He was, I would guess, twenty-one or twenty-two, a final-year student, judging by the university crest on his singlet, with the kind of build that came from a lifetime of sport rather than a gym membership. Blond hair, damp with exertion and pushed back from his forehead. A jaw you could set a level against. And eyes so pale a blue they looked lit from behind, fixed on me with an attention that felt entirely too personal for two people who had just met.
“You’re fast,” I said, because it was the only true thing I could think of, and immediately felt ridiculous.
“I’ve had practice.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “You okay? You went white as the court lines.”
“I don’t like balls. Flying ones. Long story.” I could feel heat crawling up my throat and cursed my own skin for betraying me so easily. “Thank you. For catching it.”
“Damian Ashworth,” he said, and held out the hand that wasn’t holding the ball, like this was a normal introduction and not the aftermath of me nearly taking a leather sphere to the face. Even his name sounded like old money, the kind of surname you saw carved into library plaques and hospital wings, generations of it behind him whether he wanted it there or not.
“Sarah.” I shook his hand. His skin was cool, startlingly cool, actually, for someone who’d been running full-court sprints in the cold, and the touch of it sent something unexpected skating up my arm, something I did not examine closely because examining it would have meant admitting it was there.
“Sarah Calloway,” said one of the other boys, unhelpfully, from across the court. “Noah’s mum.”
Of course they knew. Everyone in Glenfrost knew everyone else’s business within a five-kilometre radius.
“Right,” I said, too quickly, stepping back. “Well. Thank you again.” And I walked away without looking back, feeling his eyes on me the entire distance to the car park, feeling my own face burn with something that had no business existing.
He is a child, I told myself, pulling out of the car park rather more aggressively than necessary. He is somebody’s son, barely older than a teenager, and you are a thirty-four-year-old widow with a six-year-old and absolutely nothing in common with a boy who still has exams.
I did not let myself think about the eyes. I especially did not let myself think about how cool his hand had been, or how it had felt like relief.