I pulled on my jeans that I’d packed in my overnight bag, stole a hoodie, tied my hair back, and told myself to get a grip. I wasn’t here to fall in love.
Last night, Jordan mentioned he’d spoken to Chris about me, which immediately made my heart skip a beat. He was actually talking about me to others. Someone was actually being nice about me. My ex had spent years quietly resenting my successes, like any pride in me somehow threatened his own. He never talked about me like that. Never really bothered to take much of an interest in me after we got married. That should’ve been my first red flag.
This…this was different. And I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. But I knew one thing:
Jordan had asked me to meet him.
And Chris wanted to meet me, too.
Chapter Twenty
Kate
Jordan spotted me first.He was sitting on a bench in a quiet corner of one of the tucked-away lounge areas just off the courts, legs stretched out, cap pulled low. Chris was next to him, scribbling something onto a notepad. The second he saw me, Jordan stood. “There she is.”
I raised an eyebrow as he crossed the space toward me. “Bit formal, calling me in like this.”
“Reckon we needed our secret weapon.”
Chris looked up. “Hi, Kate. Chris,” he said, offering his hand.
“It’s lovely to meet you properly,” I said with a smile.
He returned it. “Jordan’s told me you’re bloody smart.”
I flicked a glance toward Jordan. “Did he now?”
“Did I lie?” Jordan asked innocently, grinning as he winked at me.
I rolled my eyes and sank onto the bench next to them, folding my hands in my lap. Chris laid out the match plan. Tomorrow’s opponent was German, heavily favoured, aggressive from the baseline, a relentless returner. The kind of player who didn’t win by outplaying you, but by outlasting you.
“He’s a monster,” Chris said bluntly. “But I know Jord can beat him. I just think we’re missing a piece.”
I leaned in, eyeing the scribbles. “What’s his error pattern? Forehand or backhand? And…does noise throw him off?”
Chris blinked.
Jordan was beaming. “Didn’t I tell you?” Jordan asked. “She watches like a bloody hawk.”
“Backhand,” Chris muttered, scribbling fast. “And yeah, now that you say it, he loses rhythm when it gets loud.”
I studied the clips on his tablet. It didn’t take long—one physical, one psychological review. The lip chew when he second-guessed a serve. The way he paused if an opponent delayed between points.
“You’re kidding me,” Jordan murmured. “How the hell do you see that?”
I shrugged. “People always give away who they are and how they tick, if you know how to listen.”
Chris leaned back, visibly impressed. “You ever thought about doing this professionally?”
I blinked. “Doing what?”
“This,” he said, gesturing between us. “Psychology for athletes. Pre-match prep. You’ve got a hell of a read on patterns under pressure.”
Something twisted in my stomach.
“I work in educational psychology,” I said slowly. “Mainly with children. But…I guess it’s not all that different. I just sort of…enjoy this.”
Chris nodded. “You’ve got a knack.” I looked down at the screen in my hands. Huh. That wasn’t something I heard often. Not like that. Not without disclaimers, or caveats, or someone trying to reframe it as something unimpressive.
