful.
‘Just stop everyone looking,’ I hiss, limping towards the clubhouse, as the heat of Sam’s hand on my torso feels like it’s burning into my skin.
‘NOTHING TO SEE HERE!’ Jeff announces, encouraging anyone who hadn’t witnessed the drama to now stop and stare.
As I hobble up the clubhouse steps, Sam seems to tighten his grip a little to support me. A full body flush starts somewhere in my sternum and ends up tingling in my fingertips, my toes, and setting alight parts of my anatomy I’d assumed were long dead.
‘Do we need the first-aid box?’ Nora says, bounding up the steps, opening the door for us. I keep my head down, worried that if she sees my face she’ll work out the bewildering way my treacherous body is reacting to being this close to him.
‘Could be useful,’ Sam replies.
When we get inside, he helps me to sit on the bench as Nora brings the medical kit and some ice. After a brief discussion about whether I need to go to hospital, someone else pops in to ask Nora for the scores.
