“Let me guess. Six-foot, bad temper, hits balls for a living?”
“Says the man who also plays with balls for a living.” I shot back.
He smirked, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’ll have one if you’re making it.”
“Already got the mug out,” I said, waving dads old Liverpool FC mug at him.
He slumped at the kitchen table, a mess of bed hair and stubble, and started scrolling. I turned back to the tea. “What time are you leaving tomorrow, Danny?”
No answer.
“Danny?”
He blinked, looking startled. “Huh? Sorry?”
“Jesus, something must be interesting. You’re not listening to a word I’m saying. Please tell me you’re not texting your psycho ex again.”
He wasn't smiling. He was frowning at the screen, then back at me, his jaw tightening.
“What?” I said, my voice sharpening.
“Orla…”
“Danny, for goodness’ sake, what’s wrong?”
He didn't explain. He just turned the phone toward me.
The headline might as well have been in flashing lights:
TENNIS HEARTTHROB TYLER REED BACK TO HIS OLD TRICKS AS HE LOOKS LOVED-UP WITH SECOND MYSTERY WOMAN IN AS MANY WEEKS
The photo was worse. Night-time grain, streetlamps bleeding gold into the frame, and Tyler, with some blonde woman’s hands cupping his face like she owned every inch of him. He wasleaning in, smiling. So close you’d swear they were sharing the same breath.
The kitchen fell deadly silent, save for the ticking of Nanna’s old clock. My stomach plummeted so fast it felt like the ground disappeared.
For a second, I couldn't feel my hands. A cold, hollow ache started in my chest and radiated out to my fingertips, turning my blood to ice.
Oh.
That was the only thought my brain could form. Just a small, pathetic oh.
The harsh reality landed dull and heavy. I’d let him in. I’d actually started to believe the "Mrs. Reed" jokes were more than just Kate being a pain in the arse. I’d spent the last hour pining for a man who was currently being held like a prize trophy by someone else.
A single, hot tear blurred the image of the blonde's hands on his cheeks, and I felt so incredibly small. So stupid. I was thirty-one years old, and I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book. My throat felt tight, a sob threatening to claw its way out.
Then the tear fell, hitting the screen of Danny’s phone. And as the salt water touched the image of Tyler’s smiling face, the hurt hit a wall.
The grief vanished, replaced by a surge of pure, volcanic heat that slammed into my face and bubbled up to my ears. The bastard.
He fucking lied to me. He wasn’t meeting his brother at all, that was just some stupid excuse to whore it up whilst I was out of sight and evidently out of mind.
I laughed sharp and humourless. “Unbelievable.”
Danny winced. “Orl…”
“Don’t.” My voice shook, but it wasn't hurt. It was rage. The Sheehan kind that burned hot and fast, like lighting a match inside a petrol drum.
