Tyler
Was it going to kill me to sleep a few feet away from Orla Sheehan every night?
Yeah. Obviously.
Did I maybe call the hotel ahead of time and request our rooms be next to each other?
Also yes.
Creepy? Maybe. Desperate? Definitely. But I wasn’t trying to be a dick. I just…wanted to look out for her. That’s all. I know she’s a grown-ass woman who can handle herself, but lately I felt protective of her in a way I’ve never felt about anyone before.
When she shut her door across the hall tonight, the click sounded like a gunshot in the hallway.
I stood there like an idiot, staring at the brass number against the beige door, imagining what she was doing inside.
Dropping her bag. Kicking off those white New Balances she always wore.
Pulling her hair down, shaking it loose.
I stayed frozen in the hallway like a lovesick moron for the longest time. One that couldn’t bring himself to knock.
Eventually, I dragged myself into my room, tossed my bag onto the carpeted floor, and collapsed backwards into the bed. The wall between us felt paper thin; I swear I could hear the soft creak of her wardrobe, the faint rush of running water. My imagination filled in the rest.
Not in a filthy way. Okay, maybe a little, but mostly in that pathetic, hungry way where you just want to really know someone.
And that was the problem. I didn’t want to be across the hall from her. I wanted to be in the room with her. I want to know what book sat by her bed, whether she slept curled tight on her side or sprawled like a starfish, whether, in the dark, she’d ever reach for me for comfort.
We’d agreed to be friends, client and physio. And she’d stuck to it. She hadn’t so much as looked at me sideways since I kissed her on that terrace.
Which, for the record, was both the best and dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
The moment had felt right. It was right.
I should’ve known better than to push her, but with her, I had no self-control.
So since then, frosty Orla’s back with a vengeance.
All clipped answers, clinical touch, not even an eye roll to keep me warm at night.
And God, I missed the eye rolls. At least an eye roll meant she felt something.
This new version felt like she was building a freaking fortress and I was the idiot outside trying to scale the sexually frustrated walls with my bare hands.
It’s ridiculous how fast I got addicted to the version of her who let me in for half a second. Now every clipped syllable felt like she was shutting a door in my face all over again. Literally and figuratively.
Still, at least this way, she couldn’t avoid me. Not completely.
And I wasn’t giving up. Not even close.
She had an old version of me stuck in her head. The cocky, careless, stumbling out of clubs with Instagram models version of me. And to be fair, that was who I was for a long time, but it’s not who I am anymore. Not who I want to be when she’s around.
And I’ll prove it. Even if it takes me all summer.
She doesn’t know how badly I want to get this right, for once in my fucking life because she’s right about everything.
She called the tear in my hamstring before the scan even confirmed it, and then drew up a plan to get me back on court by August. She’s sharp as hell, always three steps ahead, and somehow still the kindest, most beautiful person I’ve met in a world full of agents and egos.
I need her on my team.
But more than that, I want her. Every version: the sarcastic one, the professional one, the vulnerable one I only got for a second, when she looked at me like maybe I wasn’t a lost cause.
She was making me better. Turning me into someone I didn’t know I could be. I knew I was walking a tightrope, knew that if I took one wrong step I’d lose her completely. But stepping back felt impossible. Like trying to will myself not to breathe.
And if it took a month of awkward hallway run-ins, quiet mornings, and pretending I don’t still dream about kissing her again?
So be it.