Looked A Bit Like Jude Law

Let me tell you a little story about tennis, pizza, poor life choices, and a charming guy who turned out to be about as emotionally available as a brick wall.

It all began when I joined this lovely women’s club — you know the kind, all oat milk lattes and earnest book swaps — and made a fast friend. One day over brunch, she casually mentioned a tennis WhatsApp group she was in. Apparently, every Sunday, people signed up for a cheeky match. Fresh air, cardio, and an excuse to wear that suspiciously expensive tennis skirt I bought during a 3am retail therapy session? Sign me up.

Naturally, I asked the important question: Are there any fit blokes?

She giggled, blushed, and admitted there was just one. I raised an eyebrow. She said something about star signs aligning and how they were both Sagittarius or some such cosmic nonsense. It was clear she fancied him — I mean, she practically swooned into her oat flat white.

So Sunday rolls around, and there I am, fresh-faced and pretending I know how to serve without smacking someone in the head. My new friend is there too, all chirpy. We get assigned doubles, and lo and behold — he appears. Handsome, sporty in that slightly rugged way that screams "I grew up camping but I also moisturise." You know the type. he also looked a bit like Jude Law.

I get paired with two delightful older gents and the guy. Very age appropriate, which was a pleasant change — no awkward chats about TikTok trends I’ve never heard of. He and I had a good natter on the court. He was funny, charming, actually listened when I spoke — rare!

After the game, I walked back with my friend and we chatted about the guy. I mentioned I thought he was quite cute. That’s when things got… weird. Back at hers with a slice of pizza in hand, she mentioned she really wanted something to happen with him. And then, in a moment of utter social self-sabotage, I said:

"You should go for it this Sunday. I won’t be there."

Why? I don’t know. Was I trying to be supportive? Maybe. Was it a subconscious warning? Possibly. But it sounded so off — like I was giving her permission now that I was out of the picture. Honestly, I cringed even as it came out of my mouth. You know when you say something and wish you could physically lasso the words back in? That.

And just like that… my new friend was gone. Radio silence. Unfollowed, unmatched, uninvited. Poof. Never saw her again.

But tennis carried on, and so did the guy. We got friendlier each week — he’d always hang around to chat, share tips on backhand techniques (not a euphemism), and laugh at my hopeless attempts to look cool while sweating profusely.

Then one Sunday, he suggested we grab a drink. Hello, green light.

We met in town — I picked an objectively terrible pub. One of those with sticky floors and questionable lighting. But he didn’t seem to mind. We laughed, we drank, we pub-hopped.

Honestly, it was one of those nights that just clicked. Banter flying, chemistry bubbling. At 2am, we grabbed an Uber back to mine — classy, I know — and landed on the sofa with more drinks.

And then he dropped The Bomb.

"So… I have a long-term girlfriend in New Zealand. But we’re trying this polyamory thing."

Sorry — come again?

He hadn’t mentioned anything about a girlfriend until this exact moment — 4 pubs and one Uber deep. Polyamory? What even is that when your girlfriend lives on the other side of the planet? It sounded more like "we’re broken up but haven’t said it out loud yet and I’m just out here pretending I'm in a Netflix rom-com."

The whole vibe shifted. My flirty buzz evaporated. But it was 4am, he was half asleep, and kicking him out felt excessively cruel. So, he stayed over. Nothing happened — just some uncomfortable spooning and a lot of overthinking on my part.

After that? We awkwardly bumped into each other at tennis a few times. He’d always suggest "grabbing another drink" like we hadn’t already shared the weirdest platonic sleepover in British dating history.

Then came the final cherry on this tragic Wimbledon sundae.

Two women from tennis — two! — both at least 15 years my junior, casually mentioned that he had also asked them out for drinks. Oh, and he apparently used the exact same lines.

Reader, I could not believe it. All this time I’d felt guilty for unintentionally stepping on my friend’s romantic toes, and it turns out the man was basically serving everyone.

The moral of the story? Don’t lose friends over men who carry a tennis racket and a vague idea of ethical non-monogamy. And if someone ever mentions star sign compatibility in the context of dating — run.

Anyway, off to find a new women's club. One with less drama and maybe a nice book club.

P.S. Next time I’ll pick the pub.