Rian adjusted the strap of his racket bag, the damp Edinburgh air clinging to his skin. October had settled in, and the sky over the university sports centre was a uniform, bruised grey. He pushed through the heavy glass doors, the thud echoing in the vast, brightly lit hall. The smell of rubber and faint chlorine hit him, a familiar comfort from countless hours on courts back home in Mumbai. This was different, though. No scorching sun, no familiar faces.
He scanned the crowded indoor courts. About thirty students, a mix of undergraduates and postgraduates, were already warming up. Some hit serves with easy power, others practiced volleys with a casual precision that spoke of years on the circuit. Rian felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach. He was here for his Civil Engineering MSc, not to relive his competitive junior tennis days, but the club trials had called to something deep within him. A need for rhythm, for focus, for the satisfying thwack of ball on strings.
A young woman with a wild tangle of dark curls was laughing on Court 3, her racket held like an extension of her arm. She moved with an almost dancer-like grace, even just jogging in place. He watched her for a moment, noticing the way her eyes, even from this distance, seemed to track everything. Her movements were fluid, unlike the more deliberate, powerful strokes of the male players around her. She wore a faded band t-shirt, the logo obscured by a sweat patch, and old, comfortable tennis shoes.
Rian checked the notice board. His name, Rian Sharma, was listed under "Group B – Court 4." He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs. It was just tennis. But the prospect of finding a place, of belonging, even to a university club, felt bigger than that. He pulled his Prince racket from its cover, the grip tape slightly worn from his own hand.
A few minutes later, a lean, older man with a clipboard and a whistle, presumably the coach, gathered everyone. "Alright, everyone! Welcome to the Edinburgh University Tennis Club trials! I'm Coach Davies. We're looking for commitment, skill, and good sportsmanship. Today is about seeing what you've got. We'll start with some drills, then some paired rallies, and finish with a few tie-breaks." His voice was gruff but friendly. "Group A, Court 1. Group B, Court 4. Group C, Court 2, and so on."
Rian walked towards Court 4, his steps deliberate. The court felt vast, the net a silent barrier. He saw a few familiar faces from his MSc orientation – a lanky Swede named Lars, a quiet Chinese girl, Mei. And then he saw her again. The woman with the dark curls. She was in his group. Her back was to him, her head slightly tilted as she listened to Coach Davies, a small sketchbook clutched in her left hand.
She wore a denim jacket over her band t-shirt, even indoors, and it looked well-worn, almost an extension of her. When she turned, her eyes, a deep shade of brown, met his for a fleeting second. They held a quiet intensity, a focused curiosity that made him wonder what she saw. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, a flicker that was gone before he could be sure it was meant for him.
"Alright, Group B, gather round!" Coach Davies bellowed. "We'll start with forehand drives down the line. Ten shots each, keep it deep. Then backhands. Move it!"
Rian joined the small semi-circle, acutely aware of the woman next to him. She had a faint scent of something earthy, like old paper and rain. Her racket, a Yonex, looked almost too large for her slender frame. He noticed a small, intricately drawn pattern on the grip, barely visible beneath her fingers. Aanya, her name was. He'd seen it on the list. Aanya Sharma. No, Aanya Singh. He mentally corrected himself. The shared surname almost made him laugh, a silent, nervous chuckle.
He stepped up for his turn, the ball machine spitting out a consistent stream. His forehand felt solid, the ball landing deep, just inside the baseline. He focused, trying to channel the nervous energy into precision. Each shot was a small victory against the unfamiliarity of everything around him. He heard a faint "Good depth" from Coach Davies. A small, internal sigh of relief escaped him.
Aanya stepped up after him. Her strokes were different. Less raw power, more spin, more placement. She flicked her wrist, sending the ball arcing high over the net, landing it deceptively close to the baseline with a wicked curve. It wasn't the kind of tennis he was used to playing against – all pace and aggression. This was thoughtful, almost artistic. She seemed to dance around the court, her feet light, her body always anticipating the ball. He watched her, fascinated.
When her turn was done, she glanced at him again, her gaze lingering a fraction longer this time. "Nice forehand," she said, her voice soft, with a melodic lilt he couldn't quite place. It wasn't British, but it wasn't quite Indian either. "Good spin on those."
"Thanks," Rian managed, feeling a blush creep up his neck. "Yours too. You really move well."
"Architect," she said, as if that explained everything. "Spatial awareness. Makes sense." She smiled then, a genuine, open smile that softened the intensity in her eyes. "Aanya, by the way."
"Rian," he replied, extending a hand. Her grip was firm, surprisingly strong. "Civil Engineering."
"Figures," she said, a playful glint in her eye. "Structure. My opposite."
The coach blew his whistle again. "Paired rallies! Find a partner! Five minutes, then switch!"
Rian turned to Aanya. "Want to...?"
"Sure," she said, already walking towards the baseline. "Let's see if our opposites attract on court."
---
The ball started, a gentle tap from Aanya's racket. Rian returned it, a clean, unhurried stroke. They found a rhythm quickly, a steady exchange of forehands and backhands, keeping the ball in play, counting the rallies under their breath, almost instinctively. "One," Aanya murmured as her slice backhand landed just inside the service line. "Two," Rian replied, pushing a deep forehand cross-court.
Her style was subtle. She didn't hit with crushing power, but her shots had an unexpected weight, a precision that forced him to move, to adjust. She exploited angles he hadn't seen coming, dropping the ball just over the net, then sending it screaming down the line. He felt his own game sharpen, responding to her varied pace, finding new depth in his returns. It wasn't a competition, not yet, but a dance, a conversation in strokes and footwork.
"Seventeen," Rian said, catching a tricky drop shot and sending it back with interest.
"Eighteen," Aanya returned, her eyes locked on the ball. She seemed to disappear into the game, her concentration absolute, her movements economical and fluid. Her dark curls bounced as she moved, a stray strand occasionally sticking to her forehead. She wiped it away with the back of her wrist, never breaking eye contact with the yellow felt ball.
Coach Davies walked past their court, clipboard in hand, watching them for a moment. He jotted something down. Rian didn't notice, too absorbed in the rally. They pushed each other, each shot building on the last, finding a flow that felt surprisingly natural for two strangers. The thud of the ball, the squeak of their shoes, the steady count, it all blended into a satisfying rhythm.
"Twenty-nine," Aanya exhaled, pushing a defensive lob high.
Rian waited, letting it drop, then hit an overhead smash that bounced hard near the baseline. "Thirty!" he announced, a grin breaking through his focus.
Aanya laughed, a bright, clear sound. "Alright, thirty. My record for a first rally with a stranger."
"Mine too," Rian admitted, feeling lighter than he had all day. "You make it easy to keep going."
They switched partners, but Rian found his mind still replaying their rally. The way she moved, the unexpected spin on her backhand. He hit with Lars, whose power game was relentless but predictable. It felt like work after the ease of playing with Aanya. He found himself glancing across the courts, trying to catch another glimpse of her, watching her play with someone else. She was just as focused, just as fluid, making her new partner stretch and scramble.
The trials moved into tie-breaks. Rian was paired with Mei, and they played a tight, disciplined game, winning 7-5. Then came his turn against Aanya. His heart gave a little jolt. This was different. This was where the "sportsmanship" part of Coach Davies' speech would be tested against the competitive instinct.
They spun the racket for serve. Aanya won. Her first serve was a kick serve, bouncing high and wide, forcing Rian to reach. He returned it deep, but her follow-up forehand was a clean winner down the line. "One-zero," she said, a hint of challenge in her voice.
Rian served, a powerful flat serve that clipped the net cord and dropped just over. A lucky ace. "One-one."
They traded points, each trying to find the other's weakness. Aanya's dropshots were lethal, often catching him flat-footed. His power, when he could unleash it, sometimes surprised her. He noticed she rarely went for pure power, preferring to outmaneuver him, to make him run, to open up the court.
At 5-5, Aanya served. Her first serve was out. She took a moment, bouncing the ball twice, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Her second serve was a careful slice, landing deep in his backhand corner. Rian returned it, but she was already at the net, waiting. She volleyed it short, angled away from him. He lunged, but it was too far.
"Six-five," she said, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips.
His serve. The pressure mounted. He bounced the ball, trying to clear his head. He needed this point. He tossed the ball high, then unleashed his best serve. It flew, a blur of yellow, and landed squarely in the service box. Aanya swung, but the ball was too fast, too deep. It sailed wide.
"Six-six," Rian exhaled, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders. Sudden death. Next point wins.
Aanya's serve again. She didn't look nervous. Her breathing was steady, her gaze unwavering. She tossed the ball, a familiar fluid motion. It was another kick serve, but this one angled sharper, wider. Rian stretched, his racket connecting awkwardly. The ball spun off the frame, flying high and long, out of bounds.
"Game, Aanya," Coach Davies called, his voice cutting through the silence. "Well played, both of you."
Aanya walked to the net, extending her hand. "Good game, Rian. You hit some crazy serves."
"You too," he said, shaking her hand, feeling the surprising strength in her grip again. "Those dropshots are unfair."
She laughed. "All's fair in love and tennis, right?"
---
The trials ended with a final address from Coach Davies, promising an email with results by the end of the week. Rian gathered his things, his muscles humming from the exertion, a pleasant ache spreading through his limbs. The sky outside had finally decided to release its grey burden, a fine, persistent drizzle already slicking the pavement. He fumbled in his bag for his umbrella, a cheap, collapsible one he'd bought on Princes Street. As he clicked the button, it sprang open with a wheeze, one of its metal ribs already bent at an awkward angle, giving it a perpetually lopsided look. He sighed.
He saw Aanya by the entrance, pulling on her denim jacket, her sketchbook still clutched in her hand. She wore a small rucksack, slightly lopsided itself, crammed with what looked like art supplies. She looked up, caught his eye, and smiled. "Leaving already, Sharma?"
"Sharma," he repeated, a small smile playing on his lips. "I think you mean Rian."
"Force of habit. Too many Sharmas back home. Are you heading into town?"
"Towards George Square, yeah. My flat's that way."
"Me too," she said. "Mind if I tag along? My umbrella's given up the ghost." She gestured to a small, mangled stick of metal she held, a truly pathetic sight.
He opened his bent umbrella a little wider, making a small, lopsided canopy for two. "Looks like we're a pair," he said, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the physical exertion.
They stepped out into the drizzle, the damp air instantly chilling his face. The streetlights were already flickering on, casting a soft, blurry glow on the wet cobblestones. As they walked, the conversation flowed easily. They talked about their courses, the bewildering array of Edinburgh's architecture, the struggle of finding good filter coffee.
"It's like the buildings here tell stories," Aanya mused, looking up at a particularly ornate tenement facade. "Every stone, every carving. I spend half my time just trying to capture it." She patted her sketchbook.
"I just see the load paths," Rian confessed. "How it's all held up. The physics of it."
"See? Opposites," she said, nudging him gently with her elbow. "But I bet you can appreciate a good arch, a solid foundation."
"Definitely," he agreed. "But I'd never think to draw it like that." He gestured to her sketchbook.
She laughed, a low, melodic sound that seemed to cut through the hum of traffic. "You'd be surprised what you notice when you start looking differently."
They walked past the university's Old College, the grand neoclassical building looming above them, its columns dark against the fading light. Aanya stopped, pulling out her sketchbook. "Look at that sandstone," she breathed, her eyes tracing the contours of a weathered block. "The way the light catches the erosion. It's like a hundred years of rain just etched into it."
Before he could reply, her hand was already moving, sketching quick, confident lines on the page. His bent umbrella dripped steadily as he stood beside her, watching her transform a simple wall into something alive on paper. He felt a quiet, unfamiliar pull, a desire to see what else she saw. He wanted to ask about the band t-shirt, the intricately drawn racket grip, the