70. Kate
Chapter Seventy
Kate
The suite was quiet, save for the hum of the hairdryer and the occasional tug of a brush through my hair.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long, grid-like shadows across the marble floor. I sat barefoot at the vanity, a silk robe tied loosely over my belly, watching my reflection shift as my hairdresser pinned the final curl into place.
Jordan had left early, up with the sun, already in the zone. He kissed my forehead, told me to stay off my feet, and disappeared with a grin that barely disguised the nerves I knew were bubbling beneath the surface.
He lingered a little longer this morning. I think he was starting to notice just how big my bump was getting, how heavy it looked on me now. How I was slowing down.
He hadn’t said anything, not directly. But his eyes kept dropping to my belly. I could see the internal tug-of-war on his face between wanting me by his side and wanting me tucked away somewhere safe.
It was a big day for him.
I was almost ready. Or…as ready as I could be with a baby doing backflips in my stomach and the weight of a thousand eyes about to land on me.
I’d been lucky after a few grim weeks of morning sickness; my pregnancy had been textbook.
Even most of the travel hadn’t been too much.
But this morning, there was a flicker of something low in my back.
Not pain exactly. Just…pressure. Brief and tight, like my body was whispering that maybe, after today, it was time to stop pushing myself.
I placed a hand on my bump, rubbed it in circular motions, and exhaled.
Not today, I told him silently, smiling to myself.
The sensation faded.
“You doing okay?” my hairdresser asked, catching my eye in the mirror.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Just nerves.”
She smiled and gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze.
“You look gorgeous, Kate.”
This whole thing was way more high-maintenance than I’d usually go for, but I’d asked Cora, the same girl who always did my hair at home, if she’d come to Rome just this once.
I was tired, aching, and trying not to let the pressure of the day get to me.
Jordan had told me to do whatever I needed to feel good, to take the weight off wherever I could.
So…here I was. Flying my hairdresser to Italy.
A stage of life I truly never saw coming.
I glanced at my reflection.
My hair was soft and glossy, pinned half-up in loose waves that framed my face. There was a flush in my cheeks I couldn’t quite control lately, and a fullness to my lips that was probably the pregnancy. Maybe the adrenaline.
I’d chosen a dress that felt like both armour and elegance. Off-white, softly structured, hugging my bump in a way that made me feel confident, not exposed.
I slid in my earrings, clipped on the tennis bracelet I hadn’t gone a day without wearing since Wimbledon, and stood.
Then another wave came. Lower this time. Just a flicker of pressure in my spine that made my hand go instinctively to the small of my back.
False alarm. It had to be. It was far too early for a first baby.
The suite phone buzzed.
“Dr Ashford? Your car is downstairs.”
“Thank you,” I said, already moving slowly across the room.
As I gathered my things, a ripple of something unfamiliar passed through me. Anticipation, maybe. Apprehension.
In the lift, I took a deep breath and braced my hand gently over the curve of my stomach. Something was definitely starting to feel off.
When I stepped into the lobby, Maggie was waiting in a navy jumpsuit, sunglasses pushed back into her hair as always.
“Bloody hell,” she said, looking me up and down with a grin. “You’re about to break the internet again.”
I rolled my eyes before leaning in to kiss her cheek.
“Let’s go watch your boy win.”
We climbed into the car, the driver already merging into the chaos of Roman traffic. I glanced out the window, palm still protectively resting over my bump, and tried to ignore the way my heart was starting to beat just a little faster.
It was finals day.
And everything was about to change.
The crowd buzzed with that electric hum that only a Masters 1000 final could summon, but here in the Foro Italico, it was even more intoxicating.
I’d seen it on TV, Jordan had told me all about it, but the reality was even more magnificent.
Warm evening sun filtered across the court, casting golden light over the terracotta clay and ancient Roman arches rising in the distance.
The air was thick with anticipation, glamour, heat, and the weight of something big about to happen.
I took my seat beside Maggie, just a few rows from Chris, heart thudding in my chest as I looked around.
Every detail felt heightened: the flags fluttering in the breeze, the scent of espresso in the air, the drone of chatter that dimmed as the match announcer’s voice rang out.
It was at this point of arriving I always felt sick.
And then, he walked onto court.
My pulse skipped.
God, it didn’t matter how many times I’d seen him step into an arena. That strut, that calm swagger, that impossibly toned body in white shorts and a fitted shirt that clung to him in all the right ways. It always lit something up deep in my belly.
Well…lower than my belly, technically. The crowd roared. But he only looked up at me. Just briefly. Just enough to set me on bloody fire like he always did. I gave him my usual, tiny reassuring smile. He gave one back.
As he looked away, I felt a sharp twinge, low and tight in my hips. I held my breath, stilled completely, but it passed quickly, like a cramp. Not painful exactly. But enough to make me sit a little straighter.
I said nothing. But I could feel Maggie glancing at me. I gave her the smallest smile and she turned her eyes back to the court.
Let’s go, Taylor.
**********
He was on fire.
Jordan’s serve was fast, ruthless, with signature precision.
His movement across the court was both fluid and commanding.
The Italian crowd adored him, their cheers bouncing off the stadium walls.
I’d never seen anything like it. Every ace earned a guttural roar.
Every break point he won made me beam with pride.
God, I loved this man.
But then…another sharp wave of pain.
Fuck. This couldn’t be happening right now.
I still had almost four weeks to go.
I shifted in my seat. The tightness gripped me again, longer this time. My fingers curled around the metal rail beside me, my other hand pressing against my bump.
Breathe. It’s fine. It’s just Braxton Hicks.
The crowd exploded again as he took the second set. He glanced up, soaking in the atmosphere, but his eyes caught mine this time. His brow creased, just for a moment.
Shit. I couldn’t show him I was in pain. He had to finish this.
I forced a smile, and he turned back. Thank God. I let out the breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding.
Beside me, Maggie leaned in, her eyes locked forward so as not to draw attention.
“How long you been in labour?” she whispered, sharply.
I didn’t look at her. “About an hour,” I grunted through gritted teeth.
“You what?” Maggie hissed, barely above her breath.
“It’s fine,” I murmured. “I’m not leaving yet.”
There was no fucking way I was leaving yet.
“For Christ’s sake…”
She stood abruptly, murmured something to a nearby official, and slipped out through the aisle, her phone already at her ear. Chris didn’t notice.
He was locked into Jordan.
I clutched the rail tighter, blinking through another squeeze that built like a slow wave before it peaked, and then ebbed away.
No one noticed.
Everyone was too focused on the court.
Third set.
Jordan was in his element now, dominating baseline rallies, chasing down impossible balls, hitting angles that had the commentators roaring.
He clenched his fist and shouted after a break, turning to Chris with a nod.
I could barely hear it. I was gripping the rail now, my breathing measured and shallow.
Maggie reappeared just as the set ended.
“Okay.” She leaned in, her voice urgent but steady. “Car’s ready. Medics are prepped at the side gate.”
I barely nodded. Another contraction hit sharp and all-encompassing. My face must’ve betrayed me this time, because I winced, hand clenching into the fold of my dress. But I managed not to make a sound.
Jordan’s head turned sharply toward me. I tried to compose myself, but his expression changed instantly.
He knew.
He knew something was wrong.
Fourth and final set.
I tried to watch, really watch, but the pain was distracting now. The rhythm of contractions was coming faster. Harder. Still around twenty minutes apart, but my body was gearing up. Ready or not.
He served for the match.
Match point.
I heard the crowd hold their breath, as I did, and then explode as he landed the final shot.
He’d won.
Jordan threw his arms into the air, spinning to look at Chris, fists clenched in triumph. The court erupted. Reporters swarmed the baseline.
I couldn’t stop it now.
I let out a low, involuntary gasp. The pain was getting too much. That was the one I couldn’t hide.
Maggie sprang into action.
“That’s it,” she said firmly, leaning down to Chris. “You’ve got ten minutes to get him off court. She’s in labour.”
Chris turned around, caught sight of me, and went sheet-white.
“Oh shit.”
Down on court, Jordan grinned wide as a mic was shoved into his face.
“Jordan Taylor, you’ve just won the Rome Masters, how does it feel?”
Before he could answer, a loud whistle cut through the stadium.
“Oi, Jordo! Make it quick, your missus is in labour!” boomed Chris’s unmistakable Aussie drawl.
Jordan’s head snapped up, and his eyes found us instantly—like he’d known exactly where to look. Maggie was waving frantically beside me, and I clung to the rail, pale and shaking, but locked on him.
The crowd laughed at first, thinking it was some kind of joke. Then the noise shifted, confusion and murmurs rippling through the stands until the whole stadium seemed to hold its breath.
The mic caught the stunned crack in his voice.
“Oh shit, are you serious?!”
It boomed across the court, echoing off the rafters. The interviewer froze, blinking at him in bewilderment. “Wait…what just happened?”
Jordan let out a laugh that shook with joy and disbelief, raking a hand through his hair as he turned back toward the mic. His voice carried across the stadium as though he didn’t quite know what to do.
“God, sorry. My fiancée’s not due for a few weeks, but looks like our little man’s got other plans.”
And then the place erupted. The sound rolled over us in waves, cheers, whistles, the pounding thunder of twenty thousand people on their feet, while Jordan just stood there, grinning like his whole world had been lit up..
And then he dropped the mic. Like, literally dropped it and sprinted toward the stands.
He climbed the steps two at a time and reached me just as another contraction hit.
“You alright?” he asked, breathless, hands already on my face, my bump, my hands.
“Been better,” I panted, voice shaking with a mix of laughter and pain. “But I think you’re about to meet your son.”
He wrapped his arms around me and helped me to my feet.
Cameras were flashing like fireworks, but I didn’t care. Nothing else mattered but us and the baby. The crowd kept roaring as we made our way down, hand in hand, flanked by medics and officials guiding us to the car. To the start of everything.