Kate
Chapter Forty-One
Four weeks in.
That’s how far I’d come into this unexpected, glittering, high-speed life.
Four weeks of hotel rooms and courtside seats. Of sweaty hugs after wins. Of late nights tangled in sheets, and early mornings with strong coffee and Jordan’s bare chest warm against mine.
He was playing the best tennis of his life. Everyone said so; Chris, the commentators, even Maggie, who squeezed my arm yesterday and whispered, “Your boy’s on fire.”
But today, sitting courtside in Cincinnati, I’d started to feel it catching up with him. With me, too, if I was honest.
I’d slipped into this world faster than I ever thought I could. It hadn’t been easy, at first. But after a while, it became easy to laugh at his jokes, to wear the pretty dresses, to hold his hand in front of cameras and pretend like maybe, somehow, I belonged here.
But lately, the edges were getting sharper.
The time zones warped my sleep, my routines. The spotlight felt brighter. The whispers stuck longer.
And underneath it all…the decision.
The one I hadn’t told him about because I had to tie up some loose ends.
It sat in my chest like a storm cloud waiting to burst.
I didn’t want to burst the golden bubble we were in, this glowing, suspended stretch of days where everything felt dreamlike. But I could feel the moment creeping closer.
The decision had to be made, whether I was going back to Cardiff at the end of the month or staying with Jordan.
Some days it had felt obvious. The way Jordan made me laugh until my cheeks hurt, the quiet mornings tangled in hotel sheets, the little ways he looked at me like I was more than enough. It all made me think, of course I’ll stay.
But then something would snap me back to reality. The tabloids digging into my private life. Those stupid WAGs who’d got under my skin. A strained phone call with my mother that left my mind spinning for hours.
And the truth was, if I didn’t go back, I’d lose my job. The job I’d worked my arse off at university for. The one that helped me claw back my independence when my marriage fell apart. The one thing that was mine entirely, that no one could take from me. But I’d made my decision, and I had a plan.
My eyes flicked back to the court.
Jordan was locked in a brutal semi-final against Carlos Martínez, a Spanish powerhouse with a vicious backhand and a reputation for grinding his opponents into dust. He wasn’t higher ranked, but he was relentless.
The kind of player who didn’t need to outplay you, he just needed to outlast you. Get in your head.
Jordan started sharp. Served clean. Footwork tight. His energy dialled in. But even from the stands, I could see the shift. He couldn’t sustain it. Martínez wasn’t letting up. Every rally was a street fight. Every point, a war.
Jordan’s body language started to change. The eye twitch. The clenched fist between points. The flattened backhand. Every tell I’d ever seen was back with a vengeance.
The way he glanced toward Chris, searching for answers that weren’t coming. A mutter after a mistimed forehand. A sharp fuck after a call he didn’t agree with. And I caught it, the way he was purposefully avoiding my gaze.
The camera lenses zoomed in like vultures. Then he double faulted.
Ran a hand through his hair. Shook his head like he couldn’t climb out of whatever was crawling under his skin.
The second set slipped.
The third unravelled.
And just like that, he lost.
Not just the match, but something else, too.
Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
The confidence. The calm. The steady, grounded energy I’d come to rely on.
I waited in the tunnel like I always did while he gave the bare minimum to the press, cap pulled low, jaw tight, expression unreadable.
Shoulders coiled like piano wire. When I usually waited around after a match, it was all stolen kisses in between press, cool downs, waiting for him.
Today, he barely glanced at me between each obligation.
He didn’t even speak in the car. None of it was in a cruel way.
At least, that’s what I told myself. I knew that it wasn’t directed at me, but he just…
shut down. Locked behind that door he disappeared behind when things went wrong.
The door I hadn’t seen this bolted shut… ever.
I didn’t push.
When we got back to the hotel suite, he shrugged off his hoodie like it weighed too much, threw it on the sofa and walked straight to the window. Hands on the windowsill. Shoulders heaving.
He just stood there, staring out at the skyline like it held the answer to a question he couldn’t quite ask aloud.
I hovered near the sofa, unsure of what to say or do. He still hadn’t really looked at me. I didn’t know whether to go to him or give him space.
I wanted to wrap my arms around him. Say something.
I was trained in this, for goodness’ sake.
To help people. To draw the trauma out carefully.
But this was Jordan. I couldn’t find a way in through these new walls being this close to him.
The way he stood tense, folded inward, like he was in a fight with himself that I wasn’t invited to, held me back.
And then my phone rang.
Mum. For fuck’s sake.
The name on the screen made my throat tight. Not now, Mother.
I blinked down at it, torn. Knowing she would just keep calling if I didn’t answer and I’d have another scolding. Finally, I quietly stepped into the bathroom to give him space, closed the door behind me, and answered.
“Hi, Mum,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.
And just like that, the bubble burst entirely.