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“Tell me about the flat. Ex-council? Does the survey report mention any signs of damp?”

I frown. “Um, I have no idea what any of those things mean, but it’s a one-bedroom in a ‘building full of character’ on the ground level. The pictures made it look cute. Especially the little garden.”

“Send me the listing and I’ll see if it’s adequate,” he says.

“Fine,” I say, pulling the phone away from my ear to launch the browser link with my thumb. “But just so we’re on the same page, Theo, I just need something that’s functional and has a bathtub.”

“Which is exactly why you need my help,” he retorts. “I won’t have you living somewhere rubbish. Especially when I’m—I mean, when the company is footing the bill.”

I freeze, my thumb hovering right over the share button. “Theo, that’s not the first time you’ve slipped. Be honest with me. I did all the paperwork for Excelsior Parks, but who’s really sponsoring me? You?”

“No,” he says a little too quickly.

“Theo,” I push back firmly.

There’s a stretch of silence over the line, save for the faint tap of keys on his end. “Fine, if you must know, technically the home office doesn’t do sponsorships. The Orlando office, however, operates a little differently. It’s fully under my control. I make the decisions. And I decided we should sponsor you.”

Hearing Theo admit that sends a sudden surge of warmth through my chest. He isn’t just a friend. He is literally the reason I’m in London.

“You bet a lot on me,” I say softly. “But what if I’d failed? What if Drew and Adala had taken one look at my game and sent me packing? I would have just retired.”

“Katie, I don’t do theoreticals or hypotheticals. They’re far too messy.”

I snort, leaning my head back against the hard plastic of the seat. “It’s not that I’m not eternally grateful, but humor me. Why did you decide to sponsor me?”

“Honestly, I would’ve given you the money outright, but I knew your pride would make you refuse it.” He sighs. It’s a rare sound of frustration from a man who usually has an answer for everything. “You have an incredible work ethic, Katie. And I knew from watching you play that you have the raw talent and the drive to make it. All you needed was a level playing field.”

“Did you ever consider playing professionally?” I ask him, genuinely curious. I’ve seen his serve, and it’d be a serious weapon.

“No. It was always a hobby for me. My nan loves the sport. I played it for her growing up since she and my grandad enjoyed coming to my matches. To them, it was the ultimate gentleman’s sport. My heart was never in it. It was always machines that called to me.”

The train begins to slow, the automated voice announcing Richmond as the end of the line. I stand up and step toward the sliding doors. “I sent you the listing. I’ll send you a couple of pictures when I get to the flat.”

“Noted. Ring me when you meet the estate agent. I won’t have them taking advantage of you.”

I step out onto the platform, the air here feeling noticeably fresher than the stale heat of central London. “Now you sound more like my dad than an older brother.”

“You can blame Leon for that,” he says, and I can almost hear the shrug in his voice.

I hang up and take a deep breath. I slip my phone into my pocket and glance toward the tree-lined streets beyond the station.

Time to find my new home.

Thanks to Theo insisting I see “a few other options” while I’m out here, I’ve spent the past two hours trailing after Nigel, the estate agent. We’ve viewed two places already, but neither has been quite right.

The first property was a gorgeous Victorian terrace house with ivy creeping up the weathered brickwork and ceilings so tall they made me feel like I’d wandered onto the set of a period drama. It had five bedrooms and a formal dining room bigger than Aunt Sarah’s pool house.

“I’m one person, Nigel,” I’d reminded him while standing in a kitchen large enough to host a celebrity cooking show.

“Yes, but think of the resale value,” he replied.

“I’m not looking to buy. I’m renting.” I glanced down at my phone screen, where Theo, who was on mute, was arching an eyebrow at me through the camera.

The second flat had been a converted warehouse somewhere near Kew Gardens. “It’s industrial chic,” Nigel insisted, as if the phrase alone could fix the draft. “And very on-trend right now.”

I’d taken one look at the exposed pipes and the bedroom perched on a tiny mezzanine level, accessible only by what looked like a decorative ladder, and barely let him finish his pitch. “Next,” I said, already backing toward the door.

I couldn’t imagine a single scenario where that was a good idea. I needed a floor that stayed under my feet.