Tyler
I’d come here hungry for the title and walked away without it.
But standing there, sweat dripping down my face, the crowd still roaring, I felt something I wasn’t used to—pride.
Not just in the match, but in the way I’d held it together.
The moment I saw Orla, the loss didn’t feel like losing at all.
She was already waiting for me in the tunnel like always, not just as my physio, but as the one who’d made this day possible.
The second I reached her, I scooped her up, spun her, and kissed her.
I didn’t give a damn who saw it. She let out a thrilled little giggle that I’d started chasing without even meaning to.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said, her eyes glassy with tears.
My throat went tight. I’d never had this.
Never had anyone in the stands rooting for me like she did.
But there it was, real pride, admiration, fucking love, written all over her face.
I was in love with this girl more than I could ever explain.
When I lost that last return I felt that familiar heat bubble up. It was that same nauseating flash. The one that used to blind me every time things didn't go my way. It clawed at the back of my throat, demanding I let it out.
But then I remembered her face in that moment. It was the same look she’d given me the night I broke down that damn door and I couldn’t do it to her. Not again. Never again. So I took a breath. Held it. Let it go. And damn, it felt good.
Was I disappointed? Hell yeah. I’d worked my ass off for this. But I lost to him and I couldn’t be mad at that. He was a machine, a good guy, and a lethal player. He was everything I aimed to be. If sharing a final with him meant I was anywhere near his league, I was doing something right.
A familiar hand landed on my back.
“Come on, mate. Let’s go be big boys for the press,” Jordan laughed as he strode past me.
I gave him a quick smile and nod before dipping my head back to Orla’s ear.
“You better get back to that hotel room and be waiting for me wearing nothing but a smile,” I murmured in her ear, catching the rise of pink in her cheeks as I pulled back.
I followed Jordan down the tunnel toward the press room. “You almost fucking killed me out there, Reed,” he huffed.
“Well, that was the plan,” I shot back, grinning.
We stepped inside, and the noise of the crowd was replaced with the sound of journalists shuffling papers and setting up cameras.
Jordan took the mic first, answering the expected questions with that easy Aussie charm that made the whole room lean in to listen.
Then, mid-answer, he glanced my way and smirked.
“I can’t talk about you when you’re standing over there, mate. Get up here.”
The press murmured, a few surprised laughs bubbling up. I dragged a hand down my face, pretending to groan, but I took the empty seat beside him anyway.
“First U.S Open final, Tyler,” someone called from the back. “What’s it feel like?”
I leaned into the mic. “Feels like I’ve got work to do but if being in the final against this guy means I’m anywhere near his league, then I’m doing something right.”
The room ate it up. I caught Orla in my peripheral, standing near the back, hands clasped, pride written all over her face. That look… Jesus, it went straight through me. Every word I said after that was for her, and from the way she was beaming at me, she knew it. Soon after, she slid out quietly.
When the questions finally wrapped, Jordan clapped me on the shoulder, and we stood. I gave the press one last smile, but my eyes were already on the door and the woman I couldn’t wait to get back to.
By the time I made it back to the hotel, I was running on fumes.
Every muscle ached, my shoulders were tight from hours of holding it together, and my adrenaline was crashing hard.
When I stepped into the suite, she was firmly in her rightful place.
Wearing my T-shirt, on our bed in a pair of panties.
Her hair framed her face in the most effortlessly beautiful way.
That sight alone was worth every aching muscle.
“Come here babe, lie down,” she said softly, my gym bag slipped off my shoulder and I tugged my shirt over my head. She was already pulling the cap off a small bottle of oil. “You’ll seize up by morning if you don’t.”
I huffed a tired laugh and did as I was told, dropping face-first onto the bed. “Bossy.”
“Highly qualified, actually,” she corrected, straddling my thighs lightly from behind to reach my shoulders. The mattress dipped beneath our weight, my heart rate finally began to slow after hours of running on pure adrenaline.
Then her warm hands found my taught muscles, pressing slowly and firmly. Relief streamed through me instantly. She started at my neck, thumbs pressing into the base of my skull, working down the ropes of muscle until my breath came out rough.
“Good God, O…” I practically groaned. “Feels insane.”
“Good,” she murmured, leaning forward to trace the oil lower down my spine. “You held every ounce of tension in your shoulders today.”
I smiled into the pillow. “Guess I didn’t wanna let go till it was over.”
Her hands stilled for a second. “You did so good out there,” she whispered. “I’m proud of you.”
I could get used to hearing that from her lips. I swallowed and turned my head just enough to see her hair falling around her face, eyes glowing in the lamplight.
“Couldn’t’ve done it without you,” I said quietly. “You’re the one who keeps me from blowing it all up.”
She smiled knowingly and went back to work. The scent of her perfume mixed with the oil, and suddenly I didn’t care about the soreness or the press or the trophy. Just this. Her hands. Her being the one I got to come home to.
When her palms slid over my shoulders again,I reached back and caught her wrist. “Come here.”
I turned to face her, catching her chin gently between my finger and thumb, more to steady myself than her. I leaned in and kissed her unhurriedly, breathing in the scent of the oil she’d worked into my shoulders.
She pulled back just enough to look at me.
“I know today was tough, babe,” she said softly. “You worked your ass off. But I need you to know how incredible you were. Not just in the match. The way you handled yourself. The press. All of it.”
I held her gaze, my throat working as I swallowed the weight of everything she was giving me.
She kissed me softly in her tired little way.
But there was nothing tired about what it did to me.
Her mouth was warm, patient, tasting like calm after a day of chaos.
“You know,” I murmured, tilting my head so I could see her face.
“I like these post-match recovery sessions better than when I first met you.”
She giggled, her lips brushing mine like she was testing whether I was going to be able to function for what she was planning to do next with her hands. Her fingers danced their way down my abs arriving at where the sheets met my hips. She knew exactly what she was doing, the tease.
“So,” she said, with a mischievous spark, “aside from mind-blowing sex with your physio…how would Tyler Reed usually celebrate a performance like that?”
I groaned. “Oh, God. The old Tyler? Probably Vegas and bad decisions.” My lips found her collarbone. “Now? I’m more than happy doing this with you.”
She raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing in thought, and then said, “Then we should do it.”
I blinked. “Do what?”
“Vegas and bad decisions.” She giggled wickedly.
That pulled a laugh out of me. She had to be kidding me. “Baby, I don’t think you want me to take you to a strip club.”
She rolled her eyes and swatted at my chest. “Not that, you idiot. But we’re off the clock now. Why not? Let’s fly to Vegas.”
I stared at her, trying to work out if she was joking, but she just nodded, grinning at me like she’d already booked the damn flights in her head.
“Well,” I said slowly, “I was gonna come back to London with you after the press stuff…but if my baby wants Vegas, she gets Vegas.”
Her laugh burst out, and before she could get away, I yanked the covers over both of us and bit down gently on her shoulder. She squealed, trying to squirm away, and I pulled her tighter, already imagining what kind of trouble we could find under the neon lights.
By midnight, we were boarding a red-eye with our suitcases, matching grins, and absolutely no fucking plan whatsoever.
Vegas and bad decisions, just like she’d asked for.