I winced. “Not the same one who demanded a private jet to each tournament?”
“The very same,” Gwen grinned. “Walking episode ofSuccession, but less charming.”
We sat outside the tucked-away café, lanyards flipped backwards, accidentally twinning in black leggings, trainers, ponytails, and under-eye circles earnt from elite sport and questionable life choices.
“Kate and Jordan are back,” Gwen said casually, sipping her coffee.
I perked up. “Oh—of course they are. I still need to visit baby Noah. God, I adore Kate. How does she look so good two months after pushing out a baby?”
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Gwen said fondly. “They swan in and make the rest of us look like swamp trolls.”
“They’re painfully attractive,” I agreed. “It’s still wild how fast it all happened.”
“Yeah,” Gwen’s voice softened. “But if anyone deserved it, it’s her.”
I didn’t push further. I knew Kate well enough to know the last year had been a rollercoaster for her and Gwen had that gift of knowing when to talk and when to let the silence breathe. It was one of the reasons we’d clicked three years ago when I joined the circuit. Neither of us were Londoners, both with accents people took the piss out of, so we’d stuck together.
She was a little older than me and wise beyond her years. Her husband was an ex-army sergeant of some sort and she was just an all-round wonderful human to be around. Then her best friend Kate went and fell headlong for the world number one tennis player and now there was a baby and a ring the size of Centre Court to prove it.
She leant forward now, eyes narrowing. “So …how’s the star of physio room four?”
I raised a brow. “Which one’s that?”
“Tall. Californian. Cocky. Walking embodiment of every bad decision I’ve ever made?”
“Oh. Him.” I stirred my coffee casually. “He’s… a lot.”
“I’ve heard.”
“From who?”
“Everyone. The man basically wrote the book on HR violations.”
“It’s just a hamstring issue,” I muttered. “Needs consistent treatment.”
“Self-inflicted?”
“Probably. He doesn’t stretch properly. Or listen.”
“Classic Tyler Reed,” she said, smirking. “Sponsors are still twitchy after he launched that racket in Miami.”
I snorted. “Sounds about right.”
She tilted her head, ever so slyly. “So?”
“So what?”
“Has he tried it yet?”
“Tried what?”
“The dimples. The flirting. The whole ‘wanna come back to my place’ routine.”
I took a long sip. “He asked me to dinner.”
“Already!” Gwen nearly spat her drink. “And?”
“I said no, obviously.”
