Orla
It had been twenty-four hours since that bloody photo dropped into my inbox, and I won’t lie, it was a stab straight to the chest. I’d been in a blissful Tyler bubble since that first night in DC, stupidly forgetting the real world existed outside of us, forgetting the sharks were always circling.
It was exactly what I’d tried to protect myself from, the whole reason I’d built walls with Tyler in the first place.
I didn’t want to be just another headline. His latest fling.
Deep down I knew this wasn’t that, not really, but it still stung. Still pulled old memories to the surface. It reminded me of every article I’d ever read about him, every grainy shot of a girl leaving a club or a hotel in his wake. The person he was... or still could be, if I wasn’t careful.
I hated that I was even thinking about it.
That a grainy photo had the power to make me doubt him.
He hadn’t given me a single reason to; he’d never lied to me, he’d been an absolute dream—attentive, sweet and utterly romantic.
A fucking god in bed. He’d even told me he could see kids in his future. My heart ached at the thought.
Please don’t let that be a line. Please don’t let it just be a ruse to keep me in his bed until he finds something shinier.
I shook the thought away just as he knocked on the physio room door.
“Hey, baby.” Tyler stepped in, closing the distance instantly to plant a firm, lingering kiss on my lips. “All ready for you to feel me up again.”
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips.
“Up,” I said, patting the treatment bed.
He leaned down, stealing one more quick kiss before climbing on.
“How’s it feeling?” I asked, sliding into my professional headspace as I moved to the end of the table. “I’ve noticed you’re walking easier on it when you get out of bed.”
“I wonder how many physios can say that about their clients?” He wiggled his brows, that familiar spark back in his eyes.
“Tyler, will you behave?” I giggled.
He couldn’t help himself, and I didn’t hate that about him. He made me feel lighter, giddier than I had in years, even when the rest of the world was trying to drag us down.
His mouth curled at one side as he slid a hand behind my thigh while I leaned against the bed to reach his muscle. “It’s feeling pretty good lately. Barely pulling at all, thanks to you.”
“Give yourself credit, Tyler. You’ve listened. You’ve locked in. You’re not tearing yourself apart after every point anymore.” I pressed my thumbs into the tenderest spot on his muscle, and felt a small shiver run through him under the pressure.
He lowered his head, a quiet, almost shy gesture, like he wasn’t used to hearing praise that didn’t come with a lecture attached.
“You make me want to,” he said tenderly.
My fingers stilled for a second. He was looking down, his usual swagger completely absent. He was just being honest, as if transparency was the only language he knew how to speak with me.
That was the thing about Tyler Reed. To the outside world, he looked hot-headed and undisciplined.
But the reality I saw was different. He just felt everything out loud—the anger, the impulse, the affection—and he never tried to hide it.
Somewhere along the line, I’d fallen for that sincerity without ever meaning to.
God, I hoped this was the real version of him. I continued working through the muscle, checking for any tightness before he went out onto the court.
“Come on, Reed. We need to win this thing.” I slapped his thigh lightly and ushered him off the table before he could see too much of my face.
“I’ll win it for you,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out, loud as always. Another giggle escaped me, the sound lighter than it had been all day.
I trailed behind him through the tunnel, watching the easy swing of his racket bag against his back, the cap pulled low like he was refocusing himself.
My chest tightened with that familiar jolt.
This side of him—the athlete, the man with all the fire and discipline in the world when he chose to summon it—it would never stop making my knees weak.
The low roar of the crowd built with every step until it was deafening. And as he stepped into the sunlight, the stupid photo was the furthest thing from my mind.
Taking my seat in the medic stand in the campus stadium was like slipping into another world.
Noise and colour pressed in from every side.
When I glanced over, he’d taken to the baseline, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
He looked over at me before his first serve with his eyebrow raised, a quick flash in his eyes that said this one’s for you, baby.
Then he sent down the cleanest, most lethal serve I’d ever seen.
He was going to win this thing. I could feel it.
He took the match fast. During every changeover, he’d glance up toward my seat, a towel slung around his neck and that sweat-slick grin aimed right at me.
I didn't even bother pretending I wasn't watching him like a hawk anymore.
His movement seemed sharper, lighter. There was no sign of the hitch in his gait that had been plaguing him before we arrived.
By the final point, he was on fire. Match point landed with a brutal ace, the crowd exploding to their feet in a wall of sound. He pumped his fist, then tipped his chin toward me, claiming the celebration for us before it belonged to anyone else.
I slipped off toward the tunnel as he shook hands with his opponent. My heart was racing, and I could feel the stupid heart-eyes threatening to burst out of my skull.
Damn it, Orla. Professional. Act professional.
But I was too far gone to pretend.
Armed with a bottle of water and my kit bag, I leaned against the door of the treatment room to wait. The adrenaline of the stadium was still humming in my blood, but the quiet of the tunnel felt like a sanctuary in the middle of all the madness.
Then, his voice boomed down the corridor, echoing off the concrete walls.
“Told you I’d win it for my girl!”
He spread his arms wide like some cocky gladiator returning from battle, earning us more than a few curious looks from the passing officials and security.
I shook my head, a reluctant grin breaking through as a familiar warmth spread through my core.
There was no hiding this anymore, Tyler Reed was physically incapable of keeping a secret.
When he reached me, I held out the water and a towel, but instead of taking them, he yanked me in by my waist and pressed a hot, shameless sweat-slick kiss to my mouth. I could almost taste the adrenaline on his lips.
“Tyler!” I half laughed, half scolded, my face flushing as I glanced at the open tunnel behind him.
“What?” he murmured so only I could hear. “You’re lucky I don’t bend you over that massage table when we get in there.” His hand found my ass, brazen as ever.
The memory of the photo I’d been obsessing over for the last twenty-four hours—along with every shred of common sense—slipped right out of my head.
“Tyler,” I breathed, laughter shaking in my voice. “Pretty sure that falls under inappropriate workplace behaviour.”
“Take it up with HR, baby,” he rasped, his eyes dark and triumphant as he steered me into the room, his body pressed firmly against mine.
The door clicked shut behind us. He was fucking lucky nobody saw that, but as he backed me toward the table, I realised I didn't care if the whole world had a front-row seat.