Like I was safe.
I kissed her hair again, breathing her in.
She mumbled something, quiet against my chest.
“What was that?”
She blinked up at me, sleep-heavy. “I said…I love this. Us. Even if I forget all my shit and melt down about mean girls.”
My chest pulled tight as I smiled. She was everything, even when she was clearly hurt.
“I love it, too,” I said. “And I love you.”
And that’s when I felt her release again, melting into my arms.
Chapter Forty-One
Kate
August 18th
Four weeks in.
That’s how far I’d come into this unexpected, glittering, high-speed life.
Four weeks of hotel rooms and courtside seats. Of sweaty hugs after wins. Of late nights tangled in sheets, and early mornings with strong coffee and Jordan’s bare chest warm against mine.
He was playing the best tennis of his life. Everyone said so; Chris, the commentators, even Maggie, who squeezed my arm yesterday and whispered, “Your boy’s on fire.”
But today, sitting courtside in Cincinnati, I’d started to feel it catching up with him. With me, too, if I was honest.
I’d slipped into this world faster than I ever thought I could. It hadn’t been easy, at first. But after a while, it became easy to laugh at his jokes, to wear the pretty dresses, to hold his hand in front of cameras and pretend like maybe, somehow, I belonged here.
But lately, the edges were getting sharper.
The time zones warped my sleep, my routines. The spotlight felt brighter. The whispers stuck longer.
And underneath it all…the decision.
The one I hadn’t told him about because I had to tie up some loose ends.
It sat in my chest like a storm cloud waiting to burst.
I didn’t want to burst the golden bubble we were in, this glowing, suspended stretch of days where everything felt dreamlike. But I could feel the moment creeping closer.
The decision had to be made, whether I was going back to Cardiff at the end of the month or staying with Jordan.
Some days it had felt obvious. The way Jordan made me laugh until my cheeks hurt, the quiet mornings tangled in hotel sheets, the little ways he looked at me like I was more than enough. It all made me think,of course I’ll stay.
But then something would snap me back to reality. The tabloids digging into my private life. Those stupid WAGs who’d got under my skin. A strained phone call with my mother that left my mind spinning for hours.
And the truth was, if I didn’t go back, I’d lose my job. The job I’d worked my arse off at university for. The one that helped me claw back my independence when my marriage fell apart. The one thing that was mine entirely, that no one could take from me. But I’d made my decision, and I had a plan.
My eyes flicked back to the court.
Jordan was locked in a brutal semi-final against Carlos Martínez, a Spanish powerhouse with a vicious backhand and a reputation for grinding his opponents into dust. He wasn’t higher ranked, but he was relentless. The kind of player who didn’t need to outplay you, he just needed to outlast you. Get in your head.
Jordan started sharp. Served clean. Footwork tight. His energy dialled in. But even from the stands, I could see the shift. He couldn’t sustain it. Martínez wasn’t letting up. Every rally was a street fight. Every point, a war.
