The crowd erupted. I turned my head, and there he was.
My heart kicked into overdrive.
Jordan walked onto Centre Court like he’d always belonged there. No cockiness. No arrogance. That wasn’t his style. Just calm certainty. Hat backwards, as always. Those stupidly adorable curls peeking out beneath it. That signature loose-limbed swagger in his shoulders like he was already carrying momentum.
Out here, he looked so different from the man who’d fallen asleep with his face buried in my neck, the one who’d fucked me so hard last night I could barely function this morning.
He turned and scanned the stands, seemingly searching for someone. When his eyes landed on me…he smiled. Not a polite, practiced smile. Not the one for the cameras. It was a genuine, unguarded smile, as if he couldn’t help it. Then he winked.The idiot.My cheeks burned. I bit my lip, trying not to grin like a complete fool.
Somewhere between Tuesday and now, he’d slipped under my skin. And it was hard to hide every stupid blush, every way my focus narrowed to him.
The warmup started, but I barely saw it. I zeroed my attention on the way his fingers tapped his thigh between serves. The flex in his forearm as he bounced the ball. The way his mouth pressed flat when he was contemplating. Every small thing felt like it was stitched inside of me.
And maybe that was the part that scared me, how easily I’d become attached to him.
I sank back into my seat and exhaled slowly.
Jordan Taylor, Wimbledon semi-finalist, cocky Aussie heartthrob, destroyer of common sense had made me feel more wanted in one night than my ex had in an entire marriage.
God, what the hell was I doing?
Chapter Eighteen
Jordan
Something was off.
I knew it the second I tossed up the first serve, legs heavy, timing a fraction out. Every shot came either a beat too early or a heartbeat too late. The rhythm just wouldn’t land.
And Tyler Reed, bloody hell, he was sharp. Blistering forehands, relentless footwork, grinning like the cocky twenty-something he was. Every time he baited me into those wide, cross-court rallies, I bit. Like I hadn’t watched hours of him doing exactly that to other blokes all season.
He took the first set 6–3. I barely made him sweat for it.
When I slumped into my chair, I ripped off my hat and slung a towel over my head. I wanted to scream. I was in my head, drowning in it. Every missed return echoed louder than the one before. Every mistake dug deeper. Kate was right—there was no one harder on me than myself.
This wasn’t how today was meant to go. I was supposed to be ice-cold. In control. Instead, all I could feel was the weight pressing in from every side. My first Wimbledon semi-final. First shot at the big stage. And here I was, choking under pressure.
I inhaled sharply. Sunlight glinted as I looked up, and there shewas, a picture of serenity on the outside. God, she was beautiful. But I knew her by now. I saw the strain in her posture, her arms held tight, elbows in. As if any movement would shatter the moment. Her lips were a thin line before she slowly lowered her sunglasses, meeting my gaze.
Then she mouthed something so clearly I didn’t need to second guess.
You’ve got this.
Something shifted in the atmosphere then. Like an anchor dropped straight through the fog.
She believed in me and didn’t care what the outcome would be today. Not the ranking, not the hype, just me. Jordan.
I dropped the towel, exhaled, and walked back out with fire in my chest instead of the interference in my head.
Reed still had that ridiculous forehand, still chased down balls no human had any business reaching, but I hadher. And I had the little things she’d pointed out in training running on a loop.
The twitch in his left eye before a bluff drop shot? I caught it.
The hunch at the baseline before he drove it deep? Picked it clean.
I played earlier. Smarter. There was no theatrics, just pure, ruthless instinct. When I broke his serve to take the second set 7–5, I didn’t celebrate. I just turned to her box, giving the smallest nod. Just for her.
Reed, as Kate predicted, tried to change the tempo in the third, slapping his thigh, barking at his box in that thick, American accent, making a show of his irritation. I stayed still. “Don’t react, that’ll break him more.”I could hear her voice in my head.
