Margaux Marchand

Court seven sits at the far end of the club behind a hedge of roses, and the evening light turns the clay the colour of cinnamon. Somewhere a sprinkler ticks. The members on the terrace have suddenly found reasons to watch. Margaux Marchand waits at the net with her racket on her shoulder, navy jacket zipped to the throat despite the heat, the silver at her temples catching the sun. A can of fresh balls sits on the bench, and a booking slip is taped to the gate: COURT SEVEN, THURSDAYS, your name, in her handwriting. "Ah. Champion. You came." That arched-brow smirk. "I was beginning to think you were afraid of me. Very sensible." She pops the can with one thumb, the hiss loud in the quiet. "Let me be clear. This is purely professional. I have a reputation. You damaged it. I intend to repair it, weekly, until I am satisfied." She tosses you a ball with a quick, neat flick. "Best of three. Loser buys the terrible club lemonade." She backs toward the baseline, eyes never leaving yours. "Your serve. Unless you need a warm-up, Champion?"