:3

“You’re coming on Friday, right?”

You don’t lift your head. “To your match?”

“Yeah.”

“Course.”

This had become a routine for you two. Art’s roommate was always out, and you found the lounge in your hall to be downright depressing, so you always found yourself here. On your stomach in front of your homework on Art’s twin xl while busied himself at his desk, watching film from a match or doing work of his own.

It was a total fluke, the way you met. Partnered for an assignment in some gen ed, when you both surprisingly— at least to you— hit it off. You knew next to nothing about tennis. You couldn’t say what division Stanford’s athletic teams played in. But one day, you decided you wanted to come out and support your friend, get involved the way your professors had kept telling you to do.

Art won that match in straight sets. When you came to find him afterward, he was beaming wider than you had ever seen him do. That night, he excitedly explained every nuance of every point in the game over fries at a local diner. He refused to let you pay— even though you were technically celebrating his win— insisting that his grandmother would be affronted if she knew he’d let a young lady cover him. It would be the first, but far from the last time he used his poor grandmother to get away with something.

Since then, he considered you his lucky charm. Which meant, of course, that he needed you at every match. And he was persistent. He’d get you there if it meant he had to buy you food, guilt trip you, beg on his knees (once very publicly and very embarrassingly, in the quad).

You thought he was ridiculous, but he was convinced. He justified it with all kinds of bullshit, your zodiac sign, the colors you liked to wear, the spot you liked in the bleachers, anything became evidence.

Today, your eyes cross a problem in your physics textbook and you smile. “You know I can’t watch your matches anymore without seeing vectors?”

He looks over and cocks his head at you. “What?”

Your smile deepens at his confusion. You nod at your textbook. “A bunch of these problems have to do with tennis.”

“Really?” He scoots closer, leaning in to look at the page. “What about it?”

“Well it’s velocity, momentum-“ then your head snaps up. “Actually, can I explain the whole thing? I’ve got a quiz next week.”

Art nods again and sits back. “Go ahead.”

“Alright, so-“

Art tries his hardest to pay attention. He really does! It’s not even all that hard to follow; it’s first year stuff he half-learned in high school already, and you’ve always been good at explaining things. He’s sure he’d get if he were listening.

But something about your voice makes it hard. He’s more focused on the sound than the form, your words escaping him in your tone like fish through a river. Then there’s the way you talk with your hands— fingers moving to trace the arc of an imaginary ball. And your face. Eyes bright, fully invested. He could sit like this all day.

You laugh, and he tries to zone back in. Something about a spherical cow? You shake your head. “But yeah, that’s it.”

He nods along like he has been. “That’s.. very enlightening.”

You laugh again. You must think he’s an idiot. He can’t say he minds.

“Hey, maybe for my next exam we could get one of those speed guns, you could hit a few, and I could practice calculating position,” you joke.

He smiles at the thought. “It’d make good practice,” he agrees.

You smile and settle back onto the bed to finish your work. Art watches you until he feels too much like a creep.

—