“I can’t talk about you when you’re standing over there, mate. Get up here.”
The press murmured, a few surprised laughs bubbling up. I dragged a hand down my face, pretending to groan, but I took the empty seat beside him anyway.
“First U.S Open final, Tyler,” someone called from the back. “What’s it feel like?”
I leaned into the mic. “Feels like I’ve got work to do but if being in the final against this guy means I’m anywhere near his league, then I’m doing something right.”
The room ate it up. I caught Orla in my peripheral, standing near the back, hands clasped, pride written all over her face. That look… Jesus, it went straight through me. Every word I said after that was for her, and from the way she was beaming at me, she knew it. Soon after, she slid out quietly.
When the questions finally wrapped, Jordan clapped me on the shoulder, and we stood. I gave the press one last smile, but my eyes were already on the door and the woman I couldn’t wait to get back to.
By the time I made it back to the hotel, I was running on fumes. Every muscle ached, my shoulders were tight from hours of holding it together, and my adrenaline was crashing hard. When I stepped into the suite, she was firmly in her rightful place. Wearing my T-shirt, on our bed in a pair of panties. Her hair framed her face in the most effortlessly beautiful way. That sight alone was worth every aching muscle.
“Come here babe, lie down,” she said softly, my gym bag slipped off my shoulder and I tugged my shirt over my head. She was already pulling the cap off a small bottle of oil. “You’ll seize up by morning if you don’t.”
I huffed a tired laugh and did as I was told, dropping face-first onto the bed. “Bossy.”
“Highly qualified, actually,” she corrected, straddling my thighs lightly from behind to reach my shoulders. The mattress dipped beneath our weight, my heart rate finally began to slow after hours of running on pure adrenaline.
Then her warm hands found my taught muscles, pressing slowly and firmly. Relief streamed through me instantly. She started at my neck, thumbs pressing into the base of my skull,working down the ropes of muscle until my breath came out rough.
“Good God, O…” I practically groaned. “Feels insane.”
“Good,” she murmured, leaning forward to trace the oil lower down my spine. “You held every ounce of tension in your shoulders today.”
I smiled into the pillow. “Guess I didn’t wanna let go till it was over.”
Her hands stilled for a second. “You did so good out there,” she whispered. “I’m proud of you.”
I could get used to hearing that from her lips. I swallowed and turned my head just enough to see her hair falling around her face, eyes glowing in the lamplight.
“Couldn’t’ve done it without you,” I said quietly. “You’re the one who keeps me from blowing it all up.”
She smiled knowingly and went back to work. The scent of her perfume mixed with the oil, and suddenly I didn’t care about the soreness or the press or the trophy. Just this. Her hands. Her being the one I got to come home to.
When her palms slid over my shoulders again,I reached back and caught her wrist. “Come here.”
I turned to face her, catching her chin gently between my finger and thumb, more to steady myself than her. I leaned in and kissed her unhurriedly, breathing in the scent of the oil she’d worked into my shoulders.
She pulled back just enough to look at me.
“I know today was tough, babe,” she said softly. “You worked your ass off. But I need you to know how incredible you were. Not just in the match. The way you handled yourself. The press. All of it.”
I held her gaze, my throat working as I swallowed the weight of everything she was giving me. She kissed me softly in her tired little way. But there was nothing tired about what it did to me.Her mouth was warm, patient, tasting like calm after a day of chaos. “You know,” I murmured, tilting my head so I could see her face. “I like these post-match recovery sessions better than when I first met you.”
She giggled, her lips brushing mine like she was testing whether I was going to be able to function for what she was planning to do next with her hands. Her fingers danced their way down my abs arriving at where the sheets met my hips. She knew exactly what she was doing, the tease.
“So,” she said, with a mischievous spark, “aside from mind-blowing sex with your physio…how would Tyler Reed usually celebrate a performance like that?”
I groaned. “Oh, God. The old Tyler? Probably Vegas and bad decisions.” My lips found her collarbone. “Now? I’m more than happy doing this with you.”
She raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing in thought, and then said, “Then we should do it.”
I blinked. “Do what?”
“Vegas and bad decisions.” She giggled wickedly.
That pulled a laugh out of me. She had to be kidding me. “Baby, I don’t think you want me to take you to a strip club.”
