30. Jordan
Chapter Thirty
Jordan
Nobody warned you how fucking lonely this life could get.
You could be surrounded by people all day—agents, trainers, sponsors, media handlers—and still feel completely fucking alone.
L.A. was bright, and fake, and loud in all the ways I remembered.
Everyone talked about their own brilliance, the best version of themselves on display.
I was smiling in all the right photos, nodding at all the right soundbites, holding some overpriced drink I was being paid to be seen with.
The last thing I wanted was a bloody stop-off at a sponsor event in between tournaments, but skipping wasn’t an option.
Someone had to pay for the physio, the flights, the team.
In all the chaos, there was only one person on my mind.
Not just the fact that I was missing her laugh or her voice, but I missed the weight of her against me when she fell asleep on me. The way she tucked her knees underneath her on the sofa because she was always cold.
The way she’d looked at me after winning Wimbledon like I was hers. Like being me was enough.
God, she’d hate all this. The events, the networking, the egos. She put up with some of the attention in London and handled it with grace, maybe more than I deserved, but I saw the way her fingers curled around her wrist when someone stared too long. The way her polite smile turned tight.
She didn’t belong in rooms like that. And yet somehow…she was what made them bearable.
Tonight was some sponsor event downtown; I couldn’t even remember who for. The invite was still folded in the back pocket of my jeans at the hotel.
I’d skipped the driver. Walked the few blocks back to the hotel. I hoped the air might help.
It didn’t.
Now I was sprawled on the bed in half a tux, the TV on mute, L.A. blinking outside like it was trying to impress me.
My phone was face down beside me. I picked it up and unlocked it. The photo was still there. The one I kept going back to. Us, on my sofa, the morning after the final.
She was in my hoodie, legs tucked under her, hair a mess. Resting her head on my shoulder, smiling like she’d never been happier. I looked done for. The I’ve found her and I’m never letting her go, kind of done for. I stared at it until the room blurred.
Fuck, I missed her.
Not just the sex. Yeah, of course that, but her. Her snark. Her smart mouth. The way she looked at me like I wasn’t just another athlete with a racket.
She never once asked about points, or prize money, or rankings.
She had her own money, and was fiercely independent with it.
She’d even insisted on replacing the coffee she’d used up whilst staying with me.
She asked what scared me. What made me tick.
What I’d do if I didn’t have tennis. I told her I didn’t know.
Now…I’m starting to think the answer might be her.
I looked at the photo again. Her eyes were so blue it almost hurt. That smug little smile in the corner like she knew she had me.
It had been years since I let anyone in. Since I wanted more than the next match, the next win. But I wanted her. All of her. Not just for a night. Not for a summer. I wanted her indefinitely.
I wanted to wake up with her on some boring Tuesday in November. I wanted to argue about which takeaway to order. I wanted to hear her swearing at me about socks on the floor. I wanted her in my bed, in my house, forever.
Shit. This had to be love. What else could make me feel this ruined, and still more certain than I’ve ever been in my life?
I’d shown her to my mum, for fuck’s sake. I couldn’t stop talking about her every time she rang. She took up every waking thought in my head.
I checked the clock. Shit. I needed to sleep.
Four more days until D.C. Four more days until she stepped off that plane and into my arms. I’d already arranged to pick her up myself. No distractions. Just me. Just her. And nothing in the world was gonna pull me away this time.
Because the truth was, my life didn’t feel right without her in it.
And I was done pretending otherwise.