5. Jordan
Chapter Five
Jordan
I should’ve been asleep an hour ago.
I’d carb loaded, done the physio, tactical review. I’d even sat through the match highlight reel Chris made me watch before a big one. Tomorrow, I was heading to Centre Court for the quarter-final, the biggest match of my career. I’d never made it this far at Wimbledon.
The last few years had been a shitshow of injuries, close calls, and timing that never quite landed. I’d started wondering if it just wasn’t meant to be. If maybe this was as far as I’d ever go.
But now? Now I had this fire in my belly, like my focus had finally shifted. But it wasn’t just about tennis.
She’d just texted back.
“Giving your number to me through Gwen? Bold move for a Tuesday.”
I was grinning like an idiot.
Noticing a pretty girl wasn’t part of the plan this week but I was in full-on, no-way-back territory.
Kate. Or technically, Dr Kate Ashford. I kept repeating her name in my head.
The way she’d dropped that in casually like it was just a part of her regular Tuesday.
I don’t think I’d ever met a woman as clever as her.
She was well spoken, soft with just a hint of an accent.
I couldn’t quite place it, but I was thinking Welsh, maybe?
Wherever she was from, she was fucking dynamite and I had to see her again.
I kept picturing her at the bar, leaning in like she owned the space. Smirk on her face, eyes sharp as glass when she called me cocky. She wasn’t flirty or trying too hard, just cool with such confidence.
She’d been wearing this collared dress, all white and buttoned up like she had no idea how fucking sexy she looked.
Classy as hell, but I swear, one glance at her legs and I’d nearly groaned out loud.
By the time she told me I was charming enough to pull it off, I was already picturing what those lips would taste like.
And fuck, she smelled good. It was simple and subtle. Like vanilla and something darker, lethal. I’d spent ten minutes fighting the urge to lean in closer just to breathe her scent in.
When she looked at me, it wasn’t wide-eyed or giggly. No fan shit or flick of the eyes to my sponsor watch. She looked at me as if she had been assessing me, and fuck, did I like it.
After I left, I came home and stood in the shower with my cock in my hand, trying to get her out of my system.
But it wasn’t just her body, though Jesus, that was spectacular.
It was the whole package, her confidence, the way she smiled at me as I was leaving.
And those eyes. I’d never seen anything so blue. They were magic.
I wasn’t some lovesick teenager. At least, I hadn’t been before. But my gut had already made the call: this one was different.
She hadn’t thrown herself at me—that’s what had done it.
That quiet confidence drew me in. Once you made headlines in tennis, you learned how people looked at you.
How quickly they started asking what you were worth instead of who you were.
Kate hadn’t asked about rankings, or titles, or sponsors.
She’d asked what I drank, spoke about her work, and smirked as if I were an unexpected plot twist. I’m pretty sure she hadn’t even heard of me.
So yeah. I’d messaged Gwen like a schoolboy, passed her my number, and crossed my fingers. Not my usual move. But then again, Kate was anything but usual.
And apparently, she didn’t mind bold.
Now I lay staring at the ceiling, phone resting on my chest, trying to slow the thump in my rib cage.
She said she might come tomorrow. Said she’d watch the match. Maybe even go to dinner. I’d have to keep it low-key. If Chris found out, I’d never hear the end of it.
But even with the quarter-final tomorrow, even with the chance to rewrite my whole career, all I could think about was her. It didn’t feel lustful; it was more like adrenaline, a curiosity that pulled me in like gravity.
I hadn’t expected her. Not this week, of all weeks.
And now, I couldn’t wait for the biggest match of my life to be over, just so I could see her again.