I lift it up and he steps closer and looks.
‘If you want a little more spin, try it with your hand a little further round.’
‘Why would I want spin on a serve?’
‘Makes it more unpredictable. Shakes things up a bit.’
I clear my throat and start to adjust my grip on the handle.
‘So, the base knuckle of your index finger is on the second bevel like . . .’
He reaches out for my wrist automatically but stops and withdraws before he sees it through. Instead, he steps back and demonstrates how to do it with his own racquet.
‘Like this.’
Although there is now a civilised three-foot gap between us, my mind is rapidly filling with thoughts about those hands. How once, a long, long time ago, they smoothed sun cream into my warm skin and massaged the blades of my shoulders. I suddenly feel light-headed.
‘Listen, I’m going to have to get back to work,’ I say.
He looks at his watch. ‘Time flies. Okay. Let me help you pick these up.’
Once we’ve circumnavigated the court to collect the training balls and put them back in their bucket, he carries it while I chat alongside him. I feel as energised and relaxed as I always do after playing. But today, there’s something else too that I struggle to pinpoint until we’re almost at the shed. It hits me as I start to unlock the door. I feel like I’m walking home from a date.
After a brief wrestle with the lock, I switch on the light, though it was hardly worth bothering. The bulb flickers, fades to a dim glow and then dies. But there’s enough daylight to see where the equipment goes, so Sam steps in and,as he raises the bucket of balls to the highest shelf, I stretch up to slide the pick-up tube into its spot at the side.
I’m halfway there when the edge of my shoe catches on the step and sets off a chain reaction that, even as it’s unfolding, feels like a giant game of Mousetrap. I lurch forward, crashing into his back. He releases an ‘oof’ but manages to stop all but a handful of balls from spilling out. Of those that do, one bounces onto my leg, another is loose around his heels. I reflexively reach for it in a bid to halt the chaos. But it rolls past his shoe and as I try to chase it down, the door slams behind me and I gasp.
We are in darkness. In a space that is marginally bigger than a phone box once the equipment has been accounted for. And I am on my hands and knees, in a position that could only be described as optimal if I were about to have a rectal exam.
‘Shit!’ I hiss.
‘Hmm. Shit indeed.’
I try to push the door open with my heel, but it’s stuck. The next few moments involve an odd game of Twister, in which he attempts to shuffle around so he can reach for the handle as I try to stand up. The primary objective of this particular parlour game, however, is to not allow my face to touch any part of his body. Not his knee, not his bare thigh and, definitely, absolutely not his groin. All of this is so difficult that by the time I’m upright, I am breathless, sweating and feel like every cell in my body from the shoulders upwards is on fire. And still the door isn’t open.
‘The handle’s stuck,’ he tells me.
‘It can’t be,’ I reply, as if I can reason my way out of this.
‘Well . . . it is.’
I perform a funny little 180-degree shuffle and wrap my fingers around it. Then I take a deep breath and give it the hardest yank I can possibly muster. It promptly comes off in my hand.
Chapter 28
‘Well, I must say this is a new one,’ he says. ‘I’ve never had a woman lock me in a shed before.’
‘It’s not something I make a habit of,’ I say.
‘Have you tried slotting the handle back in?’
I give it a prod. ‘It won’t go back. I think there’s something in the way. Here, you try,’ I say, handing it over.
As I press my back against a stack of cones, his forearm brushes against my breast and my nipples pinch. I push my spine further into the equipment. Mercifully, he doesn’t notice, either his touch or my reaction. He’s too busy trying to negotiate with the hole in the door where the handle once was, before he finally exhales and straightens up.
I shuffle to face the door and bend down to get a better view of the handle. My backside slams into his thighs. I inhale sharply and pull away.
‘Sorry!’
