The crowd buzzed with that electric hum that only a Masters 1000 final could summon, but here in the Foro Italico, it was even more intoxicating. I’d seen it on TV, Jordan had told me all about it, but the reality was even more magnificent. Warm evening sun filtered across the court, casting golden light over the terracotta clay and ancient Roman arches rising in the distance. The air was thick with anticipation, glamour, heat, and the weight of something big about to happen.
I took my seat beside Maggie, just a few rows from Chris, heart thudding in my chest as I looked around. Every detail felt heightened: the flags fluttering in the breeze, the scent of espresso in the air, the drone of chatter that dimmed as the match announcer’s voice rang out. It was at this point of arriving I always felt sick.
And then, he walked onto court.
My pulse skipped.
God, it didn’t matter how many times I’d seen him step into an arena. That strut, that calm swagger, that impossibly toned body inwhite shorts and a fitted shirt that clung to him in all the right ways. It always lit something up deep in my belly.
Well…lower than my belly, technically. The crowd roared. But he only looked up at me. Just briefly. Just enough to set me on bloody fire like he always did. I gave him my usual, tiny reassuring smile. He gave one back.
As he looked away, I felt a sharp twinge, low and tight in my hips. I held my breath, stilled completely, but it passed quickly, like a cramp. Not painful exactly. But enough to make me sit a little straighter.
I said nothing. But I could feel Maggie glancing at me. I gave her the smallest smile and she turned her eyes back to the court.
Let’s go, Taylor.
**********?
He was on fire.
Jordan’s serve was fast, ruthless, with signature precision. His movement across the court was both fluid and commanding. The Italian crowd adored him, their cheers bouncing off the stadium walls. I’d never seen anything like it. Every ace earned a guttural roar. Every break point he won made me beam with pride.
God, I loved this man.
But then…another sharp wave of pain.
Fuck. This couldn’t be happening right now.
I still had almost four weeks to go.
I shifted in my seat. The tightness gripped me again, longer this time. My fingers curled around the metal rail beside me, my other hand pressing against my bump.
Breathe. It’s fine. It’s just Braxton Hicks.
The crowd exploded again as he took the second set. He glanced up, soaking in the atmosphere, but his eyes caught mine this time. His brow creased, just for a moment.
Shit.I couldn’t show him I was in pain. He had to finish this.
I forced a smile, and he turned back.Thank God.I let out the breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding.
Beside me, Maggie leaned in, her eyes locked forward so as not to draw attention.
“How long you been in labour?” she whispered, sharply.
I didn’t look at her. “About an hour,” I grunted through gritted teeth.
“Youwhat?” Maggie hissed, barely above her breath.
“It’s fine,” I murmured. “I’m not leaving yet.”
There was no fucking way I was leaving yet.
“For Christ’s sake…”
She stood abruptly, murmured something to a nearby official, and slipped out through the aisle, her phone already at her ear. Chris didn’t notice.
He was locked into Jordan.
