Ryan, one of my old friends, from Cali, slapped his hand on the table, grinning wildly. “Alright, none of this sipping shit. We’re doing it right.” He flagged a waitress and within minutes a tray of tequila shots landed in front of us, salt and lime balanced neatly on the side.
He shoved one toward me first. “Come on, Reed. Don’t tell me London’s turned you wet.”
I felt Jordan’s eyes on me, steady as hell, like he was measuring whether I’d still be dumb enough to cave.
“Listen, Ryan,” I said flatly, “I’ve got Wimbledon in a week. Last thing I’m doing is tequila shots.”
“I knew it.” He leaned back with a smirk. “You pussy. The old Tyler would’ve spread that waitress flat and done them off her chest.”
The table roared with laughter, but uneasiness sliced right through me. Ryan was a dick, always had been. I’d known him since high school, back when I was dumb enough to think he was fun instead of toxic. He was the only one stupid enough to hang out with me when I was at my worst.
Out of the corner of my eye, Jordan was still watching, calm as hell, not laughing, not moving, just letting me know in his own way that he was clocking every second.
The drinks kept flowing and the table got louder, everyone hollering like idiots. Nobody noticed I’d already tapped out at my two-beer limit.
I caught the waitress’s eye as she passed, slipped a couple of folded twenties into her hand with a quiet word. Her brows shot up, but she nodded and a minute later she set another ‘vodka soda’ down in front of me…nothing but sparkling water.
When I looked up, Jordan’s stare almost burned a hole right through me. His jaw was tight, like he was about to tear me a new one. For a second, I could practically hear what he was thinking—that I was paying her for something that would blow this whole night sideways.
Then his eyes dropped to the untouched drinks in front of me, the glass in my hand. He clocked it. And when his gaze lifted back to mine, it was different. Softer. Proud, even.
I just smirked and raised the glass to him. He shook his head, fighting a laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe it.
Ryan and Luke were well on their way to a five-day hangover, downing shots and groping girls like it was a sport. Ryan caught my eye with that shit-eating grin that always meant trouble.
The next thing I knew, a heavily made-up brunette—God, I prayed she was old enough to be in here—was being steered toward me.
“This is Molly, Ty,” Ryan slurred. “Told her you’re getting married in a couple weeks. She wanted to wish you luck.”
They sniggered as she slid onto the seat beside me, her hand finding my knee like it was rehearsed.
And then it hit me, like a sucker punch straight to the ribs. All the nights I’d wasted in places like this, blind drunk, chasing the next easy fuck, trying to fill a void that only got darker. Thecameras flashing, the headlines branding me as exactly what I was: the bad boy of tennis.
I hated it. Hated that I’d been that guy. Hated more that these idiots still thought I was him.
My chest clenched. For a second I almost froze in it, drowning in memories of all the shit I thought I’d left behind.
But then I snapped out of it, grabbed her wrist, moved her hand from my leg, and pushed to my feet. Relief rippled across my brother’s face, and Jordan’s too.
My blood was boiling, fists tight at my sides, and Ryan must’ve clocked it. He raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning like an idiot.
“Shit, Tyler…it was just a little fun.”
Before I could respond, Jordan was at my side, moving with that calm, deliberate presence. He wasn’t here to laugh at me, wasn’t here to stir shit. He was here to stop me from doing exactly what I wanted to do, put my fist through Ryan’s smug face.
Jordan’s hand landed heavy on my shoulder. “Leave it, mate,” he said steadily with a tone that cut straight through the noise.
I glared at Ryan one last time, my jaw tight, before letting Jordan steer me away from the table. My brother gave me a nod of relief as we pushed through the crowd toward the exit.
Outside, the cold air hit like a bucket of water. Jordan didn’t let go until we were halfway down the street.
“You’ve got nothing to prove to those idiots,” he said finally, his voice firm but not unkind. “You’ve already won. You’ve got the career. You’ve got the girl. You’ve got the life most blokes in there would kill for. Don’t let one stupid night screw that up.
He fixed me with that steady, unshakeable look—no ego, no rivalry anymore. Just a friend who knew me well enough to step in before I crossed a line. “Call it a night. Go home to Orla beforethe papers find something to twist. Trust me. That’s the only win that matters.”
I took a deep breath. “Thanks for having my back, man.”
“Always, mate,” he replied. “I’ll find us an Uber.”
