61. Kate
Chapter Sixty-One
Kate
Australian Open: Melbourne—January
After spending a few days with Jordan’s parents, the house had tipped into full-blown festive chaos.
Don’t get me wrong, I lapped it up. The attention, his mum fussing over me, the warmth, the noise.
I loved it. But when it came time to leave for the rental villa we’d booked for the rest of our stay before heading to the Open, I think we both exhaled in relief.
The December downtime had done him the world of good, but now he was locked and loaded for the Australian Open. His big comeback.
During training, Jordan was a blur of motion in the centre, shirt plastered to his back, muscles taut and gleaming with sweat. Every serve, every sprint, every drill Chris barked at him looked brutal, but he didn’t slow.
I could see it in him. That razor-edge focus. The hunger. This wasn’t just the usual match prep. It was something more personal now. Like he needed to prove something no one else could see.
I knew better. I knew who it was really for.
Every time he met Chris’s volley with that sharp, determined snap of his wrist, I felt it—that quiet, stubborn promise he’d made without saying a word. This time he was out there not only as a competitor but as a father, a fiancé. All of it, here on his home turf.
I could feel eyes on me the moment I stepped through the gates.
Some glances were subtle, quick flickers I might have imagined.
Others lingered just long enough to make my skin prickle.
A few belonged to people pretending not to stare while very obviously leaning toward the person next to them to whisper.
It was still such a strange feeling, being recognised, being noticed. Like stepping into a role I hadn’t auditioned for.
I wasn’t just a “girlfriend” now. I was here as his soon-to-be wife, the woman carrying his baby. And the whole world knew about it.
In preparation for his comeback, I’d actually paid to have a blow-dry that morning.
Not something I ever did, but I started to feel like I couldn’t get away with winging it anymore.
I wasn’t here to impress anybody, but if I could make myself look a little more shiny, they might just leave me alone.
I had on a powder blue dress that was sleeveless fitted to just under my bump where it had a more flowing skirt to the floor.
My hair loose around my shoulders and big sunglasses on my head.
More for their ability to hide behind than fashion.
I was five months along by now, bump big enough for people to notice it before me when I walked into a room.
I hated being called a WAG. I was so much more than that. But I was his, and I wasn’t hiding it anymore.
It wasn’t long before a few cameras found me, lenses turning, subtle nods, that faint murmur of recognition rippling through the crowd. I kept my chin up, my steps steady, and did what I always did—pretended not to notice.
A steward led me down the narrow aisle, clipboard in hand, and I focused on the familiar instead. The crowd hummed around us, programs fluttering like wings, and somewhere in the distance, a ball struck clean and sharp.
Relief flooded through me the second I reached the players’ box.
Chris and Maggie turned as I approached. Maggie was already reaching for my hand with that warm, comforting smile of hers. His mum and dad were just behind them, beaming with the kind of quiet pride that pressed behind my ribs.
Roger leaned forward as I eased into the row, his hand briefly brushing my arm like he couldn’t help checking in.
“How’s little one doing today?” he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I smiled, instinctively resting both hands on my bump. “Kicking away in there, Rog. Keeping me up half the night.”
Sue tutted fondly, patting my knee. “Just like his father, never could sit still.”
I laughed, the tension in my shoulders easing as the noise of the stadium wrapped around us.
I sank into my seat beside Maggie with a long exhale, letting the noise of the stadium settle around me.
And for a moment, I just looked.
At the people around me. At the space we’d claimed. At the box he’d slowly filled with loyalty and love, brick by quiet brick.
It was a far cry from that first week at Wimbledon.
God, I could still feel the plastic press of those green seats against the backs of my legs.
I’d sat there stiff and anonymous, hands knotted tight in my lap, trying not to be noticed.
Trying not to show how it hollowed me out, loving someone so loudly while the world looked right through me.
I hadn’t realised how lonely it had been until now. Now, I was here. We were here. I ran a hand over my bump, smiling before I could stop myself. There would be one more little seat filled soon.
The thought made my heart surge. Full and bursting with something I could only describe as pride. Pride in him, in us, in this strange, dazzling life we were building.
I sat down carefully, one hand braced on the armrest, the other still curved protectively over my belly. My heart was thudding so hard I swear you could see it through the thin fabric of my dress.
“He’s not out yet,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone.
Maggie leaned in, her voice warm and low. “God, you look amazing,” she whispered, giving my knee a gentle squeeze.
I smiled, though it felt a little tight around the edges. “I feel like I’m going to be sick. I always get like this.”
Chris let out a dry chuckle from beside us, entirely unbothered. “Welcome to being part of the team.”
I let myself laugh a small breath of relief. The nerves didn’t go away, but they settled into something more familiar. A kind of ritual, almost. This was what it meant to show up. To be part of this.
Then the stadium shifted. The buzz in the air snapped taut, charged with that unmistakable electricity. Thousands of bodies leaning forward at once, waiting for the moment to arrive.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the court.
“Please welcome…Jordan Taylor!”
The sound the crowd made was deafening.
I turned, and there he was. Walking out in that black T-shirt like the sun had been waiting for him before casting its rays down on the court.
Tanned, lean, loose-limbed, focused. And that damn backwards cap.
Sweatband around his wrist. Every inch of him looked like he belonged out there and more than that, like he was ready.
His eyes scanned the court, steady and clinical. But then he looked up and found me like he always did.
His whole face softened into the grin that was reserved only for me. That private one, the one that crept up his cheeks and hit his eyes like he was seeing his whole future in the crowd.
He blew out a slow breath. Gave the tiniest shake of his head. Then winked.
God. Would that ever stop undoing me?
He bounced on his heels, twirling his racket once before taking his place. I watched the way he moved, smooth, composed, dialled in. There was a calm to him now that hadn’t been there before. Like something inside him had finally locked into place.
I’d watched him train like a demon for this.
I’d seen the early mornings, the cracked hands, the frustration that came when his body didn’t cooperate the way it used to.
But I’d also seen the quiet fire. The way he hadn’t missed a single scan.
The way he’d hurry home from practice just to feel the baby kick.
Even the way he looked at me even when I was moody, swollen, crying over nothing, like I was everything.
Now, I watched him line up a practice serve.
Then another. He looked so fluid, balanced.
He looked like Jordan Taylor again. But better.
Like the best version of the man I loved, not because of his comeback, but because of the why behind it.
And no one else in this stadium knew what I knew.
They didn’t know about Cincinnati. About the match that made him unravel. They hadn’t seen the aftermath. The silences. The way I’d run out on him without a second thought. The moment I told him he was going to be a father.
They didn’t know how I’d found out I was pregnant without him. With shaking hands and the pain of his words still in my head. They didn’t know how he’d shown up, quietly, relentlessly, after that. How he’d come back not just to the tour, but to us.
I blinked hard, breathing through the weight of it all.
Then I leaned forward, elbows braced on my knees, hands resting just beneath the curve of my bump.
“Come on, love,” I whispered under my breath. “Show them.”
And with the very first point, he did.