Orla
I’d been pacing my room like a caged animal for over an hour, wearing a track into the plush carpet and practising what I was going to say.
Rehearsing apologies I wasn’t sure would fix this.
I’d been a complete mess last night and worse, completely unprofessional.
I’d taken the line we were meant to walk and basically set fire to it.
I hadn’t seen Tyler all day. I couldn't even bring myself to respond to his text because what do you even say to a man who literally saved you from yourself? ‘Thanks for the ibuprofen and for not taking advantage of my drunken mid-life crisis’?
I didn’t deserve the kindness he’d shown me, and I sure as hell hadn’t earned the gentleness with which he’d handled me. I was supposed to be the one in control—the one keeping him on the straight and narrow—and instead, he’d been the one to provide the anchor while I drifted out to sea.
By the time I’d finally dragged myself out of bed and back to my own room that morning, after a tactical throw-up, it was nearly eleven, and I’d completely missed his match that afternoon. Some physio I was.
Word filtered back that he’d won again, climbing up the rankings, storming through the draw like nothing could touch him. And I hadn’t been there, doing the one thing I was supposed to do. The guilt sat like a stone lodged in my throat.
Even with a career defining match in front of him, he’d still looked after me. Left me water and painkillers. Told Cara to cover me. Made sure I was safe and taken care of before he even gave himself a second thought. I needed to make things right. Or at least try.
I’d showered, washed my hair and scrubbed away the shame as best I could.
Painted over the remnants with concealer and mascara.
By the time I stood outside his room, I could hear quiet movement inside.
He was back. Probably exhausted. Still, I had to get this out before I lost my nerve or drove myself insane.
I lifted my hand, the motion feeling like I was moving through water, and knocked softly before I could overthink it and retreat to the safety of my own room.
The door swung open almost immediately, and every word I’d practiced, every carefully rehearsed apology I’d spent the last hour perfecting, died right there in my throat.
He stood there bare-chested, tattoos I hadn’t even noticed last night scattered across taut muscle and bone.
A towel was slung low on his hips, and his thick hair curled at the ends from his shower.
A bead of water tracked down the line of his abs and vanished into the terrycloth, and my brain short-circuited so hard I forgot how to breathe.
My eyes betrayed me, dragging down the deep V of his torso before I snapped them back up.
“Tyler…” My voice snagged on his name. “Can I talk to you?”
His smile flickered warmly, a little surprised, but he stepped back without hesitation, holding the door open. “Yeah. Of course.”
I walked past him, brushing far too close to the clean scent of his soap on freshly washed skin—the same scent that had snapped me awake that morning and brought more comfort than I cared to admit.
The entire room was heavy with steam and whatever brand of cologne was sponsoring him at the moment.
He leant against the back of the sofa, arms crossed, water still glistening in the hollows of his collarbones, waiting.
I turned, fingers twisting in my sleeves as I plucked up the courage to talk. “About last night,” I began, the words catching on my breath. “I— I need to apologise. I was completely out of line. Unprofessional. I was in a bad place, and I shouldn’t have…come to you like that. I’m really sorry.”
He didn’t interrupt, just stood there, listening, his green eyes warm and comforting. God, I didn’t deserve him looking at me like that right now.
“You didn’t deserve to get caught in the crossfire of…all that.” My throat tightened, the words scraping on the way out. “And thank you—for not taking advantage. You were really sweet. I mean that.”
His expression softened. “You don’t need to thank me for not being an asshole, Orla.” He shook his head slightly, baffled that I’d even thought of it. “That’s just the bare minimum.”
Fuck. He had my knees weakening by the second at this point. “I just… I didn’t expect you to be like this,” I said quietly. “You’ve been kind, patient. You handled me better than I handled myself.”
He straightened a little, towel shifting just enough to make me forget how to speak English.
His voice was calm but certain. “Listen, Orla. If you ever feel like that again, don’t keep it in.
Come find me.” I could see in his eyes he meant every word as he continued “I’m not your ex.
I’m not one of the fuckups who let you down.
I’m just me. Your friend. And I’m here. If you need me. ”
The air between us suddenly felt like a fuse had been lit. God. My heart.
“You’re making it really hard to keep my walls up, Tyler.”
His mouth curved sympathetically. “Maybe you don’t need them around me.” I knew he meant it, I knew he’d be here every time choosing me over and over again.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I stepped into his space and slipped my arms around his waist. The contact was tentative at first, but the heat of him nearly consumed me.
He stiffened in surprise, then eased into the embrace, his palm finding the curve of my shoulder in one slow, grounding movement.
His skin was warm and damp against mine.
My brain chose that exact moment to realize that the only thing between my stomach and his cock was a flimsy hotel towel.
I could feel the heat of him, the hard line of his body, and the frantic, heavy thrum of his heart against my cheek.
I hadn't realized how much I’d missed steady until I was anchored to him.
Brilliant, Orla. Hug the half-naked man you’re trying not to climb like a tree.
“Thanks,” I murmured against his chest, my voice barely there. Then I stepped back before I could embarrass myself further.
He looked at me like he was holding back a flood. “You okay now?”
“I’m getting there.” I tried for a smile, smoothing my hair in a useless attempt to hide how raw I felt. His fingers twitched—a barely-there movement as if he wanted to reach out and pull me back. That restraint hit me harder than any touch could have.
“Goodnight, Tyler,” I said, stepping back from him, my hand reaching for the doorknob.
“Night, O,” he said softer than I’d ever heard his voice.
The door shut with a soft, final thud. My breath left me in a trembling rush as I stood in the corridor. My legs felt like lead, my heels sinking into the plush carpet as I tried to walk away.
Jesus, the sight of him shirtless, that damp golden hair, tattoos, a towel barely hanging on, and I’d walked in to apologise like some kind of penitent nun, then hugged him? What the fuck was I doing?
I stopped mid-stride, pressing my fingers to my temples. My skin was still burning where he’d touched me.
The way he’d said, “I’m not your ex. I’m here. If you need me.”
It dug in somewhere I thought I’d plastered over years ago.
And what took my breath away the most wasn’t the towel or the tattoos or the way he looked at me, it was how right it had felt to fit against him.
How my whole body had gone still, like it had finally found somewhere it could rest. Like I belonged to him for one breath too long.
My heart was thundering so loud it drowned out logic. I was thirty-one, not fifteen. I was supposed to be a professional. The steady one.
Instead, I was pacing like a lovesick idiot outside Tyler Reed’s hotel room, caught between sense and want.
But maybe that was the problem; sense had been steering my life for years. Nothing but sensible choices, sensible men, sensible heartbreaks. All it had earnt me was lonely hotel rooms and broken promises.
And here I was, wanting to be reckless for once.
I turned back toward his door, took one long inhale, my heart thudding so hard it shook through my ribs.
Fuck it.