Page 45 of Match Point

I open my mouth, but I can’t think of a retort. Damn it.

He peers down at me. ‘How about a game?’

I dissolve into a fit of laughter. ‘Seriously? You want me to play tennis with you?’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re Kieran fucking O’Sullivan!’ I point out, aghast. ‘I can’t play tennis with you. It would be absolutely humiliating. I’m average at best and you’re a professional, world-ranked player. There would literally be no point.’

‘Go on, Flossie,’ he chuckles softly. ‘I’ll go easy on you, I promise.’

He reaches up to tuck a loose lock of my hair behind my ear and my breath catches at the touch of his fingertips lightly brushing across my skin. I dig my teeth into my bottom lip and his eyes drop to my mouth.

Oh my God.

His hand lingers a touch too long at my cheekbone, before he swallows and blinks, as though he’s been on autopilot and has suddenly realised what he’s doing. He drops his hand quickly and pulls back, clearing his throat.

‘What do you say, then?’ he asks, going back to studying the racket. ‘Fancy giving it a go? You never know, it might be exactly what you need.’

‘All right, fine. If anything, it will at least be a good laugh.’

He breaks into a relieved smile. ‘This will be fun.’

*

‘You need to run for the ball, Flossie,’ Kieran instructs. ‘Not watch it bounce by.’

‘You did that drop shot on purpose,’ I accuse him, jogging to fetch the tennis ball from the back of the court.

We’ve come to the outdoor tennis courts in the park – for one terrifying and ludicrous moment on our way here, I did wonder whether he might be leading me in the direction of the All England Lawn Tennis Club and I panicked at the fact that not only was my standard nowhere near the levels they’d expect from members there, but I had also just thrown on an old baggy T-shirt over my workout gear and some scruffy trainers before we left. I didn’t look Wimbledon-ready.

The courts were busy, but we arrived as a pair were leaving, and managed to bag one. So far, no one has noticed that they’re playing on a court along from Kieran.

‘Yeah, I do every shot on purpose,’ Kieran calls out and I can hear him rolling his eyes. ‘It wouldn’t be great tennis if the shots I played were all by accident. You’ve been bolting around this court brilliantly; you could have got that one if you’d tried.’

Picking up the ball, I spin round to glare at him. ‘I wasn’t expecting it.’

‘Again, kind of part and parcel of tennis playing: you don’t know what shot your opponent is going to play. You have to be on your toes, ready for anything. Like this.’

He arches forward at the hips, his feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, his weight on the balls of his feet, bobbing side to side.

‘You see?’ he calls, spinning the racket handle round and round in his hands. ‘I’m energised, I’ve got momentum on my side, whatever you bring at me, you can see I look ready for it, right?’

‘I can see you look like a twat,’ I mutter.

‘I heard that!’ he shouts. ‘Here, come to the net. I want to try something.’

I allow a smile as I make my way across the court towards him. This has been a lot more fun than I was expecting and there’s something extremely thrilling about a professional tennis player praising your forehand.

We started nice and easy, and he’s now begun to up the ante as I’ve got more into it, sneaking some annoyingly good shots in there. It was also quite sweet when he cautiously asked me if I’d like him to give me some pointers or if I’d rather he just shut up and let me get on with it. I think he was trying to make sure I didn’t think he was being all pompous, but I assured him that I’d happily take advantage of a free tennis lesson from a pro.

And I would never have expected this, but Kieran O’Sullivan is a pretty good teacher. He’s so much more relaxed in this environment than when he plays professionally, which I guess is an obvious thing to say because he’s not competing here. But I get the feeling that I’m not the only person getting something out of this session. It’s like something in him has lit up – he’s at ease, his eyes bright and invigorated, and he’s joking and laughing. The world doesn’t get to see this silly side of him. He’s having a really good time, and, sadly, I don’t think it’s anything to do with me.

I think he’s having a lot of fun coaching.

‘Okay, so you know what I want to see more of, Flossie? Your aggression,’ he says, meeting me at the net and folding his arms across his chest.

‘I don’t have any aggression.’

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