She leaned in, eyes glittering. “But you thought about it.”
I lobbed a napkin at her. “Shut up.”
“Oh, this is dangerous,” she teased, grinning widely. “You’re usually immune to this type but this one’s going to be your downfall, I can tell.”
“He’s a cocky, overpaid flirt with a God complex and no off switch,” I said flatly. “I’m not interested.”
I wasn’t about to tell Gwen that I’d practically started salivating every time he walked into my room this week. My professionalism was hanging by a thread, and this caffeine was the only thing stopping it from snapping altogether.
“Mm-hm.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s what Kate said,” Gwen replied sweetly. “And look where that got her.”
I paused. “As if. Anyway, I hate men right now. Josh saw to that.”
Her smile dropped at the mention of my ex. “Josh can fuck all the way off. Him and his inflated ego.”
I stared into my cup, the raw tingle of old feelings making me feel uneasy. “Still feels shitty. Like I’m the idiot for wanting the things we planned.”
“You’re not,” she said firmly. “He’s the idiot if he thinks he can do better than you. But just remember, you’re still healing, that doesn’t mean Tyler Reed gets a free pass.”
“Exactly,” I said, though the flicker in my stomach begged to differ.
Gwen sat back, sipping smugly again. “Still. There’s definitely something in the water around here.”
Chapter 7
Orla
The flat wasquiet when I walked in; Danny obviously wasn’t back from training yet.
I dropped my gym bag by the door, kicked his out of the way, and let the silence wrap around me. It was kind of nice, actually. After I’d moved out of Josh’s house, the quiet used to feel unbearable. I’d lie awake at night, counting the cracks in the ceiling, wondering what came next. But lately, I’d grown to like my own company. There was nobody asking where I’d been, nobody half-watching telly while scrolling through their phone. It was just me and my life, graced occasionally by the presence of Danny Sheehan.
Danny, the younger of my two brothers, was only a year older than me—we were proper Irish twins, so to speak. He’d signed with a big London rugby club and moved in with me,“Until he found his feet.” Truth was, rugby contracts were fickle and there was no point in him getting his own place when he’d probably be shipped to France or Japan in a year.
We hadn’t lived together since I left for uni at eighteen, so it took some adjusting. Mostly for me. He was still the same smellybig brother who left kit bags everywhere that stank of wet pitch and ate like food was going extinct.
The flat was small and slightly creaky but mine. It was on the first floor of an old Edwardian conversion with a bay window that caught just enough evening light with a balcony I still hadn’t bothered to furnish. A yoga mat was curled in the corner, a pile of towels I hadn’t managed to put away on the radiator, and a framed Munster jersey Danny had signed for me as a joke after his debut hung on the wall.For the sister who kept my hamstrings alive,he’d written, the idiot. It had been gathering dust in my spare room until he decided to hang it up above the fireplace one day without asking.
The kitchen was open plan, the kind where you could cook and watch telly at the same time. Not that I did much of either these days. Most days it was protein bars, coffee, and toast.
Balham wasn’t glamorous, but it was perfect: Easy Northern Line access, decent running paths, coffee shops that didn’t charge eight quid for oat milk and close enough to Wimbledon without being swallowed by it. But best of all, there were no memories ofhim. Just clean, quiet space—when Danny wasn’t around, at least.
I shrugged off my work hoodie and draped it on the back of my armchair, then checked my phone for tomorrow’s appointments.
9:15 a.m. — T. Reed.
Of course.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of my neck. A twinge fired through my shoulder from hauling my physio bag, from not practicing what I preached and from clenching every time a certain American opened his mouth.
Tyler bloody Reed.
Cocky, far too charming for his own good and so good looking in a way that was deeply unfair.
I’d treated dozens of athletes. From rugby players in New Zealand, cyclists in France, to a gymnast who cried every time I taped his ankle. There’d been Olympic hopefuls and juniors with more ambition than sense. Men held together by tape and ego.
