Tyler
Thursday
I hadn’t seen her since the quarterfinal, but she hadn’t left my head for a second.
Every stretch, every rep, every goddamn ice bath, all I heard was that clipped Irish bite telling me not to be an idiot.
It was making me feel things I’d never felt before, and I wasn’t about to let her think I couldn’t follow through with her advice.
I’d never given a shit about impressing physios before.
Half the time I tuned them out, let their advice slide in one ear and straight out the other.
But with her it was a completely different story.
I wanted her to know I’d listened, that I wasn’t just the screw-up everyone had probably already warned her about.
I was her last slot of the day, so I knew she was finishing work after seeing me.
Lucky bastard, really.
And the way I’d been wired tight since I walked down here, yeah, that was on her. No point pretending she hadn’t already worked her way under my skin.
The hallway was quiet as I jogged through the back entrance to the physio suite beside the gym, skin still soaked from running drills.
I hadn’t even showered again– idiot move, considering I was about to walk in there half-wrecked from practice and stupidly desperate to see her.
Through the open door, I spotted her twisting her hair up the way I noticed she always did before examining me, like it was part of her ritual.
When she saw me, her whole body seemed to coil tight again; I fucking hated that I did that to her.
She didn’t say a word. Just raised one brow that said you’re late, snapped on a pair of gloves, and jerked her chin toward the table.
And yeah, I couldn’t even hide that I loved the way she bossed me around.
I hopped up onto the bed smiling, kicked off my sneakers, and lay back. I knew the drill by now.
Except this time she tugged my shorts a little higher—fuck—until her fingertips found the top of my hamstring. She didn’t mean anything by it. I knew that. But still.
Her hands were warm and familiar. But she didn’t dig in like usual, instead, she touched like she knew my limits now better than I did. And the fucked-up thing was… I’d started waiting for it. Wanting it. Like my body recognized her before my brain caught up.
She worked with that same maddening precision, all focus and control while all I could think about was how good she felt and how close she was to my dick.
I clenched my jaw, fixing my eyes on a water stain on the ceiling, trying to think about literally anything else.
But then her thumb brushed near the hem of my boxers, her face right there beside my thigh, and a strand of dark hair slipped loose from her clip and grazed my skin.
That was it; flashfire straight through my skull. Suddenly, all I could picture was how she’d feel on top of me, straddling my hips, hands spread across my chest, moving slow and filthy while I begged her not to stop…
“Okay,” she said briskly, effectively short-circuiting every nerve in my body. “It’s definitely loosened up. Well done for doing the stretches.”
I blinked, trying to remember how to sit upright because she’d just triggered a praise kink I didn’t even know I had.
She was already at the sink, washing her hands like she hadn’t just caused me all kinds of problems. My body was still catching up to what had just happened, my fingertips biting into the black plastic coating of the treatment bed.
“If you meet me here at twelve tomorrow,” she added, tossing the towel into the laundry bin, “I’ll see you before the match. Rest it tonight. Don’t overstretch.”
I nodded, tugging the leg of my shorts down and discreetly adjusting the hard-on I was still sporting. Cool. Totally normal. Great job, Reed.
“So…” I aimed for casual, even though my pulse was still slamming in my ears. I was surprised I still had any blood left in my upper body. “What’s the big Thursday night plan in physio world?”
She smiled faintly. “Oh, very wild. Bath. Netflix, maybe a book, then bed.” She rolled her eyes.
I swallowed hard. Fuck. Now I had a whole new image of her to contend with. The image of her perfect body glistening wet in a bathtub, nipples just breaking the surface of the water. I shook the image from my head. Nope. Shut it down.
“You shouldn’t spend the night alone,” I said before I could stop myself. “Have a drink with me.”
She hesitated, arms crossing with a look that said she was weighing me. “You’ve got an actual Wimbledon semifinal tomorrow.”
“One quiet drink,” I said, stepping closer. Close enough to smell the faint almond scent from her hand cream. The sweetness cutting through it was all her. “No funny business. Just company.”
Her head tilted, eyes softening, and for once she didn’t cut me down straight away. I could almost see the tug-of-war behind her eyes.
“Just one,” she said at last. “And I’m leaving at nine.”
“Perfect,” I said, willing my voice to stay steady even though my chest felt like it was splitting wide open.
I’d take nine o’clock. I’d take five minutes if it meant I got to be the one she was looking at instead of a book.
The air outside was warm and heavy, the last of July’s daylight stretching thin across the street. Orla walked beside me with her arms folded tight again, like she’d regretted saying yes the second we stepped out the door.
I couldn’t blame her.
I’d spent the last fifteen minutes trying not to picture her naked in a bathtub, and now I was supposed to sit across from her and sip a Diet Coke like a normal person, pretending I wasn’t thinking about how good her voice would sound with my mouth between her thighs.
Good luck, Reed.
“I scoped a place nearby,” I said, nodding down a side street. “Low-key. Outdoor tables. No paparazzi, promise.”
“I’d hope not,” she muttered. “I didn’t even put on mascara.”
“Tragic,” I said, glancing at her. “How will I survive this date?”
She stopped just long enough to level me with a side-eye potent enough to strip paint.
“Sorry. Drink,” I corrected quickly. “This…entirely non-romantic hydration situation.”
Her mouth stayed stern, but the tiniest twitch curved at the corner, and I grabbed onto it like a full-blown victory.
That smile. God, if she only knew what that did to me.
The pub was tucked behind a hedge of lavender, ivy climbing brick walls, soft lighting pooling beneath the string lights. It wasn’t my usual scene but I’d passed it once and thought, If she ever says yes, I’m taking her there.
We chose a quiet table in the garden, shielded from the street and both ordered Diet Cokes. I was being responsible and sensible; I had to prove that I could behave. For once.
“So, Orla,” I said, leaning in on my forearm, watching the string lights overhead catch beautifully against her deep onyx hair. “All I know about you is that you’re Irish, beautiful, and you touch sweaty men for a living.”
She laughed. A real one this time, not just the reluctant twitch of her mouth. It was the most warm, unfiltered sound, and it poured straight through me. Man. I knew right then I could get addicted to that sound.
And just like that, everything seemed to slow down. The air, the lights, the noise around us. It was like she’d pulled me into her orbit without even trying.
“What more do you need to know?” she asked wryly.
“Everything,” I said, honest without even trying.
She gave me a mock-suspicious look, then relented.
“Well… I grew up in West Cork, which basically means it rained sideways every day of the year. I’ve got two older brothers.
One of them plays rugby professionally, so I’ve been around sports my whole life.
” Her eyes dropped to her glass before drawing a breath.
“My mum died when I was two, so my dad raised us all. I was dragged to muddy sideline after muddy sideline. I think I learned how to strap an ankle before I learned to tie my shoes.”
Something tightened in my chest. I knew that kind of loss, not the same, but close enough that it hit somewhere deep. My dad had left, sure, but the hole he left behind was its own kind of death.
“Rugby, huh?” I said lightly, steering us away. “That sport always terrified me.”
She laughed again. “Yeah, you’d get eaten alive.”
“Hey,” I said, mock offended. “I’m sturdier than I look.” The way she gently bit the corner of her lip after I said it didn’t go unnoticed.
“So, how about you?” she asked, tipping her head. “All I really know is that you’re a very good tennis player with too much charm and really good hair.”
I gave her a laugh, scratching at my jaw.
“Not much to tell. I lived in California all my life, so no rain. My older brother’s in New York with his wife, works in finance.
My dad walked out when I was a kid; haven’t seen him since.
And my mom drinks too much, so I was mostly raised by my uncle and his wife. ”
She went quiet, her expression softening.
“Sounds rough,” she said gently.
I shrugged, trying to play it off, but the knot in my throat stayed. “Yeah. It’s been…rough. But that’s why I play. Tennis helps me escape, it’s the one thing I’ve ever been able to control… sometimes.”
She nodded, her deep brown eyes turning liquid in the lamplight. “You must feel proud of yourself, though. You’re doing so well.”
Proud? I didn’t even know what that felt like anymore.
Instead, I said, “I mess things up…a lot.”
“You’re only human.” She gave me a small, reassuring smile, and something about it cracked me wide open.
I looked at her. “Just wish I was as clever as you.”
She smiled again, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Clever only gets you so far. Work-wise, I do alright. The rest is pretty much a shit show.”
I frowned. “I bet that’s not true.”
She shrugged. “Yeah, well. Thirty-one, still single, not married, no kids…”
Huh. Two years older than me. It made sense, the way she carried herself with grounded composure. Way too smart to waste time on a guy like me.
“None of that matters,” I said. “There’s still time.”
She hesitated, then gave me a look that wavered between guarded and honest, like she was debating whether to tell me the raw truth. “I was engaged. Last year. Didn’t exactly work out.”
The words landed heavy. “What a fucking idiot he must’ve been.” Truly. What kind of idiot fumbles a woman like this?
She snorted. “Yeah well…he preferred blondes with fewer opinions.”
“Well, I happen to like your opinions.”
“You like any woman with a pulse.” She smirked.
“Used to,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “I’m tired of that life, Orla. Honestly.”
The disbelief in her face faltered. For a moment, a quiet, cautious spark of trust flickered between us. And fuck, that look. It hit harder than any win.
We talked for an age. About nothing and everything.
She tore apart my Spotify playlists. I told her her accent could make a man say yes to just about anything.
The streetlamps blinked on. People came and went around us, but it felt like we were sealed inside a little bubble. One I didn’t want to burst.
She checked her watch. “Shit. Reed, you got an extra half hour out of me.”
I smiled, trying not to let the disappointment show. “Best thirty minutes of my week.”
She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her mouth anyway.
Outside the pub, the street was hushed, the humid air clinging like it wanted to hold the night in place. She turned to me.
“Well. Good luck tomorrow,” she said hesitating like she wasn’t quite ready to walk away yet.
“Thanks, Orla.”
And then I did something I hadn’t done in years…or maybe ever. Something that wasn’t about charm or getting her into bed.
I leaned in and kissed her cheek. Soft and quick. Just enough to breathe her in, to know the warmth of her skin, the faint trace of her shampoo. A mistake, maybe, because it wasn’t enough.
“Goodnight, Orla,” I said, stepping back before I did something stupid.
She blinked and swallowed. “Night, Tyler.”
I watched her walk away, her dark hair spilling loose down her back until the dusk swallowed her silhouette. My pulse still hammered with the ghost of her against me.
The reality of the whole night dawned on me. This one. She’s the one I want. Not just for a night but for real, and I’d do everything in my power to change her mind about me.