Orla
The next twenty-four hours blurred in a haze of press, practice, and barely stolen hours of sleep. But when the sun rose over New York, there was only one thing left. Finals day.
Arthur Ashe felt like stepping into the eye of a storm. Except this storm was six feet tall, wore a backwards cap, and was currently bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’d been born for it.
Tyler had barely said a word that morning whilst I taped his shoulder, making sure the strapping sat invisible beneath his shirt.
I took my time, catching the rough grip of the tape beneath my fingers as I smoothed it over his taut, muscular angles.
His game face was on. Every movement coiled tightly with energy.
I forced him to let me check his leg too, refusing to leave anything to chance.
He rolled his eyes like a petulant teenager, then caught my chin and kissed me so hard I had to grip the table to stay upright.
My pulse was still racing when I left the tunnel ahead of him.
I wanted to see it. The moment he walked out, locked in, loaded, ready to blow the lid off the place.
From the medics’ box, I glanced around the stadium and gasped.
I’d been to a lot of arenas, but today felt different.
The air was charged, buzzing with static like the seconds before lightning strikes.
The media had been drooling over this match for days.
Tennis’s golden boy versus the bad boy. They’d been fanning the flames of a rivalry until last night, when the photo of the four of us at dinner hit the news.
Courtside Camaraderie: Tennis’s Fiercest Finalists Step Out Together in Soho.
Kate had texted me not long after:
Kate:
I’m an absolute genius.
I was still smirking when I spotted her in the stands looking flawless as ever, Noah asleep in her arms in tiny ear defenders, and Jordan’s mum beside her.
She started waving at me like a lunatic.
Nobody should be fooled by Kate; she’s all grace and poise on the outside, complete nutter on the inside.
She held up her phone, signalling for me to check mine.
Kate:
You done with his pre-match blow job… I mean assessment?
Me:
Fuck off. Worry about your own man.
Kate:
Oh, I’m not worried. He’s going to smash this.
Me:
Game on, Ashford.
Her uncontrollable laugh was visible from across the court.
Then the roar hit.
Tyler and Jordan emerged side by side from the tunnel, both in backwards caps.
Jesus, had they coordinated? Jordan wore his signature cheeky grin and looked relaxed but lethal.
Tyler was pure electricity. Jaw set, eyes blazing, every muscle in his body thrumming like he’d plugged himself into the floodlights.
My shoulders tightened instinctively. That same bloody jolt zipped down my spine, the one that always made me press my thighs together knowing he was all mine.
Tyler opened with a serve that cracked through the air like gunfire. Jordan answered with his maddening, metronomic precision, every return a reminder that he didn’t miss. The first set was a showcase. Tyler’s firepower against Jordan’s unshakable defence, but Tyler took it, barely.
Between changeovers, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I knew who it was, she’d practically been giving me a running commentary on the whole match.
Kate:
I’ve got actual palpitations.
Me:
I’m sweating through my polo shirt.
Jordan came back in the second, grinding Tyler down with those marathon rallies that made him impossible to beat. By the start of the third, the stadium was deafening. This was no ordinary final, we were watching two players at their absolute peak.
Every so often, Tyler’s eyes flicked to me between points. Not in a cocky, show off way but as though he were looking for a safety net. For certain, it was the real him that had shown up today. The strong, focused, unshakable Tyler Reed. No frills. No tantrums. Just pure belief.
The final set was knife-edge stuff. Every point a tug-of-war, neither giving an inch. Tyler’s serve was still cracking like thunder, but Jordan chased everything down, sending it back with the kind of stubborn precision that drove opponents mad.
At 5–6, Tyler serving to stay in it, the tension in the stadium was so thick I swear I could hear my own pulse.
At the first point, Jordan guessed right on the serve, rifled it back, and they fell into one of those rallies that made the whole place lean forward on their laps.
Ten, maybe twelve shots, until Tyler went for the winner and clipped the tape.
Break point. Match point.
Tyler bounced the ball, slow and measured, then sent it down the middle. Jordan met it, sent it deep, and they traded blows. Hard, clean, absolutely relentless until Tyler’s forehand sailed an inch too long.
Game, set, match.
I rose to my feet with the rest of the stadium. But I was only looking at him. Then I saw it. The look. The one the cameras were already zooming in on, waiting for the explosion.
His jaw was tight. His eyes were like a storm. Don’t do it, Tyler. Don’t let them be right about you.
He looked toward the box, his gaze searching for mine through the chaos of the crowd.
I gripped the edge of my plastic seat so hard the ridges bit into my palms. No, no, no. Please, Tyler. You’ve done so bloody well. Just hold it.
His eyes locked on mine for a second before he exhaled sharply. Dropped his shoulders. Then jogged to the net.
My breath whooshed out in relief.
He pulled Jordan in for a handshake and a hug, the crowd erupting. Then, in a move that nearly broke me, Tyler lifted Jordan’s arm for the crowd as if to say, this guy deserves it. Jordan patted him on the back and gestured for the applause to keep going. For both of them.
My phone buzzed again.
Kate:
I think I’m going to cry.
Me:
Already there, mate.
And I was. My throat was tight, eyes stinging, heart so full I thought it might burst. Today there’d been no tantrums, no anger. Just pride, grace, and grit.
The crowd roared his name, but he didn’t look for the cameras. He looked for me. And in that heartbeat, I knew it wasn’t just his reputation changing, it was his story and maybe his entire life.