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Noah grabs his sneakers and changes in the bathroom. I’m not sure why he bothers. We’ve seen so much of each other, there’s no need for privacy.
‘Is this fine?’ Noah asks as he steps out of the bathroom in a pair of my shorts, a black t-shirt and—
‘Get that off!’ I gasp as he pulls my headband onto his forehead.
‘I’m just trying to look professional.’ He steps back as I try to swipe the headband from him.
‘Fine, wear it,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think I’ve washed it since the tournament.’
‘Oh,gross, Gabi!’ Noah rips the headband off and flings it towards me. I dodge it and it lands squarely in the middle of our messy bed.
We rent two racquets from the leisure shack near the pools. The courts are on the other side of the resort, so we walk through the gardens, narrowly avoiding a peacock’s wrath, only to find two poorly maintained grass half-courts.
‘Guess they don’t get a lot of use,’ I say as we swing open the rusted gate.
‘Most people don’t like playing competitive sport on their holidays,’ Noah replies. The net, limp and full of holes, has seen better days. ‘You know, we should make a bet in case I beat you.’
‘You’ve never played tennis before and you’re wearing Converses,’ I reply. ‘Sure, I’ll take a bet.’
Noah sniggers as he kicks a few stray rocks off his baseline. ‘Best of three gets a massage off the other person.’ He looks at the net apprehensively. ‘So, I just hit it back over the net?’
‘That’s the idea,’ I say as I prepare to serve.
Noah crouches slightly. ‘Be gentle with me, this is my first time.’
I look up from the ball to give him a hard glare across the court. He laughs, a wicked smirk forming on his face. A moment ago, I’d considered going easy on him, but now—
I serve hard. Noah yelps and curls away as the ball rockets towards him. It hits the meaty part of his thigh with a smack.
‘OW!’ he hollers. I didn’t serve it hard enough for it to hurt. Much. ‘Not fair.’
‘I didn’t say I’d play fair. Just that I’d take the bet.’
We play for two and a half sets. ‘Play’ is a strong word when really, we’re just hitting the ball over the net and shit-talking each other, but eventually Noah forfeits the match, complaining of an impending blister.
‘You of all people should be sympathetic,’ he says, limping for show as we return the racquets.
He gets the massage that night, purely out of pity.
‘Gabi.’ Noah says a string of words after my name, but I don’t catch them. I’m lying on the beach with Noah beside me, his head on my chest, and my brain’s too slow to translate and process what he’s just said, so I agree with a little hum and hope the conversation ends.
‘I’m serious.’ Noah’s head rises and he looks up at me. ‘Gabi, are you asleep?’
‘Just resting my eyes.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Not really.’
He shifts so that he’s sitting up. ‘I want to talk about what’s gonna happen when you go.’
‘What do you want to happen when I go?’ I ask, hitting the metaphorical ball back into his metaphorical court like it’s my profession.
He’s silent for a while—a long while, actually—as his fingers trace patterns on my chest and stomach.
‘I want to be with you,’ he says finally. ‘Do you want to be with me too?’
I bring his fingers to my lips, kissing his fingertips. ‘I don’t want anyone else. But you know, it might be a while before we see each other again. Months, even.’
