The truth was, you didn’t want anything. You wanted to give. Patrick talked a big game, but he wasn’t the easiest person to read. Sometimes you had to prove to him that you weren’t going anywhere—that you knew exactly what he needed even when he wouldn’t admit it.

You slid down, letting your hands trail over his chest before settling in his lap, fingers teasing at the waistband of his jeans. “I just want to take care of you,” you murmured, biting at your lip.

Patrick raised a brow, lips curling into something sharper. “Take care of me?” His voice dipped lower, almost mocking, but there was heat in his gaze now. “That’s dangerous talk. Do you even know what you’re offering?”

“Yes,” you whispered, shifting off his lap so you could sink down onto your knees in front of him. The look on his face was worth it—eyeliner-rimmed eyes widening for half a second before narrowing, smirk deepening into something darker.

“Oh, baby.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees so he could watch you from above. “You really want to put that pretty mouth to use, don’t you? Thought of this all on your own?”

Your fingers fumbled at the button of his jeans, heat rushing through you when he didn’t stop you. If anything, he spread his legs a little wider, watching every move you made like a predator watching prey.

“I did,” you admitted. “I want to.” Patrick chuckled low, reaching out to tilt your chin up with two rings-heavy fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye. His smirk was wicked. “Go on then, show me how much you want it.”

Your fingers tugged at the zipper, slow, deliberate. Patrick leaned back on his elbows now, giving you room, his smirk widening the lower you sank between his legs.

“Look at you,” he drawled, voice thick with amusement. “So eager. Haven’t even got me out yet and you’re already on your knees like you were born to be here.” Heat flared in your chest, your throat going dry at the way he said it—like it was the most natural thing in the world, like kneeling for him was your place. And you hated how much you loved it.

You pulled him free, his cock heavy and already hardening in your hand; veins pulsating and tip all rosy. He tilted his head back in the air with a sigh, as if you’d just given him the only thing worth living for.

“Mm, that’s it. God, you look dumb just holding me. Like your brain can’t even keep up.” His voice sharpened, low and cutting, designed to make you squirm. “All you can think about is sucking my cock, huh?”

Your cheeks burned, but you tightened your grip around him, pumping slow and deliberate as you licked a stripe from the base up to the tip, taste the faint salt from his skin. His groan was instant, his rings digging into the blanket where his hands clenched.

“Fuck,” Patrick hissed. “You’re really gonna do it. Sweet little baby… nothing but a cocksleeve when I want you to be.”

The words hit deep, shame and arousal twisting together in your stomach as you swirled your tongue around the head, already leaking for you. Salty and warm. You pulled back, lips slick, and spit deliberately onto his shaft before spreading it down with your fist.

The sound it made was obscene, wet and messy, and Patrick’s chuckle was darker this time.

“God, that’s fucking filthy. You like making a mess, don’t you? Bet you’d let me use your mouth all night, just drooling, gagging, so pretty and empty.”

Your only response was to lean down and take him in, lips stretching around him, pushing until your throat threatened to close up around his heavy and fat tip. Patrick’s hand shot out immediately, cupping the back of your head. “Yeah, that’s it,” he grunted, forcing you just a little deeper. “Take it. C’mon, don’t tell me that’s all you can manage. I thought you wanted this.”

You gagged softly around him but didn’t pull back. Instead you blinked up at him, eyes watery, and the sight pulled a curse from his lips. He tightened his grip, guiding you up and down, watching as saliva gathered at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto his balls.

“Fuck, you look brainless already. Nothing going on in that head except how far you can take my cock, right?” He pushed you down harder this time, and your throat spasmed around him. “God, listen to you choke on it. So pathetic. So good.”

You pulled back with a wet gasp, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock. Your chest heaved as you caught your breath, your hand still stroking him, pumping faster now.

“Messy little thing,” Patrick muttered, reaching forward to wipe the saliva off your chin with his thumb before shoving it back into your mouth. “Suck.” Your thumb reached where your mouth couldn't for the moment, your digit rubbing around the tip of his cock, smearing pre-cum and saliva around.

You obeyed, lips closing around his thumb, sucking greedily until he laughed under his breath.

“Good. You don’t even think, do you? Just suck and gag and drool for me like it’s what you’re meant for.”

You moaned around his thumb, your other hand pumping him faster then, until his cock twitched. Pulling off his thumb, you leaned back in, spitting thickly onto the glistening tip before swallowing him down again, taking him deeper this time. You could feel the heaviness of his cock onto your tongue, his veins throbbing inside your mouth.

Your throat convulsed, tears sliding down your cheeks as you forced yourself to relax without gagging, and Patrick groaned loudly, his head falling backward again in the air.

“Oh fuck, baby—yes. That’s what I want. That dumb little throat working for me. Bet you could stay like this forever. Bet you wouldn’t even need anything else, huh? Just cock.”

You gagged again, wet and loud, spit spilling down onto your hand, onto his thighs, onto his balls. You were a mess, but the way he groaned—half broken, half delighted—made you want to keep going until your body gave out. His words, mean and mocking, made heat pool in your stomach.

He guided your pace with one hand tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to sting. “That’s it. Drool on me. Make it disgusting. Show me how fucking desperate you are to be used.”

Your jaw ached, your throat burned, but you couldn’t stop. Each time you pulled up for air, you stroked him with your slicked hands, then dove back down, swallowing him until your nose brushed his curls and skin. He groaned every time, fingers tightening in your hair, his chest heaving as if you’d knocked the breath from him.

“You’re fucking perfect like this,” Patrick rasped, his voice breaking. “My dumb little cocksucker. Don’t you dare stop now.”

You moaned around him, the vibrations dragging another curse from his lips. He started thrusting up into your mouth now, shallow but forceful, and your body jerked each time his cock hit the back of your throat. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, spit smeared across your chin and dripping onto your shirt, but you didn’t care. The noises escaping your mouth were obscene, wet.

Patrick was unraveling under you, his words coming rougher, messier. “You’re—fuck—you’re so good, baby, just like that. That throat’s made for me. God, you don’t even need to think, just open up and take it, yeah? That’s all you’re good for when you’re down there.”

Your nails dug into his thigh, clinging to him as your throat convulsed again. He hissed, thrusting deeper, holding you down for a second too long to cut your air until you gagged violently, coughing as he let you pull back with a wet, gasping breath. Saliva was everywhere, threads connecting your chin to his fat cock.

The sound made him groan, his cock twitching in your hand. He grabbed your chin, forcing your teary-eyed, spit-soaked face up toward him.

“Look at you. Wrecked. Fucking ruined just from sucking me. You love this, don’t you? Being my dumb little whore.”

“Yes,” you gasped, voice hoarse, stroking him faster so easily. “Please—”

That single word snapped something in him. With a growl, he shoved you back down, fucking into your mouth with sharp, shallow thrusts until his breathing turned ragged, until every muscle in his body went tight. You gagged but never tried to pull away, the heat in your stomach growing stronger with how Patrick used your mouth.

“Shit—baby, I’m gonna—” His words cut off into a groan as he finally came, hot and heavy down your throat. His cum was salty on your tongue, filling your mouth with how much there was. You gagged, swallowing around him as much as you could, but it spilled from the corners of your mouth, dripping onto your chin and hand.

Patrick’s hips jerked once, twice, before he finally yanked you off with a wet pop, his cock twitching against your lips as the last drops smeared across your tongue. You coughed, licking your lips while looking at him with teary eyes, proud of yourself.

You were a wreck—eyes red, cheeks wet, chin covered in spit and cum.

And Patrick looked down at you like you were a masterpiece.

You collapsed forward, resting your wet cheek against his thigh, still catching your breath. Your throat felt raw, your jaw ached, and you were trembling a little from how intense it had been. Patrick’s fingers threaded into your hair again, but this time he wasn’t pulling. He was stroking, slow and absent, as if grounding you.

“God, baby,” he muttered, voice low and husky, almost reverent. “You look so fucking wrecked. My dumb, messy little thing… ruined yourself just to make me feel good.”

The words made your chest tighten, but the sting of them had dulled now—his tone was different, softer, almost like praise. You hummed weakly, nuzzling into his thigh, and Patrick laughed under his breath.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, leaning down enough to hook a hand under your chin, tilting your face up toward him. “Look at you. Drool and cum all over your mouth, eyes all red. You really are brainless when you’ve got my cock in you, huh?”

You tried to glare, but the effect was ruined by the way your lips parted, swollen and sticky. Patrick’s grin softened into something closer to a smile. “Don’t pout. You did good.” He pressed his thumb gently over your bottom lip, brushing away the mess there. “So good for me. I should probably be nicer when you’re trying so hard.”

He tugged you up from the floor, coaxing you into his lap despite the stickiness. You straddled his thighs, your face tucked against his chest, and his arms wound around you easily.

“There,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Better. You always know how to take care of me… even if you let me talk to you like you’re nothing but a cocksucker.”

You huffed against his hoodie, and he chuckled, kissing your temple again. “But you’re mine,” he added, quieter this time, with none of the bite. “And you did so good, thank you.” His hand rubbed soothing circles on your back, holding you tighter, letting the silence stretch out. You melted into him, sore and exhausted, but warm all the same.

Patrick might’ve loved making you feel like a mess, but when it was over, he always made sure you knew—he wasn’t going anywhere.

He’s hard like one of Pavlov's dogs as he walks through the familiar halls. He finds this oh so helpful for stress relief. Letting a perfect stranger suck his cock. He’s been coming here regularly since he started working for his dad six months ago (the office is close enough to be convenient but far enough that he doesn’t risk running into anyone from work). His favorite spot is specifically the glory hole.

He’s already unzipping his suit pants as he lets himself into one of the private rooms. He pulls his dick free and starts jerking at the half hardened length before slipping it in the hole. He can hear another man moaning in the stall next to him. That just serves to make his cock even harder. “Fuck I need this,” Patrick sighs. 

He hears movement on the other side of the wall in front of him but its hesitant. Patrick can't see it but he feels something soft, like lips brushing against his cock head. “What’s your name angel? Mm not fully hard yet but i know you can get me there.” Patrick asks.

Art swallows. He’s never done any of this before today. He's not sure if he should say his real name or make something up. He ends up  just stammering. 

“Ooh don't tell me your shy sweetheart,” Patrick sighs, resting his forehead against the wall. “You ever seen a piercing there before?”

“N-no,” Art stammers again. It seems crazy for his first day. He figured it might be fun to get into this club because he loves sucking dick. This is his third one today. He had a short, fat one which was a little too small. He had a massively long one, a little too thin and a tad bit too long. 

In the words of Goldilocks, this one is just right. 

Perfect length, a slight curve, thick and long. It’s circumcised, veiny and uh…pretty? If you can call someone else’s cock pretty. If that's a thing. The tip is adorned with a barbell piercing. He’s never seen anyone with this piercing before. It just seems so filthy, no other reason to pierce that except for pleasure. Dude probably showed up at the piercing shop erect. Art’s mouth feels needlessly wet. 

He’s tongue tied. He looks down at the bulge of his own cock and then back at the stranger's cock in front of him, he lets his lips brush against the leaking tip again. The cool metal of the piercing making his lips tingle.

“Mm come on princess, open up for me.  I’ve had the worst day and I need to fuck your mouth,”  Patrick hums. “Is it your first time?”

“Uh…um… yeah kinda,” Art hiccups. None of the other guys today have been this vocal. He doesn’t usually like pet names but it sounds good in this gentle tenor. He wishes he could have this guy's cock in more than just his mouth. 

“Ah that’s okay, it’s actually kinda cute.” He chuckles from the other side. “Ill talk you through it baby. You wanna feel my piercing on your tongue?”

“Mmhm,” Art takes a breath and begins to lap at the tip. It does feel good, the blunt head of his cock slipping soft against Art’s palate. The cock ring dragging along for the extra bit of titillation. Art picks up his pace. 

“Ah fuck yeah, so greedy already,” Patrick lets out a guttaral sigh. On the other side of the wall Art shivers. 

“Thats a nice hot mouth you got on you. I can feel the blood pumping to my cock. Getting me nice and full like I knew you would. I bet you got a pretty face. Fuck.” Sounds through the wall. Art can feel the guys dick filling out growing harder on his tongue, his balls shifting up while Art plays with them. Art can't help another moan. 

“Oh you like that, huh? Fuck. Your hot little tongue on my cock ring. Teasing me so good. This is good shit.” 

Art responds by teasing his tongue over  the metal some more. It tickles. Makes him feel warm. His own cock, already standing at attention, starts to throb. 

Art can taste warm precum steadily dripping into his mouth from the guy’s tip. Art can’t wait another second, he wraps his lips around it, enveloping it into his mouth with an eager moan.  

Patrick groans. “Oh shit, thats right. Lets fucking go. You got it sweetheart. Doing so good.” He pants, tapping the wall, caressing it. Trying to imagine the face on the other side of that hot mouth. 

“This is the best head I've had in months. Mm when you're ready lets get that throat opened up. I wanna —” 

Patrick is swallowing his words when he’s cut off by the feeling of that mouth taking him as deep as he can down his throat, choked off gagging sounds coming from the other side of the wall. 

Patrick lets out a sharp hiss, “fuck I feel it hitting the back of your throat. Thats—ah fuck—that’s good. Mmm… shit…like you’re milking me with your throat muscles.

Art is moaning around it, his own cock pulsing and twitching eagerly. He scoots forward on his knees and plays with the guys balls. “Fuck you’re moaning more than I am. Holy shit. You like it a lot. Fuck need to buy you a drink angel. You're taking me so good." Patrick gasps. Both of them groaning, as Art gags on it. Letting it fill his throat wholly. It's so thick he has to pull back and start coughing.

“Mm, that's okay. I know it's a lot, baby.” Patrick is panting, forehead resting against the wall, listening to the hot sound of this shy boy catching his breath. “Just take your time.”

Art recalibrates. He hasn’t even needed to touch himself. He wishes the stranger with all the pet names could play with his hair, caress his cheek. Kiss him. He imagines that as he takes it back in his mouth. Immediately taking it down his throat as far as it can possibly go.

“Oh shit, nnngh, the fucking pressure like your gonna tug my cock ring off with your throat, feels so fucking good, baby.” Patrick whines. “Thats right. Got me so close.”

Art groans his own hips shifting upwards, helplessly against the air as cum spurts from his dick. Oh god this was the first one all day that made him cum, he didn’t even need to touch himself.

“Fuck yes, love how you’re moaning for me, oh fuck you’re coming aren’t you? Holy…oh you… oh fuck thats perfect— fuck!”

Art feels the heat of cum filling his throat and then its just the sound of Art gulping it down while Patrick’s moans sound heavy from the other side of the wall.Art doesn’t remove his mouth until hes gulped down every last drop. Then he laps at the tip for just another little taste.

“Mmm that was fucking perfect. I think i have a new favorite. Come on angel, tell me your name.” Patrick grunts breathlessly. 

“Art,” Art says, his voice hoarse. “Is my name.”

“Pretty name, best way to describe that tongue.” Patrick chuckles. “Listen, why don’t we go get drinks and…get to know each other better.”

Art is supposed to try another one after this but decides to cancel and go with him. He doesn’t believe in fairytales or anything but he trusts his gut and this feels just right.

"you feel that?" patrick grins against him. "still over your boxers, 'n' you're already—"

"don't narrate it," art groans, a hand sliding into the other's dark curls.

"why not? afraid i'll say something true?"

art's incapable of answering. all he can do is look down at him—brows drawn together, lips parted, sweat gathering at his temples despite the air conditioning humming overhead. it's a look patrick is more than familiar with. a last-ditch attempt at restraint before he's got patrick bent over the nearest surface.

so he doesn't push too far. he enjoys this part. lips moulded over the thick line of his length through the cotton, open-mouthed and wet. his tongue presses through the fabric like he's trying to taste him through it. he can feel art trembling beneath him. art's hand in his hair gives a light, pleading tug.

"off," he says, voice hoarse. "please get them off."

"not yet," patrick hums. and then he sucks. slow, deep, through his boxers. art's curse is more of a whine as his eyes roll back, head lolling against the chair. "wanna make you cum like this."

"ngghhh—what? okay," art pants, breathless and too wrecked to really put up a proper argument. it's impossible to still the way he tries to buck up against him, but patrick holds him down with a firm palm splayed across his thigh.

"don't move," he murmurs. his voice is softer now, coaxing, completely at odds with the way he's absolutely ruining him. then the pressure of his mouth returns, hot and unrelenting. he licks a slow stripe along the underside, the fabric gone completely damp, clinging until every shape and ridge of art's hard cock is brutally defined. he can taste him through it. smell him, all musk and desperation.

art's other hand is curled around the arm of the chair, knuckles white from how hard he's gripping the wood. the other clings to patrick's hair, occasionally tugging too hard to be comfortable, but patrick relishes on that almost pain. the heat in his gut is building embarrassingly fast, but patrick doesn't ease up. just keeps sucking over the soaked spot with slow, dragging passes of his tongue.

"you're my boy, aren't you? gonna give it to me?" patrick asks without lifting his mouth. the words vibrate through the cotton.

art's hips jerk again in answer—less a yes, more an oh god please. "yeah. yeah, i'm your boy."

his thighs are shaking. the tension in him is total, every muscle taunt and braced like holding himself still might help him last longer. but it's been a losing battle since patrick's tongue first descended on his boxers. he's got him unravelling at the seams with his mouth still sealed over fabric. not even skin on skin. he can't even begin to process how pathetic that is.

"fuck," art whines. "i—oh, patrick, i can't—it's embarrassing—"

"you can," patrick croons, eyes glinting wickedly when they flick up to his flushed face. "be good. let go for me, artie."

art groans, spine arching clean off the chair. the pressure, the heat, the relentless mouth, the scrape of teeth right at the edge—it's too much. so when his orgasm hits him, it's hard. not silent or graceful. it rips through him hard enough that his whole frame shakes, patrick's name pouring endless from his lips in desperate moans. his boxers are a soaked mess as the brunette continues to mouth through it, coaxing every last tremor of pleasure out of him.

patrick finally pulls back, chin glistening with his own saliva. "told you i'd do it," he says matter-of-factly, hands smoothing down art's sweaty thighs.

"fuck you," art mutters, muffled into his hand as he drapes an arm lazily over his face to cover his eyes as he pants through the aftermath.

"later," patrick laughs. "right now, you look like you need a minute."

TOURING WITH the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy fucking sucks.

Especially when Art is forced to share a room with Patrick Zweig and you. He’s restless, strung tight with arousal and forced to succumb to a weekend of keeping his hands above the belt. If it was Patrick it’d be one thing—the pair of them have been shameless enough to get off in the same room for years: bunk beds, hotel rooms wedged together, even at the Zweig estate with him sleeping on the floor right next to Pat’s four-poster bed. Too gay if they’re physically in the same one, they’d reasoned back then.

What a joke.

He’s supposed to be sleeping. You all are. Warmup for morning matches starts early, and your coach had warned you sternly about late nights. But laying down and actually sleeping is impossible with Patrick sprawled on the other side of the bed. With you tucked between them in this awkward, temporary arrangement of sharing space to cut costs. And especially with the knowledge that you’re right there, less than an arm’s length away, already drooling onto your pillow in a rumpled MRTA shirt and a very flattering pair of sleep shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.

He’s tried to doze off. He really has. Closed his eyes, counted his breaths, forced his body into stillness with the cartoon image of sheep soaring over the bed to lull him into slumber. But his brain just won’t shut off. Every inhale has the smell of your body wash and Patrick’s obnoxious cologne flooding his senses. Every exhale syncs with the rhythm of your breathing, soft and steady and completely fucking oblivious to the torment he’s facing right next you.

And his body, well… that’s an entirely different ballpark. He’s half-hard under the thin sheets, embarrassingly sensitive and pulsing with the thought of you. 

He isn’t sure whether he should scream or laugh. Or maybe go knock on someone else’s door and beg to sleep on their floor. 

Patrick is, apparently, faring no better on the opposite side of you. He keeps tossing and turning, muttering incoherently into his own pillow. It’d be a believable display if Art didn’t know him inside out by now. Patrick isn’t asleep. Not with the way his hand keeps drifting under the covers, hips grinding upwards subtly like he’s incapable of helping himself.

It’s disgusting. Perverted. And it’s a mirror of Art’s own problem.

The truth is they’re both completely fucked. Too many days of strict schedules, too much energy bottled up after long days of travel with too little relief. And then there’s you: always in the middle of them. Between them on benches, laughing in their faces during practice when a ball goes awry, leaning far too close when you ask for water from a shared bottle to quench your thirst. Too oblivious and yet too tempting.

Art’s certain you don’t even know what you do to them. How the sight of you pulling off your tank after practice makes his throat go dry and his shorts uncomfortably tight. How the sound of you cackling at one of Patrick’s crude jokes makes him want to just fuck the smugness out of both of you. How even now, with your lips parted innocently in sleep and your bare foot barely grazing his ankle under the sheets, you’ve got him wound tighter than he’s ever been in his entire life.

He rolls onto his side, blonde curls spilling over the pillow with his face half-buried into the fabric. He glares at the shadowed outline of your body in this dim hotel room. At Patrick’s profile just beyond your sleeping form. 

He swears he’s getting a stomach ache just from holding back. His cock is stiff, pressing against the waistband of his shorts, and every time he moves the brush of fabric has him stifling a hiss quietly into the dark. He’s going to lose it. Really fucking lose it.

And then he realises Patrick’s given up on pretending to be discreet. Laying flat, head turned, eyes fixed in the same direction as Art’s. Towards you.

Their gazes catch across the narrow strip of space, and the heat crawling up his face is humiliating. He feels like he’s been caught with his hand already down his pants, even though the brunette is the guilty party. It doesn’t help that Patrick just smirks at him. Annoyingly sharp and taunting even when he’s only illuminated by the sky outside the window. Art can tell just by looking at him that he knows exactly what he’s thinking.

His chest feels too tight. He wants to deny it, to sneer and roll over and shut it all out. Leave Patrick to his perverted thoughts alone. But oh, is he a weak man. He can’t. Not when he sees the other’s hand slide under the covers and his chest tightens painfully. Your body shifts between them, one arm flung over your eyes, and your shirt rides up immoderately to reveal your abdomen.

And Art knows, with bone-deep certainty, that he’s about to break tonight. Impossible not to when his own desire is being mirrored and magnified just by the fact his best friend wants the same thing: you.

Patrick’s fingers drift gently along that exposed sliver of skin. You hardly stir despite the daring touch, body tensing momentarily before you sigh into the crook of your arm. He smirks over you at Art again, the kind that says see? She doesn’t mind.

Art hates him. Hates him for being bold, hates him for touching you first, hates him for making his cock twitch at the thought of following suit. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut and pretend he’s back home but he can’t tear his eyes away. Patrick’s hand lingers, gliding slowly down to your leg and stroking gently. 

That mischievous flicker in his eyes makes Art want to scream. He can hear the silent taunt in his movements. Are you going to keep pretending? Or are you going to admit you want her just as badly as I do?

He does. Of course he does. The last five years of going through puberty together have been absolutely agonising. A raging body of hormones watching one of his close friends go from awkward, dorky tennis player to total smokeshow with pretty tits and a perky ass that makes him falter on the court.

He hardly realises he’s moving until Patrick lets out the faintest laugh of triumph, as if it was just inevitable that they’d end up like this. Art wants to shut him up, but one wrong move and you’d be awake asking why you had two of your teammates ogling you in your sleep. 

He swallows back his protests as his fingertips dance tentatively over the smooth skin of your stomach. He can feel it expanding beneath him with each breath you draw in, completely unaware and lost in a dream.

Patrick is bolder (no surprise there). He slips his hand higher up your thigh, fingers dipping beneath the leg of your shorts until he finds heat. Art swears his vision blurs at the sheer audacity when his friend inhales sharply at the wetness waiting there, a grin curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Christ,” he whispers, barely sound at all. “She’s soaked, man.”

Art shoots him a glare, but it’s wasted—Patrick’s already sliding two fingers against your slit, eyes locked on your face in search of a reaction. You shift again, just slightly, a small sound escaping the back of your throat. But you don’t wake.

He’s mesmerised by the sight of Patrick’s hand between your thighs, your body yielding to him even in sleep. In a newfound burst of confidence (or recklessness, if he’s being honest with himself) his own hand moves to slip beneath your waistband. His knuckles brush against Patrick’s as he finds you.

The shared contact makes his friend grin, devilish, but Art ignores it. He’s too awed by the way your cunt is already wet for them, heat clinging to his fingertips. Patrick’s hand moves to shift you just slightly onto your side, directing your sleepy breaths in Art’s direction so he can press against you from behind. His cock grinds against the curve of your ass through his shorts.

“God,” he sighs. “Don’t even need to fuck her. I’m so horny I could—” His hips jerk hard, and he bites down on his lip to stifle a groan. “I could cum just like this.”

For a moment, he just watches Patrick rut against you. He’s half-tempted to shove him off and tell him to go jerk off in the bathroom like a normal person, but he’s a hypocrite. He craves that same friction… but the fact you’re still so oblivious gnaws at him.

Instead, he slides his hand out of your shorts to palm his own erection. The fabric is soaked already, breath stuttering at the physical reminder of just how worked up he is. “Pat,” he tries, voice raw. “This is weird, dude. She’d never let us.”

“She’s already letting us. Look at her.”

He knows it doesn’t count. Not really. But the way you’re responding subconsciously in your sleep, just a subtle shift of your hips and the occasional soft little sigh pouring out of those lips he’s wanted to kiss for so long…

“Fuck. Move,” he says, sharper than he means. Patrick just rolls onto his back, hand diving into his shorts to stroke himself lazily as he watches Art fumble his own cock out. The fabric of your shorts is pulled aside, and when his cock slides against your bare cunt he feels like his entire world tilts on its axis.

You’re soaked, making every slow drag against your slick painfully good. 

“... Bet you cum first,” Patrick says childishly, like they aren’t currently lusting over their sleeping friend, jerking himself faster.

For a moment, Art’s too busy rutting against you. His cock pulses with every pass over your clit, heart hammering against his ribcage with every sleepy sound of contentment you make. 

It takes him a moment to realise what’s been said, and he shoots his friend a look. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

That insistence is all it takes for Patrick to be pressed against you again, his own shorts pushed down just enough to free himself. His cock slides against your thigh, leaving streaks of precum against untainted skin. And now it’s both of them behaving like horny dogs humping anything for relief: Art dragging his cock over your wet cunt, pressing in just enough to tease himself but never enough to really wake you. Patrick grinding against your thigh while the bed creaks under the uneven rhythm of their bodies.

“I can’t—” Art stutters out when your hips tilt unconsciously to meet him. He slips against your entrance again, not quite inside, and the wet heat that greets him nearly kills him. His head drops, groaning into the pillow. “She’s begging for it. I swear.”

Patrick’s laugh is breathless. “Then put it in, man. Fucking do it. Stop torturing yourself.”

Art hesitates—half a second, maybe two to really weigh up his options—before his desperation gets the better of him. He presses in, slow but steady, and Patrick groans behind you like he’s the one being enveloped by the tight heat of your pussy.

Somehow, it’s the sound that pulls you out of sleep rather than the intrusion. Not abruptly. You float the edge first, caught in some weird limbo as your body hums pleasantly. You can feel weight pressing down, warmth on either side of you, the stretch of being filled. The world’s best wet dream.

Except then you stir enough to feel it properly. Someone’s fucking you. No—both of them are. One’s penetrating, the other’s cock throbbing against the back of your thigh. Both of them still think you’re somehow asleep.

And that thought—that they wanted you so badly they couldn’t even wait for you to wake—sends a rush of desire through you that makes your cunt flutter around Art’s cock.

“Fuck—did you feel that?” Art gasps, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

“Feel what?”

“She squeezed me. I swear.”

Patrick scoffs. “How am I supposed to feel that when you’re the one inside her?”

“Oh my god, this is so wrong—”

“You said she’s squeezing. She wants it, dude. Awake or not.”

Art wants to believe that, if only because the thought of pulling out now before he gets to finish is killing him. But then you’re stretching, back arching towards him and eyelids fluttering as the full extent of their desperation dawns on you.

He looks wrecked when your eyes set upon him. Blonde curls clinging to his forehead with sweat, shame written all over his pretty flushed face. He starts to pull back, a thousand apologies already spilling out. “Fuck. I’m sorry. We’re sorry. It’s not what it looks like. Well, obviously it— oh my god, it’s disgusting. I’m so sorry—”

“Art. Don’t stop,” you whine drowsily.

Patrick laughs, loud and sharp compared to the quiet they’ve attempted to keep until now, his relief evident in the sound. “Told you she’d like it,” he repeats, grinding against you with renewed vigour. “All that cowardice for nothing, Art.”

“We should’ve—fuck—we still should have asked,” he mutters. Not that he’s stopped grinding into your cunt since your breathy little moan of permission passed the clouded fog of desire in his brain.

“I’m saying yes now,” you breathe.

He falters for just a moment, blue eyes finding your face. Still riddled with the remnants of sleep, but there’s a crease between your brow from pleasure now, lips parted around a sigh as Patrick continues to coat your leg in an obscene amount of precum. Then his restraint finally snaps, and he pulls your leg over his hip to drive into you deeper.

Patrick’s hand finds your jaw, tilting your head back so he can kiss you. His teeth drag against your bottom lip before his tongue invades your mouth. Art fucks you harder now without the need for caution. No fear of waking you, finally able to chase his own release and enjoy your perfect pussy. You’re right there with them in their desperation, clinging to Art’s shoulders while Patrick’s shameless hands roam your body greedily. Palming at your tits, groping your ass, licking into your mouth like he’s parched and swapping spit with you is the only thing that’ll keep him breathing.

And when you cum—because how could you not, sandwiched between them, full and stretched with a cock you’ve craved for years—the sound you make is so loud that their attempts at being silent seem futile now. Anyone awake down the hall is sure to know exactly what’s going on in your shared little bubble of heat.

Art finishes before Patrick. No surprise there, when the latter has been holding out to experience being inside you. No fucking way Art gets to enjoy your cunt and he doesn’t after starting this entire thing.

“Ohmygod, sorry, I can’t— nghhh, can I—” His voice cracks, face screwed with pleasure. “Do you want me to pull out? I should, right—?”

Your body seems to respond for you, squeezing around Art’s cock in protest. “Don’t. It’s fine,” you moan, head tilted back into Patrick as he mouths behind your ear.

“Dirty girl,” he tuts playfully. “Come on, Artie. Give her what she wants.”

The moan Art lets out is embarrassingly whiny, hands clinging to your hips as his climax hits him. His body jerks with each hot spill of release into your fluttering walls. But Patrick doesn’t wait. He never does.

The moment Art stills, he’s there to push him away with a low laugh. “You’re pathetic, man,” he mutters as Art pulls out. Your leg is still hitched over his thigh, keeping you spread open and dripping with his spend as Patrick readies himself behind you. “Couldn’t even last. What happened to no way?”

There’s a weak noise of protest (Art still has some dignity) that’s drowned out by the sound of you moaning when Patrick pushes forward, cock sliding against the mess Art left inside you. He’s bigger—not by much, but enough to have your body tensing. He groans approvingly at the feel of it, the sloppy heat, the way your cunt twitches and walls flutter after already being so full.

“Fuck me,” Patrick hisses, pressing in deep with a single impatient thrust. The slick squelch of his cock pushing through Art’s cum is so obscenely arousing that your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. “Jesus Christ. Loosened her up for me and she’s still gripping me like a fucking whore.”

Art’s too drained to argue and defend your honour like he normally would. Not that anything about the events of tonight have been very honourable.

Patrick fucks you like he’s been waiting for this for just as long. His thrusts are fast, messy, hips snapping against yours with no attempt at rhythm. He’s purely focused on finding his own release now, panting into the back of your neck.

“You hear that?” He grunts. “That’s all of us—me, you, him. God, you’re dripping with it. Taking us both like you were made for it.”

The bed jerks under the force of him. Art manages to kiss you lazily when you reach for him, sighing into your mouth as you arch into the touch. You’re half-dazed from him already fucking you within an inch of your life, but Patrick doesn’t let you get a moment’s rest with the way he’s pounding into you from behind. Kisses turn into breathing each other’s air when all you can do is mewl at the relentless pressure of Patrick’s length stretching you, and Art leans back to lift the sheets. He can see the way Patrick’s cock is being driven into you, the sticky release he isn’t fucking deeper into you already dripping down your thighs.

Patrick laughs brokenly. “Look at him. Can’t even get it up again, but he wants to watch. Fucking obsessed with you. We both are. Wanted this forever. Pretty sure I got carpel tunnel that summer you moved on from— mmmm, fuck— training bras.”

He’s not trying to be flattering. Just brutally honest, and something about it has you gasping into Art’s shoulder as every thrust punches hitched breaths from your throat. A single brush of Art’s fingers over your sensitive clit has you squeezing Patrick so tight he swears his vision blacks out, cock throbbing violently as the tension in his taut body spikes.

“Ohhh, fuck— that’s it, do that again. I’m gonna cum—” He gasps, hips stuttering. His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back so he can pant against your mouth. Unlike Art, he doesn’t ask as he groans out: “Take it. Take it all of it. You’re gonna keep it in, yeah?”

Then he buries himself in as he breaks. Hot and heavy as he pumps you full, the three of you shuddering against each other. Patrick stays pressed tight against you, grinding against you through the aftershocks as if he doesn’t want a single drop wasted.

You’re all a sweaty mess by the time he stills. Art lies wrecked in front of you, Patrick still behind you. You’re stuck in the middle, soaked, stretched and overflowing with both of them. Something tells you that your morning match won’t go in your favour with the way your legs tremble after such a thorough fucking.

Art strokes your hip lazily, the tender gesture almost enough to disarm you as the fog of lust clears slowly. And yet, as always, Patrick is there to ruin it with:

“This is why we’re Fire and Ice, dude. You set me up to finish—”

In sync, two very spent tennis players groan: “Shut up, Patrick.”

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"don't make me ask that blonde friend of yours. come on, zweig, it's a win-win. " you looked up at him with a tilt of your head, smiling, the light hitting your eyes just right. he took one look into them, and at your glossy lips, and he knew it didn't even matter whatever it was you were saying at this point about in which way he was winning. patrick decided then he'd do anything for you if it meant you'd smile at him like that.

"okay, deal." he smirked, offering to walk you back to your room. friendship quickly bloomed between the kid versions of you two, even if he couldn't help how pretty he thought you looked.

over the years you guys got older and remained close, starting off as hitting partners when he wasn't with art, but the way he lingered in your spaces always teetered on the edge of something that wasn't just friendly. especially while you were in college. a palm that just barely touched your lower back to guide you through parties he attended with you. an arm around your shoulders as you sat on the same side of the booth. a hand on your knee to stop you from bouncing it. phone and video calls that seemed to stretch longer than expected into the night when he was away on tour.

those calls were really the beginning of you noticing that there was something going on with him. you couldn't quite put your finger on it, but you could tell he was off. the way his smile wasn't as wide as it usual was on the screen when you'd asked if he was seeing anyone new on tour. how his eyes were somehow not the deep blue that you knew them to be.

"you okay, pat?" you asked on your end of the call, looking and talking at him with genuine care and concern.

"i’m fine, angel. just.." miss you is what he wanted to say. but he didn't know how to open himself up like that. "tired." he lied instead. you had known him long enough at this point that that it was more than that but you didn't push either. you knew that wasn't how he worked, and he knew you knew all of these things too. but maybe if you had pushed then it wouldn't be what it became.

"okay. well i'll let you get your rest and i'll see you soon." you promised with a real, wide smile that always made him melt before hanging up. he should've told you then that the real reason he had been calling so much, refusing to let you off the phone at a reasonable time, wasn't just because he missed you but that he loved you. but he let you hang up and pretended everything was fine.

everything was fine. tours came and went, your college days coming to a close. he claimed to be on the top of his tennis game, especially with you finding time in your busy life to come cheer him on. until yet another girl broke up with him. he didn't blame them, he never did. they were all distractions from what he really wanted but told himself he couldn't have.

most of the time these breakups were sweat off his back. none of them would ever be you. lots of girls wanted to date him, but when they saw the real him they knew they didn't want to marry him or have anything to do with him. he was never real to them, only ever with you, but god this time it was reaching a breaking point. he wanted something real. something to call his and only his, and he wanted it with you. he shut his phone off amidst his spiral to wallow.

that was his first mistake. his second mistake was forgetting his plans with you. it wasn't like him to just forget and not answer his phone. so you, being the kind person you are, came to his apartment. you could hear the tv on the other side of the door. you knocked and he didn't answer even though you knew he was in there. so you let yourself in with the spare key you knew was under the mat. you find him on the couch, staring into the ceiling. he'd barely realized you were there until you were sitting right next to him.

he's telling you to leave and won't meet your eyes because he doesn't know how he's going to control himself right now around you. how he's going to not just blurt out that he loves you and pull you into his arms and never let you go because god is he just itching to be worthy of your love. but then you're grabbing his chin to force him to look at you. your eyes are studying his face trying to figure out what's wrong. not because you're nosy, but because you care. because you always have. because you know him.

when he meets your eyes, your expression turns soft, but you don't look away. you push some curls out of his face and let your hand linger there as a silent way of saying to him that he can tell you, whatever it is.

suddenly he's kissing you. he's kissing you and you're letting him.

there was no going back after that. not when he's kissing your neck and you're taking off his shirt. not when he's leading you to his room and effortlessly laying you down on his bed like he's wanted to do ever since he's met you. no words are exchanged in the quiet of his apartment, just looks between the two of you before each move to confirm if something's okay. the moonlight cascading over you with every brush of his lips against your skin.

you had thought of this moment before but you never thought this is how it would happen. not when you knew something was wrong and he wouldn't say what it is was. you should've stopped it, pushed him to act like a regular person, but you were selfish too. you couldn't admit it out loud that you loved him, and it was that fact that made you stay. you would do anything if it meant he would feel better.

his usual rough hands held you softly, like you were something special, fragile. he took his time in the silence, each touch, each kiss, each whisper of your name falling from his mouth was tender--like he was worshipping you. you being there, with him, like this, was what made him feel better. made him feel whole for the first time in his life.

after, you two just layed there. he cleaned you up, wrapped you up in his clothes and held you close. he didn't acknowledge what just happened and neither did you. you stayed over, sleeping in his arms like it was just any other ordinary occurrence. in the morning, you slipped out before he woke up, leaving a note that you hope he felt better and that you'd see him soon. if he didn't want to talk about this then that would just be the way it was because that was patrick and even if you had no regrets, you didn't want to lose him by pushing.

if it was just that one time then maybe you could've continued to pretend everything was fine. you knew patrick. you knew that he didn't do relationships, and you weren't about to assume that is what he wanted with you despite how much that night confirmed for you that your heart beat for him. but it wasn't just that one night.

patrick fucked up. he knew he should've said how he really felt before kissing you, before going any further than that, but he just thought that actions could speak for him. it just felt so good to finally have you. to feel the affection he had for you returned. but he was a fool and it wasn't just that one time.

he let it go unacknowledged. he kept his revolving door of girls open, and kept you as his best friend. he knew in his heart that there was no way he could get you out of his system now, so he would keep drowning in other people, other things, to distract himself. you would pretend to be fine, but the second someone else looked your way, there he was. bulldozing into your spaces like he belonged there, taking you for himself.

so you two entered into this ill fated ending dance of friends with benefits. if one of you called, there was the other one answering. it was supposed to be a walk in the park, easy, but the lines got more blurry and you were so confused. you'd heard stories of how he could be rude, cocky, rushing, reckless without even meaning to with his partners. but with you, he was always soft and patient and intentional, in the light and in the darkness, making sure you felt him in every part of you in every way.

he looked at you a little too long behind closed doors and that bled into the fabric of real life. sometimes you'd catch him, but he'd just smile, brushing it off with a kiss to your cheek. the palm that used to barely rest on your lower back through crowds, rested on your waist, firm, known. his jacket finding its way to be wrapped around you in the late nights sitting on your roof talking like nothing changed. he wouldn't let there be any distance between you on the same side of the booth, and the hand that would stop your knee from bouncing now burned where it would press down on your upper thigh.

"angel" would slip into "baby" and he didn't notice. he didn't notice most of these changes except that they felt right to him. he would crack jokes to fill the silences as he pressed you into his mattress again and again, mostly to make you feel like it wasn't awkward, that he wanted you to be comfortable, but also to hear your laugh again and again since it had always been his favorite song. if only he had the courage to speak with his words and not assume that things were good the way that were.

they weren't though and it was now your turn to realize that you couldn't go on like this. you couldn't pretend that you were okay with wondering if outings were now dates since he always paid and told you you were the prettiest thing he'd ever seen or if the way you could hear his heart beating faster than ever when you rested your head on his bare chest after pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw meant you were still just friends.

it was hard to pretend that you weren't all consumed by him. that you could just take what he gave you and not feel like you were deteriorating from the inside out at the fact that you weren't really his, and he wasn't really yours.

"i think i should go, pat." you said one night, untangling yourself from him, holding the sheet to cover your bare chest as you got up from the bed. if you didn't go now, you were sure you'd never.

"what? why?" he sat up on his side of his bed, confused, but mostly hurt. this couldn't be it. he needed you more than ever. he was in too deep.

"i just...i need space. to really think, about some stuff." you couldn't look at him as you got dressed. you felt light headed, and you needed to get out of there before you got wrapped back up in everything.

"we can talk about it. just come back to bed, baby." he slipped on his boxers that were on the floor and started to follow you to the door.

"i'll be okay. i just can't be here." you had your back turned to him with a hand on the door handle. but he lingered there behind you.

"how do i fix this?" he asked, terrified that this would be the last time he saw you.

"pat." you shakily breathed out, warning him not to push you if he wasn't going to say what he knew you needed to hear.

"angel. i can't lose you. not like this." his voice wavered as he reached a hand out to stop you. "you know how I feel about you."

"do i?" you questioned still facing the door. the hand on your shoulder feeling more like a weight than a comfort.

he says nothing. words failing him even if he knows it would be the only thing that could get you to stay right now.

you shrug his hand off in the silence, opening the door anyway.

"i'll see you soon. promise." you mean it, even if you leave without sparing him another glance.

he stands there after you leave. his apartment not the only thing feeling empty. how did he let it get this far? you'd given him the affection he needed so badly, and he doted on you like it was the air in his lungs, but didn't you know it was real? that it meant everything?

he lets you have your space for a few days before it sinks in that he can't live without you. he needed you to know that he didn't want to pretend that this wasn't real. you weren't just another notch on his bed post like everyone else, because they were only there because he thought you couldn't be. he wanted you, and he wanted you to want him too.

so when it had been radio silence on your end for two weeks, he begged and begged to see you. promising you he was ready to talk if you were. he understood why you took the space, but god was it killing him. he meets you at the beach, finding you sitting on a blanket watching the waves. he takes a cautious seat next to you, pretending that the purposeful space he leaves between you isn't terrifying.

"i can't pretend anymore." you said facing the ocean, your voice was like the tide—rising slow and steady, waves crashing calmly against the shore.

"i don't want you to." he responded, eyes watching you intently, his hand that rests in the space between you itching to hold yours.

"is any of it real? or is it all in my head?" you questioned, looking at him nervously. but his gaze remained, unwavering.

"everything is real. it always has been, always will be." the words fall easily from patrick for the first time in his life. he grabbed your hand, and when you didn't pull it back, he placed it on his chest over his heart so you could feel that it was beating faster than you've ever felt. he wanted you to know that it was for you, that everything was and is for you. "i love you. i'm sorry if i ever let you think i didn't. but i do, and i'm done pretending that you're not the realest thing in my life. "

his admission was more vulnerable than you'd expect from him. he was never good at words or feelings, you'd never force that on him, but you always wanted him to try. yet here he was, putting his heart out on the line, and you believe him despite the part of you that was screaming at you to run away again.

"i love you too." you say back to him. no one's ever said that to him, but he's sure that he never wants to hear it from anyone else but you. he smiles and you do too. he shifts closer, closing the distance between you on the blanket, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you guys watch the waves.

and he kisses you, soft and slow. except this time, it means something. it's real.

𓇢𓆸

“TASHI… i still can’t believe you and art aren’t coming. please don’t do this to me. please tell me you’re joking and that you’re both on your way.”

you know she’s not, and that this isn’t just a nightmare you’ve yet to wake up from. no amount of pinching yourself will miraculously result in you waking up in your dorm on campus; no, instead, you’re pacing in front of a cabin while on the phone with spotty cell service. was it really that hard to install a few more cell towers in the middle of nowhere, or did you need to beg your parents again to switch to a better phone network?

“babe…” tashi sighs from her end of the receiver, and you feel your stomach plummet right through the wooden floorboards beneath your boots. “look– art and i are just as thrilled as you are that we’re not coming. do you think i wanted to rent a cabin and a car that i wouldn’t be able to use?”

a scoff leaves you at that, your breath visualizing in the cool air as you shift on the porch. she has a point. maybe you are being a bit unfair about all of this, even if she and art ditched your collective plans at the last minute.

“but still…” you shake your head before unlocking the front door, stepping into the cabin and taking in your surroundings with vague interest. “you guys were supposed to be the buffer. i don’t know how we’re not going to tear each other apart within seconds of seeing each other.”

tashi laughs. “let’s be real, you mean you don’t know how you’re not going to tear patrick apart.”

“no, i mean the both of us. you make it seem like he’s not the one who starts ninety-nine percent of the arguments.”

“it’s patrick, for christ’s sake. of course he starts them— you just can’t finish them. i thought you guys had worked things out since the open.”

right, the u.s. open. the very one that left the four of you with junior doubles’ titles, one patrick zweig with your phone number, and one you feeling scorned when he never bothered to reach out afterwards.

“god, no,” you snort, “unless you call him not returning my texts since then ‘working things out’ like an adult.”

“i was just asking.” tashi sighs yet again, and you can hear her shuffling around the dorm while her hair brushes against the receiver. “i mean, he was all over you in the hotel. it’s just weird that he never followed up.”

“he never did because he’s an asshole, and now i’m going to be stuck in a cabin with him until tomorrow, tashi. all because art’s grandma misses him and you’re too obsessed with tennis to take a weekend off.”

“don’t be such a baby. just grow a pair and show patrick what he’s missing.”

you open your mouth to object once more, but the sound of tires crunching outside pulls your attention away. “gotta go, tashi. you owe me,” you groan as her dry laugh echoes in your ear, and you feel your stomach drop when a knock sounds through the cabin. he’s here.

“let me know if i have to come help you hide a body.”

—

“this place has power, right?”

you’ve been biting your tongue from the moment you saw dark-brown curls and that up-to-no-good grin through the peephole. you didn’t know you could be at your wits’ end from merely looking at someone, but there’s a first time for everything, it seems.

“yes, patrick, this place has power.” you flip the light switch on and off for good measure before going back to leaning against the wall. “we aren’t camping. there’s running water too, if you turn on the faucet.”

patrick laughs, tossing his duffel onto the couch while he inspects your shared quarters for the next couple of days. for someone who was all too happy to let you, art, and tashi plan the entire trip by yourselves, he’s pretty invested in how things are now that he’s stuck with you for the next day or so.  

letting out another hum, he smooths out his sweatshirt and turns your way. “it’s small,” he says, peering behind you to look at the kitchenette and the hall leading to the bedrooms. “looked bigger in the photos.”

you scoff in response. “i’m sure that could be said about a lot of things.”

“what?”

shit. you really said that out loud.

“you seemed fine with just giving us your share for the booking,” you say instead, suddenly taking interest in anywhere that isn’t patrick’s face. “sorry it’s not your family’s place in the hamptons.”

“they sold the hamptons cottage last year, actually. mom wanted a place in martha’s vineyard instead– it’s supposed to be nice this time of year.” patrick moves towards the hall, peeking into the bedrooms and bathroom with an occasional, insufferable hum here and there. “did you pick a room yet?”

you nod. “yeah, the master.”

“oh, come on–”

“look, tashi and i were meant to share it from the get-go,” you press, “besides, i was here first and i’ve already unpacked. i’m not sleeping anywhere else.”

fighting words seem to be on the tip of his tongue, but patrick doesn’t protest further other than feigning disappointment and shaking his head. “fine, whatever. you probably need all the space for your makeup and crap anyway.” he takes one more look your way, eyes lingering on you before he goes to grab his bag from the couch.

“fine!” you call after him, doing your best to ignore the part of yourself that wishes he’d continue bickering over nothing. at least that way, he’s acknowledging you rather than pretending like you two didn’t have something a few months ago.

you move for your own room and shut the door so hard that the frame rattles just like the beginnings of thunder brewing outside.

—

when you eventually emerge from the master in something clean and soft, the sounds of static echo down the hallway along with the rain falling on the roof. you don’t opt to head towards the living room just yet, but a slew of mumbled expletives draws you over anyway.

a few logs crackle in the fireplace as you pass it, but your main focus is on the boy hunched over the old tv cursing under his breath. “work, you fuckin’ piece of shit–” patrick bristles at your appearance, pausing with fiddling with the tv antenna to face you. 

“oh. hey.”

“hey.” you turn up the thermostat on your way over and deposit yourself on the couch, pulling your jacket a bit tighter around yourself. “no signal?”

he shakes his head, giving the tv one last thump before he moves towards you. “i can’t get it to work at all, it won’t connect or something.”

“it’s probably because of all the trees,” you reason, watching him stop at your side before you both turn to the tv. “that, the rain, and shitty reception. i could barely hear tashi on the phone earlier, and that was before it started pouring outside.”

patrick hums in acknowledgement, glaring at the tv as if doing so will get its screen to play anything but static. at this point, even some shitty sitcom rerun would be better; at least it’d fill the awkward silence plaguing the cabin. “how is she?” he asks, tensing just a bit as a crackle of thunder sounds from outside. “haven’t talked to her since i started tour.”

how is tashi– what the fuck? you truly loved that girl, but sometimes you wish it wasn’t so easy to get lost in her shadow and presence. especially if that meant she’d been texting with patrick this entire time and hadn’t bothered to tell you.

“she’s fine,” you grit out, failing to keep the underlying sound of frustration from seeping out in your tone. if patrick notices it, he doesn’t comment on it.

“cool.” he nods to himself. “... and you?”

“what about me?”

“i’m just asking how you’re doing,” he replies. patrick does a once-over of you, brows furrowed like he still hasn’t sensed the tension between you two. “don’t bite my head off.”

that’s rich coming from him; he’s not the one who got ghosted after junior finals, or the one who’s felt stupid since then for thinking a tipsy night in a shitty hotel in flushing would lead to something more.

“wouldn’t you like to know,” you grumble back, and you pivot on your heel to head towards the kitchen. “you seemed very interested in how i’ve been judging from all the unanswered texts i’ve sent.” patrick goes to counter, only to pause mid-speech when you duck into the hall.

“what do you mean? i haven’t heard from you since the open,” he calls back, and you can hear his feet creak on the floorboards when he begins to follow you. “nothing but radio silence–”

“don’t give me that,” you retort, frowning when he rounds the corner and another round of thunder bangs from outside. you swing the pantry door open in search of something to eat, but more to avoid having to look in patrick’s direction. “if you weren’t interested, you should’ve just told me the truth.”

“what truth?”

“that you weren’t interested in the first place. would’ve saved me a lot of time and stress if you just tore off the band-aid.”

he huffs to himself, the disbelief written all over his face doing nothing but making you more upset. “okay, i really don’t know what you’re talking about. i don’t have texts from you.”

“i already feel stupid enough about all of this– no need to drag it along.”

“i don’t have texts–”

the lights flicker in turn with the next bout of thunder from outside, only to go out entirely seconds after. the tv static in the other room ceases, and you immediately feel a chill in the air as the thermostat goes out and the rain outside fills your ear.

“... and there goes the power,” patrick mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face while you both stand in the dark.

“great,” you grumble, “perfect. i’m stuck here with you, with no power and heat, for who knows how long–”

“hey,” he interrupts, giving you an exasperated look that surely matches your own currently. “just… go sit in the living room by the fire. i’ll grab blankets and see if there’s a flashlight somewhere. that’s our best bet for light and staying warm right now.”

he’s probably right about that. with one more disgruntled look, you carefully head towards the fireplace while patrick heads the other way to find supplies.

—

the room is silent other than the sounds of burning logs and the weather outside, you and patrick both draped in quilts from the bedrooms and hunched around the fireplace. a small camping lantern provides meager light on the coffee table behind you two, though you’re more focused on the yellow-orange flames than the boy next to you.

patrick sifts through whatever he managed to find in the pantry that didn’t need to be cooked, the soft crinkling of chip bags and cookie packages filling the remaining silence. “i can check if there’s anything in the fridge that’s cooked,” he mumbles after setting the snacks aside, “maybe they’ve got hot dogs or something.”

you shrug in response, adjusting the quilt over your shoulders quietly. “i’m good… not that hungry, anyways.”

for what it’s worth, patrick doesn’t push further and instead tears open some of the chips. “alright.”

it goes quiet again. if things weren’t so tense between you both, maybe you’d play along and send him to find something more substantial than doritos and double stuf oreos, and maybe you’d be willing to look him properly in the eye for the first time today.

“... look,” patrick sighs, pulling his hand out of the chip bag and setting it aside. “i don’t know what i did, but i don’t think it was big enough for you to be icing me out like this. it’s a little ridiculous, is it not?”

frowning while you look up from the fire, you fight the urge to snap at him as you respond. “i already told you,” you mutter, “you’ve been ignoring me since the open. if you didn’t want what happened then to continue, you should’ve just told me. i can handle a letdown, surprisingly.”

he scoffs quietly at that, but the noise isn’t as sharp as it’d been earlier. instead, he fishes his blackberry from his pocket and holds it out to you. “i don’t have texts from you, honestly.”

the phone sits heavy in your palm as you stare at it, but another nod from patrick gives you enough courage to use the trackball and navigate towards his messaging app. 

“tashi gave me her number, and i figured she’d share mine with you,” he reasons, sounding less confident than you’ve ever seen him. “if anything, i thought you were the one ignoring me.”

it’s your turn to scoff, but you don’t. his most recent contacts are art, his parents, and what looks like some of the other players on tour with him– and no one with your name and number at all.

“... huh.” you offer the phone back to him before pulling out your own, scrolling right to where your thread with patrick had ended with a less-than-savory text saying you were done wasting your time. “then who the hell have i been texting?”

patrick shrugs, taking the phone and scrolling through as well. “someone else, that’s for sure,” he laughs, clicking on the contact and looking at the information. “mine’s 332, not 322.”

your eyes go wide, shock written all over your features as you take the phone back and check your number. “you’re joking.

“wish i was, sweetheart,” he teases back, but he doesn’t go any further than that.

an embarrassed groan leaves you before you hunch over further, your face hidden in your hands while your phone tumbles to the carpet. “here i was, shit-talking and complaining about you for months– and it’s been my fault the entire time.”

“it’s okay–”

“– no, it’s not. i’ve been beating myself up over what i could’ve done wrong, and not one time did i think i put your number in wrong. i just blamed you instead.” patrick laughs, shrugging as he shifts closer to you.

“that is something i would do, unfortunately,” he says, expression somewhat sheepish, “i don’t exactly blame you for thinking i ignored you.”

carefully, his hands ease your own away from your face, and finally, you take the time to meet his gaze. he should be annoyed, honestly– livid even– but there’s no signs of that over his face. instead, the fire makes his eyes glimmer yellow and gold. with a tug to the quilt around you, patrick pulls you into his side even as you squirm against him.

“now, the least you can do is share your blanket– i’m still cold.”

“patrick, let go!”

—

“so… do i get to tell you i told you so now?”

you laugh into the receiver, shifting your phone to your other hand as patrick swats at you in the backseat. “no, you do not, tashi,” you reply as you swat right back. “if anything, all of this is your fault. how did you give me the wrong number?”

tashi lets out her own laugh from her end of the receiver, and you’re sure she’s shaking her head as she throws a tennis ball against the dorm’s ceiling. “how did you put it in wrong? are the 2 and 3 keys too close for you?”

“maybe you should’ve read out his number more clearly, i swear that you– patrick!”

said boy ignores your complaints as he brings the phone to his ear, fending off your grabbing with a calloused hand. “tash, look,” he hums while grins your way, “you’re not the one stuck in a car with her for the next three hours. please just give it up.”

“only when you get her back here in one piece. if you two go missing, i’m telling everyone it was you.”

“noted,” he sighs, and he offers the phone back to you before glancing down at his. “she’s a nightmare, you know?”

“i’m well aware,” you reply, but both of your smiles suggest otherwise. “anyways, tashi, we should be back by five. the cab’s going to drop me off before taking pat to the airport.”

“oh, so he’s pat now?”

“tashi–”

“all i’m suggesting is that he must have made it up to you, somehow. he was in the doghouse yesterday. you were ready to tear him a new one.” patrick’s hand finds your thigh by then, and your own rests atop it as your smile deepens. 

Switching on the singular lamp so the room becomes dimly lit, Patrick watches Art’s eyes widen slightly. Shocked that the person performing this “test” was actually the frat president, the person he needed to impress the most if he wanted to make the cut.

Patrick gestures for Art to come closer so he can rattle off the rules, “The game is simple. Blow and Blow.” He smirks, gesturing to the pre cut lines of coke on the table next to him and adjusting his half hard dick in his shorts.

Art’s face visibly drops, “Isn’t it usually Blow or Blow?”

“My frat, my rules. Every pledge plays the same game so, either you’re gonna do it or you can run home like all the other pussies. I’ll make sure you never set foot in another frat party on campus ever again,” Patrick shrugs easily. He wanted to apply pressure, see how Art would react given the ultimatum. Praying it was convincing enough to get Art on his knees.

It’s an internal battle in Art’s head, weighing the pros and cons. He’s wanted to be in this frat for over a year now, the opportunities, the networking, and obviously the partying were too good pass up on. “Fine,” he concedes reluctantly. Hoping the coke will help him loosen up and not think too much about what’s to come after.

He snatches the tightly rolled up bill from Patrick and does two lines back to back to ensure it hits. “Artie came to party,” Patrick jests, light laugh leaving his lips.

Art keeps his face dangerously neutral. He’s so pissed off that he has to do both but whatever. He’s not gonna give Patrick the satisfaction of having any illusion that Art is enjoying any of this.

He sinks to his knees in front of Patrick, eye level with the slight bulge in his shorts. He doesn’t even look up at Patrick, just stares straight ahead waiting for Patrick to pull his cock out. Except Patrick has his own plans.

“Don’t be shy Donaldson. You can do it, I believe in you.”

Whatever asshole, is what Art wants to say but he chooses silence. Zipping down Patrick’s fly and pulling his now fully hard cock out. Jesus christ why is it so big? How the fuck is Art supposed to do this?

“Don’t act like you don’t know how to hold a dick. I’m sure you’ve spent countless hours fucking your fist wishing it was some girl,” Now Patrick’s just taking the piss. Like Art isn’t already ticked off. No, he wanted to see how much Art would take before he got fed up. So he keeps pressing, “Never seen one this big before hm? I can tell.”

Art takes a sharp inhale through his nose and dives right in. Not saying anything back, he doesn’t want to give Patrick any further enjoyment. He tries to not be awkward switching between bobbing with just his mouth to adding his hand in the mix for the parts he couldn’t reach. He still weirdly enough, wants to do a good job. Maybe if he does really well then it would guarantee his acceptance into this frat.

And Patrick seems to be enjoying himself. He’s not holding back with his moans. Art looks up for a second, only a second, just curious. Luckily Patrick’s eyes are closed and his head is thrown back in ecstasy. At least someone is enjoying this, Art thinks only for his own shorts to start to tighten. What?

Patrick has a strong grip on Art’s curls, even going as far as to start thrusting into Art’s mouth. It takes Art aback but he adjusts because he doesn’t wanna fuck this up, breathing through his nose and trying not to gag frequently. Just because he wanted to do a good job doesn’t mean he wants to feed into Patrick’s ego anymore.

“Fuck I’m close,” Patrick gasps looking down Art who still looks focused as ever. Not a sign of enjoyment in his face but Patrick can see the prominent bulge in Art’s shorts. Got him.

Art tries to pull off, making incoherent noises of protest because as much as he wanted to impress this egotistical idiot, he did not want Patrick’s cum in his mouth.

Patrick tightens his grip in Art’s hair, holding Art’s head still. Tip of his cock pressed against the back of Art’s throat. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll swallow. Don’t pussy out now. Do you wanna get in or not?” Patrick grunts out. Making his last few thrusts before spilling down Art’s throat.

Of course Art wants to get in. That’s why he agreed to this in the first place but fuck. Not like this. Whatever. He’s sure it could be worse. Fine. Fine. He’ll swallow. Whatever.

Once Patrick releases his grip, Art swallows down the rest of whatever was in his mouth. Coughing afterwards from how he choked down the cum that lingered in his throat. He’s panting, out of breath. He didn’t realize how much work blowjobs are, he has a new found appreciation for all the girls he’s hooked up with.

Patrick tilts Art’s chin up, instructing him to open his mouth. Inspecting to ensure Art’s swallowed it all.

“Good boy. Passed with flying colors,” Patrick grins zipping up his fly. He makes his way towards the door, leaving Art with, “I’m sure the next games will be much easier.”

The good boy comment goes straight to his dick which he chooses to ignore. Next games? Fuck. Art thought this would give him a free pass until the selection process would Patrick would nominate Art to be selected. Fuck this and Fuck Patrick Zweig.

Art later learns that others in his pledge class played Blow or Blow. He keeps his anger to himself because he doesn’t want to say, Well I had to suck off the president and swallow his cum because I had no choice. Doesn’t sound too great.

He will be even more pissed when he finds out the next game would be dryhumping and whoever cums first loses. Which okay wouldn’t be so bad, but you have to keep going until someone cums.

Patrick already has his partner picked out for that.

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The most popular attraction being the hot apple cider donut window attached to the store. The line always wrapped around the building during peak season. Fresh donuts deep fried and doused in cinnamon sugar to be served hot and ready to waiting customers. They also served cups of hot cider and hot chocolate. 

Over the years you and Art have mastered the Art of quick and efficient donut making and selling, earning your spot as the designated cashiers. This fall was no different.

Every morning Art would pick you up bright and early at 6:30am to make it to the orchard by 7am. Then you guys would prep all the dough and chill it before cutting it into little circle shapes. Repeating that process about 10 times to have about 1000 donuts prepped and ready to be fried. 

It was easy and repetitive enough to not get overwhelmed. Just the two of you in the bakery in the mornings, while the rest of the orchard prepared for the onslaught of customers once they officially open. 

Sometimes you thought it was just in your head but you felt like something had shifted in the last year or so of being friends. Art was still the same caring, attentive, considerate person he’s always been. Always checking up on you at school, stopping by your volleyball practices occasionally, and making sure you ate because you had this terrible habit of forgetting to eat when you got super busy. 

But lately, it’s been starting to feel like he was pulling away from you. He would check on you less often, reserve his weekends for his other friends on the tennis team (even your monthly movie nights he’s claimed he’s been too busy). Even texting was less frequent. Thankfully he still offered to drive you to school every day but even then, conversations didn’t flow the same.

So this morning amidst all the prep, you knew this was the time to corner him because there was no where else for him to go. So you interrupted him while he rattled off all the types of apples the orchard has, just to see if he can remember. 

“Art, can you please just talk to me? Like actually?” You question and you prop yourself up to sit on the counter. It was nearing 8am and the donuts were frying. 

“Um I am talking to you…right now actually and you’re not paying attention.” He fake pouts as he flips the donuts in the fryer and sets the timer. 

“No I mean,” you sigh, biting the inside of your cheek. You weren’t sure how to communicate how you’ve been feeling. “Like you’ve been weird and standoffish. Like you’re trying to avoid me but you know you can’t so you just give me as little as possible. You don’t text me as much and we haven’t had a movie night in forever.” 

That catches his attention. He looks down at the fryer like the donuts have become the most interesting thing in the room. The crackle of the fryer cutting through the silence in the air. He takes out the batch that’s ready since the timer goes off. 

He starts to place them in the baking sheet that’s filled with cinnamon sugar so that they can get their coating. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Is what he decides to go with. Coward. 

“Art, I'm being serious. What’s going on? Don’t tell me this is all in my head, I know I’m not crazy. We’re supposed to be best friends and tell each other everything. Please just…” You trail off in hopes you got your point across. Art’s never been someone to want to cause you any distress, quite the opposite actually. He likes knowing that you’re okay and he can be the one to comfort you in times of need. But his actions lately have caused the exact opposite of that. 

He lets out a deep exhale when he realized he can’t keep his secret for much longer. In his defense, he thought he was doing a good job at hiding it. 

“I don’t want to be your best friend. Is that what you want to hear? I’ve been in love with you from the moment my brain fully developed and hormones fucking took over my body during puberty. You are always in my mind. When I wake up, when I go to sleep, I can’t stop thinking about you. No matter what I do. The way you laugh at my jokes and tease me back, the way your fucking—,” he takes a deep breath before he continues, “The way the smell of your shampoo floods my nose every time we hug. I can’t get it out of my head. That’s why I started hanging out with you less and not being around you as much because I needed space. My love for you feels like this insurmountable overwhelming thing that I’m drowning in all the time because I can’t tell you how I feel without it ruining our friendship. So yeah, I have been avoiding you as best I could because I knew you didn’t feel the same way about me. Happy?” 

He’s still facing the donuts even though the sugaring process is long forgotten during his spiel. Leaving many donuts only half covered in sugar.  You don’t even know what to say. It was a lot of information to process. 

Of course you have feelings for Art. He was sweet and endearing and genuinely an amazing person. You guys grew up together from cute childhood play dates to the awkward middle school days (Art had an emo phase that he hates to be reminded of) to now being seniors in high school together. 

Art has only gotten more attractive. Once he started tennis, he started putting on muscle, got taller, let his hair grow out to the point of curls. He was growing into his own, and it only made your feelings stronger. But unlike Art, you were clearly better at hiding your feelings if he thought you didn’t reciprocate. 

“You really are an idiot, you know that?” You laugh from your spot seated on the counter. You can’t see his face but you know he’s rolling his eyes right now as he misinterprets your response. Turning his attention back to covering the donuts in sugar when he says, “Yeah whatever. I’ll get over it. I’ll get over my feelings and everything can go back to normal.” 

“That’s not—that’s not what I meant. Art can you-“ You hop off the counter to make your way over to where the donuts are keeping all his attention. You place your hand on top of his to catch his attention and make him stop with the donuts, “Can you look at me? I didn’t mean it like that, I meant it like-“ Words are futile so you take action, leaning forward to capture his lips in a kiss. 

At first he’s shocked, his eyes still wide open the minute your lips touch his. But soon enough his eyelids fall shut and he lets himself lean into it. 

When you pull away, small smile stretching over your lips you barely get to ask, “Does that clear things up—“ before he’s pulling you into a kiss again. It’s slow…at first. 

His cinnamon sugar covered hands finding your waist, while you arms loop around his neck. The kiss starts to pick up speed. He walks you backwards until your  back hits the wall with a soft thud. 

His whole body is pressed against yours now so you can feel just how aroused he is. He pulls away to catch his breath, glancing over his shoulder at the forgotten donuts on the counter. Whispering against your lips, “We should stop.” 

But you know he doesn’t mean that. “Is that what you want?” The question is meant to be rhetorical as you bring up your knee to let it press against his erection. 

He moans as his head falls on your shoulder momentarily, “Fuck. No no, I don’t wanna stop but we shouldn’t do anything. Not with the food out.”

You know he’s envisioning clothes flying off and bodily fluids going everywhere which is definitely not food safe. You both had to take the 8 hour food safety class to get food safety certified before starting this job years ago. 

“What if we just…” You trail off letting your thigh slot between his legs which causes him to thrust against your leg involuntarily. “Yeah, just like that,” you encourage. 

“Fuck.” Art breathes out as he lets himself grind against your thigh. His hands are steady in your waist for leverage. He should be embarrassed by the way he’s rutting against your jeans. His own jeans serving as good friction as well. The tip of his hard cock rubbing against the fabric. 

Your foreheads are pressed together giving you a perfect view of the way Art’s face contorts in pleasure when he finishes. His mouth hanging open, moaning repeatedly, as he speeds up his movements. His grip tightens on your waist as he gasps, “Shit. Fuck. Fuck. I’m gonna—“ Spilling all in his briefs. 

His movements slow down while the realization settles in. Blush spreading over his cheeks as he scratches the back of his head, “God that was…I just…”

“Came in your pants?” You tease planting a peck on his lips. 

“Okay well you started it.” 

“And you finished it.” You laugh at your own joke while he untangles himself from you. 

“Fuck now I have to just—sit in this? All day?” 

“Here, I’ll wash my hands to finish the batch you started. You can go to the bathroom and clean up before we open.” 

He nods in agreement, looking over at you as you make your way to the sink. “Okay yeah thanks.” That’s when he notices the messy cinnamon sugar shaped handprints on the sides of your shirt, “You should probably uh.” He gestures to your shirt bringing it to your attention. 

You laugh when you see it. Dusting it off before you start washing your hands. Art was never really good at keeping his hands to himself. 

The rest of the shift goes smoothly. You sell out of donuts for the day as always, closing up shop around 4 pm. But not before Patrick stops by to beg for the imperfect donuts you guys don’t sell but instead give away to the rest of the apple orchard staff. 

“Wait a minute…” He always had something to say. He could never just eat his donut in peace so you should’ve known better. He was Art’s other best friend but they didn’t meet until middle school, so you still kept your spot as Art’s number one  best friend, at least…for now. 

“Something's different.” Patrick continues. He keeps munching on his donut in between sentences. Looking back and forth between you and Art like he’s uncovered something, “You guys fucked!” It’s a loud and bold accusation but everything Patrick does is just that, loud and bold. 

Art shushes him, “There’s still kids around, be quiet.” 

“You didn’t deny it though,” Patrick hums finishing his second donut. 

“If by fucked you mean Art came in his pants then yes,” You say playfully. 

“Still a score, you guys have been helplessly in love with each other forever so fucking finally.” 

“Can you shut the fuck up?” Art shoves Patrick hard, but not hard enough to make him fall over. 

“There’s kids around, watch your language,” Patrick mocks Art in a teasing tone. 

You haven’t established what this makes you guys now, but you’re sure by the puppy eyes Art makes at for the rest of the closing shift. 

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----

“Sign mine?” someone asks from above you. You look up from your seat on the bleachers to see Art Donaldson holding out his yearbook and a pen to you. You blankly stare at it and then your eyes dart around the area to see if someone is going to jump out of the corner laughing at you. It wasn’t like him to do so, but your mind automatically goes to thinking this is some sort of joke. When you’re unable to find anyone, you realize he is genuinely asking. Someone asking to sign your yearbook? Well that’s a first. You’re not friends with him, but then again you weren’t friends with anyone at the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy. 

You reach out for the yearbook and pen without saying anything, but then realize how awkward the silence must be. “You may have to burn this afterwards,” you say in an attempt to make a joke to fill the silence, but see a frown form on his face and realize he doesn’t find it funny. You look down at the yearbook on your lap to hide the embarrassment and quickly scribble something, so this interaction can end. Have a good summer! Short and simple. As you hand the book and pen back to him, you hope this is the part where he walks away and you can finish your lunch. It’s 12:55 PM, you need to go soon. 

Except he just stands there. You look at him feeling confused. Now what? His eyes dart to the yearbook beside where you sit. It’s only then you realize he wants to sign your yearbook. Another first. You reluctantly take the book and hand it to him, the feeling that this is some sort of joke lingering in the back of your head. Again, Art never joined in on the teasing and it was kind of late to start, but who knows. You wouldn’t be surprised. 

He smiles as he opens to the back of the book and starts to write something down. “I’ll guess I’ll still be seeing you around in the fall” he comments in a tone that indicates there is more he wants to say. He pauses, looking at what he wrote, but then starts to write again. “Mhm,” you mumble with your mouth full. You’re both going to Stanford and both playing for Stanford Tennis. You got a full scholarship for the school, just like the one you had for the past six years at the academy. You wouldn’t have been able to pay for university without it. That was the best part of tennis for you: the doors it opened. 

You glance down at your watch again as you shove the last bit of your sandwich in your bag. It’s 12:57 now. You need to leave. He smiles as he finally hands the book back to you. “See you at graduation,” he says with a smile and a wave as he walks away. You wave back and look down to see what he wrote in the book. It was nice going to the Academy with you! Can’t wait to see you at Stanford. Keep in touch :) 

It is followed by a set of numbers. His phone number? Before you can think too much about this, you see on your watch it’s 12:59. You toss the book back into your bag, and leave. 

----

“Where were you?” Patrick asks the minute you open the door to his car and slide into the backseat beside him. He’s parked behind some shop, far enough from campus that no one will know who you are. He rarely picks the same place twice, but this area looks familiar for some reason. You’re not going to tell him about the little run in with Art, so you shrug and say, “Was finishing up some work.” He rolls his eyes, “We are graduating next week and you care about work?"

You just look at him with an annoyed expression, one that he clearly doesn’t care about, because it just makes him laugh. He then looks at you, taking in the furrow of your brows, before leaning in close to your face. He smirks, as his hand moves to your thigh. It slowly moves up underneath your skirt and you feel his fingers pull at the little spandex shorts you have underneath. Then his lips come down crashing on yours. 

----

Your classmates at the academy have a very surface level understanding of you. They know your family is poor. They know you can only attend the school because of a scholarship. And they all hate you. Curetsy of the one and only Patrick Zwieg. 

From the start he made it clear that he thought you didn’t belong in the academy. It’s not like your twelve year old self did anything to upset him when you first joined. He just took one look at you and decided your existence at the academy went against the laws of nature. And well he wasn’t wrong. You were surrounded by people who had enough privilege to coast through life, while you had none. You were well aware you were the black sheep. He was just rubbing salt in the wound.

Your first year at the academy was spent with the twelve year old Patrick calling you names any chance he got. As he got older, he just seemed to get more creative with the torment. From breaking your rackets and getting others to tease you, it got worse each year. By the time you turned fifteen, every single one of your classmates knew you as the broke scholarship student who should have dropped out ages ago. What they didn’t know was the fact you’ve been sleeping with Patrick.

It was junior year and the weekend before Christmas. You both were the only ones who hadn’t left for winter break yet. Your family always booked the cheapest flight for you, which usually means flying on Christmas day. While you don’t remember why he was still at the academy, you do remember running into him at the indoor courts. He made some comments about your family. You don’t remember exactly what but you assume it was something about your parent’s inability to spend money on a decent flight. Maybe it was the fact that you two were the only ones there, but something snapped inside you that day. You called him “a worthless trust fund kind who’d never amount to anything.” Your first time ever speaking back to him and that really set him off. The next thing you know he was dragging you into the locker room saying he was going to shove your head in the toilet.

For all the years he spent threatening to put your head in the toilet, this was the first time he ever actually acted on it. His grip on you was strong. You distinctly remember thinking that it was the end. And then just as he actually got you into the locker room, you saw you had the opportunity to do what everyone wishes they could to the men that make their life miserable: hit him right in the nuts. You punched him there hard and he fell to the ground.

The next thing you knew, you got on top of him while he laid on the ground and hit him. Years of pent up rage pouring out of you in your smacks and the insults you hurled at him. What happened after that was all a blur. You felt something poke your thigh and before you could even process the fact you somehow turned him on, his mouth crashed on yours and you both started making out on the floor of the boy’s locker room.

You didn’t see him after that. He went to go home the morning after and when Christmas day came you left too. What happened between the both of you in the locker room lingered at the back of your mind all throughout the break. The memory felt like a sinful secret that aroused you more than any form of smut or porn could. You even touched yourself to it. While that was slightly shameful, you weren’t surprised it affected you so much. The fact that you were a social pariah at the academy meant none of your classmates showed any interest in you, be it platonic, romantic, or sexual. It wasn’t your first kiss, but it was your first proper time making out with a boy. And you weren’t blind. Patrick may have been your bully, but you knew he was attractive. 

By the time January rolled around and you were back at the academy, you didn’t know what to expect. You didn’t know what effect that moment had on him. On one hand, you knew he got around and was not as sexually pent up as you, so maybe this was normal for him? On the other hand, he must have at least felt a bit of shock for making out with you considering the fact how he always treated you. Regardless, there was no universe in which you could imagine Patrick being nice to you. You saw him on the first day back in your history class, and just as if nothing happened, he insulted your hand-me-down backpack as you walked into the classroom. His friends laughed and joined in, and you realized whatever happened that weekend before Christmas was a freak accident. You just assumed things were now back to normal, up until he cornered you later that day behind the gym. A little nook where no one could see either of you. He bent down close to your face and threatened that if you ever told anyone he’d kill you. You felt heart race and thighs clench, but before you could give any response his lips were once again on yours. And that’s how it all started. 

----

“You’re playing in the US junior open?” Patrick asks as he sits up again, leaning against the car window, his face flushed and hair messy from the sex. 

You sit up as well as you nod in response. How did he find out about that? You guess some coach probably told him. You slowly reach for your clothes from the floor of the car, and look outside the window. This time you realize why it felt familiar. This is where he parked his car for you both to fuck after prom. You went alone (only because your mother called you saying you may regret it if you didn’t) and he went with another girl, but an hour after the dance ended you got a text from him telling you where to find him. Without a second thought, you went. 

You turn back to face him, as you pull on your shirt, and see he has a pensive expression as if debating something. “What?” you ask. “I didn’t know you qualified,” he says. You simply shrug in response, you weren’t sure how you qualified either. Tennis is an out of body experience at this point. When you watch your games, it never feels like you’re watching yourself. 

“Guess they let anyone play,” he says with a little chuckle looking out the window, although his voice isn’t mocking like in public. When he teased you in private, it always felt more playful. As if he wanted to make you laugh, not cry. You watch him look out the window to check if anyone is around. He turns back to you and says, "I have to get back for practice.” This was his way of saying: Now that we are done fucking, you need to leave.

You pull up your skirt and nod to let him know you got the message. You pick up your bag and step out of the car. Just as you start to walk back in the direction of campus, you hear the window of his car roll down and Patrick calling your name. You turn to face him and he asks, “Same time tomorrow?” You should say no, but instead you say, “Sure.”

----

Your last week at the Academy was relatively peaceful. Some name calling here and there, but as graduation got closer no one seemed to have the energy to bother you. Everyone was busy talking about their summer plans, the junior open, or where they were going in the fall. Nearly everyone committed to one university or another, either to play tennis there or just to get a degree. Only Patrick chose to go pro, which wasn’t a surprise considering he was always vocal about how pointless university was. You two spent the last week hooking up in his car behind random buildings and in abandoned parking lots after classes ended, but the last time you actually saw him was at graduation. After the ceremony, you headed out towards your parents and saw him standing with a serious expression as two adults talked to him. His parents you guessed. As you watched him, he turned to face you as his parents continued to talk, not noticing his attention was elsewhere, and you both just looked at each other. 

You broke eye contact first when your parents asked you to pose for a photo. You never told them about how awful the other students treated you at the academy. Mostly because you knew they would have pulled you out. You didn't want that because you were aware that the public school in your home town wouldn’t have given you half as good of an education as the academy. As a result, they thought everything was great and were eager to memorialize the time you spent there, taking photos of every game and event they could attend. Although, this you could agree was momentous. Graduation meant you were leaving the academy behind, so you happily posed for them.  By the time they were done snapping pictures of you in your cap and gown and you looked around for Patrick, he was nowhere to be found. Of course he wouldn’t have come up to you, and you wouldn’t have gone up to him. But you expected something more than whatever that was. It felt like an anticlimactic ending to the past six years. 

The summer last year, the one in between junior and senior year, you had kept in contact, but it was really just phone sex at least once a week. This summer he hadn’t reached out once. You didn’t either, choosing to spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about him instead. You told yourself that it was a much needed reflection on your relationship with Patrick, which regardless of how bizarre and unconventional was still your first relationship. In all fairness, relationship was too generous of a word, but you couldn’t think of what else to call it. You lost your virginity to him and you were sleeping together for over a year. Consistently too, as you met up multiple times each week. Of course it was always on his terms. You met when he wanted to meet. Always in private and never doing anything in public that could even hint at what they were doing. He was still awful to you in front of others. A part of you hated the fact that someone you made your life so miserable could make you feel so good, but a larger part was ready to comply with anything he wanted. It was sadistic, but you couldn’t help but find it poetic that the first guy to make you break down in public was also the first guy to make you come.

You tried to occupy the time by spending time with your family, being in the sun, and practicing tennis, but nothing was enough to expel Patrick from your mind. By the time the junior open came around, you were grateful to have something else to focus on. 

----

You got out of the open when you lost a semi finals match against Anna Mueller. You didn’t even expect to get that far, so you were unphased by the loss. Your family was proud and you had one more match in the evening against the player who lost the other girls’ singles semi final. It was just to determine who’d place third and who’d place fourth, and you were fine with either. You decided to pass the time till then by taking a little walk around the center where the open was being held. It was your first time here, so you may as well explore. 

Just as you stood in front of a board in the entry hall of the center detailing its history, you heard a familiar voice say to you, “Great match yesterday. You were amazing.” 

You turned around to see the strawberry blonde you only expected to see again at Stanford stand in front of you. He is smiling and you can tell he is being genuine when he says it, but that doesn’t stop you from saying, “Well I lost.”

Art simply shrugs in response, “You still played well.” Unsure what to say in response, you nod slowly. You can feel your eyes go downcast , and an awkward silence forms between the both of you. He swallows and looks at you as the awkwardness grows. Then suddenly he says, “You never called.”

“Huh?” you respond looking up at him. “Your yearbook…I wrote down my number,” he reminds you in a slow voice, his cheeks flushing pink as he does. You can see he is embarrassed, but you honestly did forget about his message in your yearbook. 

“Oh..that,” you say with a forced laugh, trying to seem normal. If you were unsure how to respond to his compliment about your game, you are at a genuine loss of words on how to acknowledge this. He surely couldn’t have actually expected you to call him over the summer? You came to the conclusion that he left his phone number as a formality because you were both going to Stanford. A way to contact him once you both got there. 

Art lets out a forced little laugh too, and you can see he feels equally awkward by this interaction. For a moment, it looks like he is about to say something, until you hear an even more familiar voice ask, “What’s going on here?”

Both you and Art turn to the direction where the voice came from and see Patrick standing there. While you imagined the moment you’d run into Patrick again, nothing you imagined was as awkward as this. His summer tan is visible against the white of his shirt, and you bite down on your back teeth to stay focused. His eyes dart between you and Art and it’s clear he has picked up on whatever awkward energy is radiating off the both of you. For a moment you think he is going to laugh or crack a joke about your inability to hold a conversation, but his eyebrows just furrow.

Art’s eyes go to the side, unable to hold the weight of Patrick’s gaze, and you realize it’s up to you to say something, “We were just talking about my game yesterday,” you say. 

“Against Anna Mueller,” Patrick says and you nod. “The one you lost,” he then adds. Art shoots him an expression you can’t read, but one that Patrick obviously understands because he shrugs and adds on, “What? She did lose.”

Art just sighs and turns back to you, “We should get going. We have our doubles final in an hour.”

“Oh good luck,” you say with a little nod. Of course they were in the doubles competition together. Fire and Ice. While you knew they were the poster child for being a duo in every sense of the word, you always found it hard to associate both boys with each other like everyone else did. Art was the only one of Patrick’s friends who didn’t make fun of you. When Patrick or any of this other friends said something, he’d just sit there watching. Which was always a bit strange considering he was his best friend. 

“You’ll come watch?” Art then asks slowly. 

This request surprises both you and Patrick, who’s eyebrows shoot up a little bit. “Uh...yeah sure,” you say with a little shrug. It feels too awkward to say no to Art right now, even if you don’t fully understand why he wants you at the game or want to go in the first place. Art just smiles in response, and waves a bit as he walks off. He stops when he notices Patrick just stands there looking at you. 

You look at Patrick and you see he has a stony expression on his face directed right at you. “Patrick?” Art asks, and as if shaken back to reality Patrick’s face instantly goes back to normal.

He turns to Art and with a little nod Patrick says, “I came in to use the bathroom. You head out, I’ll catch up to you later.” Art simply nods and walks to exit the center and head back to the courts. Both you and Patrick watch Art leave, and the minute he is out of the door, Patrick walks over and grabs your wrist before you can even process what’s going on. “Come,” is all he says as he starts to walk, taking you along with him. You soon realize he is taking you into the bathroom with him. He opens the door to the men’s bathroom and then takes you into a stall. He locks it behind him. 

Patrick looks at you for a moment and then asks in a low voice, “So what were you and Art actually talking about? “We were talking about my game,” you say with a nod. “Don’t bullshit me,” he says with an expression that shows he knows you’ve left something out. 

You just look at him for a moment, staring into his green eyes, which stare right back at you with a serious look. You assume he is worried that you may have told Art about the two of you. You shrug and admit, “He gave me his number.” Patrick just looks at you, but before he can say anything, you add on “Not like right now, but before school ended.”

“At the academy?” he asks, his voice tinged with slight disbelief. “He wrote it in my yearbook,” you say. “What? So you’ve been texting him or something?” Patrick then asks, his voice irritated now. You shake your head no and his eyebrows furrow as if trying to determine if you’re lying or not. Something about your expression must make him realize you’re being honest, because after a few seconds he nods in response. He looks to the side and then back to you. “You’re actually going to come to the game?” he then asks. You shrug in response, at this point, you’d feel bad for not showing up, so you’re going to be there anyway. “I guess so. Yeah,” you mumble with a little nod. 

“Give me a good luck kiss then” he says. You blink once, not expecting this, but then comply anyway. You have to stand on your tiptoes to reach his lips, and once you do, you plant a kiss on them. You can feel him smile underneath your lips, and in a low voice he says, “Cute, but you know that’s not what I meant.” His hand reaches for yours and you feel it move to his groin, and you can feel he’s hard already. “You’ve been wearing the same tennis skirts for the past three years. They’ve always given me a nice view of your ass.” His other hand sneaks underneath your skirt as he rests a hand on your spandex short and then gives your ass a squeeze. Of course this is what he brought you in here for. You remember how you spent the past month reflecting on moments just like that. How you spent hours analyzing your relationship with him under the impression that it was over. But with your hand gently palming his crotch in the bathroom stall, you realize how wrong you were.

Could you both get disqualified for this? Anyone could come into the bathroom, and it would be obvious what was happening, even in the stall. Even with these concerns, you sink to your knees without a second thought, as he starts to pull down his shorts. He doesn’t even bother pulling it down fully, just enough to be exposed. 

You lick your hand and then place it on the base of his length, getting a whimper from him in response, as you slowly start to move it up and down. You move your lips to his tip, and slowly wrap it around his cock. He moans as you start giving him sloppy sucks and continue to move your hand. He pushes himself deeper into your mouth and you yelp, and this elicits another moan, “God.” His hands reach down to your head. His hands wrap around your hair, holding it, and start to pull your head back and forth. As he continued to thrust in your throat, you felt his public hair brush against your nose. Realizing you’re fully taking him, you move your hand from the base of his dick to cupping his sack with a slight squeeze, which just makes him moan even more. “Don’t stop.” You did your best to match the pace of your squeezes to his thrusts, and after a few minutes of this, he pulled back, just leaving just the tip. You felt him throb around your lips and shortly after he came in your mouth. 

He smiles down at you as you swallow, and then pulls you up by the shoulders and kisses you on his lips. His tongue snakes into your mouth and after a minute of tasting himself on your lips, he pulls away and smiles at you. “See you at the game,” he says with a smile, as he then opens the stall door and walks out. You just stand there, as you hear the door to the bathrooms open and close, trying to ignore the growing ache between your legs. 

----

You end up getting to the game midway through the first set and sit in the bleachers surrounded by other people. You hope that neither Art nor Patrick can see you, but of course they do. During the break Art smiles and gives you a little wave, and Patrick just flashes a smirk. The same smile he gave you in the men’s bathroom thirty minutes ago and your stomach does a flip. You didn’t get the chance to take care of yourself after that, busy trying to process what happened and denying the fact that you are wet. You’re failing at the latter as you feel your thighs clench at seeing him on the court. The game continues and you feel the ache grow as you watch Patrick play. The way his body moves as he runs to the ball and his grunts as he hits it all seem to make your wetness grow.  Your thighs clench as you see his shirt ride up a bit to hit the ball and you catch a glimpse of his abs and happy trail. 

The sight makes you lose whatever remaining reason you have, as you get up and mutter sorry as you climb over the other people in the row to get away. You go down the bleachers and walk around until you find the closest bathroom. Once you spot it, you nearly run into it and lock the door. Unlike the bathroom you were in earlier, this one has no stalls. Just for one person, and you feel grateful for the privacy. You walk over to the sink, resting both hands on its sides and slowly leaning on it. You look at yourself for a minute, your face is slightly red and your breathing is labored. 

You take a deep breath as you close your eyes and your hand sneaks down between to the ache. Your fingers find your throbbing clit and you start making slow little circles as you think about Patrick on the court. The more you lose yourself in the memory, the more your fingers speed up. The way his biceps flexed. The slight jiggle of his thighs. The abs. The happy trail. Every single grunt. It’s not long before you moan and feel yourself come undone. As you feel yourself come off your high, your eyes shoot open and you look at yourself in the mirror. Your breathing is even more erratic and your face more flushed. A wave of clarity washes over you and then you just feel pathetic. 

You wash your hands and splash some water on your face. As you step out of the bathroom, you’re certain that the game is still going on, but don’t feel up to going back and watching. You know Art and Patrick will probably win anyway, and you need to get out of the clothes. As you walk back to the hotel, you’re sure you can smell your arousal. 

----

Besides the weird events of the afternoon, your game went well. You won and that placed you third overall. You sip your sprite as you look around the lights that are strung from tree to tree at the Adidas Long Island party. It was being held for Tashi Duncan, who was the winner of the girls single US junior open. Like anyone in the tennis world, you had heard of her before. The next Serena Williams. It was disappointing your game was the same time as hers because you’re sure it would have been amazing to watch her play. Originally, you weren’t planning on coming, but when your parents found out your mom pulled out the one nice dress she made you pack just in case you needed it and insisted you go. After the events of this afternoon and winning your game in the evening, you admitted that the party was a nice distraction and celebration for those things respectively.

 Even though the beach area is a bit far from where the party is, you can somewhat see the waves from there. You take another sip of your drink and watch the waves for a moment, before you hear a voice come up from behind you. “It’s pretty right?” you turn to see Art. God does this man have a thing for sneaking up on you. He looks at you with a small smile, and it’s clear he only said that to start a conversation with you.

“Yeah…it is,” you respond with a little nod. Your throat feels dry so you take another sip of your drink, and to prevent an awkward silence “Your game was good.” 

“Thanks…” he says with a little nod. His eyes glance to the side and then he says in a slow voice, “You left midway.” 

“I got a little nervous about my game, so I just went back to the hotel to relax for a bit,” you lie with a little too much ease. 

Art nods and it looks like you’re in the clear. It’s not like he could predict the real reason you left anyway.  “Congrats on the win,” he then says with a little nod. “I wish I could have come but I was at the..” his voice trails off as he motions to a poster of Tashi hung up across the party. 

“Oh..no yeah,” you say, it makes sense he was at that final. “I’m sure that would have been much more interesting,” you add on with a little laugh that just slips out. Art lets out a little laugh too, and it finally seems as if you’ve moved away from the awkwardness all your conversations have. 

You both look at the posters of Tashi and relax in the now non-awkward silence between the both of you. It’s short lived, because a minute later you both see Patrick standing by the poster looking at the both of you. You can sense Art tensing up beside you, and you’re sure your reaction is equally fraught. You take a sip of your sprite in an attempt to hide your expression behind the bottle. 

Patrick is gripping a coke bottle and looks at both of you with an irritated look. Then his gaze singles in on Art. His expression seems to communicate the words get over here. Art looks at him with an expression that says what? Patrick holds the expression and Art sighs, “I’ll be right back” 

You nod as you watch Art walk over to Patrick by the posters. As Art approaches him, Patrick’s gaze goes back to you for a moment but then falls to the ground as if he is unable to make eye contact with you. For a moment you find it hard to believe this is the same man who was shoving his cock down your throat earlier today. His gaze goes to Art again and he immediately starts saying something to him. You take a sip from your drink, and see both boys get lost in conversation, but you’re too far to hear about what. Patrick is probably talking bad about you anyway. You turn to look away and back at the waves. Even though the party is outside, it suddenly feels too claustrophobic to any longer be enjoyable. 

----

You’ve been walking around the estate for the past ten minutes to get rid of the feeling. It’s a bit chilly, but is nice enough to just wander around aimlessly. “Hey!” you hear a woman’s voice call out in the distance followed by your name. You turn to see Tashi Duncan walking towards you. Now this had to be the most surprising part of that night. You give a small smile and wave as she gets closer. 

Once she’s standing by you she says, “I didn’t know you came.” And you didn’t expect her to know who you were so you were both surprised. You shrug and say, “Well thought I would stop by.” 

“It’s nice right,” she comments as she begins to walk and looks out at the water in the distance. You nod in response and get the feeling that she wants you to walk alongside her, so you do. “Yeah…You look nice,” you tell her, unsure what else to say, “Thanks. You do too,” she says with another smile as she looks at you. You know she’s just returning the compliment for the sake of it, but you smile in response anyway. After a moment she says, “I actually wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?” you respond, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. This whole day feels like one long fever drink. “I’m going to Stanford too,” she explains. “You’re one of the names they mentioned when I committed.” You nod in response. You have a vague memory of a Stanford representative emailing you with a list of others who were going to play alongside you, but you didn’t really take the time to go through it. As long as you had your full ride, you couldn’t care less. Before you can respond, she speaks again. “Thought maybe I could get your number or email, so we could talk. You know, get to know each other.”

“Oh...yeah...of course” you say a little awkwardly. You say your number and then add on “My email is just my full name at Gmail dot com” She nods with a smile, but before either of you say anything else, something catches Tashi’s eye. Then you see her waving to someone in the distance. Your eyes follow her gaze to Patrick and Art on a bench. They knew each other? All you wanted to do was run in the other direction. She starts to walk towards them, and you trail behind her, feeling too awkward to walk away. Patrick’s eyes lock on you for a moment, a flicker of surprise on his face. Art just smiles seeing both of you walk over. 

As soon as you both are close enough, Art begins talking but you’re unable to pay attention. You find your eyes downcast, as all three of them engage in a conversation. You feel unbearably warm even though the night air is chilly. Your eyes glance at Patrick and then dart away. You feel both the urge to step closer to him and walk away. 

Suddenly they all get up and start to walk, but you’re still standing there. Tashi turns around and calls your name. You look up and hear her add, “You coming?” All three of them look at you waiting for an answer, but you lock eyes with Patrick who’s jaw seems to tick as soon as you do. Your gaze goes back to Tashi. “Sorry, yeah,” you say as you walk to them. 

----

Once again you find yourself completely zoning out while the rest of them are engaged in some conversation. It’s like you’re not even there. You sit on a rock by the water, reaching your hand down to feel it. You don’t even bother looking at the direction of the rest of them, knowing your eyes would lock in on Patrick again. 

“What do you think?” you hear Tashi ask as she turns to face you. You turn to her, your face blank, having no clue what they were talking about. Once she registers the confusion, she adds “About tennis being a relationship?” 

You’re not even given a chance to respond before Patrick goes, “Looks like it’s someone’s bed time.” No one is amused by the comment. Art looks at his cigarette and Tashi rolls her eyes at him. Thankfully, when Tashi turns back to you, waiting for an answer, you realize Patrick’s comment has provided you with a way out of this. “Yeah…I’m feeling a bit tired…I should probably get back to the hotel,” you say as you stand up. 

Tashi’s lips press together as she looks at you, you assume she is judging you, so you look away and brush some sand off your dress. “Oh” Art says as he looks at you, with a little nod. Patrick gives Art a look from the side of his eye, but then looks at you as he brings a cigarette up to his lips. 

“Yeah…I’m leaving tomorrow so...” your voice trails off as you say it, not really sure why you added that part. You doubt that any of them care. 

“See you at school,” Tashi then says. 

You give her a wave and a small smile back, as you walk away from the three of them on the beach. 

----

You’re unable to sleep. It’s around one am. Your parents are fast asleep on their side of the hotel room, but you're too restless to do so. You pick up your phone and see a few new messages. 

Patrick: That was the same dress you wore for the formal in sophomore year. I can’t believe you still have it. (sent 1:07 AM, 07/24/06)

You can hear his voice when you read it. You can imagine the little laugh after he says it. You then see there is one more message.

Patrick: You looked cute. Wish I could have fucked you in it. (sent 1:08 AM, 07/24/06)

You roll your eyes but find yourself smiling anyway.

You: Night Patrick (sent 1:10 AM, 07/24/06)

Patrick: Night ;) (sent 1:10 AM, 07/24/06)

----

The rest of your summer was spent messaging Tashi. She wasn’t lying when she said she wanted to get to know you. You got an email from her as soon as you got home from the open, and soon that turned into exchanging messages everyday with each other. Your conversations ranged from tennis to other things, like about your family and your other interests. It was new to have someone so interested in you. You had to admit, it was a nice feeling, even if you didn’t understand where it came from. 

Tashi: You know you never talk about the academy. (sent 2:45 PM, 08/09/06)

You: Don’t have much to say. (sent 2:45 PM, 08/09/06)

Tashi: Really? (sent 2:46 PM, 08/09/06)

You don’t want to rehash your time there. You don’t want to think about that. And you especially don’t want to think about Patrick either. After that day at  the junior open, you only heard from him once, through a message asking how your summer has been. He sent no response when you said fine and asked how he had been. You’re not even sure why you were talking about the academy with Tashi. Why did she suddenly seem interested? 

You: I just didn’t have a great time there. Just didn’t have many friends. (sent 2:50 PM, 08/09/06)

A safe response. Enough of an explanation, without any details. 

Tashi: Oh (sent 2:51 PM, 08/09/06)

You: Being the poor scholarship kid and stuff. (sent 2:52 PM, 08/09/06)

You decide to add on for good measure. 

Tashi: Oh yeah, it makes sense. It’ll make a great story when you go pro tho. Who doesn’t love an underdog. (sent 2:55 PM, 08/09/06)

Somehow Tashi is under the impression that you will eventually go pro. You’re not exactly sure when or how this assumption formed, but she mentions it so casually you don’t want to tell her that you’re unsure about this.

You: True. (sent 2:56 PM, 08/09/06)

You stare at your phone and then quickly send another message. 

You: You’re curious about the academy? (sent 2:56 PM, 08/09/06)

Tashi:  I was talking about it with Patrick. (sent 2:57 PM, 08/09/06)

You feel your heart drop as you look at the message. You didn’t know they still talked. With Art it would make sense. Another person she’d see around at Stanford, but Patrick? Why was she talking to Patrick? 

You: Patrick? (sent 2:57 PM, 08/09/06)

Tashi: We’re kind of going out. (sent 2:57 PM, 08/09/06)

You read the message over again. And then again. They were going out with each other? You feel a weird knot form in your chest. She was going out with Patrick. The same Patrick who bullied you all throughout school? The same Patrick you spent over a year hooking up with you in private? You bite the inside of your cheek as you type back a response. 

You: Oh I didn’t know. (sent 2:58 PM, 08/09/06)

Tashi: It’s a long story. (sent 2:58 PM, 08/09/06)

Before you can even send a message back, you get a call from her. She spends the next hour explaining everything. The hotel room. The kiss. The deal. And then the boys’ final. Patrick won her number fair and square. Shortly after she and Patrick went out and then slept together. The knot in your chest only grows as you hear her speak. You do your best to ignore it. 

“That's…that’s a lot,” you say, unsure how to even process anything she just said. 

“I know,” she says on the other end. She exhales, and then asks, “Anyway, did you buy a fan for your dorm?”

----

“Let’s grab dinner?” Tashi asks as she walks from the court towards you, Art trailing behind her as he wipes his forehead with a towel. 

You nod as you grab your backpack. “Yeah let’s go,” you respond. 

“Let me change and then we’ll head out,” Tashi says, as she heads into the locker room. Tashi always practiced later than everyone else, a true testament to her passion. Everyone else finished and left an hour ago. Only you and Art stayed back with her, and now you both were the only ones on the court. 

Transitioning into college life was easy enough. All that time spent messaging Tashi meant coming into college with a friend. Your classes were interesting and you did well. You became friends with others on the tennis team, although most of your time was spent with Tashi and Art. He always seemed to be following the both of you around, which would have been strange if you didn’t know about the fact he was into Tashi. The fact she was dating Patrick, seemed to have no effect on his attraction. 

Your stomach grumbles, and Art hears. He smiles and asks, “Hungry?” You let out a laugh in response and ask, “What gave it away?” 

He laughs in response and then he looks at you as if studying his expression for a moment. His face becomes slightly serious and you know he has something to say. “What is it?” you ask. “Nothing,” he says with a shrug, feigning a nonchalance you both know doesn’t exist. “Art,” your voice is more serious now too. 

This was bound to happen. You always knew that he would eventually visit them. He was dating Tashi and Art is his best friend. Of course he would come. The thought makes your stomach flip and you bite down on your back teeth. 

Your inability to conceptualize Art and Patrick’s friendship, was a large part in why you were able to become friends with Art. But in moments like this, the only thing you could see when you looked at him, was Patrick Zweig’s best friend. Consumed in your thoughts, you say nothing in response. You only even register the silence, when you hear Art say “I should go change too before we go eat.” You nod and watch him walk away. 

----

“So Art told you?” Tashi asks from across the bed as she looks up at you from the calculus homework you’re both trying to work through. She doesn’t have to say what she is talking about, you already know what. “Yeah,” you say, still looking at your work. 

“I was going to tell you,” she says, with a little shrug, still looking at you. “Is it a big deal?” 

“It’s not,” you respond quickly as you try to focus on the problem. 

“No I think it is,” she says with a little huff, which causes you to look up from the work. “You act so weird whenever he’s brought up.” You just shrug in response and it’s almost ironic how much you’re proving her point right now. You look back down at the graphs on your paper “He acts like this too,” she then says. Now that gets your attention. You look up again and ask, “He does?” 

“Like anytime you come up in conversation he gets weird,” she says with a shrug. They’ve talked about you before? Before you have the chance to process this revelation, she says, “And you both act strange around each other” 

“You’ve only ever seen us interact once,” you say with a forced laugh, looking down at the paper again and remembering that night on the beach. “Yeah I know, but still,” she says with a shrug. Then she asks, “Did something happen between the two of you at the academy?” 

The right answer to this question: Too much to discuss right now. You just shrug again and say, “We didn’t get along” 

Tashi just nods as she mulls over your response. Before she can find some flaw in your answer to probe at, you decide to change the subject by asking, “Did you figure out question 3?”

----

The day Patrick comes to Stanford is a Friday. You go to class, then to practice, and everything is normal until you get a text from Art around seven pm. 

Art:  He’s here. Meet in my dorm in a half hour? (sent 6:58 PM, 09/15/06)

You: See you then (sent 6:59 PM, 09/15/06)

Tashi had already told you how she wanted all of you to go out together when Patrick came, so you more or less expected a text like this. Even with the expectation, your chest has knots and your stomach flips. You pick at the skin of your cuticles as you walk back to your dorm and once you get there you sit down on the bed trying to create some expectation for the night. Your mind is blank, and you realize you should probably get ready. 

You grab some jeans and a nice top, throw it on and then take a look at yourself in the mirror, fixing your hair. A part of you hates yourself for caring how you look right now. But it’s not large enough to stop you from putting on lipstick and eyeliner. You take one last look at yourself before heading out. 

When you get to Art’s dorm, you realize you’re the first one to arrive. “Hey,” he says with a smile sitting on the edge of his bed. You walk over with a smile and sit down next to him. You’re about to greet him when your eyes fixate on the picture of him and Patrick on his bedside table. It looks like it was taken about the junior open, with both of them holding the trophy they won. He follows your gaze to it, and you both look at it for a moment. “I actually…” he starts and you turn to him. “I wanted to talk to you about—”

“And here I was thinking that I was early.” Both of you look to the door and see Patrick standing there. There is a flash of annoyance on his face, but it’s quickly covered up with a laugh and a raised eyebrow. Art just looks at Patrick, a mild look of disappointment on his face. “What a warm welcome,” Patrick says sarcastically, which causes the icy look on Art’s face to slowly disappear, a small smile forming instead. Patrick looks at you and you feel your heartbeat speed up just from the look. You think he’s about to pull out one of the insulting nicknames he coined for you at the academy. “Let’s go?” you hear Tashi ask as she walks into the room too. Patrick smiles at her and wraps a hand around her waist. You bite the inside of your cheek. You nod in response, as you walk towards the door. You don’t let yourself look at Patrick, even though you feel his gaze on you. You tell yourself you imagined it. 

----

Tashi picked out this bar by campus to go to. As a place that doesn’t check IDs and has cheap drinks. Naturally, it’s full of students. You’re two drinks in and feel slightly drunk. You’re sitting at the bar sipping on your third, talking to some girl from your French literature class. Whatever you said must have been funny, because she is laughing. You laugh with her, before someone taps her on the shoulder and her attention is pulled elsewhere. You look down at your drink as you take another sip. “Looks like someone has friends now.” You turn to see Patrick taking the seat next to you at the bar, he already has a drink in his hand. His voice is playfully teasing and he has a grin on his face. The same expression he’d make when he would hand back a racket of yours he just broke or look up at you from in between your legs. “Well I guess people like me now,” you say, your inhibitions lowered by the alcohol. It’s the first real conversation you had with him all night and you want it to be over already. Your heart beat picks up again. He lets out a little laugh at your response, finding your retort amusing. He’s close enough that you can get the scent of the marlboro reds he smokes and his cologne. His eyes flick from your eyes to your lips and then to your eyes again.   

“Didn’t realize you were so close with Tashi,” he then pauses and then in a little more serious voice adds, “Art now too.” You just blink at him in response. You see his jaw tick again, and this along with the change in tone sets off a signal in your head and you sit up a bit straighter as you look at him. You don’t have the chance to get a word as Patrick continues, “I don’t know what the fuck is going on between you and Art, but it ends here okay.” His voice is serious and so is his gaze. He leans in a bit more and his nose bumps yours. It feels as if his stare is burning holes through your head. You were used to Patrick being mean, but this was different. For starters, he was never that rude to you in private after the locker room incident that started your little relationship. And his treatment usually served to mock or humiliate you in some way. This felt as if was putting his foot down about something. “Okay?” he asks again due to your silence. Your heartbeat speeds up even more. 

“Okay,” you repeat in a small voice, feeling like a child who is being reprimanded for something. He doesn’t like that you’re friends with Art?

He looks at you as if analyzing your expression. He remains close and his eyes flick down to your lips. For a moment you think he’s going to kiss you. Or drag you to the bar bathroom for a quick fuck. He then just huffs, as he steps back and takes a sip of the drink in his hand. You instantly feel stupid for your previous thoughts. He is dating Tashi. Tashi who is a literal goddess on earth. There is no reason for him to want you anymore. Whatever happened in school is over. The incident at the open was just a weird epilogue. But now it is done. 

“You should stop doing that,” he says. You realize his gaze is now directed at your hands. He makes a little motion to where you’ve picked off the skin by your cuticles. “It’s not good for you.” he says, still looking at it. His gaze comes back to you and the minute you both make eye contact he looks away. He looks across the bar and he must see either Tashi or Art because he smiles in that direction and walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your drink. 

----

Your head is throbbing and you feel nauseous just thinking about the hangover you’ll probably have tomorrow morning. You can’t remember the last time you were this drunk. Have you ever been this drunk? You can’t even remember how much you had to drink at this point. You manage to stumble out of the bar and the fresh air is so refreshing you smile. It’s a 10 minute walk back to your dorm, you’re sure you can make it. You move slowly, and as you pass by the alleyway by the bar you see Art and Patrick sharing a cigarette. They’re far enough and too immersed in their conversation to see you.

“I can’t believe we’re still talking about this,” you hear Patrick say with a scoff. 

“I don’t get why you think it’s such a big deal,” Art responds. 

This draws out a laugh from  “No you know why I think it’s a big deal, and honestly man thought you were over this.” Patrick says as he takes the cigarette Art is holding and takes a drag. “Aren’t you into Tashi now."

Art scoffs and looks to the side. “Jesus Patrick.” This just makes Patrick laugh. “This is not about Tashi, this is about—” 

Patrick cuts him off and goes, “A girl who is and has always been a pathetic loser.” It’s then you realize that the person they’re talking about is you. 

Art sighs and takes the cigarette back with a sigh. “I like her.” As his words sink in, your earlier conversation with Patrick makes a lot more sense. It’s too dizzying to think about, and it makes you feel even more exhausted than you already are. You look at the road ahead of you and continue stumbling your way back to the dorm. 

----

You spent the rest of the weekend Patrick was on campus in your dorm room. You woke up with an awful hangover and messages from all three of them. Tashi and Art were just about how they didn’t see you leave and asking if you got back to the dorm fine, Patrick’s was something different all together. 

Patrick:  Don’t forget what we talked about. (sent 9:38 AM, 09/16/06)

You don't respond to him. You wouldn’t even know how if you wanted to. You texted Art and Tashi that you were all fine, just miserably hung over. 

Tashi: Want to grab breakfast? (sent 9:45 AM, 09/16/06)

You: Think I want to sleep for some more time. (sent 9:46 AM, 09/16/06)

Until Monday, hanging out with them meant hanging out with Patrick, and that was the last thing you wanted to do. So you told you you just wanted to lie down because of the hangover. Then when she asked if you wanted to hang out again in the evening, you lied about needing to finish a paper for the literature seminar you were taking. After that she must have got the hint, because she left you alone for the rest of the weekend. The next time you saw her or Art was on Monday during tennis practice. No Patrick in sight. 

----

Whoever said out of sight, out of mind, was a liar. You desperately wanted things to go back to normal after that weekend, but that ease you felt during your first month at Stanford never fully returned after Patrick’s visit. It’s been a couple weeks since then and Patrick still plagued your thoughts. 

Whatever friendship that had formed between you and Art was quickly dying. You couldn’t even look at him without alarm bells in your head going: Walk away! Walk away! Patrick’s words echoed in your ears anytime you looked at him. The distance you had created between Art and Patrick was gone, and when you looked at Art you now could only see Patrick’s best friend staring back. You avoided being alone with him at all costs. 

Art: Want to grab breakfast together before class tomorrow? (sent 8:27 PM, 10/02/06)

You: I’ll let you know in the morning! (sent 8:28 PM, 10/02/06)

You’d probably lie about sleeping in or fake some illness to get out of that. 

“Is that Art?” Tashi asks from across the bed. You nod and lie, “Just a question about practice.” She nods in response, as she looks back at the homework both of you are working through together. Patrick may have destroyed your friendship with Art, butyour friendship with Tashi was fine.

Although it had become increasingly difficult to avoid the fact she was dating Patrick. After his visit, you could find traces of him all around her room. You can see the little note he left that she pinned to her bulletin board, and as you looked down at your book on the bed, it hit you that Patrick had slept on the bed you currently sit on. That he and Tashi probably had sex there. It makes you feel nauseous and aroused at the same time. You make a mental note to invite Tashi to your dorm room to study next time.  

Not to mention, that brief moment you thought something was going to happen between you and Patrick at the bar. The drunken embarrassment you felt at that moment, has turned into sober shame. If Patrick had tried to make a move, you had a sinking feeling that you wouldn’t have stopped it. On the contrary, you probably would have enjoyed it and what type of person does that make you? Nothing had happened but this enough made you feel guilty. Maybe it was for the best that you didn’t have many close friends, so far you were awful at being one. 

“You know he likes you, right?” Tashi says with a giggle and draws you out of your thoughts. “Huh?” is all you manage to say back, your mind still not fully present. “Art.” she says with another laugh. 

You’re reminded of the conversation you overheard between Art and Patrick behind the bar. It feels more like an alcohol induced hallucination than an actual memory. Even though you heard Art say it, you couldn’t wrap your head around the idea that he liked you. You were hundred percent convinced he still liked Tashi. Always ready to spend time with her and looking at her like she hung the moon in the sky. It was obvious he still liked her. There was the possibility he liked you both, but that felt improbable. Why would he like you both? At the end of the day, it didn’t even matter. You weren’t going to do anything about it. 

“Tashi he’s a friend,” you say with a little laugh, hoping that your answer is enough to drop the subject. It isn’t as she just lets out another laugh and goes “What? I'm right.” You sigh and say, “Have you forgotten about what happened in the hotel room?” Tashi rolls her eyes, and makes a dismissive hand wave, “That was months ago.” She doesn’t make any claim to deny that he’s into her, so even she’s aware of it. You just force a laugh in response, which causes Tashi to laugh too. Her laugh elicits an actual laugh from you, and you both sit there like that laughing for a moment. By the time you’re both done, it seems like the topic of Art is no longer on her mind, and you’re beyond grateful for that. 

----

You thought that would be the end of that topic, but the next day, as you walk outside the locker room after practice you hear Art and Tashi talking about it. The hallway is curved, but you’re close enough to hear and see them without being overtly visible. You’re sure if they looked in your direction and took a step or two, they’d be able to see you, but neither do.  

“I think you should just tell her,” Tashi says, Art just sighs looking to the side. “You’re making this way more complicated than it has to be, and now everything is all awkward. She can barely look at you during practice,” she adds on. “It’s a stupid distraction for both of you, just get over it.”

Art looks at Tashi and goes, “It’s way more complicated than that.” Tashi looks at him with her eyebrows slightly furrowed and an expression that says she doesn’t believe him, Art just adds on, “You weren’t there at the academy. You wouldn’t get it.” 

You feel your heart drop at those words. You need to stop the conversation before it can go any further, so you don’t think twice about walking. You wave and Tashi sees you before she can respond.

“Let’s go eat?” you ask. 

Art nods and Tashi replies, “Sure.”

You smile in relief as you all walk to the dining hall in silence.

----

“You’re never going to talk about what happened at the academy are you?” Tashi says later that day as you both walk over to the cinema by campus. You decided to have a movie night, but as you look at her it’s clear that’s the last thing on her mind. You shrug as you continue to walk, “I told you already. It wasn’t fun.” Tashi nods and then says, “But something happened right?” You shrug in response and she looks in front again. For a brief moment you consider telling her everything. Why were you keeping it a secret in the first place? She gets a phone call. She pulls it out and you see it’s from Patrick. Oh right. That’s why. You look away and take a deep breath to maintain composure. 

Once you think your face has no emotion on it whatsoever, you look back and tell her, “You take it. I’ll go buy tickets.” She looks at you to check if you’re sure, and you nod. Tashi walks away and you force a little smile as she walks a few steps away to take the call. You stand by the ticket booth outside and get two tickets for the movie Tashi mentioned. You turn and look over to where she is talking on the phone to Patrick and it’s clear she has an unhappy expression on her face. Boredom? Annoyance? Something like a mix of the two. She huffs and you see her walking back towards you.

You offer a small smile and once she’s close enough you ask, “Everything alright?” She lets out a dry laugh and takes a ticket from your hand, She walks in and you follow alongside her, as she says “Patrick called to complain…again.” You feel your stomach do a flip and it’s clear that she has more to say. It’s utterly pathetic how curious you feel. You remain silent as she continues. “He lost another match today.” She scoffs and shakes her head. “I don’t even know why he calls to tell me this shit, anytime I try to offer him something constructive he starts acting like I’m being a bitch.” Her voice shows she is annoyed, you nod in response. “It’s like he doesn’t even care,” she says and you’re unsure if she’s talking about Patrick’s attitude towards tennis or her.

“Sorry,” you say softly to make her feel better. She just sighs, shaking her head, “Don’t apologize” She then smiles looking at you, “Anyway, you actually take my advice.” True. Tashi always had pointers. Small things she’d notice you thought you could improve. You knew you weren’t a perfect player, but compared to the insults you got from your classmates during your time at the academy, her comments were actual feedback. And ones that paid off. Even your coaches know you’ve been playing better. You’re not surprised Patrick wasn’t listening. Never the one to see his own faults. You could understand why Tashi was annoyed. 

You smile back in response to her with a little shrug. “Too bad you’re going to be a star player. You would have made one hell of a coach,” you joke to lighten the mood and change the subject. Tashi laughs too and then sighs, “Anyway he just called for that and to say he’s coming in two week for a visit,” she says as you both walk into where the movie is playing. You’re grateful the darkness of the room makes it near impossible for her to see your face because you can feel your face drop at her words. 

----

You’re a tennis player, you’re allowed to look at ATP rankings, you remind yourself as you sit in front of the computer in the library. After the night at the movies a couple days ago, your thoughts about Patrick became debilitating. Just thinking about the fact that he’d be back on campus so soon made you feel dizzy to think about. 

You originally came to the library to use the computer to search up some facts about an author. It was research for an essay you have to write for your literature of the twentieth century class. Even as you tried to focus on the information in front of you, your mind went back to Patrick. So here you were, scrolling down the list of players on the ATP rankings website to find his name. Your eyes dart around you a little bit, as if to check no one can see. What is wrong with you? You were acting like a child. It takes you sometime, but you finally find Patrick’s stats. He’s low in the rankings, which was somewhat expected considering he just started going on tour, but like Tashi said he was losing games. 

“Hey,” you hear from behind you. You nearly jump as you close the ATP tab and turn around to see Art standing behind you. Why were you even surprised at this point? “Sorry didn’t mean to startle you,” he says with a small, yet forced smile, as his eyes dart from in between the screen to you. Did he see the ATP tab you just closed out? You force a little laugh, “I should buy you a bell for your birthday.” It’s a joke and he lets out a little laugh, as he pulls out the seat next to you and sits down. 

“So…” you start. He must have finally realized that the only way to talk to you alone, was by sneaking up on you. And well now you were effectively trapped, so you had to hear whatever he desperately wanted to say. You had a feeling it had to do about his supposed feelings for you, but you just wanted to get this over with. Patrick’s words repeat in your head and you do your best to keep a straight face. 

Art looks at you and shrugs, “I wanted to talk about…” You just blink as he is unable to finish his sentence. He sighs and then says, “I know why it’s awkward between us.” You brace yourself with a little nod. “It’s because of the bullying.” 

You look at him blank for a moment. His answer confuses you, mostly because he never actually did anything to you. He was a bystander at best. Before you can respond he continues. “It’s been weird ever since Patrick came, and honestly it makes sense,” he pauses. “I guess it must have brought up some bad memories.” Well it did bring up memories. Some bad (him destroying your possessions, the names he teased you with) and some good (him eating you out, riding him in the back of his car). All intense. You just nod in response, curious to where this is going. “I know…I should have done more back.” 

“You didn’t–” you start but are cut off before you finish. “No, don't try to brush it off,” he says. “Patrick is my best friend, but he was an asshole to you. I’m sorry I never said anything to stop it.” You look at him for a little moment. An apology was the last thing you expected right now. You don’t even know how to respond. Luckily you don’t have to, you see his lips part slightly and you realize he isn’t done. In a small, vulnerable voice he adds, “If I could back and change things. I would.” He pauses and then adds,”It just…can be hard to say no to him.” Now that you understood, more than you could ever let Art know. “Yeah…Yeah I get that.” you whisper with a little nod. You both sit in the silence for a library for a moment, a sense of mutual understanding forming between both of you.  

He’s the first to break the silence by saying your name in the same quiet voice “Honestly, I really like you.” The conversation has headed in the direction you originally expected, except after everything he said before you feel too tired to discuss this now. You don’t want to talk about this now. “Art…” you start, with your voice trailing off. “I like you,” he says again, “I just never acted on it because of well…you know.” You just stare at him, looking to the side and then back at him. “But Tashi?” you ask in a small voice. It’s not like you really care about his feelings for Tashi. That’s the most logical part of all of this, but you feel the need to ask anyway. Pure curiosity more than anything else. “I liked Tashi,” he says slowly, but his voice falters slightly when he says liked. As if he couldn’t decide between using the present or the past tense. He continues, “but I like you. I have since junior year.” You hate how your mind instantly goes to Patrick, but how could it not? That was when your relationship with him started. Art has liked you since then too? 

“I was thinking I could take you out?” he asks. No No No NO, a voice in your brain says. You shift in your seat, and it’s clear that Art has picked up on some discomfort. “Like dinner or a movie,” he adds. You look at him. You remember what Patrick said and take a deep breath as you try to think of the nicest way to let him down. Art’s jaw ticks at this and he then sighs. “If you don’t want to go out with me because you don’t like me, that’s fine. But please don’t say no because of the past,” he then says looking at you. Before you can respond, he stands up and with a shrug says, “Just think about it.” He walks away, and you turn back to the computer screen open to an article on the works of Laurence Durrell. You exit out of it as you gather your things. This paper was now the least of your worries. 

----

Since you got back to your dorm from the library, you’ve been laying down on your bed staring at the ceiling. Patrick’s voice remains in your head, but so does Art’s. Don’t say no because of the past. Isn’t that what you were doing? The entirety of your time at the academy was dictated by Patrick in one way or another. Maybe it was just a habit at this point to let him do so, but Patrick wasn’t here and the academy was the past. You had no reason to do what he said. Regardles, for some reason going out with Art still felt like a betrayal. Naturally, going against what Patrick said to do would be a betrayal to him, but this felt like a betrayal to yourself. It was a new feeling. Never once did you feel it with Patrick, but shouldn't sleeping with your bully feellike a bigger betrayal to yourself than going on a date with a bystander to it? 

You reach for the phone on your side table. You slowly type out the message on your small flip phone, and then click send. 

You: So when do you want to go out? (sent 9:10 PM, 10/05/06)

He responds after a minute. 

Art: How does tomorrow night sound? (sent 9:11 PM, 10/05/06)

----

“I don’t understand what you have against the sequels,” Art says with a laugh as you walk down the dorm hallway. You both had decided to get dinner together. It was easy to talk to him and it felt like you were transported back to those first couple weeks at Stanford before Patrick’s visit when there was no awkwardness between you two. You were anxious about the date. With Patrick, everytime you met up it was about hooking up, nothing more, so this was your first ever actual date. Now that it’s done, and you both walk back to your dorm rooms, you can’t ever remember why you felt like it wouldn’t go well. Art is sweet. Art likes you. It all went fine. 

“I have nothing against them,” you respond, “I just prefer the original Star Wars movies.” You say as you reach the door to his dorm room. Art stands beside you as he shrugs. “Okay fair,” he says with a smile. He swallows and then looks at his dorm and then yours. Your dorm is in a different building, but you wanted to walk with Art to his anyway because it was first on the route back. “Do you want to come inside?” he asks, looking intently. You look at him without saying anything for a moment, as you register the look. His expression asks: Do you want to have sex? 

You couldn’t deny that Art was handsome. With his smile and golden curls, he looked like what you’d imagine if Prince Charming walked out of a fairy tale and decided he wanted to play tennis. The betrayed feeling from earlier gnaws at you, but you decide to nod with a small smile anyway. The last time you had sex was with Patrick the day before you graduated from the academy in the back of his car. That was months ago. You needed a release. 

Art smiles as he reaches for the key to open the door to his room. He unlocks it and opens the door for you. You walk in and take a look around the dorm room you’ve already been in plenty of times. When you hear the door close around, you turn around to face Art, whose lips automatically come down on yours. His tongue snakes his way into your mouth, but the kiss is still gentle. Much more gentle than anything with Patrick. You move your hands to his shoulders to push Patrick out of your brain and focus on Art in the present. You feel his hands reach down to the buttons of your blouse as you continue to kiss, removing one by one, and then pushing it off to the floor. He pulls away and takes a look at you in the lace bra, with a smile and a lustful gaze. You smile back, as he pulls off his shirt and reaches down to unzip his jeans. You follow his lead and unzip yours as well, before slowly kicking them off. Then your hands move to unclasp your bra and let it fall to the floor. 

He smiles at the sight and leans in to kiss you again. While still kissing, you both stumble backwards over to the bed, you falling down on it and he on top of you. He pulls away from your lips to trail kisses down your neck to your breast. His tongue circled one of your nipples, and you gasped at the wet and pleasant sensation. You felt your hands move to his hair as he continued doing so, gently tugging on it as you rocked your core against his groin. Only the thin cloth of your panties and his boxers remained as a barrier between the both of you. He groaned at the sensation. You felt the vibration of it briefly on your breast, but he soon pulled away and started trailing down even lower. 

He kissed down your body murmuring how pretty you were, until he was stationed between your legs. He looked up at you, and you looked down at him with half lidded eyes. He sat on his knees then as he reached to pull down your panties. He tosses them to the side of the bed, and once again he gets back in between your legs. You feel him plant kisses against your core. You whine at the sensation, enough touch to tease, but not to really please you. Hearing your want, Art’s tongue darts out in between your folds, which quickly turn your whines into moans. You felt his tongue encircle your clit, and a finger tease your cunt. While he started out slow, his pace picked up. Always maintaining a steady rhythm. Each movement of his tongue felt controlled and deliberate, a stark contrast to the messy way Patrick would eat you out. The minute the thought comes into your head. You force your eyes open to look down at Art, to ground yourself in the moment. You see his gaze is already on you, and as you make eye contact, he slowly starts to speed up. He pushes another finger inside you and you gasp. HIs free hand is splayed on your thigh, holding it down. All together, these draw out your orgasm.  

As you feel the vibrations through your body, he slowly pulls himself up and plants another kiss against your lips. You can taste yourself on him as he kisses you gently again. “I want you,” he murmurs against your lips, “so badly right now.” You smile at him and whisper back, “okay.” He smiles at your words and sits up as he reaches to the corner table, “I should have a condom in here.” You nod as he pulls open the drawer and finds one. He puts it to the side as he pulls down his boxers and you take a moment just to look at him naked. He rips open the condom packet and you watch him pull it over his cock. It’s the same shade as the rest of his skin, with his tip a subtle pink shade, a little bit longer but not as thick as…You turn your head to the side to prevent yourself from finishing the comparison. Focus on Art, you tell yourself.

The minute it’s on he climbs over you again, and you lay back down. He aligns himself with you, and slowly pushes himself in. He goes inch by inch, and you can feel himself throb even through the condom barrier. Once he is bottomed out, he puts his hands on the side of your head, and he starts to thrust. Just like when he ate you out, he moves at a steady pace, slow at first but slowly picking up speed. You feel the comparison forming in your head, and you bite down on your lip to prevent yourself from making it. You bite down so hard that you taste blood. Art takes this as a sign you want to be kissed, and you feel his lips come down on you again. Although his movements remain gentle, he’s big enough that you still feel it completely. You kiss as he continues to thrust. “God..” he grunts head going up, “You’re so fucking tight.” He says as he continues to thrust, speed picking up again once more. You moan at the feeling. “G..Gonna turn you around,” he says, and you nod as he feels your hand move you from laying down on your back to laying down your stomach. He feels even deeper now, and you feel yourself get closer. 

That’s when you see it. Your eyes are half lidded, but open enough to see the picture of Art and Patrick on the bedside table. You squint at it to get a better look, as Art continues to thrust into you with heavy pants. You feel your breathing get shallower as your eyes focus in on the picture. It looks like it’s from after they won the doubles championship at the junior open. Your eyes lock in on Patrick smiling for the snap, and that’s what pushes yourself over the edge. You feel yourself clench and then your orgasm hits you. You close your eyes as you feel it wash over you. Art pushes into you a couple more times and then lets out a grunts as he cums as well. You feel him pull out and fall beside where you lie on the bed. When your eyes finally open again you look again at the picture of both boys and sigh.  

----

You probably should have stopped sleeping with Art after that first time, but the sex provided an outlet for all your anxious energy, and that just made your life easier. You met up in the evenings after practice and pretty much always in his dorm (for reasons you do not want to acknowledge). He took you out a couple times too, but there was no label for the relationship. The only person who knew about what was going on between the two of you was Tashi, who you told after the first time it happened.

“You two should just start going out with each other,” she told you one day as you grabbed lunch. “You guys go on dates and sleep together anyway.” You shrugged her off. He tried to bring it up once in bed too, but you ended the conversation by going down on him. You liked this weird gray area both of you were in. It felt comfortable. It felt safe. 

----

You sit on the bleachers picking at the skin by your cuticles. With all the time you were spending with Art, the two weeks snuck up on you. Patrick was back. Tashi went into the locker room to change, so it’s just you watching Art and Patrick casually playing a match on the court in front of you. He was supposed to arrive in the evening, not in the afternoon. You had been dreading his visit since the moment you found out, so you planned in advance. After practice, you were going to tell Art and Tashi you had another paper for your literary seminar, and lock yourself in your dorm for the rest of the weekend before Patrick even showed up. Of course this plan was ruined when Patrick showed up in the afternoon, right in the middle of the practice. Now here you are, counting the moments till you could leave while Patrick and Art played. 

You feel your fingers sting where you picked at the skin, as you hear Patrick call your name. “C’mon one game? For old times sake.” His tone was mocking, as if he was trying to provoke you. You looked up at him as he walked towards where you sat on the bench, but said nothing. His eyes dart down to the picked skin on your finger. He grimaces at the sight, but says nothing. Quickly bringing a smirk back onto his face as he looked at you. “What? I’ve been told you’re good,” Patrick asks in the same mocking tone. Your ranking among college girls tennis players had gone up, which you knew was more than he could say about his ATP ranking. You just shrug in response. “So what, you're not going to play me?” he then asks. 

“Seriously? Practice just ended. Let us have a break,” Art says in a not so subtle attempt to get Patrick to stop. He then offers you a smile.You’re not sure if it's a “Please forgive my asshole friend” smile or a “I’m glad I could stand up for you smile,” but either way you return it with a small smile of your own. Patrick notices, his eyes narrowing slightly and then returning to normal, before telling Art, “You just played with me.” He turns back to you and goes, “C’mon” 

He has a shit eating grin on his face and you want to smack it off him, but as you feel all three of them look at you, you realize you’ve been silent this whole time. You  just shrug, standing up with your racket. “Sure,” you say as you walk over to the court. His grin grows wider. It makes you wonder if this is a mistake. 

You serve the ball, and he hits it. You run and hit it back. He does as well. The ball goes back and forth between the both of you, neither of you missing it. You’re not sure how long it goes on for, but it’s definitely sometime before it stops. You hit it to the corner of the court and before he can run to it, it bounces out. He lets out a sharp exhale as he watches it go. 

“I’m gonna serve now,” he says to you, as he takes a ball. He looks at you as he gets ready to do his signature, unique serve, and just smirks. The minute you see it, you once again feel like this is a mistake. The feeling only intensifies when he serves and you miss the ball. He grabs another tennis ball and does it again. You miss. Your eyes dart to where Art watches by the bench and then at Patrick. Feeling more warm all of a sudden. Once more he serves. Again, Miss. You’re not sure how long this goes on for, but when he goes, “Sure you’re a tennis player?” you want nothing more than to get out of there. You walk straight to the bench and pick up your bag. Art looks at you, lips slightly parted as if he wants to say something, but you speak first. “I have a paper I need to finish.” It’s all you say before walking away from the court back in the direction of your dorm room. 

You can hear the sound of Patrick laughing behind you, and you bite down on your jaw to prevent yourself from crying as you walk away. 

----

You lay down in bed, your eyes still red and puffy. You broke down on the way back, but thankfully far enough from the courts that neither Art or Patrick could see. The crying didn’t stop when you got back to your dorm. Or after your shower. While it wasn’t pouring out of you anymore, tears would come back at random intervals.

While you weren’t actively crying at the moment, it felt like anything could bring the tears back. Your mind drifts back to his afternoon. Of course Patric chose to humiliate you, what else would he have done? You’re shaken out of your thoughts from someone banging on your door. Loud, forceful, and impatient bangs. You slowly sat up in bed, and looked over to it. Another thud. It was too forceful to be either Tashi or Art. Really, there was only one person who’d be this forceful. He was the last person you wanted to see, so you just stared at it. How did Patrick even find your dorm? Maybe if you waited long enough, he’d just leave. You sat for another minute, but the bangs just got louder. He wasn’t leaving and you realized if he kept banging you’re the one who was going to get a noise complaint. You sniffle one more time and wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand, as you walk over to the door. More thuds. You sigh and take one deep exhale, as you open the door.

Patrick is standing there with a scowl and furrowed brows. The minute he realizes the door opened, he pushes himself in and lets the door close behind him. “You’re fucking Art?” His voice is angry and although it comes out like a question, it’s clear he knows the answer. You realize Art must have told him about the two of you. You just stare up in silence, and this causes Patrick to scoff. “What part about our conversation last time made you think it was okay to suck his dick?” His voice is sarcastic and angry, as he takes another step towards you. He smells of a combination of sweat, cologne, and cigarettes. “Answer the question.” 

“Get out of my room.” you say in a small voice. Patrick lets out a humorless laugh. “Answer the question,” he repeats. You look at him and feel tears well up again in your eyes. Wasn’t it enough that he humiliated you earlier today? Couldn’t he just leave you alone now? “Why do you care,” you retort with a sniffle. Once again he laughs. “Why do I care? Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that I turn my back for two minutes and you’re on my best friend’s dick,” he says it a bit louder and he’s so close that his nose bumps yours when he says it.

Your eyebrows furrow. His tone was angry and sarcastic, but above all it made it seem like you were doing something wrong. Something inside of you snaps at this. Your tone is a bit louder and more upset when you say, “So what?” Patrick laughs looking to the side, but you don’t give him the chance to speak. “I’m sorry that your best friend is into me” your voice taking a sarcastic tone. “But that’s not my fault. And I don’t know why you’re so upset about it, but grow the up and leave me the fuck alone.” He huffs and bites, “You know why I’m upset.” You bring your face closer to his, “Really? From where I’m standing, you’re just being an ass.” The tears which formed in your eyes roll down your cheek, and in an angry voice begins,“I told you to–” 

“You do not get to tell me what to do!” you exclaim before he can even finish that statement. You swallow, as he just looks at you now slightly stunned at the outburst. “You do not get to tell me what to do,” you repeat in a still angry yet less loud tone. Both of you just stand there, and unsure what else to do, you decide to push him. Your hands go to his chest and then push him back. It’s a childish gesture, and you’re not exactly sure why you did it. Even he looks stunned at the sudden action. Once again you push him. And again. You do it until his back is up against the door of your dorm. You’re breathing much more heavily now and both of you are just staring at each other. Your hands raise up and you keep hitting him on the chest. For a brief moment it feels like you’re transported back to junior year in the locker room before winter break as you just punch his chest. That feeling only grows when you suddenly feel his lips against yours. 

It's desperate and messy, but undoubtedly mutual. His tongue licks into your mouth as your hands go to the back of his neck. His hands grab your hips and spin you around, so now your back is against the door. You already know he’s hard, but you fully feel it as he grinds his erection against your core and you moan into his mouth in response. “Fuck” he mutters as his lips move from yours to your neck. You feel his teeth scratch against the skin there, but not enough to leave a mark. Whenever you slept together, he never left marks anywhere visible. His hands move to the underside of your thighs and he pins you up against the door. Your legs instinctively wrap against his waist, and once again he grinds against you, eliciting another moan from both of you. You feel his tongue lick up your cheek, and it takes you a second to realize he is licking up your tears. One of his hands moves up to paw at your tits over the tank you have on and you moan at the sensation. You feel your hands go down to his jeans zipper, and he lets out a chuckle at this, then his lips come crashing down against yours again. 

Too lost in the kiss, it takes you a moment to realize he is moving you somewhere, but you soon realize he is carrying you away from the door. Soon you’re thrown onto the bed. His hands go to the zipper you somewhat removed, and he kicks off his jeans. He then goes to take his shirt. You take this as a sign to get naked as well. You kick off your shorts and pull off your tank. Without a bra on and already aroused, your nipples pebble instantly once exposed. Patrick licks his bottom lip and removes his boxers, the last bit of clothing he has on. You take in the sight you didn’t think you’d ever see again, as he crawls on top of you and presses another desperate kiss. His lips part from yours as he whispers, “No one else will make you feel like this.” Before you can respond, you gasp as you feel his hand knead your breast again. Now fully exposed you feel him pinch your nipple. He moves down with his tongue licking over the little bud he just pinched, replacing the jolt of pleasurable pain with just pure pleasure. 

He gets back on his knees and grips the base of his cock, aligning himself with you. He pushes just the tip in. Close but not enough. You whine at the sensation. “What?” he asks with a smirll. He moves slightly as if he is going to fully pull out. “Please” you whine.  “Please what?” He says, “You gotta use your words.” You whine again and he laughs, and you manage to say “fuck me..please.” He smiles again but doesn’t move. “Who’s the only person that can make you feel this way?” he asks. You look at him and breathlessly say, “you.” He smiles before pushing in fully, muttering, “Fuck I’ve missed this.”  

----

From the time you met Patrick, you were sure he was going to hell when he died. Now you were fairly certain you’d also be down there with him. After you both fucked, Patrick left your dorm saying nothing. He put on his clothes and gave you one last look. You both locked eyes and for a moment, you were sure he was going to say something to you, but instead he just let out a deep exhale and walked out. You assumed he wanted to leave as quickly as possible. You felt a knot of guilt in your stomach, so was relieved he left in silence. Sometime after that, you fell asleep in the soiled sheets surrounded by his scent and his cum dripping out of you.

When you woke up the next morning, you sent a message to both Tashi and Art saying you were sick and needed to rest. Along with the fact Patrick was on campus, you knew this lie would guarantee that you’d be left alone for the rest of the weekend. Which was all you wanted. The knot in your stomach grew when you thought about either of them. You tried to occupy yourself in your room by showering, doing work, and reading, but your mind kept drifting back to Patrick. Even once you changed the bedsheets, you felt as if his scent lingered in your dorm. By Saturday night, you felt incapable of thinking about anything besides him and what had happened the night before. 

As you laid in bed, you reached over to your phone to check the messages you had been ignoring all day. You had one from your mom just checking up on you, which you quickly responded by saying fine, and messages from Tashi and Art asking how you’re feeling. Both of which you ignored. Then you saw the message from Patrick. 

Patrick: You’re still on birth control right? (sent 3:02 PM, 10/16/06)

It was sent a couple hours ago. You assumed some delayed sense of post-nut clarity must have reminded him that you both fucked raw last night. 

You: Yes. (sent 8:58 PM, 10/16/06)

Patrick: Okay good. (sent 8:58 PM, 10/16/06)

After a minute or so, you got another message from Patrick. 

Patrick: Art said you were feeling sick. (sent 8:59 PM, 10/16/06)

You should have ignored the message, but you found yourself responding before you could stop yourself. 

You: Yes? (sent 9:00 PM, 10/16/06)

Patrick: Like for real? Or because… (sent 9:00 PM, 10/16/06)

Your eyes rolled at the screen. 

You: What do you think? (sent 9:01 PM, 10/16/06)

Patrick: ;) (sent 9:01 PM, 10/16/06)

You read his response and sigh. You put your phone back down on the bed stand table and force yourself to sleep. 

----

Although you originally planned to just hideaway for the weekend, you still felt miserable by the time Monday rolled around. You decided to play into the whole sickness thing, and isolate yourself for the next couple days. But by the time Thursday rolled around, you realized you had to get back to your life. You forced yourself to go to practice.

It had been a couple days since Patrick left the campus, but you still felt as if he could jump up from any corner. By the time you got to the courts, you saw Tashi was already playing and Art was watching her with an adoring smile. 

You walked over slowly to where he was standing, and he noticed your presence once you were standing next to him. “Hey, Feeling better?” he asks, looking at you. You drop the bag full of your tennis equipment to your feet, and look up at him. The knot in your stomachreturns in full force and you just shrug in response. He nods in response, and you both turn back to look over at Tashi who is playing. 

____

“I was thinking that if we win the championships this spring, it would be the perfect time to go pro,” Tashi says as she looks across the dining hall table where you both eat. After the events of Patrick’s last visit, there was a noticeable change in the air. While you knew this was because you fucked her boyfriend, she didn’t. You found reasons to hang out with her less because of it. Always making up some essay that needed to be finished. You felt grateful that when you did spend time with Tashi, she chose to talk about tennis. Although, you couldn’t deny the increased focus on your possible future in professional tennis was draining in its own way. “What do you think?” she asks. 

You shrug in response. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” you respond. Tashi lets out a little laugh, raising an eyebrow, “You’re ready.” You shrug as you pick up a piece of fruit with your fork. “No really. You’re ready,” she repeats as if trying to drive the point. “You’re already in the top ten in college rankings, and if you win a couple more games, you would break into the top 5.” 

You nod slowly in response as you munch on the fruit. “Yeah…but there’s more to it,” you say with a shrug. Tashi’s eyebrows raise in confusion. “I don’t have the money for that type of life,” you say. You’re not wrong, it’s not like you’d be able to afford to be on the road or pay a coach to help you train. Tashi shrugs, “You should get a sponsorship.” Her tone is casual, as if it’s the easiest thing there is. You’re not necessarily surprised by how nonchalant she is. She has an Adidas sponsorship already and considering how brilliant of a player she is, it probably was not her only offer. You just let out a laugh in response. “What?” Tashi starts again, “You’re a good player. You're cute. And you have a motivating story. You could easily get a sponsorship.” 

You let out another small laugh, shaking your head and saying, “I think you think my story is way more motivating than it actually is.” Now Tashi laughs, “Everyone loves an underdog, and with everything that happened to you at the academy–”

You cut her off, “What?” Something about her words make you uneasy. She knows, you think. Tashi looks at you as if she’s been caught, “Well Art…said some people were really awful to you at the academy.” 

Art? Art was telling her these things. He said some people? So he didn’t mention Patrick? What else did he mention? Before you can properly start to spiral about those thoughts, you sense someone behind you. Of course, it’s Art. He sits down in the seat next to you, puts his plate on the table. “What are you guys talking about?” he asks as his hand rests on your thigh. Ever since you started sleeping together, he’s been more open with touching you. Both in private and public. You feel slightly queasy when he does, but say nothing. 

 “Going pro,” you respond quickly to move the subject of the conversation back to the original focus. You hear Art make a hum sound in response and both he and Tashi slip into a conversation about professional tennis.

You take a sip of your gatorade, as you just watch the two of them, not at all paying attention to the conversation. Art was talking about your time at the academy with Tashi, but why? Did she bring it up? Or did he? What reason could he have to talk about it with her? You’re lost in thought when you see Art turn and give you a small smile. You give him one back. 

-----

Patrick: I can’t believe you’re still sleeping with Art. (sent 4:08 PM, 10/28/06)

You’re sitting at your desk in your dorm, going over some of your annotations on a short story for class, when you get the message. It’s your first message from him in a couple of weeks. After the text conversation you had the Saturday he was last on campus, he sent nothing else. You reasoned that whatever happened during the visit wouldn’t happen again, and used that to ease the knot of guilt you felt whenever you thought about what happened. You won’t let it happen again. It’s almost ironic that just as you feel yourself moving past it again, he texts you.   

You: I don’t know what you’re talking about. (sent 4:10 PM, 10/28/06)

You are aware that you should have ended things with Art a long time ago. After Patrick’s visit, you couldn’t bring yourself to sleep with Art. But you also couldn’t bring yourself to put a definite end to things with him. So while you hadn’t slept with him in sometime, you were still with Art. Your relationship remained in that little gray area you both created, just now without the sex. 

Patrick: Yeah sure. (sent 4:11 PM, 10/28/06)

Patrick: Art told me. (sent 4:11 PM, 10/28/06)

Your mind drifts back to when Tashi said Art told her about your time at the academy. Looks like he was talking about you to Patrick too, albeit for completely different reasons. If Patrick thinks you’re still sleeping with Art, then what exactly did Art say? You did not have the time to focus on this. You sigh as you put your phone down. You need to focus on your work, you tell yourself. 

It’s only a couple minutes until you hear your phone ring, you pick it up to see it’s a call from Patrick. You let it ring for a minute before picking it up. 

“You never responded to my message,” he says immediately. “I’m busy,” you say looking back at the book. Why did you even take this call? “Doing what?” he asks. “So at university you’re given work to do,” you say sarcastically, which just causes him to laugh on the other end. “Yeah okay smartass. Is it like an essay? Homework?” 

You roll your eyes. “No just going over notes” He laughs in response and you expect him to make fun of you. “Going over notes is not work,” he says. “Yes they are,” you say with a groan and eye roll. “No, you just choose to do it. Even when you don’t have to,” he says and you can nearly hear the smirk in his voice. “I care about my grades.” As if to remind you he says. “You’re there on a tennis scholarship.” You roll your eyes again, “Well I want to do well.” He lets out a chuckle, “I know. You were like this back then too.” There is a slight pause between the both of you, as you remember the time at the academy. He then adds on, “You’ll do fine anyway.” 

You’re not exactly sure how to respond to that. Another moment of silence between both sides. You break it by asking, “Why’d you call?” 

“Well I wanted to have phone sex but all this talk about school has made me soft,” he says with a laugh. You wouldn’t put that motive below him, but you can tell from his tone that it’s a joke. After a moment he goes, “I mean, but if you’re up to it–” 

You cut him off. “Bye Patrick.” You roll your eyes and hang up. 

----

Patrick: I miss your tight fucking cunt so much. (sent 3:02 AM, 11/02/06)

Patrick: I’m throbbing just thinking of it. (sent 3:03 AM, 11/02/06)

After that phone call, Patrick began texting you more regularly. These types of messages were the least surprising. Late at night and overtly sexual. You were pretty sure he was drunk sending them too. This is what you expected from him. You always refrained from answering them. You could not control what Patrick said or did and you were beginning to highly doubt that he felt any guilt about any of this. But you did. And you could control your own actions. 

Although, you responded to his other messages. For every sexual conversation he tried having with you, he started three normal ones. He asked questions about your life and told you things about his. Even back when you were hooking up at the academy he never texted you this much, and especially not about these things. 

Patrick: You know I think I had a cousin who studied English too (sent 11:22 AM, 11/07/06)

You: Really? (sent 11:22 AM, 11/07/06)

Patrick: Yeah. I think she is a professor now (sent 11:23 AM, 11/07/06)

Patrick: You’re seriously thinking about majoring in English? (sent 11:24 AM, 11/07/06)

You: Yeah. What about it? (sent 11:25 AM, 11/07/06)

Patrick: Why tho? (sent 11:25 AM, 11/07/06)

You: It’s fun. I like to read. (sent 11:26 AM, 11/07/06)

Patrick: Nerd (sent 11:26 AM, 11/07/06)

While many of the messages have a teasing edge to it, it never felt humiliating. It was like he wanted to make you laugh (and he did). The constant back and forth made it feel like new territory, but it would be a lie to say you didn’t like it. It was undoubtedly fun to talk to him like this. Every once in a while, he would also bring up Art in these conversations. Although his earlier anger at the relationship, now has seemed to fade into curiosity. 

Patrick: I just don’t understand you’re relationship with him. (sent 1:33 PM, 11/11/06)

You: your* (sent 1:33 PM, 11/11/06)

Patrick: What? (sent 1:33 PM, 11/11/06)

You: Patrick it's your not you're (sent 1:34 PM, 11/11/06)

Patrick: Whatever (sent 1:34 PM, 11/11/06)

Patrick: What do you two even do together? (sent 1:35 PM, 11/11/06)

You: Why do you care? (sent 1:35 PM, 11/11/06)

You couldn’t bring yourself to ask about him and Tashi. You had a feeling that he was glad about this. Regardless of what happened, she was still his girlfriend and your friend. Even if she came up in conversation, neither of you mentioned her by name.

Patrick: She said she’s thinking about going pro if you guys win the championship. (sent 10:48 PM, 11/18/06)

You: Yeah she told me too. (sent 10:48 PM, 11/18/06)

Patrick: How about you? (sent 10:49 PM, 11/18/06)

You: I don’t know if I want to. (sent 10:50 PM, 11/18/06)

You stared at the message before clicking send. It was your first time directly admitting the fact that you didn’t know what part tennis would play in the future.

Patrick: Seriously? (sent 10:51 PM, 11/18/06)

You: Honestly, I don’t see the point. (sent 10:52 PM, 11/18/06)

Patrick: You’ve always been a great player. (sent 10:52 PM, 11/18/06)

You don’t know how to respond to that message. You just stare at it. He once broke your racket and left you a note to say that replacing it would be a waste of your parent’s money because of how bad you were. And now he is saying you’ve always been a great player? You see another message pop back up. 

Patrick: And I don’t think your English degree is going to be a great fall back. (sent 10:55 PM, 11/18/06)

That was easier to respond to. 

You: Fuck you. (sent 10:55 PM, 11/18/06)

----

“Everything okay?” Art asks as he stops walking and turns to look at you. You, Tashi, and Art were all walking together to the tennis courts. Both of them were a little ahead of you lost in conversation, while you trailed behind on your phone. Patrick had told you something about his last match. You drop your phone into your pocket and nod in response. Suddenly, it’s weight in your pocket felt like a rock dragging you down. 

By the time November rolled around, your workload increased and you were grateful for that. It meant more of a reason to stay in your dorm. You were only really seeing Art and Tashi at practice and games now. You now no longer asked to do homework with her and found excuses to avoid going out with him. Although, you doubt they were disappointed, considering the both of them started to spend more time together. 

“Yeah, yeah,” all good, as you take a couple steps to walk beside them. 

----

Patrick: I’m coming to visit Stanford this weekend. (sent 10:01 AM, 11/25/06)

----

Considering Patrick’s visit you thought you’d spend the entire weekend in your dorm again. While you were still texting him, you didn’t want a repeat of last time. It was okay to talk, but nothing else. The only way to avoid anything from happening was to stay in your dorm, but when Tashi saw your ranking in the college girls tennis circuit list move up to fourth, she insisted on going out. So here you were at a frat party. Thankfully, it was Saturday and Patrick would leave on Sunday. You were able to avoid him up until you all had to meet up to go to the party.  

While he seemed friendly over text, the first thing he said when he saw you was, “Looks like someone is taking the whole Cinderella thing too seriously.” Not his worst jab, but still said in a tone that felt humilating. Art had just shot him a look and Tashi rolled her eyes. You said nothing in response to him and remained silent on the rest of the walk to the frat house. Now here you were at the Frat party, in some corner of the house, trying to bide the time with some drink until you felt it was appropriate to run back to your dorm. 

“You look nice,” you hear a voice say next to you. You take a sip from your red solo cup and turn to see a random frat guy, leaning in to talk to you. You just smile in response, hoping the conversation will end. “I haven’t seen you around here before,” he continues. While you enjoyed drinking, you weren’t a fan of how claustrophobic frat parties felt. “Uh well,” you say with a little shrug. Although there was nothing remotely entertaining about it, he laughs and leans in and asks, “So...you here with someone?” 

Before you have the chance to respond, you hear, “With her friends. Who is looking for her right now” You turn to see Patrick standing behind you, looking at the frat guy. “C’mon,” he says as he grabs your hand and leads you somewhere away from the corner you were just in.

You follow him without saying anything else. It’s clear he isn’t taking you to Art or Tashi, as you wander down a dimly lit hallway. You look around to see if anyone can see you, but you’re both alone. This hall may be the only empty place in the entire frat house. He pushes open a door and pulls you in, he smirks at you, and you realize he’s taken you to some bathroom. You look at it, and place your drink down on the side of the counter. 

“You look really nice,” he says looking at you. A complete 180 from earlier, but what else is new? You look down at the dress, as if you’ve forgotten what you’re wearing. “I’ve never seen you wear that before.” His fingers move to play with the slight lace on the hem of the dress. He smells of cheap alcohol and kool-aid, but you can still faintly smell his cologne. 

“It’s new,” you say looking at him. He steps closer, his hands still on the lace, and you feel your heartbeat pick up, and thighs clench. You’re sure he notices. He doesn’t make a comment on it, as he nods. “The lace is nice.” He says looking back up at you. You lean your back against the sink counter, and you slowly feel his hands push the hem of your dress up. You should smack his hands away, but you don’t. 

He holds the dress up by your hips, as he looks down at the lace of your panties. “I like that lace too,” he says as he lets one finger touch it. His hands move underneath your thighs and lifts you onto the sink counter. He leans down to kiss you, but not for long as he slowly starts trailing kisses down your body. His hands move to your hips, where the dress is pooled up, to hold down the fabric and hold you. He kisses down on your abdomen, you arch into his touch. 

By the time his head is in between your legs, and he looks at the lace of your panties. “You always get wet quick,” he says with a smirk as he sees the little wet spot on them. You whimper, as you feel him lick you over your panties. He chuckles right into your core as you do. He gives you one more tortuous lick over your panties, before pulling them down and putting his tongue where you really want it. His hands are splayed on your thighs to keep you open. “God you taste amazing,” he mutters against your folds as his tongue continues to eat you out. It’s all messy as he spreads his saliva with your arousal and the sound of his tongue against your dripping cunt is obscene. His nose bumps into your clit, which elicits more moans from you. You’re barely on the counter, but his hands hold you in place. You feel his tongue slip down to your other hole, and you shiver, but he quickly moves back up to your cunt. You feel yourself rock against his face. “You’re so desperate,” he chuckles again, “Slut.” His tongue moves a little faster, and your orgasm follows through. 

Before you can let the intense pleasure sink in, he is pulling you off the sink counter, and is spinning you around. Your hands grip the sides of the counter, as his hands go to your waist, you feel him rock his erection against you as he groans. You can hear the sound of him unzipping his jeans and the shuffle of the denim as he pulls it down. “Look at you little tennis star,” he says as he pulls down his boxers. “Bent over a bathroom sink for me.” His words send a jolt of arousal down your body, you feel his erection press into your skin. “Fourth is impressive tho,” he whispers against your ear, “I should fuck you with my racket. Maybe your luck will rub off on it,” You feel his tongue dart out and lick the lobe, and you again feel yourself aroused at his words. He pushes your dress up a little bit, and you can feel him guide his cock to your cunt. “Look in the mirror,” he whispers to you. Your eyes look at the reflection of both of you. He smirks from behind you, as he pushes into you. You both moan simultaneously. You feel grateful no one is around, because you’re sure you both could be heard through the door. You feel your eyes go half lidded as he continues to pound into you. “No,” he says with a grunt. One of his hands moves to your neck while the other remains on your lap. His hand presses down into your neck to hold in place. “Watch,” he commands, and your eyes return to the reflection of you both in the mirror. You can see he is watching too, as he continues to hold down on your neck. “I’m..” you feel yourself start to say, but his hand on your throat makes it too hard to speak. “I know..” he grunts, as he continues, “Me too.” He goes a little faster, and with one long grunt, you feel him spill into you. He is panting now, but he continues to thrust until you clench around him and come. You feel slightly light headed as it rips through you, and grip onto the side of the counter as you close your eyes to. His hand moves from your neck and you feel his head rest on the counter on top of yours. His finger softly rubs where you last picked the skin from it. 

After a moment of just standing like that, he slowly moves to kneel beside you. You think he is about to do something else, but you feel him pull up your panties as he stands up. He pulls your dress down, and takes a deep breath before going to pull up his own boxers and pants. Feeling much more grounded, you open your eyes and see him looking at you in the mirror, biting the inside of his cheek. “You okay?” he asks. You nod in response, unsure why he is asking. You can see he has a pensive expression on his face, as he bites down on the side of his lip. "I'm fine," you affirm, out loud this time. Then he slowly nods, as he presses a tender kiss against the back of your neck. “I’ll see you,” he says as he walks out. You slowly pull away from leaning on the counter, but say nothing as you just look at yourself in the mirror. 

When you finally decide to walk out, you walk straight back to your dorm. 

----

Patrick: How are your classes? (sent 11:01 PM, 12/01/06)

Patrick: I used the right your this time :D (sent 11:01 PM, 12/01/06)

----

Tashi: How is prepping going for finals? (sent 8:12 AM, 12/06/06)

You: Fine. Busy tho. (sent 2:03 PM, 12/06/06)

----

Patrick: Read anything good lately? (sent 2:38, 12/10/06)

Patrick: Or has finals taken up all your time? (sent 2:38 PM, 12/10/06)

----

Art: Can you come over? I want to talk. (sent 6:40 PM, 12/16/06)

You: Maybe later? I have an exam tomorrow morning.(sent 7:10 PM, 12/16/06)

Art: It’s important. I’ll be quick. (sent 7:10 PM, 12/16/06)

You: Oh okay. Give me ten min (sent 7:15 PM, 12/16/06)

----

“So…” Art starts, as you sit down next to him on the bed. You had spent the past couple weeks isolated in your dorm studying. And while finals season was keeping you busy, it was just an excuse to avoid Art and Tashi. After Patrick fucked you at the party, it was impossible to ignore the sense of guilt for your behavior. You didn’t deserve to have Art or Tashi in your life. You were awful. You wanted to avoid all three of them at all costs, and were grateful for the fact that finals gave you a reason to. 

Art sits down next to you and you both just look at each other for a moment. 

You knew this was about your relationship with him. Or well lack thereof. Without a label, without the sex, and now without seeing him, it wasn’t much of a relationship. You wanted him to be happy, but you couldn't deal with the guilt you felt by just being near him.

“I guess it’s over,” he says in a quiet voice. You nod in response. You have nothing to say as you reach over to give him a hug. Just as quickly as it started, you found it was over. 

----

Patrick: Art said he ended things with you. (sent 6:39 PM, 12/20/06)

----

Patrick: Are you ignoring me? (sent 12:47 AM, 12/21/06)

----

Patrick: ??? (sent 2:32 PM, 12/21/06)

----

Mom: Have you finished packing? (sent 10:02 PM, 12/23/06)

You: Almost (sent 10:03 PM, 12/23/06)

A lie. You were currently sitting on the floor of your dorm room, with two open, empty suitcases in front of you. You felt exhausted just thinking about packing, but it was only the twenty third and your flight was on Christmas morning. You figured you had plenty of time to pack. No need to stress your mom out about it.

As you stand up and walk over to your closet to grab some clothes to pack, you hear a knock on the door. It was quick and hurried. The semester technically ended yesterday and nearly everyone had already left. You look at the door, and when you hear another knock, you just assume it’s your RA telling you he was leaving for break.

When you open the door, you’re instead greeted with Patrick just standing there. “Patrick?” you asked surprised, “Wha–” 

He cuts you off, as he steps into the dorm, “You were ignoring me.” He says it as if that explains everything. “So you just decided to show up at my door,” you ask with a slight scoff. He shrugs. “I wanted to talk,” he says. You sigh, as you walk back to the closet, and open it. He seriously could not have been this dense to not realize why you were avoiding him. “If this is about what happened–” 

Now it’s your turn to cut him off. “Of course it is,” you snap back with a scoff. You move to kneel down by the suitcases as you put it in there. He exhales, running a hand through his hair and says, “Why are you acting like this?” You roll your eyes and sarcastically say, “I wonder why.” He sighs and just watches you pack. 

An awkward silence overtakes the room, and you take a deep exhale. “How did you even know I was still here anyway?” you ask to get rid of the quiet. “You always leave Christmas morning,” he says with a shrug. He sits down on the floor across from you, as he looks at your suitcases. Your brows furrow, “Shouldn’t you be home for the holidays too?” His eyes dart up to you, and he shrugs again, “Well I don’t celebrate Christmas.” It’s a skillful deflection of the question but you decide to press, “Well yeah I know that.” You remembered how everyone desperately wanted an invite to his Bar Mitzvah back at the academy (you of course were not invited). “But still,” you say as you wait for his response. 

He looks at you, and his face is much more serious now. “Uh..” he starts, “Well my parents are still pretty pissed I decided to not go to college.” Oh. You didn’t know that. He bites on the inside of his cheek, and you decide to change the subject. 

“Well you’re right, my flight is on Christmas morning,” you say as you stand up and walk back to the closet. He nods from where he is sitting on the floor. As you grab some clothes you add, “But I haven’t been able to pack because of finals.” 

“Need help?” he asks. You turn and look at him. His hands are stretched out towards you and you realize he’s asking to take the clothes. You slowly hand it to him, with a raised eyebrow, “You sure?” He just nods as he places the clothes into your suitcase. “You know these suitcases are pretty old, right?” he says to tease you. And you roll your eyes as you grab more clothes to hand him. 

An hour later, you both have finished packing. Taking his help was definitely the smart move, as you knew it would have taken at least another hour to finish up on your own. “Finally done,” you say as you lay down on the rug next to your bed. You feel exhausted and let out a yawn. Patrick is still moving some things around in the suitcase. “You’re pretty good at this, you know?” you say with another yawn, still laying down on the rug.

He lets out a laugh, “Well I have to do it on tour.” He continues to move things from one suitcase to another. He says something about distributing the weight, but you don’t catch it as you feel yourself drift off to sleep. 

----

When you wake up the next day, you find yourself in your bed. You sit up and look around. The clock on the wall says it’s noon, and your suitcases have been closed, put up right, and rolled to the corner of the dorm. You feel a pang of disappointment at the fact that you’re all alone, but push it down as you move to dangle your legs off the bed. You move to get up, but as you press your foot down you don’t find the fuzzy texture of your rug. You find Patrick. 

“Watch it,” he says groggily, as you look down on him. He rolls from his side to his back to look up at you. “You slept on the floor?” you ask him. “No, I’m laying down here for fun,” he says back sarcastically with a sleepy grin. You roll your eyes as you stand up, carefully avoiding him. “Thanks for moving me to the bed,” you say as you look at him. “Mhm,” he murmurs as he slowly sits up, “Don’t mention it.” 

You nod, and feel your stomach slightly rumble. “I’m gonna freshen up and go grab us something to eat from the vending machine,” you say with a nod. He raises an eyebrow, “The vending machine?” You shrug. The dining halls on campus would have already closed for break and you doubted there would be much open considering it was Christmas Eve. “Any Chinese places nearby?” he asks with a shrug. You know one and nod. “We’ll go there. I can drive,” he says. “Okay...” you say your voice trailing off as you walk to the bathroom. “Wait,” he says and you turn around and face him. “I’m kinda turned on by you stepping on me,” he says with a grin. You roll your eyes as you turn around and walk into the bathroom. 

----

An hour later, both of you were sitting across from each other at a table in a small Chinese restaurant waiting for your food. Somehow the conversation on the way turned to the fact that you didn’t have a license.

“So what, you take the bus everywhere?” he asks with a laugh. You nod and now he laughs “You can’t be serious.” You roll your eyes, but before you can let out some snarky retort, you feel a vibration in your pocket. You pull it out to see a message from your dad.

Dad: Make sure you set an alarm to wake up for your flight tomorrow. You probably want to leave the dorm by 6. (sent 1:23 PM, 12/24/06)

You: Got it :) (sent 1:23 PM, 12/24/06)

“Everything all good?” Patrick asks, as your attention drifts to your phone from the conversation you both were having. “Yeah, my dad just reminded me to set an alarm for tomorrow,” you say with a small nod. He nods in response as well. A moment of silence passes between the both of you. “They’ve always been like that. I remember,” he then says, eyes going to the side. “Been like what?” you ask, as you put your phone down in your lap. He shrugs. “You know,” he pauses to find the right word, “present.”

You look at him for a moment, unsure how to respond to it. You didn’t have to be a genius to see that Patrick wasn’t close to his parents, but his words said enough about how non-existent that relationship actually was. 

“I actually remember seeing them the first time I met you,” he suddenly says. “What?” you respond confused. The first time he met you was when he walked into class. You remember how he instantly sneered at you upon making eye contact. Your parents were nowhere in sight. “Okay well, first time I saw you,” he clarifies. Your brows furrow as he sighs. “They came to drop you off. They kept hugging you and saying how proud they were,” he says with a little hand motion and looks to the side as he does. 

You do remember that, but you didn’t know that Patrick saw that. Once again you’re unsure how to respond, but thankfully you don’t have to as the waiter walks over and places your dumplings and noodles on the table. “Thank god,” Patrick says as he grabs a pair of chopsticks. “I’m starving.”

----

You laugh in the car, as Patrick sings along off key to Mariah Carey on the radio. “You’re terrible,” you say with a laugh as you look over to him from your place in the passenger seat. He smirks, eyes still on the road. He then sarcastically says“What? I’m a great singer.” This causes you to laugh again, and he joins in. 

After that waiter placed your food, the conversation at the restaurant shifted back to more pleasant things. The food was great and now he was driving you both back to the dorm. 

“You know, you’re so much more fun when it’s just us,” he says once he is done laughing. “You’ve always been so quiet in public.” You can feel yourself involuntarily tense at his words. He wasn’t wrong. You were more reserved in public. A habit from your time at the academy. A habit from your time being bullied. Your quiet demeanor in public was his fault. And regardless of these moments between the two of you alone, nothing could change that. He must have had the same thought process, because he then goes, “Shit I didn’t–”

“It’s okay,” you quickly say to cut him off. “I know what you meant.” You turn up the volume on the radio to change the subject. He gets the hint, and neither of you say anything else on the way back. 

----

Both of you are sitting on the edge of your bed. Your eyes look around the room to check if there is anything you missed while packing. “I can drive you to the airport tomorrow” he suggests. “Honestly I don’t mind taking the bus,” you respond with a shrug as you turn back to him. His brows furrow and he sighs. “About earlier..” he says, his voice trailing off. You shake your head and say, “Just leave it Patrick.” He sighs more frustrated now, clearly unable to find the words he wants to say. He bites down on his bottom lip, and you register how close you’re both sitting. You decide you should move away, but he places his hand on your thigh to tell you to stay. 

His lips reach yours and he kisses you as if he hadn’t seen you in years. It's slower than usual. You feel his tongue explore every part of your mouth. As his hands pull off your sweater and push you back down onto the bed, everything feels a bit different. The way he kisses down your abdomen is still passionate, but not reckless. “You’re so beautiful,” you hear him mutter against your skin. There is no hurry in his actions, and his hands move across your body as if trying to memorize every detail. When his head finds his way in between your legs and pulls down your panties with your teeth, you can feel yourself shiver. He eats you out slowly, his tongue lapping through your folds and around your clit in a way that makes you shiver with each stroke. Your hands go to his hair, and you pull it gently. You can feel him moan against your core, and after a couple more moments of his tongue encircling your clit and protruding into your cunt, you come.

When he climbs back up over your body, he kisses you again. Soon you feel his cock push into you. His thrusts are long and slow. His forehead rests against yours, and you’re both holding eye contact. He tells you again you’re beautiful as he continues. You’re both panting and although it takes more time because of the pace, you both reach your orgasms. He presses a kiss to your forehead, and then rolls to lie down next to you.

Neither of you say anything, as you both just lay there looking up at the ceiling. This was new and neither of you know what to say about it. It’s dark outside now and then finally you hear Patrick whisper, “It’s been two years.” He doesn’t have to say what he’s talking about. Two years since the locker room in junior year. Two years since you guys began all of this. “Yeah…yeah it has,” you whisper back. Your head moves to the crook of his neck and his hand wraps around yours. The heat radiates off his body towards yours and you close your eyes. You’re unsure what time you fall asleep.

----

You’re grateful that you remembered to set the alarm as soon as you got back to the dorm yesterday. The clock goes off at six sharp and you wake up, quickly moving from Patrick’s hold on you to hit the off button. You look over beside you on the bed and see Patrick still asleep, although he must have sensed your movement because he shifts around. It’s the first time either of you have fallen asleep in the same bed. Your mind drifts back to the day before and to how you both ended up sleeping in the bed together. It feels as if some boundary has been crossed.

You slowly move to get dressed. You move on your tiptoes, as he moves again in his sleep. The last thing you want to do is wake him up. You want to leave. Go home. Forget any of this ever happened.

Once you’re ready to leave, you slowly push both suitcases on to the door, and look again at Patrick sleeping in your bed. You walk over to the desk and grab a sticky note and pen. You scribble down Lock up when you leave and place the spare key you’re suddenly beyond grateful you have right next to the note. You sigh as you take one last look at him, and then walk back over to the door to leave. 

----

He must have woken up shortly after you left, because you just get on the bus as you get a text from him. 

Patrick: Hope you have a good Christmas. (sent 6:23 AM, 12/25/06)

You: Thanks (sent 6:23 AM, 12/25/06)

----

You only heard from him once during break, on New Years. 

Patrick: Happy new years! (sent 12:00 AM 01/01/07)

You: Happy new years! (sent 12:01 AM 01/01/07)

You simultaneously loved and hated the silence. With no messages from him, it meant you didn’t have to confront what happened the night before you left. You could do your best to pretend nothing had happened. Although you found it impossible to do so. Your mind kept drifting back to that night, and thus equally hated how there was nothing you could do to find some concrete answers. You didn’t know what to expect from him after that. Or what it meant to him. You couldn’t even process what it meant to you. You’re left with an uneasy sense of deja vu, as you find yourself spending another winter break thinking only about you and Patrick.

----

If you were avoiding Art and Tashi before break, you had essentially ghosted them once you got back. As you returned to campus for the spring semester, you hoped Patrick would leave your mind. But without any answers to the questions you mulled throughout break, he remained at the forefront. This made it impossible to be around either of them. Not to mention, with your breakup – if you could even call it that – with Art, it was back to being awkward. 

You only saw them during tennis practice or games, always with an excuse handy to avoid spending any extra time together. Although, once again you sensed that they didn’t mind. During your first week back, after practice one day when you told Tashi you had to drop the film studies elective you both signed up for together, she just shrugged in response. “No worries,” she said casually. Art only made small talk with you before and after practice. If they missed your presence, they made no signs to show it.

In contrast, it started to seem as if Patrick was searching for it. Couple weeks after returning to school, he started texting you again. 

Patrick: You got back? (sent 5:43 PM, 01/29/07) You: Yeah. (sent 5:46 PM, 01/29/07)

Patrick: How is it? (sent 5:49 PM, 01/29/07)

You: Good. (sent 5:52 PM, 01/29/07)

He texted as if what happened before break was completely normal. The thought of addressing what happened made your stomach churn, but this was irritating. You were sure your annoyance was clear in your messages. 

You: Do you have my spare key? (sent 10:23 AM, 02/04/07)

Patrick: Shit. (sent 10:23 AM, 02/04/07)

Patrick: I think I lost it. (sent 10:23 AM, 02/04/07)

You: Good job. (sent 10:25 AM, 02/04/07)

Patrick: Sorry (sent 10:26 AM, 02/04/07)

And slowly, you couldn’t find it in you to respond at all. 

Patrick: I was on campus this weekend and didn’t see you once. (sent 2:32 AM, 02/04/07)

Patrick: Art said you guys don’t really talk anymore. (sent 2:32 AM, 02/04/07)

----

Patrick: I doubt the Stanford English department gives their students this much work. (sent 4:23 PM, 02/08/07)

----

Patrick: I can't believe you're ignoring me again. (sent 8:56 PM, 02/12/07)

----

Patrick: What did you tell her??? (sent 10:56 AM, 02/16/07) Patrick: ??? (sent 1:02 PM, 02/16/07)

----

The day you get the email from Adidas is just a random Thursday in Feburary. At first you thought it was spam, but then you saw the words sponsorship in the subject line. You open the email, and your eyes glaze over. It’s a casual email, saying that they’ve seen you play and that if you were interested they would set up something more formal to discuss with you. It feels surreal and you just stare at the screen, expecting it to disappear when you blink.

If you took it, wouldn’t you have to go pro? You were still unsure if you wanted that. Time gave you no clarity on the subject.

You reread the email from Adidas. Adidas. The company Tashi has a sponsorship from. Suddenly you have a feeling about what happened.

----

You’re sitting next to Tashi on the bleachers. Neither of you are playing in today’s game, but Stanford tennis still insists on all players attending for support. You doubt Tashi minds this rule. She always gets into the game, mumbling little things about the players, regardless of who was playing. These moments were the only times you really talked anymore, it was now or nothing. You look at her and take a deep exhale, “I got an email from Adidas.” 

She turns and looks at you, her eyebrow raises but then she smiles, “Really?” You nod in response, “They want to give me a sponsorship.” Her smile just grows, but before she can have a chance to respond, you ask, “Did you tell them something?” 

“What?” she asks, looking at you. She lets out a scoff like laugh, but then realizes your expression is serious. “It’s not like Adidas is going to give you a sponsorship just because I asked them too.” 

“Yeah but you were–” she cuts you off. 

“Well I think you deserve one. Doesn’t mean I could get it for you,” she says with a shrug and head shake, as if to say what did you expect. 

“I just don’t understand how else they would–”

“You can’t be serious,” she says with a laugh. She looks at the game and then towards you. “You’re currently ranked fourth in women’s college tennis. Of course you’d be on their radar.” You just look at her blankly. Well when she put it like that it made some sense, but you still felt lost. She sighs and tilts her head, “It’s so tiring watching you try justifying these things.” Your eyebrows furrow and she continues. “You think you’re this awful player, but you’re not,” she pauses, “I mean I understand why tho. The academy really did a number on you.”

You feel yourself get a little more tense, as she brings this up. “Huh?” is all you can say. 

“Art told me. About the bullying. About Patrick…” she starts. Before you can even process the fact that Art told her everything, she continues. “It actually made a lot of sense. There was always something off between the two of you. At first I thought maybe you had a crush and that’s why you were avoiding me as well, but what Art said made a lot more sense considering your whole complex with Tennis.” Complex with tennis? What?

“I..well,” you start but are unable to find the words. She continues, “You are a good player tho. You deserve the sponsorship.” You just look at her and nod slowly again, she leans in and with a smile says “Congrats.” Both of you then turn to look back at the game, although it’s the last thing on your mind. 

----

Tashi’s words never left your head after that. Your headache only grew after that. Another thing to spend time pondering about. A complex with tennis? What did that even mean? You were also somewhat shocked that Art told her all of that, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to talk to him. The only thing clear to you after the conversation, was the fact that your urge to avoid them all had grown. 

It’s around eleven pm and you were walking back from the library. Practice had become a little more intense as you got closer to the end of the season. Between that and the time you had to spend in class, you were staying up later to finish your work. It was all getting to you. Your life had become: class, tennis, work, class, tennis, work.  You had three more matches left: Pepperdine, UNC, and Purdue. Then the season would end and you wouldn’t have to worry about tennis until next year. The Adidas email was still unanswered. It was fine. You promised to get around to it eventually. 

As you walked on the sidewalk back to your dorm, you started to feel as if you weren’t alone. You turned around and saw a car a little behind you moving slowly. You turn back around without getting a proper look, and grip your backpack strap a little tighter as you decide to walk a little faster. The driver must have realized, because they too started to drive a bit faster. You start to run, but as you’re about to cross the road, the car swerves in front of you and stops. This time you do get a good look. You’d know this car anywhere. You feel frozen in place. 

“Get in the car,” Patrick says. His voice is more of an order than a question. You just stare at him. “Get in the car,” he repeats. You look around to see if anyone is there walking over and opening the passenger seat door. Everything happened so quickly, it feels disorientating. 

“What–” 

You’re not given the chance to finish the sentence as he spits out, “I can’t believe you’re ignoring me again. I thought we were over this.” You just look at him, as he starts to drive, you’re not exactly sure where. You open your mouth to ask, but then he says, “Yeah okay we fucked up. We have been fucking up. But you don’t just get to disappear.” 

You watch him, as he continues to drive. “I’ve been busy,” is all you say. He scoffs, “Too busy to respond to my message, but not too busy to tell Tashi about the academy, huh?” he says, leaning in again. Your brows furrow and you start to say “I never–”

He cuts you off once more, “Oh please, cut the crap.” He looks to the side and then to you, “I’m so fucking tired of this.” He is close enough that his nose is touching yours, “How convenient of you to leave out the part where we’ve been sleeping together? Can’t stand not being the victim?” His words aggravate you and you begin, “Patrick–”

He cuts you off again, “The poor scholarship kid. The poor bullied kid.” His tone is mocking and combined with the fact he hasn’t let you get one proper sentence in yet, you find your anger increasing. “I mean it looks like it got you places. Art said you got an Adidas sponsorship. Good for you,” he says with a scoff like laugh. Did Tashi tell Art about it? You shut down the thought. You don’t have the time for it right now. 

“Fuck you Patrick,” you bite back, and he laughs again. “Don’t you ever get tired of this? You have everything, and you still act like it’s nothing,” he snaps back. 

You scoff and suddenly the car is suffocating. You don’t know where you are, but you’re sure you could figure out how to get back, so you grab the car door to open and leave. Instantly, his hand comes down and clamps down on your arm. He holds you with a tight grip. 

“Let go of me,” you say, looking at him. “No,” he retorts back instantly. You try pulling from his grip, but he doesn’t let you go. It doesn’t stop you from trying again. Once again he just says, “No.” You look at him with a laugh, and pull again, but he pulls your arm with enough force that your whole body moves closer to him. The hand you kept on the door handle is pulled away, and without thinking the hand goes to slap Patrick for pulling you. 

You weren’t thinking when you did it. It just happened. He just looks at you after the slap, equally surprised. The cheek you hit him on is slightly pinkish, although you didn't hit him hard enough to really hurt. Just enough to sting. His grip on your arm loosens, but you don’t move. You’ve been in this situation enough times to know what is going to happen next. And like every time before, you have no intention of stopping it. It’s no surprise when his lips come crashing down on yours. 

Your tongues clash, and your hands move to grip his shoulders. You can feel your nails digging into the muscle there. He moans in your mouth at the sensation, and you feel your arousal grow as he does. As if knowing, his hand goes to slip inside of your pants, gently touching you over the thin fabric of your panties. You whine against his lips at the sensation, and he chuckles. “Such a desperate slut,” he murmers, as he applies a bit more pressure with his fingers as he touches you. “Patrick,” you whimper again, he chuckles at it. You can feel his fingers push away your panties and you feel his middle finger dip into your cunt. It’s long and calloused as he thrusts it in and out of you. The position is insanely uncomfortable; you in the passenger seat, him reaching over the dash, but you’re too needy at this point to care. His thumb runs over your clit as his middle finger continues its motions. You think he is going to dip another finger in, when he suddenly stops. Something in the back of the car catching his eyes. 

“Remove the sweats,” he tells you, as he reaches his hand to the back seat to grab something. You do as he says, pulling it down to your ankles. Your panties are still pushed to the side, so you’re exposed. You lean back against the car door, as you see him pull out a tennis racket. You remember his words at the party, and you can see the brief moment of hesitation on your face. It’s so obscene but it just makes you even more aroused, you spread your legs a little more, and his hesitant look is replaced with a smirk. As your arousal drips onto the car seat, his hands reach out to touch your folds, and then he leans over the dash and spits right on your pussy, tennis racket still in hand. The next thing you feel is the handle of the tennis racket sliding into you with ease.

He moves it back and forth, as he watches. “Fuck,” he groans at the sight, as his free hand moves to palm at his dick through his pants. His breathing is labored now. You squirm in the seat as he continues with the racket, your hand moves down to rub little circles over your clit to bring you over the edge faster. “I’m..cl..” your voice trails off before you can finish the sentence. “I know,” he says with a pant. “Let go for me,” and his words bring forth your orgasm as your head goes back against the window and you feel yourself let go.

He smiles as he sees you come undone. You look at him through half lidded eyes, deciding to give yourself a minute before you both continue, wanting to give him a hand or blow job to get him off. But as his eyes drift down to where the tennis racket is, he stares at it for a moment. The smile slowly falls off his face and his other hand moves away from his pants. He pulls the tennis racket out and you sit up. He turns to put the racket in the back again.

“I’ll drive you back,” is all he says after, not making eye contact as he does.

-----

Neither of you say anything afterwards. After what he said, you fixed your panties and pulled up your pants, and he started driving the car back in silence. His eyes are glued to the road, but you turn to look at him every couple minutes. He looks much more solemn, and you find yourself unable to break the silence. 

He stops at a red light, and you’re still looking at him as his eyes remain on the road. “I’m…You have every right not to text me,” he suddenly starts. “I don’t…You should probably stop texting me.” His voice is so defeated and small, it’s almost hard to believe this is the same man from ten minutes ago. He starts driving again, and you look out the window.

Wherever that parking lot was, it must not have been far from campus, because before you know it you can see your dorm building in the distance. “You should stop here,” you tell him quietly, not wanting to get too close to the building where someone may see you. He nods as he parks at the end of the road. You pick up your bag to leave, but from the side of your eye you see him face you again.

“Why..I can’t believe you let me do that shit to you,” he says. He is facing you in the passenger seat now, but is unable to look at you. You look at him, feeling a weird knot in your stomach. “Patrick…” you start, but your voice drifts off. You’re not sure why either. “You shouldn’t let me do that shit to you.” His voice is a bit louder and still upset. “God you should fucking hate me,” his eyes look back up to yours. And then in a softer voice he asks, “Why don’t you hate me?” 

He has a point. You have every reason to hate him. Sometimes what you feel is strong enough to be hatred, but you know whatever you feel for him isn’t hate. You look away from him towards your dorm building in the distance. There is no straight answer you can provide for him right now, so instead you quietly say, “I should get back.” 

He looks where you’re looking and nods with a sigh, saying “Okay…yeah.” 

You say nothing else as you get out of the car with your stuff. You have to fight the urge to look back at him as you walk to your dorm. 

----

Patrick: Won a couple matches I played with that racket. Maybe it really is lucky now. (sent 7:02 PM, 02/22/06)

Patrick: I hope you're doing well. (sent 7:10 PM, 02/22/06)

You never respond. He doesn’t send anything else. 

----

Adidas sent you a follow up email, considering you never responded to the first one. They said they wanted to give you the time to think, but they needed to hear something back. You don’t respond to this email either. 

----

The past couple weeks have been the most isolated you’ve been since your time at the academy. It was like you were fourteen again constantly tormented and with no friends. Except this time, the only thing tormenting you were your thoughts. You wanted to just disappear and avoid everything and everyone. You didn’t even have the energy to think about any of it. About Patrick and why you didn’t hate him. About your supposed complex with tennis. Even just remembering what happened over the past couple months was exhausting. 

You didn’t talk to anyone. Tashi no longer came up to you in the locker rooms or during practice and games. You didn’t know if she was giving you space after your conversation or if this marked the death of your friendship. This also to think about, even if you were relieved that it made it easier to avoid her presence. You also started to skip class more often. You knew you’d also be skipping practice and games if your scholarship wasn’t dependent on tennis. You’re almost free though. Today is the match against Pepperdine. Then two more, and the season would be done. 

You were walking back to your dorm room, when you see them through the dining hall window. Art and Patrick eating churros. You stand and stare at both of them for a moment. Somehow the sight takes you by surprise. You assumed that Patrick was still visiting campus, since he and Tashi were still together. And of course he was still friends with Art, but you couldn’t help but wonder if Patrick figured out if it was Art who told Tashi about everything that happened at the academy. 

You still hadn’t confronted Art about that. You still wanted to, but you still found yourself unable to talk to Art. Just like Tashi no longer talked to youi, he no longer seemed to talk to you. The small talk before and after practice, had now just been reduced to the occasional wave. Your eyes go to Patrick. Neither of you were texting anymore. Nor had he randomly showed up to talk to you, like the last two times. For once in your life, Patrick Zweig had actually left you alone. 

When both boys notice you're staring through the window, you lock eyes with both of them. Art’s expression is stoic, you couldn’t read it if you tried. Patrick looks slightly surprised and for a moment you think he is about to smile at you, but you don’t wait around to find out. You turn away and walk straight back to your dorm. 

----

There’s thirty minutes until the match. You’re dressed in your dorm so you wouldn’t have to bother with the locker room. You're ready to head out, when you hear a knock on your dorm door. You look at it for a minute. You swallow and hope it’s not Patrick, as you open the door. You’re flooded with both relief and disappointment that it’s Art. 

“Uh..hey,” you say, seeing him. He nods and gives you a small smile you can tell is forced. “I saw you today, so I thought I’d come over,” he says. The way he looks at you makes you feel as if he knows something. It’s obvious this is all a pretense to talk about something else. While you don’t know what, you know you don’t want to talk about it. As you move to let him walk into your dorm, you quickly say,  “I was actually about to head out for the game soon.”

He nods, “me too.” He then looks at you, and his lips part again as if he is about to speak. You have no idea what he is about to say, but you already want this conversation to be over. Without thinking, you speak first, “So Patrick is visiting for the game?” 

His lips close, clearly not expecting that. He nods and curtly says, “Tashi invited him.” While this is the same Art you’ve known for years, he suddenly feels much colder. His expression is stony and makes you want to shrink. It dawns on you that this must all be about Tashi. Maybe he was just trying to use what happened to you as a way to get her to break up with Patrick. The thought he would do so is upsetting, and without thinking, you say, “She told me what you said.” 

He nods and shrugs, “Well it came up one day.”

“Really?” your voice exposes the fact that you don’t believe it. 

He just shrugs in response and shakes his head yes as he does. “I don’t see why it’s a big deal.” 

“You don’t see why telling my friend about something like that wasn’t a big deal?” you ask back. 

“Are you really her friend anymore?” he asks, which stuns you into silence. He just lets out a little huff, and continues, “And she’s with Patrick. She should know about it.” You stare at him, unsure how to respond. “She should know what type of guy her boyfriend is,” he repeats. 

“Patrick is your best friend–”

“I know that,” he cuts you off quickly. This was the most impassioned thing he had said this whole time. “But I’m not going to pretend what he didn’t wasn’t awful.” Maybe it was a little more than just about Tashi. He looks at you for a moment, as if analyzing you, “Why do you?” You stare at him blankly, his voice is calm but cruel in a way that makes you want to scream. “Why do you brush it aside?” His voice sounds as if he is trying to imply something and you find yourself just standing there. “It’s like you’re trying to protect him”

“I’m not,” you say back in a quiet voice. He just shrugs in response, and looks to the side, as he looks like he is about to say something, but he then lets out a humorless laugh. Before you can ask why he did so, he says, “See you at the game.” He takes one last knowing look at you as he walks out of the room. 

----

You didn’t have the energy to leave after that. You laid down on your bed for a couple extra minutes, before you realized you would be late if you didn’t leave now. You grabbed your racket and water bottle and headed out to leave the dorm building. 

You walk out of the dorm and then the dorm building quickly, but not fast enough to miss the sight of Patrick sitting on the curb. You stop upon seeing him, and he must sense your presence because he turns and looks at you. His back straightens up a little more and you can see his eyes are red. He’s wearing what looks to be Tashi’s shirt, and the scent of weed drifts off him. 

He says your name as he scrambles to his feet. “I have to go,” you say, pointing with your racket in the direction of the game. You take a step backwards. You don’t have the time for this. You don’t have the energy for this. “She knows,” he suddenly says. 

You can feel your heart drop. “Tashi..she knows about...” He doesn't finish the sentence, but makes a motion between the both of you. 

He says something after that, but you’re unable to hear it. Your legs move without you processing the action, and the next thing you find is yourself running to the court where the game is. You can hear Patrick call after you, but he doesn’t follow. 

----

Tashi is by the bench, pulling out her racket from the case. You run over to her instantly, the moment she processes your presence she scoffs. 

“Tashi–”

She does not let you speak, looking at you with a cold expression. “I don’t know what fucked up dynamic you and Patrick have going on,” she starts, before leaning in slightly in a menacing way. “But keep it away from me.” 

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. It’s not like she would have heard anything you said anyway, the minute she is done speaking she walks away to the court. 

You watch her go, as you sink down onto the bench. The items in your hand falling down beside you. The game begins but you’re unable to focus. You just sit there, your fingers going back to picking the skin by your cuticles. You feel as if the ground is spinning and you want nothing to run back to your dorm. Your mind replays the moment with Tashi. The conversation with Art.  You hear Patrick’s voice ask why you don’t hate him replaying in your head, and you feel all the memories come rushing back. It’s as if floodgates have been opened and nothing can stop it from pouring out. You let yourself spiral as you feel your heart rate picked up.  

You probably would have been like that for the whole game, but then you hear it. 

Her scream. 

----

It’s all a blur after that. You look up and see Tashi on the ground clutching her knee. You don’t waste a moment before getting up and running to her side, but the minute you get down on your knees beside her, her expression becomes even more upset. 

“No!” she says clutching her knee looking at you. “Get away! Get the fuck away!” You just stare as you see her cry, as your coach comes down beside you to calm her down. You see Art run down from the stands, hopping over the net for her. As he moves her head on her lap, you make eye contact with him. 

His expression is worried, but also has something else you can’t place. You look back at him, and he looks away from your gaze down at Tashi. Then you realize what the other emotion is. Guilt. Suddenly, the conversation earlier made more sense. He knew. He knew about you and Patrick. He knew and he told her. Your mind races with questions, but you slowly get up realizing you’re only making Tashi more upset. You look at her one last time, before running to the bathroom for some privacy, feeling the tears well up in your eyes as you do. 

----

You wipe your tears as you sit in the hallway of the campus' medical center . When you stepped out of the bathroom, you realized that they had already taken her off the court. You assumed she was either brought here or was already taken to the hospital. You couldn't care less about your game after everything, so you left for the medical center instantly. When you arrived, you saw a coach talking to one of the nurses and that confirmed she was here.

The medical center was small. A one floor building, so you knew she was just down the hall, but you couldn't bring yourself to go to her. Why would she want to see you? She hated you now. You were a few feet away, but you may as well have been miles away from her. You still couldn't bring yourself to leave. It was like watching a car crash. Awful. Crushing. Yet absorbing. You just sat on the floor, hugging your knees to your chest, with your head leaning against the wall.

You hear hurried footsteps from the other end of the hallway, and you turn to see Patrick who nearly runs into the room. 

“Get out!” you hear Tashi say. You can tell he is trying to say something back, but then you hear Tashi say again to get out. While your position in the hallway prevents you from seeing anything, you can hear it clearly. 

“Get the fuck out Patrick!” Art’s voice booms. You just stare at the direction of the door, as you see Patrick walk out dejected. As he steps out he sees you sitting on the floor. Somehow the sight of you makes him look even sadder.

His eyes go down to the floor and he slowly begins walking down the hallway in your direction. You just watch him, as he comes over to you and then slumps down onto the floor next to you. He turns his head to look at you. You stare back in silence. 

“I’m sorry,” he then says quietly. His voice barely above a whisper. “For everything.” 

You look at him with a small nod and respond, “I know.”

And when he leans in to hug you, you close your eyes and wrap your arms around him as well. Your mind goes blank and you let the enormity sink in. You can’t tell if it makes you feel empty or complete.

“Hello, Earth to Donaldson?” Patrick’s snapping in front of his face, his brows furrowing and crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Taco Bell or McDonalds?”

Art grunts quietly, his hands fidgeting aimlessly with his sleeves. His Nana had sewed on multiple buttons and zippers onto the sleeves of some of his jackets, knowing how often he needed to fidget to quell his anxieties, and he was definitely taking advantage of it now. The world seems to spin around him and Patrick’s voice is faint in his ears. Did they lock the doors before they left? Did Patrick check the tire pressure like he said he would? What if he didn’t? Oh, God, what if–

“Donaldson.” Suddenly, Art can feel Patrick’s heavy hand on his shoulder, a grounding pressure against his impending anxiety attack. “Art, look at me.” Patrick’s eyes, like grass, like the ground. Art can put his weight on it, his feet can be stable on the ground. He meets Patrick’s gaze, who alternates between looking at the road and glancing concernedly at Art. “Talk to me, man.”

Art lets out a shaky breath, blinking quickly as he looks away. Patrick’s gaze is too knowing, too judgemental. Like he can see Art’s thoughts, see the spiral into insanity of those icy blue eyes. “Did you check the tire pressure?” he asks, his voice high and reedy, and he clears his throat. “I know you said you would, and I-I trust you, but I just- I need to make sure.”

Patrick’s brow furrows, and he nods. He knows all about Art’s tendencies at this point, knows how to see when Art’s thinking about it, but he still isn’t sure how to remedy it. Even Art doesn’t really know, so he doesn’t blame his friend. “Yeah, Art, I checked. Double-checked, nah, I fuckin’ triple-checked that shit. Even texted one of my pals to make sure I was doing it right. You don’t need to worry.” Those last few words are naught. Art always worries.

“Right. Right, right. I know,” Art exhales sharply, bunching up his hands in his jacket. The fabric wrinkles around his angry fists, and he can imagine how Patrick’s face would look in place of his jacket– skin tearing and revealing bloody sinew, eyeballs popping out and lips tearing apart to show rows of shiny white teeth– Jesus Christ. Art shakes his head, quick and sharp, trying to push the gruesome image out of his mind. “It’s just… you know. Tire blowouts are responsible for 11,000 car crashes each year. Which is– I mean, realistically, I know it won’t happen, it’s just…” 

Art trails off. Realistically. It’s an awful word for him to stomach, every time his therapist says it to him. He knows that in the real world, awful things won’t happen to him every second. But it’s easy for him to worry, to think too much and spiral into his own world of violent and terrifying thoughts, away from the so-called ‘real world’. “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he finishes, his voice soft and delicate. Patrick’s expression is one of pity, which makes Art feel even worse– he doesn’t want to be fucking pitied. He just wants to keep Patrick safe.

“Art. I promise you that nothing is going to happen,” Patrick says, his voice steady as he keeps a hand on Art’s shoulder. “Breathe with me, dude. Come on, in and out.” Patrick would have loved to make a joke about that, if he wasn’t worried about Art. It only serves to make Art more upset, knowing that his friend can’t truly be himself because of his stupid mind.

“Please don’t promise,” Art whispers, clearing his throat. “I’ll be really mad if it does happen, because then you’ll have broken your promise, and I know you didn’t mean to, but that’s just- that’s just how life works, and you- I-”

Art lurches up in his seat abruptly, eyes wide and panicked as he remembers. “Patrick– Pat, you left a cigarette– in the trashcan, it– our dorm is on fire, Patrick, we need to turn back, please–”

Patrick frowns, placing a hand on Art’s chest and gently pushing him back. “No, dude, it was just the butt of it. It wasn’t lit, Art,” he says gently, trying to coax his overworked mind back to sleep, but it clearly isn’t working– Art only remembers when his mind says, and his mind assures him that the cigarette Patrick tossed was lit. He can only imagine it now. Their dorm room that’s become home, aflame and lit by an angry red, matching the leaves that cascade around outside the car. Art’s baby blue comforter turning into ashes alongside Patrick’s raunchy Playboy magazines that he tucks under his bed, smoke curling out of the windows. And Art’s mouse plushie, crocheted by his Nana, the plastic eyes melting as the yarn shrivels and burns. It’s enough to make his chest tighten, and he bangs on the side of the car door. 

“Patrick! We need to go back now!” he shrieks, mind completely overtaken by the idea of his home burning up. Patrick mutters something under his breath, checking in the rearview mirror before pulling over to the side and turning off the car. He unbuckles his seatbelt and faces Art, his face stony and serious. 

“Breathe, Art, just breathe,” he insists, but Art’s too far gone, his eyes somewhere else as he watches the firefighters douse their dorm room, extinguishing the flame along with all the memories the two boys had made together. He doesn’t understand why Patrick isn’t as panicked as him, why he isn’t turning around and speeding back to MRTA. Maybe Patrick just doesn’t understand the levity of this situation, how serious it is, and Art’s gaze finds Patrick. Big blue eyes watery with tears, his nose red and cheeks flushed as he grips onto his friend’s shoulders.

“Patrick, if-if we drive back really fast, we could maybe make it in time to save something,” Art begs, tears pricking at his eyes. He can smell the ash that will rise from the remains of their dorm, and his entire body feels itchy. This is your fault. “I told you this was a bad idea, Pat, you’re so- so stupid for this!”

Patrick doesn’t flinch at the insult, one hand gently cupping Art’s jaw and the other wiping away his tears. “Art, look at me,” he says, his voice gravelly and low, as he coaxes Art’s eyes to meet his. His presence is grounding, even with how upset Art is, heavy hands feeling like weights that bring Art back down to reality. “I put the cigarette out before tossing it. I promise you, Art. And don’t tell me not to promise, because this is a promise that I can actually keep. The cig was burnt all the way out, there was nothing left of it. Our dorm is not on fire. Art, look at me.” Art’s eyes had begun to drift away, his chest rising and falling rapidly even as Patrick tried to reassure him.

“Say it with me, Art. Our dorm is not on fire,” Patrick says forcefully, and Art’s lips struggle to form the words, wanting desperately to believe it.

“Our- our dorm, it- God, Patrick, can’t we just go back to check–?” Art whimpers, snot and tears mixing and dripping down his chin. Patrick shakes his head firmly, squeezing Art’s shoulders. 

“Say it.”

“G-God, our dorm isn’t on fire– it’s not on fire, our dorm is not on fire,” Art chants like a mantra, his eyes squeezing shut. His fists clench in the fabric of his jacket, nails digging into the soft skin of his palm. Deep red crescents appear in the softness of his hands, and Patrick desperately wants to lift Art’s hands up and kiss his palms, reassure him that everything is fine.

“You’re right, Art. It isn’t on fire, and it won’t be. You’re right,” Patrick says softly, his thumb absently stroking Art’s cheek gently. He watches the blonde boy suck in deep, shuddering breaths, his breathing evening out as he relaxes. He nods limply, his eyes downcast.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m right,” he whispers, his voice taut and wavering. “Thanks– Thanks, Pat.”

Patrick smooths out Art’s hair, squeezing his face. His touch is gentle and soft, like a mothers would be, and it’s a new side of him that Art rarely sees, even as his best friend. “Don’t mention it,” he says gruffly, eyes scanning over Art’s face. “Just… just chill, okay? You just need to relax.”

It’s shitty advice and he knows it, but what else could he say? He didn’t understand (and Art didn’t expect him to), but Patrick just wasn’t sure how he could fix this. “Just pick Taco Bell or McDonald’s, Artie. That’s all you gotta worry about. Leave the rest up to the Zweigster,” Patrick puffs his chest out, relishing in the tiny laugh he gets from Art.

Art’s silent for a moment, gears churning, and Patrick can see the numbers that hover above his head– his mental math of counting calories that will keep his daily intake under 1,250. No more, no less. He’s very specific about it. “Taco Bell,” he finally decides, and Patrick nods, starting the car up again.

The engine rumbles under their feet, then fizzles out. Patrick isn’t surprised, his teammate warning him that the truck was a piece of shit, and he turns the key again. Still, the engine only revs weakly before sputtering and coughing, smoke seeping through the cracks of the hood. Patrick and Art exchange a glance, and Art’s blue eyes are easy to read. Shit.

The evenness that Art worked so hard to achieve is starting to disappear, his breathing becoming jerky and unnatural as he and Patrick clamber out of the car, observing the smoking hood. Patrick’s more pissed than anything, but Art looks downright petrified.

“It’s fine, Art,” Patrick insists, his heart breaking as he hears the asthmatic wheezing sounds from Art that sound so similar to the broken car. He pops the hood open, blinking back tears as smoke engulfs his face, obscuring his vision. “Worst comes to worse, we have to call Triple A and maybe just try to find a hotel nearby–” he turns around to see Art, leaning against the truck heavily as he sobs, gasping for air.

“What the fuck do you mean nearby?! We’re on a highway in the m-middle of nowhere, and nobody else is driving past– but sure, Patrick, let’s go find a fancy four-star fucking suite!” Art’s voice is shrill, his eyes bloodshot as he glares back up at his friend. He’s wringing his hands so tightly, the tips of his fingers begin to look purple from the lack of circulation, and the indents from his nails are a rusty red color. “I told you this was a terrible idea, I– you promised me! You said that everything– everything would be okay–” he breaks down into big, full sobs that wrack his entire body, leaving him slumped against the car door. Patrick’s in shock, unsure of what to say. He’s never seen an episode get this bad, not the point where Art begins fisting his pretty blonde locks as if aiming to tear it out.

“Whoa, whoa whoa whoa, Artie– hey, dude, look at me,” Patrick attempts his tried-and-true method, his voice soft, but Art seems deaf to anything that isn’t the onslaught of thoughts that seem to swarm his busy mind.

Art’s standing straight now, pacing anxiously along the length of the truck. He mutters under his breath, knuckles knocking against his skull in an orderly pattern. Patrick recognizes that compulsion; eight smacks to the head, wait five seconds, then seven. So on and so forth until he reaches one. Supposedly, as Art told him, if he did that and was patient, everything would be resolved by the time he got to one. Patrick wasn’t sure if he could get a tow truck in that short timespan.

Meanwhile, Art’s too busy panicking about their situation to think about anything else. His mind is running wild with visions of him and Patrick being picked up by some crazy truck driver, their brains splattered in the back of a van, a wild animal coming up and tearing them apart. Every time he tries to rationally dispute it, another even worse vision seems to appear, sending him spiralling further. This wasn’t fair. He just wanted to keep Patrick safe.

He didn’t realize Patrick’s hands were on him until the brunette yelled, loud and jarring, snapping Art back into reality. He’s like a life jacket that’s tossed while Art’s head was underwater, and the blonde takes a big gulp of air as Patrick observes him. Peering, curious, concerned more than anything.

“Art,” he says quietly, a sense of vulnerability being heard. “Let’s… let’s sit down, okay?” He leads Art to the back of the truck, pushing aside some crates to make a space for them to sit. He hops onto the truckbed, waiting for Art to obediently follow– and of course, he does. He sits next to Patrick, tiny hiccups shaking his body as he wrings his hands incessantly. He knocks his knuckles against the side of his head, down to six times now.

“Can you look at me? Art, can you– hey, can you look at me?” Patrick says gently, taking Art’s hands in his to prevent him from his compulsions. Art’s watery eyes meet Patrick’s, full of fear and regret. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice trembling, and Patrick shakes his head emphatically.

“No, dude, don’t be sorry. You don’t have shit to apologize for, just… just let me talk for a sec, yeah?” Art nods jerkily, and Patrick gently squeezes Art’s hands.

“It isn’t your fault.” He lets the words linger in the air, echo through Art’s war-torn brain, waits for it to sink in. It only seems to bounce off of Art, though, and Patrick shakes his friend gently. “Art. None of this is your fault. This is just, it’s shitty luck, that’s all it is. There was nothing you could have done to stop this.”

Art’s quiet, struggling to pull his hand out of Patrick’s grip; five seconds have passed and it’s time for five knocks on the head. “I could have,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t double check the lights before we left, and– and I stopped counting the lampposts halfway through the drive because you started talking to me and I got distracted, I’m sorry, I know it’s my fault–”

“Art– Jesus, Art, no!” Patrick exclaims, gripping Art’s hands tighter. “What you think isn’t always true, Art. You not double checking the lights when we left doesn’t equate to our fucking car breaking down. Things– it doesn’t work like that, okay?” Patrick reassures him, scrambling for words that will appeal to Art. “Sometimes people just have shit luck. It’s not something you can control, and it fucking sucks that we can’t. But no matter how hard you try, sometimes good things will happen, and sometimes shitty things happen. You can’t control it.”

He watches as Art’s breath evens out, eyes squeezing shut to tune out anything else. “I just– I want to protect you,” he confesses quietly. “And… I can’t. But if I just try… if I just count, then maybe it’ll be worth something to you.”

His words only seem to make Patrick’s heart fracture further, his expression softening as he listens to Art speak. “You’re worth so much to me, Art,” he says, an easy vulnerability in the way he speaks, something that’s rare to see in teenage boys. “You gotta understand that, Artie, I don’t care if you popped the tires on purpose or some shit– at least we had this memory to share, right?” He pauses, waiting for acknowledgement from Art. “I know you’re doing your best. And I see that, I appreciate it. It’s nice that you’re trying hard, you know? God knows I never fuckin’ do, but… you don’t have to, Art. You just gotta be here with me.”

Art’s expression morphs into something solemn and quiet, a deer at the edge of a highway, watching a truck barrel towards it. “I want to try,” he whispers, “I contribute– nothing. I can at least… pretend I’m useful.”

“Yeah, I know you wanna try, man,” Patrick mumbles quietly, running his fingers along the scarred knuckles of Art’s hands. “It’s good that you do. But just because you try, doesn’t mean it’ll work. It sucks, but it’s just the truth.” He follows every shift in Art’s expression, the twitch of his lip and slow blinks. He lets go of Art’s hands, pulling him closer by the shoulder, and squeezing gently. “You don’t need to contribute anything. You do it just by being here.” A pause, long and drawn out, syrupy like honey. “I love you, man.”

Art’s chest feels tight, and he buries his head in the crook of Patrick’s neck, blonde curls tickling Patrick’s chin. “I love you too,” he mutters, his voice muffled and weak. He’s nowhere near better, but his mind slows, until his thoughts are simple enough for him to comprehend. It wasn’t your fault. You can’t control life. And it’s okay that you can’t.

And when Art looks up to meet Patrick’s gaze again, instead of being met with the silhouette of numbers and statistics, he just sees his friend in his shining glory.

It’s just Patrick. Art’s mind grows quiet, and it’s more beautiful than anything.

Hot. Hot, hot, hot.

The old, rattling A/C and the cracked window fought the Florida humidity and lost. The air in the dorm room was thick, tasting of stale sweat and something sweeter, something shameful.

Two separate beds. Two separate bodies, backs turned, hands moving in unison. Groans filling the room—but the sound was the same. The silence between them was the same. The girl in their heads was the same.

You.

For six years, your presence was the planet Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig orbited at the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy. Six years of obsession, always tempered by their co-dependence. After the first shared discovery, they made a pact: you were off limits. Nothing as "silly as a girl" would fracture the thing they had. Their friendship, their rivalry, their shared, unspoken secret.

But circumstances shift. Time loosens things. Now, on the humid night before the MRTA Tournament final, Patrick broke the silence.

"We should make a bet."

Art groaned, rolling over, his mop of blond hair sticking to his forehead. "A bet?"

"A bet. Yeah." Patrick sat up, his shadow long and angular in the weak light. His tone was low, weighted with the feeling of something terrible and necessary.

"Go on," Art muttered, eyes half-lidded. "Tell me your dumb idea."

"It's not dumb." Patrick's mouth curved into a hungry, familiar grin. "It's simple. Winner tomorrow gets to make a move. On her."

That got Art’s attention. He pushed up on an elbow, his face tight. The air suddenly felt heavier, thicker. "I don't know, Pat. That’s messed up."

"It's not messed up. It's an out." Patrick leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. "Six years. We’ve wanted her since day one, Artie. This is the only way it ends. Clean. A prize for the one who earns it."

"We're already playing for a trophy. We don't need to turn her into one." Art scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes. The dizzying, lingering heat of the room made it hard to think straight. "The whole point of the pact was to keep her out of this."

"The whole point of the pact was cowardice," Patrick countered, his gaze burning, dark and steady. "And you know it. We're both exhausted from it. She's right there. You moan her name loudest, man. Don't lie."

Art flinched, the accusation landing like a low, cruel smash. "It’s different," Art insisted, but the conviction was weak. "This is asking for a disaster. We'll survive the final. We won't survive this."

"No, we survive this because of the final." Patrick’s intensity ratcheted up, his focus lethal. "We need this. We need something real on the line. I'm offering an end to the torture, Art. A clean kill. The loser steps back, no hard feelings, the pact holds true for them. The winner walks up and asks her out. That’s it."

Patrick extended his hand, palm up, the heat of his skin radiating into the already-stale air. "Winner takes all."

Art looked at the hand. At the hungry, demanding darkness in Patrick’s eyes. It was a disaster waiting to happen. It was a terrible choice.

But the thought of waking up tomorrow, losing, and walking away from the chance to finally have you—that felt like the greater, more unforgivable failure. He sighed, a deep, ragged sound of surrender, and his hand met Patrick’s. The grip was fierce, a collision of six years of desperate yearning.

"Fine. But if this ruins everything," Art said, his voice flat with dread. "It’s on you."

Patrick grinned, a tired, lopsided charm. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

The next morning, Art woke to a chilling silence. The pact was signed, but the price had yet to be paid.

The other bed was perfectly made, a neatness that spoke volumes of Patrick's churning, restless energy. An old habit he picked up from his lavish home life, an indication of his stress. The sun hadn't quite cleared the horizon, but the light was already yellow and harsh.

Art found Patrick downstairs at the practice courts, already in his uniform, slamming serves against the wall. The sound was violent and echoing, a declaration of war. Patrick didn't look back, but his chest heaved with exertion. He didn’t need to see Art to know he was there.

“You’re early,” Art muttered, walking toward the sidelines.

Patrick paused, racket low, his curls damp at the temples. “Couldn’t sleep.”

The adrenaline wasn't for the trophy. It was for you. You were sitting outside the clubhouse, watching the early light. You were a fixture here, not chasing the players, but observing them. Your focus was sharp, your presence quiet.

But today, the air felt different. Strained. When they walked onto the main court to volley, you felt the shift in their posture. They moved around each other like magnets calibrated for destruction—repelling, then attracting, but with lethal force.

Patrick shot you a look. It was quick and utterly devoid of playfulness. It was a statement that landed deep in your chest: Winner takes all.

The intensity made the blood rush to your face. You looked away, feeling a terrible mix of thrill and dread. You didn't know about the bet, but you knew, instinctively, that today’s game was about much more than tennis. It was the end of the silent torture.

Hours later, the sun was at its zenith, the heat of the afternoon oppressive, baking the hard court.

Art, the golden boy, was all clean lines and effortful movement. Patrick, the beast, was grinding, explosive, a rough edge of desperate skill. They split the first two sets in grueling, punishing tie-breaks. Each point was an emotional transaction, a brutal exchange six years in the making.

They weren't just playing for the Academy title. They were playing for the right to you.

The third set. The air was thick with the scent of clay dust and desperation. Art’s control was starting to fray. Patrick was getting cockier, hitting deep, impossible angles, his eyes flashing with untamed, raw hunger.

Every point Patrick won, he didn't look at Art—he looked straight at you, sitting in the front row, forcing Art to follow his gaze.

The score hit 5-5. Patrick's serve. Deuce. Patrick bounced the ball six times. He hammered the ball down the T line. Ace. Advantage, Zweig.

Match point. Patrick serves again. It’s a wide, vicious slice that pulls Art far off the court. Art sprints, racket extended, managing a weak, floating defensive lob.

Patrick was at the net, waiting. It was an easy overhead smash. A guarantee. But Patrick paused, a deliberate, cruel moment of theatrical dominance. He jumped, pivoted, and slammed the ball right back at Art’s feet with unnecessary, humiliating force.

Art didn't even lift his racket. Game, Set, Match, Patrick Zweig.

The victory was decisive, brutal, and humiliating. Patrick let out a guttural, cheerful roar, dropping his racket and collapsing to his knees.

Art simply stood there, sweat dripping, the loser not just of the final, but of the six-year wager on his own desire. He didn't look at Patrick. He looked at the empty space where you had been sitting just moments before. Gone.

The roar of the crowd was a memory. Later that evening, Patrick found you at the pool house.

The only light came from the submerged lamps, casting shimmering, hypnotic blue across the ceiling. He found you sitting on the diving board, your bare feet just skimming the water.

He walked over, his usual arrogance deflated, replaced by nervous exhaustion, but the triumph was still buzzing beneath his skin. He didn't sit immediately. He leaned against the railing, arms crossed, staring.

"Couldn't wait to see the champion?" he drawled, his voice thick with chlorine and fatigue.

You looked up slowly, a cool, challenging smirk playing on your lips. "I came for the view. It's much quieter here than on the court, Patrick. The sound of your ego exploding was quite loud."

He pushed off the railing and walked closer, his silhouette angular in the blue light. "You enjoyed watching me win." It wasn't a question.

"I enjoyed watching you work for it," you corrected, letting your toe dip beneath the water. "Art always puts effort in. The only time you do, though, is against him. Makes for a good show.

He sat down next to you now, close enough for the radiating heat of his skin to reach you. "It was. And I won." He looked at the trophy in your eyes. "So, winner gets the spoils, right?"

"Spoils are only worth taking if the winner is interesting," you countered, your voice dropping to a low purr. "Convince me, Zweig."

Patrick didn't hesitate. He closed the remaining distance, his earlier confidence returning, hard and immediate. He finally leaned in and kissed you. It was everything he’d banked six years on: warm, sweet, intoxicating. He pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, his breath shaky. “Six years,” he whispered, the words ragged. “I’ve wanted you for six years.”

You pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his face in the blue light. “I know,” you replied, completely still. You ran your thumb along the sharp, slightly messy edge of his jaw, and your voice dropped, knowing and dangerous.

“But Patrick, if you wanted me all this time, why did it take beating your boyfriend to finally get here?”

Patrick froze. His heart stuttered, the victory adrenaline turning instantly into cold, hard dread. “He’s not—What are you talking about?” he stammered, pulling away to stare at you.

You smiled, a slow, predatory curve of your lips. “Don’t be ridiculous. Six years of silence? Six years of avoiding eye contact whenever the other one was in the room? The look on your face every time he scored a point, and the way he looked at you with that same intensity when you hit a winner? That’s not a rivalry, Patrick. That’s co-dependence.”

You shrugged. “You guys are obsessed with each other. I’m just the catalyst. The thing you needed to conquer to finally, you know... commit to each other.”

A noise—the soft crunch of sneakers on the wet pavement just outside the door—made both of them jump. Art. He stood silhouetted in the doorway, changed into shorts and a tee, his hair a mess, his eyes wide and dark with a desperate mixture of fury and anguish. He looked like he’d been running until his lungs burned.

Patrick stood up instantly, putting himself between Art and you. “Art, get out of here. We had an agreement.”

Art didn't move. He looked past Patrick, straight at you, who were still sitting calmly on the diving board. “You’re wrong,” Art rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “He didn't lose me. I lost. The agreement was, if he won, I back off. And I will.” He forced the promise out, each word costing him.

You sighed, shaking your head, your composure unsettling. “This is ridiculous. Can we go back to your dorm?"

Art swallowed hard, his eyes flickering to the empty twin beds in his head. The thought of that small, hot space, now suddenly filling with this chaos, terrified him. “It’s the closest,” he managed, his voice barely a tremor.

You slid off the diving board, your bare feet meeting the cool, slick concrete. You walked toward Art, stopping right in front of his chest. You didn't touch him, just tilted your head back and met his miserable, conflicted gaze. “The prize isn’t a date, boys. The prize is finally being honest about what you both actually want. And what I want is for you to stop punishing yourselves. I also want... other stuff, but it's a package deal.”

You took Art’s wrist and walked past him, tugging him into motion toward the dorm building. Patrick, breathing heavily, boner already growing, followed without a word.

The dorm room was dark, stale, and silent. You flipped the single light switch. The lights burned on, casting the room in a nightly glow.

Patrick immediately slammed the door shut and crossed the room, grabbing Art’s arm and spinning him around. Patrick was the first to act, driven by pure, reckless necessity.

“You okay?” Patrick asked, but the question wasn’t gentle. He reached out and brushed a sweaty curl off Art’s forehead, his touch oddly comforting.

Art flinched, pulling back just an inch. His eyes were wide, caught between shame and overwhelming desire. “We should talk, we shouldn't do this here—”

“Shut up, Art,” Patrick commanded, his voice low and firm. “No one’s coming. No more pacts. I won. I earned the right to break our little bubble.”

Patrick didn't kiss you first. He slammed his mouth onto Art’s, a desperate kiss that was pure competitive relief. Art froze for a second—the golden boy, momentarily rigid with shock—before the dam finally burst. He moaned into Patrick’s mouth, his hands flying up to grip Patrick’s shoulders, pushing back with an answering hunger he’d buried for six years. The kiss was messy, volatile, and entirely theirs.

You watched them, leaning against the wall, crossing your arms. “That’s better,” you murmured, your voice cool and approving.

Patrick tore his mouth away from Art, his breathing ragged. He looked at you, his eyes blazing, and Art, his face flushed and his perfect control gone. Patrick grinned, the winning smile of a man who finally understands the true prize.

Patrick turned back to Art and reached for the hem of his pristine white t-shirt. “Take it off, Art."

Art, still breathing hard, didn’t argue. He pulled the shirt over his head, revealing the lean, sculpted lines of himself, every muscle toned and clean.

Patrick wasted no time. He stripped off his own sweat-scented shirt, revealing the rougher, explosive definition of his chest, thick with dark, damp hair that clung to his skin. Patrick was wilder, hairier, a rough edge of desperate skill. The two men stood chest-to-chest, breathing the same air, staring at each other’s bodies, the physical manifestation of their co-dependence laid bare.

You walked over, your eyes sharp, dissecting their shared tension. You stepped between them, sliding your hands around Patrick’s waist, then Art’s, before you pulled your own shirt over your head.

"Six years of foreplay is enough," you whispered. "Let’s see if you can keep this pace up without a net between you."

You didn't wait. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to Patrick's neck, tasting the raw, salty effort of his victory, while your hands went low, finding the waistband of Art's shorts. You pulled the drawstring hard, and the fabric dropped to his ankles.

Art stood naked, momentarily stunned, his cock already hot and insistent. You dropped to your knees, taking him into your mouth with a consuming hunger that made him gasp. You worked him fiercely, your wet mouth closing around his length while your eyes never left Patrick's triumphant, ragged face.

Patrick, breathing heavily, ripped his own shorts off. He reached down and tangled his fingers into your hair, yanking back just enough to force a better angle.

"You like that, Artie?" Patrick grunted, his voice thick with raw command. "She's been waiting six years to make a mess of you."

You pulled Art deeper into your throat, swallowing his groan, feeling the thick, clean texture of his erection. When you finally released him, your mouth was slick, shining. You turned your attention to Patrick, a quick kiss that demanded his full attention.

You then pushed Art back onto the nearest bed, straddling his hips. You leaned over him, kissing him deeply, while your hand reached back between your thighs, finding Patrick. You grabbed his cock, a thick, insistent heat, and guided it toward your body.

You broke the kiss with Art and shifted, turning your body onto your side, facing Patrick. You reached down and grabbed Art's cock, guiding his clean, hard length to your slick, eager pussy.

"No more waiting, Artie," you demanded, your voice tight with hunger. You pulled Art in deep with one hard, desperate thrust. Art gasped into your neck, his breath hitching as he felt his body inside you for the first time.

Patrick didn't wait, either. He grabbed your waist, pulling you back hard against his chest, trapping you between them. He lowered his face to your ear, his voice a thick, hungry rumble. "You mind?" He asked, as he reached around your hip, his big, rough hand finding the seam of your ass. He smeared the slick leaking between you and Art around your tight rim.

"No," you breathed. "Just... be nice. At least to start."

Art was already thrusting, shallow and frantic, pure nervous adrenaline. He looked down at your face, panicked. "Pat, slow down—"

"Shut it, Art," Patrick commanded, the sound vibrating through your back. "She said it's fine, I'm listening to her." He eased one finger past the tight hole, the stretch making your body clench around Art and a loud whine leave your throat.

Patrick ignored your noise, focusing on the slow, burning give of your ass. He pushed a second finger in, spreading wide, letting the uncomfortable fullness settle. He watched Art's face, forcing him to witness the prep.

"Keep going Art," he panted, grinning to the other boy. "Keep her distracted for me."

Art, desperate as ever, obeyed, slamming his hips against yours, driving into your pussy with reckless intensity. The wet, loud squelch of his body inside you was a frantic counterpoint to the quiet, painful stretching in the back.

After a few minutes of slowly thrusting and scissoring them, Patrick finally pulled his fingers out with a soft, obscene sound, slick and shining. You felt the raw, thick heat of his cock pressing against your rim.

"Ready?" He double-checked.

"Mhm... yeah," you breathe, lost in Art's sensations.

Patrick breathed out a sharp, ragged oath. He didn't slam, thankfully. He pushed—a slow, agonizing inch-by-inch invasion. You gritted your teeth, your body twitching, trying to pull away from the painful pressure. Art's rhythm faltered again, his concern showing in his desperate eyes.

"Oh my god..." you groaned, head falling over. "Art—P-Pat, please—Art, don't stop—"

Art obeyed, slamming back into your pussy, the frantic, wet friction distracting you just enough as Patrick's girth breached the final barrier. You cried out, a choked sound of pure, overwhelming violation and agonizing pleasure.

Patrick stayed deep, buried to the base, groaning through his teeth. "Worth it," he muttered, his voice raw with triumph.

Art was trapped in front of you, seeing the pure pleasure, the fullness, on your face, feeling the intense clenching of your walls around his cock.

Patrick started his aggressive thrusts from behind, the brutal tempo amplifying the sensation as Art's body slammed against your wet, pulsing front. The feeling was too much—the clean precision of Art in your cunt, the rough, hairy thickness of Patrick stretching your ass. You rode the rhythm, completely consumed, until the tension snapped.

You opened your mouth, letting out a thick, helpless moan as you felt the final clenching start.

"She's gone," Art gasped, his voice tight, his own rhythm stuttering. "I can't—"

Patrick didn't care. He shoved himself deeper, his body slick with sweat. He reached down and rubbed your clit, whispering nonsense in your ear.

You came quickly after—a hot, wet rush that squirted against Art's stomach and sprayed down Patrick's coarse, hairy thighs. The sound was filthy, uncontrollable.

"There it is," Patrick groaned, feeling your walls seize around him as Art gave a final, desperate heave.

Art groaned loud through his teeth, his hips snapping forward, his control finally annihilated. Hot spurts coated the inside of your pussy, filling you up as Patrick's own thick release followed quickly behind, pushing deep into your stretched asshole.

The three of you collapsed into a shaking, messy heap on the damp mattress.

You were the first to stop twitching. You lifted your head, looking at the two men sprawled on either side of you. The air was thick, still smelling of sweat and release.

"Well," you finally breathed, nudging Art's damp shoulder with your foot. "Since Patrick won, does that mean he's responsible for this industrial amount of cleanup, or is that the loser's job?"

Patrick chuckled, a low, spent sound, without opening his eyes. "Artie lost the match, but he still won the better view. You get cleanup, Art. It’s a consolation prize."

Art groaned, pulling a pillow over his face. "I hate you both so much." The game was truly over... but it seemed that you were the winner.

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The storm didn’t announce itself so much as it broke open all at once, heavy drops thudding against your shoulders, darkening the sidewalk in blotches before swallowing it whole. One minute the air had been hot and sticky with the weight of summer, cicadas humming somewhere unseen, and the next it was thunder and cool silver water washing down from the sky. You froze, blinking up at the sudden downpour, but beside you Patrick only gave that lazy little laugh of his, the one that rattled in his chest before rolling out of him like he’d been expecting this all along.

His shirt clung instantly, cotton plastered against the swell of his belly, the lines of his chest hair showing through in dark curls. Drops ran down the bridge of his nose, caught in the stubble along his jaw, slipped lower until they disappeared into the dip of his throat and the soft rise of his stomach. He shook his head once, spraying more water everywhere, then pushed his hair back with both hands, baring the curve of his arms and the slight crease at his waist where his shirt rode up.

You shoved at his arm with a wet slap of your palm, half scolding, half exasperated. “I told you,” you said, over the hiss of rain. “I told you we needed an umbrella.”

Patrick grinned down at you, entirely unbothered, rain dripping from his lashes. “And I told you I don’t do umbrellas.”

“Yeah, well, now we’re both—” You gestured at yourself, soaked through from hair to shoes, your shirt sticking to your skin like a second layer. “—drenched. Congratulations.”

He tilted his head, like he was considering it, then gave another one of those lazy shrugs, shoulders rising and falling beneath the cling of his shirt. “Still not seeing the problem.”

“The problem,” you snapped, though your lips twitched with the effort of keeping serious, “is that we have to walk three more blocks like this.”

“Three blocks isn’t so bad,” he said, already shifting his weight, hands sliding into his pockets. His belly stretched against the fabric as he moved, soft but solid, a warmth you could feel even in the cool bite of the rain. “Besides, rain’s good for you. Clears things out.”

You groaned, throwing your head back, but he just laughed again, loud and bright, carrying strangely sweet through the storm. The sound of it made something loosen in your chest, despite yourself.

The two of you were alone on the street—no cars passing, no other late-night wanderers dumb enough to get caught without cover. The rain turned everything reflective: storefront windows smeared in silver, puddles spreading into mirrors, streetlamps doubled and tripled until it felt like you were walking through some strange dream version of your own neighborhood. Water rushed along the curb in thin, eager streams, carrying little scraps of leaves and cigarette butts toward the drains.

You adjusted the strap of your bag against your shoulder, fingers brushing wet fabric, your hand slick and chilled. That was when the light caught your ring—just for a second, a flash of gold made molten under the streetlamp, refracted in the rippling puddle below. You blinked down at it, watching the way rain jeweled across the band, drops gathering in the grooves before sliding free.

Behind you, Patrick shifted with a grunt, like the weight of the moment hadn’t reached him at all. His sneakers squeaked against the pavement as he kicked at a puddle, sending a spray of water toward the gutter. “Whole city’s ours right now,” he mused, voice low, almost swallowed by the storm. “Everybody else hiding inside, and here we are.”

You sighed, tugging your damp shirt away from your skin. “Patrick, come on. We can’t just stand here in the middle of the street like idiots.”

“Why not?” he said, grinning so wide you could see the gap where one of his back teeth was missing. His voice was muffled by the rain, but his eyes gleamed, the kind of easy brightness that made him look ten years younger. “Lighten up, will you? Nobody’s watching.”

You gave him a look that was equal parts warning and disbelief, water dripping off your lashes. “I swear, you’re impossible.”

“Not impossible,” he corrected, holding one hand out like some ridiculous movie hero, palm broad and dripping. “Irresistible.”

You barked a laugh despite yourself, rolling your eyes as you slapped your hand into his—playful, begrudging, just to prove you weren’t giving in. “Happy now?”

But before you could pull back, he caught you off guard—yanking gently but firmly until you stumbled right into his chest. The warmth of him spread through the rain-chilled air, his belly pressing soft and solid against your ribs, his shirt clinging wet against you both.

“Patrick—” you started, but your protest was cut off when he shifted his grip, one hand splayed at the small of your back, the other wrapping around your damp fingers. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he began to sway.

At first you stiffened, glancing around like someone might see, but there was no one, only the dark storefronts and the wide street glistening with reflected lamps. His movements were slow, exaggerated, almost mocking the idea of dancing—but the longer you stood there, the more it melted into something real. The rain hissed around you, cool and endless, while his chest rose steady against yours, and you found yourself following his lead without meaning to.

The first sway was clumsy, your feet slipping a little on the slick pavement, but Patrick steadied you with an easy strength that belied the soft give of his middle. “There,” he murmured, grinning down at you like you were in on the joke. “See? Not so bad.”

You shook your head, rain plastering hair to your cheeks, trying and failing to bite back a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he shot back, and before you could argue, he twirled you—actually twirled you—out and back in again. You squealed, stumbling into a puddle, your shoes squelching as you came crashing back into his chest.

That did it. The laugh tore out of you, bright and unrestrained, rising over the sound of the rain. Patrick’s joined yours, deep and booming, his grin splitting wide even as water ran down his temples. The two of you dissolved into it, laughter echoing off empty storefronts, bouncing against the brick walls and pooling in the night air as music.

He spun you again, more dramatic this time, his hand firm at your waist as though he’d been leading you all your life. His soaked shirt clung to the swell of his belly, his chest hair dark against the fabric, his shoulders rolling broad and easy as he played up the theatrics. You couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop the helpless, breathless laugh that bubbled up each time he dipped you just enough to make your stomach flip before hauling you upright again.

The world blurred around the edges—streetlamps streaked gold in puddles, water shimmering off every surface, your own reflection flickering in the glass of a darkened shop. But at the center of it all was him: Patrick, beaming down at you, eyes crinkled, his grin so wide and foolish it made your chest ache.

“Still think we needed an umbrella?” he teased, his nose brushing yours as he drew you close, swaying again, slower this time.

You pressed your forehead against his, breath catching in your throat, rain sliding down both your faces. “Maybe not.”

You were still laughing when he tipped you back one last time, his grin stretched so wide it almost hurt to look at. Rain streamed off the edge of his jaw, off his chin, landing cool against your throat. The whole scene was absurd—you knew it, he knew it—but in the middle of your gasping giggles, the absurdity blurred into something else.

The laughter slowed, softened, until it was just little hiccups of breath between you. His chest rose and fell heavy against yours, belly pressing warm and solid, and you could feel the vibration of his chuckle still humming through him.

Patrick’s smile lingered, crooked and wet, but his eyes—God, his eyes—shifted. Softer, closer, steady on you like he wasn’t looking at the storm at all, just you standing in the middle of it. He brushed his thumb across your knuckles, rain-slick skin catching on yours, and leaned down.

The kiss was unhurried, like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment and finally found it. Damp, sweet, the taste of rain still on your lips, the press of his mouth firm but tender. His beard scratched faintly, his hand cupped the back of your head, and for a breathless second you forgot entirely about the storm, about the soaked clothes, about anything but him.

When you broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of you were grinning again—soaked to the bone, shivering slightly, laughter still ghosting the edges of your mouths.

“See?” Patrick whispered, voice low and rough. “No umbrella needed.”

And with the storm still rushing around you, you leaned into him, swaying slow in the rain, your laughter melting into his kiss all over again.

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