Prologue
Monte Carlo
One Year Ago, 1:14 a.m.
The hotel roomreeked of her perfume. Too sweet. Too unfamiliar. Too fucking late. It clung to the sheets, her hair, my skin. Even the air conditioner couldn’t clear it; it only pushed the scent around the expensive suite, growing thicker with every recycled breath.
It should’ve been a warning light, a signal to get up and go, but I was in too deep to back out now.
I could hear the distant thrum of the Monte Carlo nightlife through the floor-to-ceiling glass—a muffled roar of bass and engines. That was the world that expected me to be out there, champagne in hand, a model on each arm, living the dream the ATP marketing team sold to the masses. They wanted Tyler Reed: the American Prodigy with an edge, the face of the New Generation. Instead, I was here, staring at a stucco ceiling I wouldn’t remember by morning.
She was on top, moving as though she’d practiced in the mirror, hair extensions sliding down her back, glued-on lashes one sweat-drop away from peeling off. She was a pretty girland didn’t need all the extras. Great tits, which I’m pretty sure weren’t her own, but none of it was doing much for me.
The sex wasn’t even bad?it never was. But it wasn’t good either. Not as good as she hoped. Not as good as I pretended.
But right now, that was the point. This was the routine. This was how I survived the crushing weight of being number four in the world with the eyes of the press burning into the back of my neck. I kept things simple. I got what I needed; she got a story for the group chat: Tyler Reed between her legs.
As I moved, a sharp, familiar spark ignited in my right hamstring. A warning shot I’d been ignoring since the clay courts of Roland-Garros. I gritted my teeth, pushing through the literal and metaphorical pain. I told myself it was easier this way. If I didn't learn names, if I didn't ask questions, there were no strings. And no strings meant no one could see the cracks in the foundation. No one would realize I wasn’t built for "boyfriend duty" or the pedestals they tried to put me on.
She moaned like she was following stage directions, and I shut my eyes, pressing my head back further into the pillow. I tried to picture something, anything, that might make this mean more than sex and noise. Nothing came. Just that empty darkness behind my eyelids.
“Yeah, like that,” I muttered anyway, watching her move. She cranked up the volume, faker than before. It didn’t matter, though;thiswas what I was good at. Burning through my body until it gave out. Filling silence with pleasure, sweat and somebody else panting my name.
But it wasn’t me they were with—not really. It was the version the press built. The tennis screw-up. The bad boy who never slept alone and had a different blonde in every time zone. It was a mask I’d worn so long it had started to fuse to my skin. I didn't know how the fuck else to live my life without the noise.
I flipped her onto her back, driving into her harder. Not chasing pleasure anymore, just chasing proof there was still something inside me that could respond.
I didn’t kiss her. Didn’t touch her face. Just took what I came for until it hit and was gone again in seconds.
When it was over, she sighed and smirked like she’d ticked me off her bucket list. I rolled quickly onto my back, staring at the ceiling as she slipped into the bathroom. Not my hotel room. Not my bed. Nothing in this place belonged to me. Not even my own reputation.
I’d learned early how to fake what people wanted. The post-match smiles, the polite interviews, the drama. I was a professional at giving people the version of Tyler Reed they paid to see.
So, before she came back, I pulled on my jeans. I tied off the condom and shoved it in my pocket, because I wasn't leaving anything to chance, no DNA for a tabloid payout. I left the room without a sound.
The click of the door left a creeping silence that always followed, a silence that made me remember what I’d done, and who I still was.
I told myself I liked it better that way. That it was easier for everyone. Clean exit, clean conscience.
But even then, I wasn’t sure.
Chapter 1
Orla
Physio Room Four - National Tennis Centre
Monday, 9:14 a.m.
He wasfourteen minutes late. ?Of course he was.
Each tick of the clock sounded like it was mocking me. The fluorescent light of the physio room buzzed overhead, the scent of kinetic tape and disinfectant already burnt into my nose after years in the field. I tapped my nails against the screen of my tablet, each click sharper than the last.
Sometimes, I wondered why I’d chosen a job that meant waiting around for cocky athletes. I’d spent enough of my childhood freezing on muddy sidelines while my brothers played rugby in sideways rain, soaked to my skin, listening to my dad shout obscenities disguised as words of encouragement at them. Guess I’d always had a thing for self-inflicted punishment.
Fifteen minutes now.
I don’t even know why I still got so uptight about it. Probably because control was the only thing holding me together these days, and the second someone messed with that, my eye started twitching. There was something about the way athletes thoughtmy time was less precious than theirs that always set my teeth on edge.
