Orla wasn’t messy. She didn’t drink to escape. She ran five miles a day, read research papers for fun, iced her own fucking migraines. This version of her, fake brightness and brittle laughter, it felt like watching someone put on armor that didn’t fit.
And fuck, it made me want to throw my jacket around her shoulders and carry her out of there.
By nine, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had a match tomorrow, and she’d already tied a knot in my chest that I wasn’t going to untangle tonight. As I watched her, now and then the smile slipped, unnoticeable to anyone who wasn’t paying attention. But I was. I always was. ????I leaned toward Ben, pitched my voice low.
“If she gets any worse,” I muttered, “call me.”
He chuckled, nodding like I’d cracked a joke. But I wasn’t joking.
I left the dining room with the taste of worry thick in my mouth. Something had happened to her. And I had a sinking feeling it was only a matter of time before I found out what.
Chapter 26
Tyler
What the fuckwas that noise?
I shot upright, heart palpitating like I’d been yanked out of a nightmare. My vision was blurred and for a second, I thought I’d imagined it because I was for sure still in a jet lagged fog. Then came a clumsy scrape, the sound of someone fumbling with a keycard, a dull thud that sounded like a shoulder leaning too hard against my door.
I turned to my nightstand, flipped on the light which scorched my newly awake eyes and checked my phone. Midnight. Jesus. Some drunk idiot had the wrong room.
I shoved myself out of bed, and scrubbed a hand down my face, I tugged on my flannel pajama bottoms from the chair in the bedroom and padded barefoot across the carpet. My leg ached, my head was foggy, and my eyes were still barely adjusting to the light. I was already rehearsing the polite ‘wrong door, buddy’I’d give whoever was about to face-plant into my suite.
I twisted the brass handle and yanked it open…
And Orla Sheehan came tumbling straight through it.
I couldn’t really describe it as a stumble. She’d obviously been braced against the door with her whole weight, keycard clutched uselessly in her hand, and the second it swung open she fell forward with zero chance of catching herself. Arms flailing, hair flying, the curse she was about to give swallowed as she hit me at full force.
I caught her on instinct, hands sliding under her soft arms to keep her upright, her palms landing flat on my bare chest. Her body was warm but useless, smelling faintly of bourbon mixed with her familiar amberwood and vanilla. She blinked up at me like she’d just realized gravity existed.
“Shit,” she muttered, breath hot against my skin. “This…this isn’t my room.”
My brain lagged, trying to catch up. She was still in my arms, liquid and off-balance, the scent of alcohol curling off her like smoke. For weeks I’d wanted nothing more than a moment where Orla Sheehan was finally in my arms, but this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.
“Orla,” I breathed, tightening my grip before she could slide right out of it. “Jesus, you’re half on the floor.” I laughed cautiously.
She blinked again, swaying. “Thought this was mine,” she mumbled and then her knees gave out completely.
“Whoa…easy.” I scooped her upright, guiding her inside before she could collapse in the hallway. The door clicked shut behind us as I half-carried her into the room. She sank into the nearest chair like her bones had quit on her, head lolling back and that thick, dark hair wild around her face.
I crouched in front of her, chest still heaving with worry. I guided her chin toward me gently, so that she had to meet my eyes. “Hey. Look at me. You good?”
Her eyes fought to focus, lids heavy. “Mhm. Much better now, actually.” She tried to smile, but it wasn’t convincing.Nothing like the one she gave me when she was trying not to laugh at my bullshit.
The flush in her cheeks wasn’t healthy, it was a glow that only came from too much booze and utter exhaustion—a look I knew better than most people. Her lashes were damp like she’d been crying again before she even made it upstairs which, given her current state, surprised me she’d made it at all.
The sight of her gutted me. Whatever this was, whatever had sent her fumbling into my room, drunk at midnight, she wasn’t okay.
“Orla,” I said softly, steadying my voice so she didn’t hear the panic underneath. “You want to tell me what’s really going on?”
Her gaze flicked away, mouth pressing into a hard line, but her chin trembled just enough to undo her.
That was it. She was hurt. Split right down the middle. I’d taken hits on court that hurt less than the sight of her wiped-out like this.
Her glassy eyes slid back to mine unsteadily, then she said the last thing I expected.
“You’re really pretty, you know that?”
