He won in straight sets. The crowd rose in a flurry of applause. He lifted his fist in a way that was subtle, contained. Not a show-off. And his eyes can straight to me.
I stood, too, caught in the swell of the audience. Then he looked again and lifted his brows slightly, as if to ask,Well? What did you think?
I bit my lip, but smiled before I could stop myself. And just like that, after years of feeling invisible, I was being noticed again. Which was exactly why I was in trouble.
Chapter Seven
Jordan
I hitthe final serve so clean, I knew it was over the second it left my hand.
The ball sliced through the air, kissed the service line, and my opponent barely scraped it before it died in the net.
Game. Match. Done.
Wimbledon semi-final.
I bent forward, hands on my knees, chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. The crowd roared. It felt surreal, but also like something had finally clicked. Like I’d caught up to the version of myself I’d been chasing for years. I felt like the kid I used to be, completely hungry and reckless for it. Sure of the points before they’d even landed. Last year was a bust. Injuries, early exits, endless self-doubt. But this year? I was ready for it and it had paid off.
I was mostly focused on the game, but I kept looking up without even meaning to. And there she was, in the fourth row, sunglasses on, leather jacket slung over her shoulders, and that damn red dress that clung to her curves like it knew I’d be looking.
Jesus.
She was actually here, sitting there with that warm, slightly dazedsmile that landed harder than the win. The press, the crowd, the next round—none of it mattered anymore. What mattered washerseeing me win.
“Jordan!”
I blinked. The tournament official was waving. Right. Shit. The press.
I nodded, walked to the net, shook hands, and got ushered into the tunnel.
The post-match interview was a blur. Bright lights, handshakes, same old shit about form and fitness. None of it sank in. All I could think was: She came. She saw that. And I’d never played like that in my entire life.
By the time I got through the media, I was already half-dressed, damp shirt clinging to my body, bag slung over my shoulder. I’d taken the fastest shower of my life and nearly bowled over Orla, the physio, in the hallway.
“Watch it, Taylor,” she said, catching herself on the wall, her Irish accent sharp as a tack. “Some of us are trying to work here.”
“Sorry, love. Big plans,” I threw over my shoulder.
Her snort followed me down the corridor. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
As I reached the exit, my phone buzzed.
Kate:
Lots of people at the exit. I’ll be round the corner by the street entrance. Don’t fancy being a Daily Mail sidebar tomorrow.
I grinned. Smart girl.
I ducked through the back hallway, ignored the cluster of photographers at the gate, and slipped through the service entrance into the quieter street beyond.
And there she was.
She leaned against the brick wall as if she had been painted there, with one leg bent, her weight shifted onto the other, and sunglasses still on as if she owned the afternoon.
Her hair caught the breeze. Her dress clung in all the right places.And those legs….fuck. It was going to kill me pretending I hadn’t been thinking about them wrapped around my waist…or neck…all day.
My step faltered. I could feel the grin pulling at my face before I even reached her, but I couldn’t stop it. She turned at the sound of my footsteps, her smile curling slowly as though I was the best thing she’d seen all day.
