Men’s Wimbledon Semi-final
Friday
Twelve-thirty p.m.and I was already in the physio room setting up early like some overly keen newbie on her first day. My hands were actually trembling as I laid out the Wimbledon branded towels.
Jesus Orla, get your head straight.
I scrubbed the table down twice even though it was already spotless, tried to slow my breathing to convince myself this wasn’t a panic attack. I’d done this a thousand times before, pro athletes, high-stakes finals were no problem. But today felt different. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at me last night that was somehow softer, more vulnerable. Or maybe it was the fact I’d barely slept, replaying every word he’d said on a loop.
As if right on cue, that deep, laid-back drawl came echoing down the corridor, rich with laughter at something I couldn’t hear. My chest tightened, pulse thundering like I’d sprinted here ahead of him but in reality, I’d been sitting here for twenty minutes pretending not to check my watch.
Tyler walked in grinning, but not the full-blast, cocky showman grin I usually saw. Today it was more familiar, like he’d turned it down just for me. Don’t get me wrong, he was still full of confidence, still him, but different enough to catch me off guard.
“Hey,” he said, as easy as breathing. “You get home okay last night? I didn’t have your number to check.”
That threw me a little. My brain scrambled to find a response that didn't sound like I’d been overthinking that exact same thing until 3 a.m.
“Oh… yeah,” I said too quickly, waving a hand like it was nothing. “Don’t worry about it.”
Did he want my number? Was that a prompt? I didn't trust my voice enough to ask. I just nodded toward the table. “Hop up. How’s the leg feeling today?”
He peeled off his trainers and climbed on, easy as ever. “Not bad. Just a little tightness.”
I rolled his shorts back and set to work, clinging to professionalism like it was a life raft. My hands moved on autopilot. Assess, compare, adjust, while the rest of me was acutely aware of the space between us. That trace of his scent hit me again, same as when I’d stepped out of the pub last night. That warm, clean skin scent that would never not remind me of him as long as I lived. It made my pulse stutter, like my body remembered more than it should.
“It’s tighter than I’d like,” I said briskly. “Head out early, do the stretch I showed you to release it a little. Slowly.”
“Yes, boss.” He gave a small salute, lips twitching.
“You gonna come watch again?” he asked, eyes pinned to mine, that wicked little grin sending a jolt straight through me.
“If by watch, you mean sit there in an official medical capacity… then yes,” I deadpanned.
He laughed, his eyes glinting with enough heat to make me feel lightheaded. “Whatever gets you in the stands, Orla.”
And then, too soon, he was sliding his shoes back on and slinging his bag over his shoulder. He paused at the door, giving me one last look before the heavy door closed.
The match was already underway by the time I slipped into the medic section during a changeover. Across the grass, I saw Kate waving like a lunatic from the players’ box. I managed to return a small smile, shaking my head knowing full well that she could barely contain her excitement. Jordan looked exactly like he did in the highlight reels: focused, calm, utterly in control. No wonder Kate had fallen for him.
But then there was Tyler.Christ.
I’d seen him twenty minutes ago stretched out under my hands, but watching him on court was an entirely different thing. He was pure electricity out there. Swaggering, loose limbed, alive in a way that didn’t translate into the confinement of the clinic. There was such confidence running through every line of his body, his shoulders rolling back like he owned the bloody place. The crowd felt it too; you could practically hear the collective intake of breath every time he loaded up for a serve.
I caught myself biting my lip. My eyes following every smooth line of his toned forearms.
Jesus, Orla.
At that exact moment, my eyes narrowed. I saw it—the faintest shift in his gait as he walked back to the baseline. It wasn't something most people would catch, but I did. He was favoring. Protecting.
My brows pulled together as he launched another serve. A clean, brutal, one hundred and forty miles-per-hour hit which Jordan returned like a machine. They went rally for rally, neither giving the other an inch. Fourteen shots. Then fifteen.
Tyler lunged for a low backhand and there it was again. A twitch, a wince. The hamstring catching. Pain flashed across his face before he could mask it. I held my breath, knowing how much this was hurting him. I tried to catch his eye, to signal him, get him off court to let me look at it but he knew, and was avoiding me on purpose.
By the third set, he was grinding through it, his movement tighter and more restrained. But I could see that he refused to fold. His teeth gritted, serves still ripping down the line, body pushed past its limit. God, he had heart. My eyes flicked up to Ted and going by the way his weathered face was scowling, he could see it too.
When Jordan finally closed it out, Tyler didn’t collapse, didn’t smash a racket like he’d been known to do. He just strode to the net, pulled Jordan into a hug, muttered something that made them both smile. Then he waved to the crowd, soaking in the roar, before trying to jog off. But there it was again. Favouring, with a little hitch in his step.
I was already waiting in the tunnel when he came off with my arms crossed, knowing he’d try to swerve. He spotted me, shifted his gaze downward and immediately tried to veer in the opposite direction.
