Orla
Wimbledon Men’s Quarter Final, Reed v Cortez
Wednesday
I got down to the locker room early to set up, my hands moving with a precision my brain didn't currently possess. Knowing Tyler, he’d be late, even to a bloody Wimbledon quarterfinal. I’d do what I could with whatever time he left me, and if his hamstring gave out mid-match, that was on him.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
In reality, my thighs felt like liquid, a slow, insistent heat blooming between them every time I thought of him.
I had no idea what was wrong with me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the big American idiot.
Maybe it was what Kate said last night about his past, about all that bravado being a mask.
I’d been trying my best to brush him off, but then he’d shown up with coffee yesterday and ruined all my resolve in one paper cup.
Still. It was probably just part of the act. One of a hundred tricks he used to reel women in. I wasn’t special, just new. A challenge he hadn’t conquered yet. Or ever would.
Except…the way he’d looked at me yesterday didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like recognition. Like he saw through my own act the same way I did with him. And that scared the hell out of me.
As I busied myself setting up, I heard him, an unmistakable, class-clown racket echoing down the tunnel.
Too loud and unbothered. Too him. Goosebumps prickled down my arms, and much to my annoyance, absolutely none of them repulsed in the slightest. I hated that my body was having such visceral reactions to this man. Was it not listening to my brain?
He strolled in grinning, looking like the match was already a foregone conclusion. “There she is. The woman lucky enough to rub me down on the daily.”
I rolled my eyes, fighting the twitch of a smile; he was insufferable, but those bloody dimples were a hazard on my health.
“Just get on the bed,” I said stiffly.
He raised a brow like he wanted to fire back but…didn’t. Huh, strange. And a little unsettling.
“Did you do the foam rolling I showed you last night?” I asked, tugging his shorts up to reach the muscle I badly needed. To treat. Needed to treat. For fuck’s sake.
And Jesus. How had I not noticed the sheer...
scale of the situation in his shorts before?
Calling it a bulge was a massive understatement; I was fairly certain a family of four could camp out in there and still have room for a guest suite.
My gaze flicked there for a traitorous, lightning quick second before I snapped it back up and bit the inside of my cheek hard.
“I sure did, ma’am,” he said with a wink.
I cleared my throat, praying he hadn’t noticed me looking. “And this morning?”
I lifted his knee, sliding one hand under his thigh for leverage.
Warm, solid muscle met my palm. Suddenly I was hyper aware of how my fingers were slightly trembling against his warm skin.
I also noticed the way his eyes tracked my every movement as I worked.
A little unnerving.Focus, Orla. Professional.
Just another body. It’s normal. You see dozens every day.
“Of course,” he said, voice dropping just a fraction. “I’ll do anything you ask me to.”
My eyes shot up. He was watching me now with a calm, slightly unreadable gaze.
I cleared my throat again, pretending his words hadn’t landed somewhere low in my stomach. I continued to press into the muscle, feeling how it gave more easily than yesterday. “You’ve been doing the stretches right, it doesn’t feel as tight.”
“See? Excellent student.”
“Debatable.” I deadpanned.
He chuckled smugly and I shook my head but the smile tugging at my lips betrayed me.
“You should do that more,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Smile.” His voice was stripped bare for half a second. “Looks good on you.”
My throat went dry. I had no idea what to say to that. The ‘fixer’ in me wanted to ask more about him, the professional in me wanted to punch him in the face and tell him to shut up, but the woman in me wanted to climb onto that table with him.
So I didn’t do any of them.
I took a breath, released his leg and stepped back. “It should hold up today. Come find me after the match so we can reassess. If anything feels off during—”
“I’ll call for you,” he cut in quickly. “Promise.”
I nodded. “Good luck today, Tyler.”
He stood, a little too close, his kit bag brushing my knee as he swung it up. Our eyes caught and held for the briefest of moments.
“That means a lot coming from you,” he said quietly. The tension between us crackled, the spark back. A wicked little smirk played on his lips. “Catch you on the flip side.” Before I could react, he was gone, leaving only the sound of the treatment room door closing behind him.
I hadn’t even realised I was holding my breath until it came out all at once. I dropped onto the bench, head in my hands, my pulse thundering.
What the hell was happening to me?
Fuck.
I didn’t usually watch the matches. I preferred the quiet coolness of the locker room where there was no chance of getting swept up in the drama, but today I found myself wandering out to the medic box.
Technically, I was there in case his leg acted up, which wasn’t unusual, so no one questioned it.
But that wasn’t the truth.
I was curious. I wanted to see him in his element. To see what all the fuss was all about.
And then he walked out, the air seemed to leave the court.
Jesus Christ.
His build was lean and powerful, his golden skin catching the afternoon sun.
His hair was just tousled enough to look deliberate, that one signature rogue lock falling over his forehead like a challenge.
Stubble shadowed a jaw that looked like it had been carved from marble.
Those broad shoulders tapered into biceps I hadn't properly appreciated until now—muscle flexing under a white Nike tee, veins tracing his forearms like a roadmap of raw power.
Right. Okay. I finally got the hype.
I shifted in my seat rifling pointlessly through my physio bag just to give my hands something to do, because staring at him felt suddenly reckless.
Then he served.
The sound was explosive, clean. A whip of motion and power that sent the crowd to their feet. He fed off it, grinning after big points, swagger in every step but there was control, too. Absolute precision. I finally understood it.
The fuss. The fines. The way people lit up when they said his name. He was magnetic. But the worst thing of all was that I was watching him in a way I had no business watching a client.
The second set turned brutal. His opponent—a wiry Spaniard with a backhand like a sledgehammer—pushed him to a tiebreak.
Tyler held his nerve, reeling off three unreturnable serves.
When he took the set, the roar that tore out of him made the hairs rise on my arms. My own heart was pounding, a frantic mix of adrenaline and something I couldn't comprehend buzzing under my skin.
Then came the post-match interview. He was still breathing hard when he stepped up to the mic, sweat shining at his temple with a grin wide enough to split his beautiful face.
“Tyler Reed, how does it feel to be heading to your first Wimbledon semifinal?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “It’s pretty awesome. I’ve worked my butt off the past few months, so it feels justified.”
“You’ve been competing with an injury. It seemed to hold up well out there today.”
Tyler nodded, his expression shifting from 'showman' to something more serious. “Yeah, it’s been a battle. Honestly? I wouldn’t be standing here if it weren't for my physio, Orla Sheehan. She’s the best in the business. She’s been riding my ass—pardon the language—about my recovery, and she’s the only reason that hamstring didn't snap in the third set. I owe this win to her expertise, 100%.”
My stomach dropped and did a full backflip. Shit. He was talking about me. He’d spoken about me. In front of millions. And he hadn't made a joke. In fact, he’d valued me for what I was good at. This wasn’t the playboy Tyler I was used to hearing.
The reporter pressed on. “You’re up against an old rival next, Jordan Taylor. How do you feel about that matchup?”
Tyler’s grin sharpened. “Jordan’s a solid guy. Amazing player. It’s going to be a huge challenge, but I intend to give it my all. He’s getting old now, though.”
The crowd erupted, laughing and clapping, eating straight out of his hand. He tossed a few signed balls into the stands, soaking in the noise before striding toward the tunnel.
I was already waiting in the wings.
The second he saw me, his whole face changed. A softer, warmer smile that reached all the way to those ridiculous green eyes had replaced that cocky grin that he’d flashed for the cameras earlier.
“Did you watch?” he asked. He sounded hopeful, a trace of vulnerability in his voice that made my spine tingle.
“I did,” I said, aiming for casual despite the fact my pulse was doing eighty.
“And?”
“It’s lucky you’ve got a good physio,” I replied, turning smoothly to lead him down the corridor.
He laughed behind me, boyish and shameless. “Man, you’re a tough girl to impress.”
“Who said I wasn’t impressed?” I shot back over my shoulder.
His grin widened, sparkling in that way that made my stomach turn—goddamn traitorous body.
He hopped up onto the treatment bed while I washed my hands and dried them on a towel.
I tried to keep it clinical, going through the usual ritual.
Leg up, knee bent, hand braced behind his thigh.
But the air between us felt more charged than ever.
Watching him out there completely in his element had shifted something inside me.
“Impressed enough to let me take you on a date, yet?” he asked, as hopeful and infuriating as ever.
My head snapped up. “You’re not letting up on that, are you?”
“I like a challenge,” he said with an easy shrug, before his voice quietened. “And I like you.”
The lack of bravado in those four words was terrifying. I didn't answer. I couldn't. Instead, I pressed harder into the tight line of his hamstring, hearing him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth
“This is tight again,” I said briskly, my voice steadier than I felt. “You need to ice it before you head out to the press. Come and see me Thursday afternoon.”
“Thursday. Got it.” He was heading into the semifinal against Jordan on Friday and if he scraped through that, the real grind would start on the American tour. He’d need more than just a light massage, In reality, he’d need someone with him full-time.
“Don’t do anything stupid in the next forty-eight hours,” I added, stripping off my gloves.
He gave me that signature look of mischief. “No promises.”
I shook my head, already reaching for the door. “I’ll see you Thursday, Reed.”
“Looking forward to it.”
I didn’t glance back. I couldn’t.
By the time I hit the tunnel, I couldn’t tell if the echo around me was my footsteps or the heavy thump behind my ribs. With every step, the line I had drawn was getting harder and harder to see.