7. Jordan
Chapter Seven
Jordan
I hit the final serve so clean, I knew it was over the second it left my hand.
The ball sliced through the air, kissed the service line, and my opponent barely scraped it before it died in the net.
Game. Match. Done.
Wimbledon semi-final.
I bent forward, hands on my knees, chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath.
The crowd roared. It felt surreal, but also like something had finally clicked.
Like I’d caught up to the version of myself I’d been chasing for years.
I felt like the kid I used to be, completely hungry and reckless for it.
Sure of the points before they’d even landed.
Last year was a bust. Injuries, early exits, endless self-doubt.
But this year? I was ready for it and it had paid off.
I was mostly focused on the game, but I kept looking up without even meaning to. And there she was, in the fourth row, sunglasses on, leather jacket slung over her shoulders, and that damn red dress that clung to her curves like it knew I’d be looking.
Jesus.
She was actually here, sitting there with that warm, slightly dazed smile that landed harder than the win. The press, the crowd, the next round—none of it mattered anymore. What mattered was her seeing me win.
“Jordan!”
I blinked. The tournament official was waving. Right. Shit. The press.
I nodded, walked to the net, shook hands, and got ushered into the tunnel.
The post-match interview was a blur. Bright lights, handshakes, same old shit about form and fitness. None of it sank in. All I could think was: She came. She saw that. And I’d never played like that in my entire life.
By the time I got through the media, I was already half-dressed, damp shirt clinging to my body, bag slung over my shoulder. I’d taken the fastest shower of my life and nearly bowled over Orla, the physio, in the hallway.
“Watch it, Taylor,” she said, catching herself on the wall, her Irish accent sharp as a tack. “Some of us are trying to work here.”
“Sorry, love. Big plans,” I threw over my shoulder.
Her snort followed me down the corridor. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
As I reached the exit, my phone buzzed.
Kate:
Lots of people at the exit. I’ll be round the corner by the street entrance. Don’t fancy being a Daily Mail sidebar tomorrow.
I grinned. Smart girl.
I ducked through the back hallway, ignored the cluster of photographers at the gate, and slipped through the service entrance into the quieter street beyond.
And there she was.
She leaned against the brick wall as if she had been painted there, with one leg bent, her weight shifted onto the other, and sunglasses still on as if she owned the afternoon.
Her hair caught the breeze. Her dress clung in all the right places. And those legs….fuck. It was going to kill me pretending I hadn’t been thinking about them wrapped around my waist…or neck…all day.
My step faltered. I could feel the grin pulling at my face before I even reached her, but I couldn’t stop it. She turned at the sound of my footsteps, her smile curling slowly as though I was the best thing she’d seen all day.
“You survived the chaos?” she asked.
“Barely,” I exhaled. “Thanks for the heads-up. Didn’t fancy having to explain who the ridiculously hot blonde at the back gate was.”
She tilted her head. “Hot, huh? I doubt I’m the first.”
“You are, though,” I shot back. “First one who ever stopped me in my tracks like that.”
I leaned in and kissed her cheek. It was meant to be polite, sure, but I lingered long enough to breathe in that heady vanilla scent that had been haunting me since the bar. What surprised me more was that she didn’t move away.
“So?” I asked. “What’s the verdict? Did I impress?”
She grinned. “Very much so. Especially the part where your opponent looked like he wanted to throw his racket at you.”
I laughed. “My charm works on everyone.”
“Clearly.”
We stood there a beat too long, eyes locked, heat simmering between us. That half-smile? Bloody lethal.
A black car pulled up, the one I’d arranged to pick us up.
I cleared my throat. “Come on. I’ve made reservations at a little Italian place near my flat. Nothing fancy, just good pasta and wine. The owner’s mum still works in the kitchen.”
Her smile softened. “Sounds perfect.”
Fuck, there was that smile again.
I opened the door and watched her slide in effortlessly and gracefully, the hem of her dress riding up just enough to flash creamy skin that was begging for my touch. My throat tightened. I shut the door carefully, like it mattered, as if careful not to shatter this moment.
Circling to the other side, I slid in beside her, pulse still thudding in my throat.
Tonight I should’ve been focused on recovery, strategy, the next opponent. But screw it. History could wait. She was sitting right here, smelling like that, laughing at my jokes, and all I wanted was pasta, wine, and her smile across the table.