Orla
West Cork, Ireland
I flipped the kettle on just as the early morning light filtered through the lace curtains in Dad’s old kitchen.
It still looked the same as when I moved out almost twelve years ago: dated, but comforting.
The old wooden clock that had belonged to my grandmother still ticked steadily on the wall, as if no time had passed at all, but the worn, peeling vinyl on the countertop, the one Dad had tried to replace himself when we were teenagers, told a different story.
Danny and I had stayed a few days after Dad was discharged, but I was heading to New York in a few hours, and Danny was heading back to London tomorrow.
If I was honest, my head was already across the Atlantic. I missed Tyler with an ache I could feel in my bones. We’d survived on constant texts and stolen calls, but the time difference was a slow torture. I just wanted to be back in his space, breathing in that familiar, warm scent of him.
“That kettle offend you?” Danny said, snapping me out of my daydream.
“Sorry…was a million miles away.”
“Let me guess. Six-foot, bad temper, hits balls for a living?”
“Says the man who also plays with balls for a living.” I shot back.
He smirked, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’ll have one if you’re making it.”
“Already got the mug out,” I said, waving dads old Liverpool FC mug at him.
He slumped at the kitchen table, a mess of bed hair and stubble, and started scrolling. I turned back to the tea. “What time are you leaving tomorrow, Danny?”
No answer.
“Danny?”
He blinked, looking startled. “Huh? Sorry?”
“Jesus, something must be interesting. You’re not listening to a word I’m saying. Please tell me you’re not texting your psycho ex again.”
He wasn't smiling. He was frowning at the screen, then back at me, his jaw tightening.
“What?” I said, my voice sharpening.
“Orla…”
“Danny, for goodness’ sake, what’s wrong?”
He didn't explain. He just turned the phone toward me.
The headline might as well have been in flashing lights:
TENNIS HEARTTHROB TYLER REED BACK TO HIS OLD TRICKS AS HE LOOKS LOVED-UP WITH SECOND MYSTERY WOMAN IN AS MANY WEEKS
The photo was worse. Night-time grain, streetlamps bleeding gold into the frame, and Tyler, with some blonde woman’s hands cupping his face like she owned every inch of him. He was leaning in, smiling. So close you’d swear they were sharing the same breath.
The kitchen fell deadly silent, save for the ticking of Nanna’s old clock. My stomach plummeted so fast it felt like the ground disappeared.
For a second, I couldn't feel my hands. A cold, hollow ache started in my chest and radiated out to my fingertips, turning my blood to ice.
Oh.
That was the only thought my brain could form. Just a small, pathetic oh.
The harsh reality landed dull and heavy. I’d let him in. I’d actually started to believe the "Mrs. Reed" jokes were more than just Kate being a pain in the arse. I’d spent the last hour pining for a man who was currently being held like a prize trophy by someone else.
A single, hot tear blurred the image of the blonde's hands on his cheeks, and I felt so incredibly small. So stupid. I was thirty-one years old, and I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book. My throat felt tight, a sob threatening to claw its way out.
Then the tear fell, hitting the screen of Danny’s phone. And as the salt water touched the image of Tyler’s smiling face, the hurt hit a wall.
The grief vanished, replaced by a surge of pure, volcanic heat that slammed into my face and bubbled up to my ears. The bastard.
He fucking lied to me. He wasn’t meeting his brother at all, that was just some stupid excuse to whore it up whilst I was out of sight and evidently out of mind.
I laughed sharp and humourless. “Unbelievable.”
Danny winced. “Orl…”
“Don’t.” My voice shook, but it wasn't hurt. It was rage. The Sheehan kind that burned hot and fast, like lighting a match inside a petrol drum.
“I knew it. I fucking knew it. All that charm, all those promises…and I still let myself fall for it.”
“Could be nothing,” Danny tried.
“Nothing?” I snapped. “It’s a perfect fucking shot Danny. That’s not nothing. That’s him doing exactly what everyone’s been warning me about.”
I shoved his phone back at him and was halfway to the stairs before he could say another word.
“Orla…”
But I was already taking them two at a time, my pulse in my ears, every muscle tight with fury.
My suitcase was already packed at the end of the bed, ready for my flight in four hours. I slammed the door behind me hard enough to rattle the picture frames.
Leaning against it, I tried to breathe, but the anger felt like it was choking me.
His hoodie was draped over the chair, the one he’d let me take when I left Canada. It still smelled like him. That clean, masculine scent that used to make me weak. Now, it hit me like poison and I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to launch it out of the window.
My hands were shaking with rage and hot humiliation.
I thought about the stupid date he’d taken me on, the way he brought me coffee in the morning. The way he’d whispered things that sounded like forever. I thought about the way I smiled like an idiot every time he touched me, how he made me feel like the only woman who had ever existed to him.
Lies. All fucking lies.
A knock came on the bedroom door. Danny’s voice was quiet and uncertain. “Orla, you okay?”
I pressed a hand to my mouth to muffle the sob. “Fine,” I lied. Danny didn’t push further. We both learned years ago not to do that to each other. He knew better. The Sheehan temper was like a storm. You didn’t walk into the middle of it. You waited until it burnt itself out.
Tyler didn’t deserve me walking back into his room tomorrow like nothing had happened.
Fine. I wouldn’t. By the time I’d reached the airport, I’d have spoken to Ben and transferred Tyler to his caseload.
I’d rearrange my schedule so I didn’t have to see him at all in New York.
I’d keep it professional, keep it distant.
The team already had my own hotel room booked and when this tour was over, I’d be on the first flight to London. Done.
No conversations. No explanations. No more Tyler fucking Reed.
I sat down on the bed, hugging my knees, tears stinging hot and relentless. But these weren’t the soft tears of missing someone, they’d been replaced with the angry, self-disgusted kind you cry when you realise you’ve been played.
My eyes flicked to my phone. Middle of the night in New York.
He’d be fast asleep, completely unaware that the world had already shown me exactly who he was.
I shut the phone off without hesitation.
He didn’t get the chance to explain, to lie, to twist. Whatever excuse he eventually scrambled for could die in his drafts.
I wasn’t going back to him.
Not after this.