Orla
Physio Room Four - National Tennis Centre
He was fourteen minutes late. Of course he was.
Each tick of the clock sounded like it was mocking me. The fluorescent light of the physio room buzzed overhead, the scent of kinetic tape and disinfectant already burnt into my nose after years in the field. I tapped my nails against the screen of my tablet, each click sharper than the last.
Sometimes, I wondered why I’d chosen a job that meant waiting around for cocky athletes.
I’d spent enough of my childhood freezing on muddy sidelines while my brothers played rugby in sideways rain, soaked to my skin, listening to my dad shout obscenities disguised as words of encouragement at them.
Guess I’d always had a thing for self-inflicted punishment.
Fifteen minutes now.
I don’t even know why I still got so uptight about it.
Probably because control was the only thing holding me together these days, and the second someone messed with that, my eye started twitching.
There was something about the way athletes thought my time was less precious than theirs that always set my teeth on edge.
I leant back against the hard pleather of the treatment bed, scanning over my notes again. Tightness in the right hamstring. History of improper load management. And, if the whispers were to be believed, zero history of punctuality.
Tyler Reed.
The name alone was enough to make physios groan and tabloids salivate.
I’d read his file. Watched the footage. Heard all the locker-room gossip. He was the bad boy with a short fuse and too much self-assurance for his own good. My colleague, Ben, had actually smirked when he handed me the assignment.
“Don’t let him flirt with you. You’ll only encourage him.”
As if.
I’d sworn off men since Josh ended our engagement last year, and I wasn’t about to break the streak for some overconfident American with a God complex.
I’m pretty sure they stuck me with the worst of them on purpose. Probably because they knew I didn’t take any shit.
The door creaked open behind me.
I didn’t look up.
“Sorry I’m late,” came a deep voice that was smooth as silk and far too casual. “Wasn’t sure which room I was supposed to be charming today.”
I glanced up and had to battle to keep in the gasp that was about to betray me.
He looked maddeningly effortless. Hoodie, trainers, sunglasses shoved into his hair—it was like he’d just rolled out of bed looking like a front-page headline.
He munched on a protein bar as though somehow, he was the one inconvenienced by today’s appointment.
When he noticed me sitting there, his smile lit up the whole room.
Of course he had dimples. Of course they were sinful.
My eyes lingered too long, and I swear it was like staring at the sun. By the time I dragged my gaze away, everything else blurred, my retinas scrambling to catch up.
“Hoodie off. Shoes off. Lie down,” I said, snapping my pen closed and clearing my throat. “Let’s see how bad it is.”
He blinked, swallowed what was in his mouth, and stared like he wasn’t used to skipping the part where people fawned over him.
“Damn. Usually, I’ve got to buy a girl dinner to get to this part,” he muttered as he moved tentatively toward the treatment bed.
I didn’t flinch. “And usually, my patients don’t need a separate chair for their ego.”
He barked out a laugh. God, even his laugh was nice, or it would’ve been if I was in the mood to care. Which I definitely wasn’t…
Still…he looked like someone had tried to build a Hemsworth brother from memory. Maybe the secret fourth one, if he was American. My stomach did the most ridiculous tumble that I’d never felt it do before, I smothered it fast. No way. Not with him.
“You’re not like the last one,” he said, stepping closer.
“I’m not like anyone,” I replied, tugging on a glove. “Now, lie flat. Talking won’t fix your hamstring.”
“Neither will being mean, darlin’.”
I pressed my thumb into the knot just behind his knee and watched him jolt, muttering a curse.
“Good news,” I said sweetly. “You’ll live.”