“I don’t want to do this. I can’t.”

“Should’ve decided that before you became a world championship player.”

The shuddering breath that leaves his nostrils narrowly frees the anxiety coursing through his veins like a racetrack, the dizzying walk down a familiar feeling corridor more nauseating than the last. Art practiced, hard, and to see that it was all for nothing felt like a slap to the face, a rude awakening for a man who had been yearning for the younger version of himself; fresh-faced and ready to take on Stanford— then, the world. What a fucking joke.

He winces instantly as the conference room doors yawn open, dazzling flashes from the multitude of various press outlets waving their cameras in his face, the flurry begging for him to answer trampled questions over the next. He can’t imagine how exhausted he must look, drenched in sweat.

The anticipatory looks of reporters and bloggers, ready to barrage him with inquiries of his ongoing defeats, his future plans to ensure a win: He hated it. He wanted nothing more but to retreat to his hotel room in peace and quiet to reflect on what he could have done better, what he did so wrong. With every step toward the press table, his footing grew heavier than the last, that awful sensation in the pit of his stomach settling, worsening once he sat down.

A mic is placed on him by an assistant, and a reporter emerges amid the sea of people that grow calm. His blue, tired eyes meet theirs.

“Mr. Donaldson.”

“Hi.”

The reporter clears their throat. “I... can only assume this wasn't the result you'd be hoping for— none of us had. I mean, months and months of agonizingly hard training regimens and diets to stick to... I can't fathom how disappointed you must be feeling right now,” 

 A long pause.

“…Why don’t we just start with something simple: What exactly happened out there, today?”

Amongst the quiet whispers and shutter clicks that flash from cameras that stun him, Art Donaldson, the acclaimed savior of tennis is utterly silent; frozen. 

“... Art?”

“...”

He doesn’t utter a word, he doesn't have any to explain why he continued to be a disappointment to not only himself, but to everyone around him. His trainers, his media team, his fans... himself. The deafening loud ringing in his ears finally falls silent when his wings are clipped and he falls back down to earth. Despite it all, the waves of anguish, the disappointment, the embarrassment he feels for those around him... he smiles, glassy-eyed and defeated for the tabloids to see in all his pitiful glory.