Jordan’s body language started to change. The eye twitch. The clenched fist between points. The flattened backhand. Every tell I’d ever seen was back with a vengeance.
The way he glanced toward Chris, searching for answers that weren’t coming. A mutter after a mistimed forehand. A sharpfuckaftera call he didn’t agree with. And I caught it, the way he was purposefully avoiding my gaze.
The camera lenses zoomed in like vultures. Then he double faulted.
Ran a hand through his hair. Shook his head like he couldn’t climb out of whatever was crawling under his skin.
The second set slipped.
The third unravelled.
And just like that, he lost.
Not just the match, but something else, too.
Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
The confidence. The calm. The steady, grounded energy I’d come to rely on.
I waited in the tunnel like I always did while he gave the bare minimum to the press, cap pulled low, jaw tight, expression unreadable. Shoulders coiled like piano wire. When I usually waited around after a match, it was all stolen kisses in between press, cool downs, waiting for him. Today, he barely glanced at me between each obligation. He didn’t even speak in the car. None of it was in a cruel way. At least, that’s what I told myself. I knew that it wasn’t directed at me, but he just…shut down. Locked behind that door he disappeared behind when things went wrong. The door I hadn’t seenthisbolted shut…ever.
I didn’t push.
When we got back to the hotel suite, he shrugged off his hoodie like it weighed too much, threw it on the sofa and walked straight to the window. Hands on the windowsill. Shoulders heaving.
He just stood there, staring out at the skyline like it held the answer to a question he couldn’t quite ask aloud.
I hovered near the sofa, unsure of what to say or do. He still hadn’t really looked at me. I didn’t know whether to go to him or give him space.
I wanted to wrap my arms around him. Say something. I was trained in this, for goodness’ sake. To help people. To draw the trauma out carefully. But this was Jordan. I couldn’t find a way in through these new walls being this close to him. The way he stood tense, foldedinward, like he was in a fight with himself that I wasn’t invited to, held me back.
And then my phone rang.
Mum.For fuck’s sake.
The name on the screen made my throat tight.Not now, Mother.
I blinked down at it, torn. Knowing she would just keep calling if I didn’t answer and I’d have another scolding. Finally, I quietly stepped into the bathroom to give him space, closed the door behind me, and answered.
“Hi, Mum,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.
And just like that, the bubble burst entirely.
Chapter Forty-Two
Jordan
I still don’t knowwhat the hell had happened out there.
I knew Martínez wasn’t a pushover. The guy was quick, relentless, the kind of player who chewed up your rhythm and spat it back at you in pieces. I knew that. I’d prepared for that. But I’d gone in riding high, full of fire, full of momentum, full of her.
And maybe that was the problem. Maybe I’d started believing I was untouchable. That after Wimbledon, everything would just…keep going. That the magic wouldn’t break. That with Kate in the stands, I’d be invincible.
Instead, I’d come apart in front of the world. In front of her. It wasn’t the loss that was killing me. I could stomach losing. It was the way I lost. Unravelled. Rattled. Snapping at calls, muttering at myself, swinging too hard and too wild, like a rookie with something to prove. I hated that version of me. And she’d seen it all.
I didn’t say a word on the drive back. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t. I didn’t trust myself to speak without it all pouring out sideways. All of the anger, the shame, the guilt I was feeling. It was all boiling under my skin, and if I let any of it out, she’d catch the shrapnel.
She didn’t deserve that.
