Tyler
I deserved a fucking medal.
Three days in a row she’d practically bent me over that table, her warm, graceful hands all over my leg, and I’d been nothing but a saint.
A tortured saint with a permanent hard-on, sure, but still a saint.
I’d shown up on time, listened, stretched, iced.
I was focused, winning matches like my life depended on it.
She, on the other hand, was still cool as ice. I’d gotten a handful of reluctant laughs, but the wall was back up and reinforced with steel. I told myself it didn’t matter. That I could be patient. That eventually she’d see I wasn’t waiting around to get in her pants. I was waiting for her.
I pulled on the black Nike vest I’d laid out, I’d caught her staring at my arms in this one before, her eyes lingering a second too long for a ‘professional assessment,’ and I wasn't above using it to my advantage today.
I tossed in a roll of grip tape and a heavy towel into my gym bag, the nylon crinkling under the weight.
I was just zipping it shut, when my phone gave a sharp, insistent vibration in my pocket.
Orla:
Hi Tyler. I’m not feeling great this morning. I’m going to have to skip the session. I’ll get Ben to see you if you need.
Wow. That gutted me. More than I’d ever admit out loud.
Not just because I wanted her hands on me instead of Ben’s, which, yeah, I fucking did. But because she hadn’t said what was wrong. There were barely any details. Just a polite brush-off, like I hadn’t earned the right to know.
An awful thought clawed its way into my mind. Was she avoiding me? Had something happened? Something she didn’t want me to know?
I almost went straight to her room. I’d practically memorized the six paces across the hall, could’ve been there in three strides. But if she shut me out again, I didn’t know if I’d come back from it.
So I sat there with my phone in my hand, debating like a lunatic, before finally typing back:
Me:
You okay? Do you need anything? Do you need me to come in? I can skip the session. Leg’s holding up today.
I swiped my gym bag off the bed and quickly laced up my running shoes. In seconds I was wrenching open my hotel room door ready to knock on hers when my phone pinged in my hand.
Orla:
It’s okay. Just a migraine that needs sleeping off. But thanks.
My jaw clenched. A migraine? Okay, maybe that’s all it was.
But I stood staring at her door across the hall, fists tight, every muscle itching to knock, not knowing what the fuck I’d do if she told me to leave.
So instead, I left for the courts feeling fucking useless.
Wanting to be the guy she could lean on, knowing she wasn’t ready to let me be.
When I got back from practice later that afternoon, something felt off.
It was nearly four, and no one had seen her all day.
Not at breakfast, not in the gym, not even in the physio suite.
And for her, that was unheard of. The woman ran on structure.
She didn’t just vanish. I’d seen her pissed off, annoyed, exhausted, but never silent.
Silence from Orla scared the shit out of me.
Twice I walked to her door, lifted my hand, and chickened out. The third time I didn’t even make it past the minibar before turning around again like a fucking boomerang.
By four-thirty I was pacing again. By four-forty, I’d already googled signs of heatstroke, migraines, and anxiety attacks.
At five, I gave in.
I grabbed my keycard, crossed the hallway, and knocked softly on her door.
There was silence at first. Then I heard a shuffle.
The door cracked open and the sight that hit me knocked the air right out of my lungs.
She looked ruined. Pale, eyes red-rimmed, hair mussed like she’d been fighting sleep, or tears, or both.
I don’t think she’d even got dressed because her rumpled, oversized t-shirt and shorts had clearly been slept in.
She blinked up at me, dazed, like she hadn’t expected the world to keep turning let alone see me standing there.
Someone might as well have reached down my throat and crushed my heart. The sight of her shattered me.
“Oh hey… Tyler.” Her voice was raw. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting…”
“Didn’t mean to bother you,” I said quickly. Almost stumbling over my words. “Just…no one’s heard from you all day. I figured I’d check you were still breathing.”
She gave a small, forced laugh. “Yeah, sorry. Just had a bit of a migraine. I’m fine now. Much better, actually.”
“You sure?” I asked, searching her face. She sounded bright. Almost too bright, like she was trying to convince herself, not me.
“Mhm.” She nodded fast. “Honestly, I’m okay.”
I didn’t believe her for a fucking second. Those eyes told a different story. One I wanted to drag out of her gently, if she’d let me.
But she was already pulling the wall back up. I had to clench my fists hard because every instinct in my body was telling me to reach for her, to hold her until she told me what was wrong. She’d hate that. She’d hate that I noticed.
“So, uh…” I cleared my throat. “A few of us are heading down to dinner in a while—PR are hosting it. You should come, maybe have a drink with us, if you’re feeling up to it.”
Her brown eyes flickered with surprise, maybe relief.
“Oh. Yeah. Actually…I could eat.”
The breath I’d been holding slipped out of me. A sinking feeling that she probably hadn’t even eaten today.
“Okay, cool. I’ll see you down there around seven?”
“Okay,” she echoed. But something lingered in her gaze, just for a second.
Like she wanted to say something. Like she wanted to let me in but I knew she’d rather chew glass than admit what was going on.
That was the difference between us. I was the type to blow up and take out my anger at the court.
It appeared that she was the type to fold in on herself so that no one could see the damage. In seconds she’d swallowed it down.
I gave her a small nod, stepped back, and let the door fall shut between us.
She’d been crying. I knew she had, and I hated that I didn’t know why. Hated that I wasn’t the one she called when whatever it was had come crashing down on her.
But I’d figure it out. Whatever it was, whoever hurt her, I was going to get to the bottom of it.
And if there was any way I could fix it, I would.
Even if she never let me touch her again, I’d still try.