Tyler
The headache hit first, a sharp, familiar pulsing behind my eyes. I’d grown accustomed to it now and knew it all too well.
The second thing I noticed was the used condom on the nightstand.
The third was the cold, empty side of the bed.
Whoever she was, she was already gone. Good for her. Or for me? It was getting harder to tell at this point.
I rolled over and groaned, the movement making the room tilt.
Fuck.
Could barely remember her name. Did it start with a K? Kylie? Kiera maybe? Whatever. I think she was hot, obviously. Blonde. Smelled like something you’d spray in a nightclub bathroom and regret by morning.
I’d met a few of the younger guys from the circuit last night, and got a little too loose, forgetting they were ten years younger than me with livers made of steel.
I let things get away from me whilst I was showing them the ropes.
By now, it was a routine I could basically run in my sleep: cheap drinks, loud music, hot girls.
But today, the pillow beside me just stank of perfume and a looming sense of ‘too old for this.’
I’d snoozed my alarm twice already. If I didn’t haul my ass out of bed soon, Ted would have a full-blown meltdown. My sponsors were already twitching and the last thing I needed was another fine when I was a day out from the Wimbledon quarters.
Then it hit me.
It was seven a.m.
Orla.
Shit.
I was supposed to see her today after training.
It all came rushing back. Not the girl from last night, but her. The cool, calm physio with the voice that could slice through steel. The way her hands had felt on my thigh. The way she’d looked at me like she could see straight through every layer of bullshit I’d ever built.
And worse, the way I’d spent half the night wishing the girl under me had been her instead.
I wanted her hair in my fists. Her mouth on mine. I wanted her legs locked around my waist while she gasped my name, stripping away that professional mask until there was nothing left but heat.
Fantastic. Hangover and a hard-on. Perfect start to the day.
I practically dove into the shower, turning it to freezing, hoping to drown the images before I embarrassed myself again.
By the time I got to the courts, I was only ten minutes late. I really was making all kinds of progress this week. Practically a model athlete. Ted didn’t look as impressed as he should have been.
“I suppose I should be honored,” he said as dry as the baseline in July. “This is early by your standards.”
“New personal best, Coach,” I said, grabbing a ball can. “What can I say? I’m thriving.”
He stared at me for a beat, likely deciding whether strangling me would void his pension fund.
I’d known Ted for years. He’d been close to my uncle Eddie, the only reason I ever picked up a racket in the first place.
Eddie took me out to hit balls when I was thirteen, back when I was two wrong turns away from disaster.
Maybe he saw something worth saving, or maybe he just didn’t want to watch me vanish the way my old man did.
As it turned out, tennis came easy. It felt good to slam anger into something that didn’t bleed. And truthfully, I’m glad I had him at a time where none of the people who were supposed to take care of me could put their own needs aside and look after their kids.
Eddie and his wife, Sarah, did what they could.
My mom…well. She wasn’t always a wreck, but when my dad bailed when I was five, she spiraled hard.
Vodka for breakfast, guilt for dinner. Eddie stepped in when he could, dragged me and my older brother to the park, to the courts.
My brother, Travis, got out the second he was old enough, somehow got the grades, went to college and had a big finance career in New York.
I stayed behind because somebody had to.
Sometimes Mom was great, she really tried. But there was always another relapse waiting, and I was always the one there when it happened. Tennis became the only thing that made sense. My release. My escape.
And now here I was, still swinging, still running, still one bad decision away from losing it all.
“How’s the hamstring?” Ted asked.
“Tight,” I said, bouncing a ball off my strings. “But I’m fine. Got another session today.”
He nodded. “Make sure you actually listen to whatever she tells you. You can’t afford to crash out again because you ignored advice.”
Yeah. If only he knew. I’d listen to anything that came out of her mouth. Hell, I’d put a few things…
Jesus Christ, Reed. Focus.
9:10 am
I practically jogged down the hall from practice, sweat still running in slow, humiliating rivers down my back.
My shirt clung to me, my hair was damp, and I smelled like exactly what I was: a man who’d sprinted off court without cooling down or stretching properly.
Perfect. Exactly the look you want when you’re about to see the most beautiful woman on earth.
My leg throbbed just enough to piss me off but not enough to matter. I hadn’t even had time to shower.
Ted had gone off on his usual Sunday sermon about focus and discipline, and by the time he’d finished, I had only a few minutes to get from the courts to the physio rooms.
It was game day tomorrow and if I won, I was through to the semis, the biggest stage of my life.
But all I could think about was the cappuccino burning my hand.
I’d stopped at the café on the way here like some rookie boyfriend, no clue if she even drank coffee.
Maybe she was an herbal tea type. Maybe she’d think it was desperate but, fuck it.
It felt right. It was a small gesture that wasn’t about charm or lines or the same tired routine I’d used on every other girl. Because she wasn’t every other girl.
And clearly whatever I’d been doing wasn’t working on her, or maybe it was too much. Maybe I was too much.
So fine. New plan; coffee and sincerity.
Either way, I was showing up sweaty, flustered, and holding a cappuccino I wasn’t even sure she’d want.
Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.
When I reached the door of physio room four, I gave a single knock and pushed the handle. She was crouched by the cupboard, restocking tape and gloves, hair pulled up, LTA polo stretching just enough across her waist to make my mouth dry and my shorts tighten.
Her eyes flicked up, completely unreadable.
“What’s that?” she asked, nodding at the two cups in my hand.
“Peace offering,” I said, holding one out. “Or bribe. Depends how mean you’re feeling today.”
She stood, wiping her hands on her pants as she did. She took the cup slowly, eyes scanning me with suspicion that didn’t quite hide that blink of surprise.
“Cappuccino?” she asked, sniffing it.
I shrugged. “Didn’t know what you liked. Figured you had classy coffee taste.”
She arched a brow, her mouth twitching. “So your plan was to gamble on caffeine and charm?”
“My two best assets.”
She sipped, looking at me over the rim. “Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?”
“It’s not awful, thank you,” she said dryly. “Which is more than I can say for your timekeeping.”
I grinned. Finally I was getting somewhere with her.
The sky had darkened with rain outside the window, so she flicked the light on, gestured to the table. “Hoodie off. Shoes off. Lie down.”
“You’ve gotta stop saying that to me,” I muttered, tugging my shirt over my head.
“Why?”
“One of these days, I might take it the wrong way.”
Her expression was laced with amusement. “I’ve said it to ten players this week.”
“Yeah, but I’m the only one who brought you coffee.”
That earned the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Almost a smile. I’d take it.
I dropped onto the table, palms behind my head, and let her get to work.
She set the coffee beside the sink and snapped her gloves on, hands moving with that same maddening precision she always used.
Her thumb found the back of my knee as she took a slow sweep up along my hamstring.
Her signature touch was cool and clinical, and just a fraction too close to…
Yep, without fail, my cock twitched.
“So what’s the verdict, Doc?” I asked, voice a little strangled.
“Still tight. Could use more glute activation.”
“Medical recommendation or personal opinion?”
Her eyes cut up to mine, slicing through the charm. “Your ego’s doing enough activating.”
I laughed. “That was a good one.”
“I’ve got loads,” she said, not looking up.
“But I save the best for athletes who actually listen.” She didn’t meet my eye but I felt the tension between us.
Her hand trailed higher on my thigh, her touch firm but focused.
My abs locked, but I kept my face blank.
Her touching me like this shouldn’t have felt so intimate.
“You ever gonna say yes to that date?” I asked quietly, still staring at the ceiling.
She didn’t pause what she was doing, but I saw the tick in her jaw, the barest hesitation.
“Nope,” she said finally. “Still not interested.”
I smiled anyway. “Still not buying it.”
Her hands stilled. Our eyes met, and for a split second I swear I could see every gear turning behind hers. Heat rose through my body from where her palm rested to where her gaze held mine.
Then she cleared her throat, stepped back fast. “All done. Try not to undo it between now and tomorrow.” She handed me a sheet. “Do these before bed and first thing in the morning. I’ll be courtside if anything goes wrong.”
I sat up, tugged my shoes on, body still humming. “Thanks, Orla. I mean it.”
She nodded, already reaching for the sanitizer.
As she did her eyes flicked sideways to the coffee cup I’d brought and I swear I saw the faintest smile color her lips.
As though nobody had ever thought to ever bring her anything like this and that it meant something.
That was all the win I needed for today.
I didn’t push. Just gave her one last grin and slipped out.
But walking down the hallway, I could still feel her hand on my thigh. Still hear that sweet syrupy accent that had me in a God-damn chokehold. Right then, I knew I was completely, irreversibly fucked.