35. Kate
Chapter Thirty-Five
Kate
D.C. was a dream.
My days were deliciously lazy and golden.
When I wasn’t attending his matches, I’d meet Jordan in between training, stroll the city while he worked, grab iced coffee, and sit in the sunlit park reading all the romance novels I’d been itching to start.
Some evenings, I’d wander back to the hotel suite to find him with his hair still damp from a shower, towel round his waist with that lazy smile I couldn’t resist. How was he mine?
He looked lighter. Not just physically, but in that deeper way, like something heavy had fallen off his shoulders. And somehow, I was part of the reason.
He mostly ducked the media stuff, saying there’d be plenty of that in Canada and New York.
Our nights were spent tangled up in hotel sheets or eating out at weird little places we stumbled across, our legs brushing under tables, his thumb grazing my thigh like he couldn’t help it.
It was the kind of simple happiness that made me ache in the best way. I could get used to this life.
Today was the final of the Citi Open. His comeback was still in full force. Jordan had played it down all week, claiming he was still riding the Wimbledon high, calling this tournament a warmup for the real stuff. But I wasn’t buying it.
I’d seen the way he was moving. He was razor sharp and focused. Like something inside him had clicked into place. He wanted this one, I could tell.
I met Maggie outside the player entrance. Her sunglasses held her hair back as usual, and she had two coffees in her hand. She gave me a hug then stepped back, grinning. “Well don’t you look like you just stepped off the cover of Vogue?”
“Amazing what effort you can put in when you know there’s cameras lurking at every corner.” I laughed.
She linked arms with me as we walked toward our seats. “I’ve never seen him play so well,” she said knowingly.
“He’s electric right now,” I said, smiling despite the nerves dancing in my stomach. “He’s sharp. Relaxed. Cocky as hell.” I laughed.
“That’s the best version of Jordan.” She smirked. “Means he’s got nothing to prove. He’s just enjoying it.”
I looked at her sideways. “He’s been…I don’t know, happy. Since I arrived.”
Maggie’s smile softened. “That’s because he doesn’t have to do the shiny stuff with you. He gets to be Jordan. Not The Comeback Kid.”
I swallowed hard and looked back out at the court.
He was warming up, bouncing on his feet in that navy tee that clung to his broad shoulders. His hair was tucked into a cap, eyes already scanning his opponent like he was mapping out every single shot before they even stepped up to the line.
“God,” I whispered, without even meaning to. “Look at him.”
Maggie just hummed. “That man is a goner for you.”
Jordan and his opponent both equally dominated the first two sets.
The third set was the decider. The crowd was amped, but I could barely breathe.
Jordan was clinical; serve, slice, crosscourt, kill.
His eyes never left the court, except once.
After a brutal rally he won with a drop shot, he looked up, caught my gaze, and gave me that ridiculous eyebrow raise he knew I couldn’t resist.
“You’ll never recover from that,” Maggie said, nudging me.
“He’s a menace,” I muttered, but my face was aching from smiling.
At match point, he served out wide. The return clipped the net, floated high. Jordan crushed it away.
Game. Set. Match.
He dropped his racket, head tipped back, chest heaving. Then he turned and found me.
I stood before I even knew he was moving. He climbed up to our box two steps at a time, barely stopping to shake hands at the net.
“Oh, he’s coming for you,” Maggie said, all smug.
And he was. He reached me in seconds, grabbed my face in both sweaty hands, and kissed me in front of everyone. Hard. Like it had been building since the moment I landed.
The crowd screamed. My knees nearly gave out. I barely registered the flashes, the noise, the chaos.
“Told you,” he whispered against my mouth. “You’re my good luck charm.”
And just like that, I forgot every reason I’d had to guard my heart.