Tyler
New York
My alarm dragged me out of sleep, the dull buzz cutting through the quiet of the suite.
I groaned, slapped it off, and threw it to the foot of the bed.
My legs were still heavy from yesterday’s drills, but I was wired enough.
Ready for another day. I threw off the covers, rolled on some deodorant from the nightstand and tugged on my gym clothes.
I threw my towel and my other gear in my gym bag, ready to call Orla before practice.
I needed to hear her voice. Maybe calm the ache in my chest that’d been there since she left.
It was too late over in Ireland to call her last night after I got back from dinner so I did what any responsible pro player would do and got an early night and sent her a quick good night text that I re-read more times than I cared to admit.
The suite was ready for her. I’d spent the last few days essentially nesting like a lunatic, packing up everything she’d left behind before she flew to Ireland.
Her shampoo, her hair ties, those navy silk pajamas she looked irresistible in.
I’d even gone out and bought a fresh bottle of that expensive Kilian perfume she wore—mostly because the scent of it still clung to my pillow and I was losing my mind without that familiar smell in the new hotel.
I might have picked up some new lingerie, too. Just because.
The place felt wrong without her, slightly undone in all the wrong ways.
She had this habit of tidying while she talked, lining up the water bottles on the counter, smoothing the crumpled sheets I’d already sat on.
I used to tease her for it, but now the small messes just felt empty without her hands fixing them.
I missed finding her coffee cup half-full on the nightstand because she was physically incapable of drinking the whole thing before it went cold.
I even missed her claw clips in the bathroom, the sound of her accent chatting away while she got ready in the morning.
And sleep—Jesus, I hadn’t slept right since she left. It was like my body knew when she wasn’t there. The bed stayed cold on one side, my arm twitching for the weight of her tucked against me.
Everything I touched still had her fingerprint on it, but it wasn’t enough. I’d tried to fill the quiet with conditioning sessions, recovery and PR events, but nothing worked. God the PR events were the worst without her.
It was all waiting for her, like I could trick time into getting her back to me faster. I just couldn’t wait to be with my girl again.
My phone buzzed again amongst the crumpled bedding, this time it was Travis.
Trav:
You might wanna do some damage control.
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I hadn’t even opened it yet, and I knew it was bad.
One swipe and the photo filled my screen.
Grainy streetlamp light. A yellow cab blurred in the background. Eve’s hands cupping my face like she was making a move on me. Me, leaning in, smiling. A split second caught wrong, like we were about to kiss.
The headline screamed:
TENNIS HEARTTHROB TYLER REED BACK TO HIS OLD TRICKS AS HE LOOKS LOVED-UP WITH SECOND MYSTERY WOMAN IN AS MANY WEEKS.
“Fuck,” I muttered, raking both hands over my face.
My chest went tight, blood thundering in my ears. Orla. Jesus Christ. She’d already seen this—of course she had, Ireland was five hours ahead. She’d have woken up to it. Sat with it. Probably convinced herself it was true before I even opened my eyes.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but it didn’t matter.
The image was burned into my brain, her hands on my face, my smile.
The perfect fucking shot to rip Orla out of my life.
And I hadn’t even gotten the chance to explain.
This was exactly the kind of tabloid bullshit I’d been trying to stay out of all season.
“Fuck.”
I sat down hard on the edge of the bed, thumb already hitting Orla’s name. Once I explained, showed her a picture of Eve, it would be fine.
Straight to voicemail.
I called again. Same thing. Again. Again. My pulse was racing now.
Come on, baby. Pick up. Please.
I dropped her a text
It’s not what it looks like. Call me.
Nothing. No read receipts. No typing dots. Damn it.
I left a voicemail, trying to keep my voice even and failing. “Babe, please. I swear it’s not what it looks like. It’s Trav’s wife. Call me when you get this.”
Sent another text. Still nothing.
And then it hit me: Washington.
The way I’d tucked her into my bed in that hotel, still in her dress from dinner, mascara smudged and eyes glassy from the liquor she’d been knocking back after seeing her ex’s Instagram.
She’d self-destructed that night. The whole day, really. By the time she came to me, she’d already decided it meant she wasn’t good enough, that she was replaceable, that it was somehow her fault.
I knew the same thing was happening right now. I could feel it, even from a thousand miles away. She was shutting down, locking the door in her head, deciding the worst before I even had a chance to explain.
And I didn’t have any other way to reach her. I was flying blind. I didn’t have her brothers’ numbers, or Gwen’s.
Jordan? Kate?
No. Fuck no. I didn’t need half the tour knowing my business before I’d even explained it to her.
I stood up, pacing the room, my hands in my hair.
I didn’t know what the hell to do.
The clock was ticking, her flight was leaving soon. If she got on that plane already believing I’d cheated, she wasn’t going to walk into my suite tonight. Hell, she might not even walk into the same city as me. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel in control of a single thing.
I hadn’t fucked up. Not this time. Not even close. But the girl I was in love with was about to be strapped into a six-hour flight, convinced I’d cheated on her, and it made me sick to my stomach.
I stared at the stupid photo again. This was the second headline I’d dragged her into in as many weeks.
She hadn't signed up for this— the lies, the absolute lack of a private life.
Even after I explained that it was just Eve, even if she believed every word I said, she was still being pulled into the center of a circus she never wanted a ticket for.
What if this was the breaking point? What if she looked at my life, at the constant, suffocating media scrutiny, and decided she couldn’t handle the weight of it?
The way I was feeling, the last thing I wanted was to head to practice.
My head was all over the place, couldn’t think straight, but I had her in the back of my mind, always.
I kept telling myself that once I saw her and explained, she’d understand; she had to.
She was the reason I’d been locked in all season, the reason my game had finally felt solid.
I saw the way she looked at me. I was sure she felt the same.
I dragged myself to the courts with Ted at eight a.m., running on caffeine and nerves. Her flight was due in at three. If she’d even gotten on it. By five, I’d know.
Ted was already waiting when I walked in. His face said the story before his mouth did.
“Tyler, before we start, I need a word.” He gestured toward the quiet locker room.
“What?” I snapped, dumping my bag hard enough that it echoed.
“Alan took a call early this morning…from Orla.”
My head whipped toward him.
“She’s on her way back to New York right now,” he said.
She was coming back. She hadn't stayed in Ireland. But then I saw the pity in Ted's eyes, and the relief curdled.
“Tyler, I don't know what's happened, but it’s no secret to the team that you two have been… seeing each other.”
I just grunted, my jaw aching from how hard I was clenching it.
“She’s requested that Ben take over as your physio. She’s reallocated all your slots and matches to him, effective immediately.”
My stomach dropped into a void.
“She’s also given notice,” Ted added, his voice dropping. “She won’t be continuing with the tour after the U.S. swing.”
The floor tilted. My legs felt unsteady, a cold, sick heat flooding my chest. This was it, she was amputating me from her life. She was quitting.
I grabbed my bag without a word and headed for the door.
“Tyler…Tyler!” Ted called after me.
“Go to hell, Ted.”
I stormed across the complex, the fury on my face a warning to anyone brave enough to look. I couldn't think. I could only replay the image of that grainy photo and the sound of her voice in my head, wondering how the hell she could believe I’d ever breathe the same air as another woman.
I shoved the door open so hard it banged the wall.
“Fuuuuuuck!” The word ripped out of me, raw and helpless.
I picked up my phone and furiously searched for Alan’s number. “Come on, pick up you asshole” I muttered.
I hauled him into the suite by his metaphorical throat over a FaceTime call that probably scorched his retinas. “Tyler…”
“Don’t fucking Tyler me, you know this is bullshit!”
“Tyler, calm…”
“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down, I don’t want a 'no comment,' Alan. I want blood,” I snarled, pacing the length of the balcony as the New York skyline blurred into a haze of static. “That ‘stunning blonde’ is Travis’s wife. My sister-in-law. You need to call every major outlet—now. You tell them if that photo isn't retracted, and a formal apology issued to Orla Sheehan by the time her flight lands at JFK, I’m pulling out of every sponsored event this week. I’ll sit on the baseline and refuse to swing a racket until they're bankrupt. I’ll burn my own career to the ground just to make sure this shit never touches her ever again. ”