#this is terrifying

Patrick talked about Tashi like she hung the moon and the fucking stars. To be fair, she deserved it. She may as well have. “You don’t get it, man. You’ve never seen her in person. She’s in another league.”

“You mean her game?” Art’s brow furrowed. He didn’t understand why Patrick was talking so animatedly about this girl.

“No. I mean she’s the hottest woman I’ve ever seen.”

The boys watched you and Tashi nod at each other across the court. They were too far up to see the way your lips quirked into a smirk as you locked eyes with the girl—an unspoken promise of what was to come. I mean, she was your best fucking friend. Of course, you’d see her tonight. You were sharing a hotel room.

Your number 4 ITF World ranking wasn’t far from her number 1. It was barely visible in the way you two rallied, that neon yellow ball flying across the court fast enough to give any particularly attentive crowd members whiplash as they attempted to follow it, necks craning. 

Both boys could feel their shorts growing tighter with each little grunt that escaped you and Tashi. The swish of your tiny skirts, the sweat trickling down your faces, the eyes you’d make at each other after a particularly nasty move. There was far more happening on this court than just a tennis match. No… this was a scene crafted by the hands of Aphrodite and Nike themselves. 

You took set 1.

Tashi took 2 and 3.

It’s after the filthy spin you send Tashi’s way to win set 4 that Patrick’s hand flies to Art’s thigh, gripping it tightly. “Holy shit,” he remarks like he can’t believe his eyes. “I take it back. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Art moves his trophy to hide the uncomfortable tent in his shorts. “Yeah. This isn’t even tennis, anymore,” he breathes out.

Patrick’s eyes are locked on the court. “Fuck, no,” he scoffs like Art has just said the stupidest thing in the world. “Dude, this is porn.”

The same thought is running through both boys’ minds later that night as they watch you and Tashi on the dance floor. Her royal blue dress flies out around her as you twirl her, her silky brown waves tickling your face as she playfully grinds against you. Her face is plastered on the Adidas branded banner on one side of the party, hanging above a decorated table with her singles trophy, which is sat directly in between yours and her glass doubles trophies, your medals hanging on either side. Your runner-up trophy is there too. Just off to the side, so as to not mess up the symmetry. Of course. 

“She’s gonna turn her whole family into millionaires. They both will,” Patrick remarks as he takes in the banner. Adidas Celebrates the Champions of Tomorrow. “I’m surprised Y/N is even here. I’d kill myself before I showed up to a party after losing a match like that.”

Art lets out an unamused scoff. “Shut up, man. If I can be at your parties every time you beat me, then there’s no reason for Y/N not to be here. She played like a beast. It was anyone’s game. And she took the loss so… graciously.”

“Oh, she took something, for sure. I thought they were gonna kiss after the last set,” Patrick remarks. 

It wasn’t a totally outlandish suggestion, honestly. When Tashi sent that final hit, the ‘killer backhand’ that sent the tennis ball bouncing just barely in the corner of the white lines, far too fast for you to calculate, the whole crowd was expecting you to smash your racket. Cry. Curse her and her family into generations beyond her time. Not for you to both cross to the center of the court, pressing your foreheads together for a split second to whisper something the audience would never hear. Not a show of sportsmanship. Of companionship. Of love.

Art snorts. “You’re a freak.”

“Yeah, and Y/N’s a model citizen. They’re both pillars of the community. I’d let either of them fuck me with a racket. Probably both.” Patrick’s back to watching you and Tashi dance with each other. Now it’s you who’s jokingly twerking on her, both of you all smiles and girlish giggles. He doesn’t spare Art a glance.

A little while later, you’re taking a breather in a secluded corner of the party while Tashi takes pictures with her trophy. You let out a quiet, grateful breath as the cold, bright orange soda coats your dry throat. You sigh as you feel the carbonation crackle its way through you, but your moment of solace is interrupted when you notice two boys approaching you, an air of attempted swagger surrounding them that’s almost as artificial as the fruit flavoring in your drink. 

They try to introduce themselves, voices stumbling over their own names, but you stop them. 

“I know who you are,” you reply, a timid yet level smile on your face as you shake their sweaty hands. “Zweig? And… Donaldson?” your brow furrows as you clarify their names, a little apologetic that there was a delay in your recollection. “Fire and Ice, right?”

“Oh my god.” Art looks like he could die on the spot.

Patrick keeps his cool. “In the flesh.”

You smile at his response, opening your mouth to ask a question— but Tashi approaches from behind you, beating you to it.

“Which one’s which?”

“What do you think?” Patrick’s countering her question before it’s even fully out of her mouth. A beat passes. You make awkward eye contact with Art across the crackling gaze that Tashi and Patrick share. It makes you itch.

“So, you two are—”

“Both of you—”

You look down at the grass for a moment, an awkward chuckle escaping you as your voice overlaps with Art’s. “Go ahead.”

“I was just gonna say that you two were fucking incredible, today.”

“Thank you,” Tashi replies before you can choke something out, a hint of surprise flashing behind your eyes. He was the only person who had praised both of you. At least, without your half being a backhanded compliment, or an afterthought of a comment wrapped in a pity-colored bow.

“No, really,” he pipes up again. “It wasn’t even, like… tennis. I mean, I felt bad for you.” There it was. He knows he probably shouldn’t have said it, but you brush it off easily.

“Oh, don’t,” you let out a short chuckle. “I’m only here to be her faithful doubles partner and for the leftovers from her brand deals.” You gently nudge Tashi’s shoulder with your own. She smiles at your comment, shaking her head a little as she tugs you a little closer to her. All four of you look back up at Tashi’s poster as one of you tries to think of something to fill the awkward silence. 

“So,” you manage to spit out. “Stanford this fall, right? For both of you?”

Patrick smirks at that. You weren’t lying about knowing who they were. “Yeah, how’d you—”

“They mentioned you. Both of you, when I was accepting my offer. Same for Tashi.”

“You’re not going pro?! Why?” Patrick looks away from you and back to Tashi, his eyes bugging out of his head. That one stung. A little.

She’s opening her mouth to respond, but she’s interrupted by her father pulling her away for more pictures. “Later,” she mutters with a clipped smile at the two boys, trailing her fingers down the inside of your wrist as she lets go of you.

You make small talk with the boys for as long as you can, but it’s not easy trying to talk to them when it’s obvious that they're more focused on Tashi than you. At least, Patrick was. You chat politely with them for a little while longer before you manage to think up a good enough excuse to get away. Art isn’t even able to spit out a proper goodbye, he’s too busy staring at you, desperately trying to burn every pore, every molecule of your face into his memory. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t doing the same to him.

For some reason, they linger. Well, you know the reason. She's the one who allows the four of you to be lazing on the beach. You stare wistfully at the cigarette perched between Patrick’s fingers, the smoke curling around him and teasing you. Tashi gave him the same look she used to give you when he offered one. She refused for both of you. Not that you would have said yes—that was a non-negotiable when you two became doubles partners. Smoking was a thing of the past, for you. Except for when you managed to sneak away from her.

“So, why are you so obsessed with going pro?” Tashi asks Patrick.

“I’m not. You’re just obviously good enough to go. Probably both of you. So why not?”

A thin smile crosses your face. “Tennis isn’t forever. I’d like to have skills beyond hitting a ball with a racket.” You cross your ankles, legs stretching across the sand. “If it’s such a big deal to you, then why aren’t you going pro?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, shoving the quiet blonde next to him. “His fault. I’m gonna go pro as soon as I can, though. Hitting a ball with a racket is a great way to avoid getting a job.”

Tashi’s firing a retort before you can even register his comment. “See, that’s your problem. You think tennis is fun. Screwing around, expressing yourself. It’s why you’ve still got that serve.” She says it with such disgust, that it gives you flashbacks to all those times she’d involuntarily start coaching you. Every comment about your focus, your forehand, your emotions. It haunted you. But it made you better. She made you better.

“It works,” Patrick replies, shooting a smirk at Art. He looks away, his eyes locking with yours. 

“Yeah, but you’re not a tennis player. You don’t even understand what tennis is.” Tashi’s firing back at Patrick and even though he seems to be welcoming it, you can’t avoid the second-hand embarrassment. You shoot Art a meaningful look, as if to say, we’re not both like this. He grins.

Patrick’s leaning toward Tashi now. “What is it?”

She looks over at you. “A relationship.”

“Is that what you two had today?” Art tilts his head to the side as he asks. Cute.

You grin at him. “Of course.”

“We were actually playing tennis,” Tashi adds. “We understood each other completely. So did everybody watching. It was like we were in love—”

You tense. She doesn’t miss a beat.

“—Or like we didn’t exist. We went somewhere… really beautiful, together.” You’re both looking at each other, now. Art and Patrick stare. They can’t decide if this passing moment is too awkward for them or if it’s the hottest thing they’ve ever seen.”

Art speaks. “How long have two been… together?”

You flinch a little. Tashi laughs. “We’re not.”

There’s another beat as both boys visibly sag with relief. 

“I should probably get going before my parents come looking for me,” Tashi says. She stands, looking down at you. “You coming?” It’s phrased like a question, but you know it’s actually an order. You stand as well, brushing the sand off of yourself. 

“It was nice meeting you guys,” you smile at the boys. “We’ll see you at Stanford, I guess.” 

You start walking away, but you’re stopped as Patrick calls out to you. “Wait! Do you guys have Facebook?”

“Yeah, here—” you reach for your phone, but Tashi is quick to grip your wrist.

“What?” She raises an eyebrow at him.

“He’s trying to ask for your number. Which is what I’m also doing… right now,” Art chimes.

“You want both of our numbers?” You ask.

“Very much so,” he replies.

“We’re not here to home-wreck,” Tashi says.

You look at her. You wanted their numbers. At least Art’s. You were still trying to get a feel for Patrick.

“We don’t live together,” Art replies.

Patrick’s quick to add. “It’s an open relationship.”

“Also, Patrick has a girlfriend.”

“I don’t,” he glares at Art. “Come hang out with us later. They put you up at the hotel in Flushing, right? We’re in room 206.”

“Don’t you guys have a final tomorrow?” You can’t help but ask. “Shouldn’t you be, like, preparing, or something?”

“Eh,” Patrick replies. “We both know how it’s gonna go.” Art glares at him. You know exactly how he feels.

Tashi smirks at them, amused by the interaction. Her hand hasn’t left your wrist. “Goodnight.”

It’s later that night that you and Tashi are sitting in a little circle with Art and Patrick on the floor of their messy hotel room. Tashi gave you a little speech, on the way, about why you couldn’t give them your Facebook just yet, and how you needed to make them sweat. You weren’t stupid, you didn’t need her to explain it. But you let her, anyway. You always melted at the tone she’d take with you, the softness in her gaze as she’d teach you. It meant she cared. About you. Not just tennis. That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

Art passes one of the Budweiser cans over to you before you ask another question. You’d been there, chatting idly for at least 30 minutes, not to mention the extra seconds that you and Tashi spent giggling outside their door, listening to them scramble around after you knocked. 

“So, how’d you guys meet? Preschool? Mommy and Me classes? You seem close.” You sip the lukewarm beer, resting against the back of the bed.

Art and Patrick look at each other, laughing. “The Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy,” Art replies, a poorly hidden eye-roll accompanying his mocking tone.

“Bunk-mates since we were 12,” Patrick adds. Cute. “You never thought of doing anything like that?” he asks, his eyes flitting between both of you. “I mean, you had to have met somewhere.”

“The free tennis camp our local high school offered when we were in elementary school, actually,” you reply. “We didn’t grow up in the boarding school tax bracket.”

“Yeah,” Tashi adds. “And neither of our parents would’ve wanted us coming of age in a place like that.”

“Why?” Patrick asks. “What were they afraid of?”

You shoot him a look, gesturing around at the four of you. Everyone laughs. 

The awkwardness starts to fade after that, and soon enough, you find all four of you in an animated conversation, two empty beer cans on the floor between all of you. You’re having a laughter-filled chat after Tashi tells the story of your first kiss, the way you were so scared, so nervous the whole time. You laugh about it, now, but you’d be lying if you didn’t feel a little twist in your throat every time she told the story, portraying you like a stupid little duckling who could barely stand on your own feet without her help. That’s not how it was. That’s how Tashi liked it, though.

Art interrupts the peals of giggles with an idea of his own. “We should play a game.”

“Like what?” you ask, the grin still on your face. 

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, looking around the room. “Like… spin the bottle. Or spin the ‘beer can’, I guess.”

“Dude,” Patrick knocks him on the shoulder. “We’re not 12.”

“No, let’s,” Tashi interjects. “That’s cute.” 

Tashi’s approval shuts Patrick up immediately, and then one thing leads to another, and then all of a sudden Art and Tashi are making out while you and Patrick are directly across from each other. She’s devouring him, towering over him on her knees as she cups his cheek, his back arching as he bends to her touch. His hand slides gently down her thigh, gripping just under the hem of her shorts to pull her closer. Patrick rips his gaze from them for a moment just to look at you. He doesn’t bother to conceal the tent in his shorts. He’s itching.

“Do you want to—”

Tashi’s too occupied with Art for you to bother asking her for permission. “Please.”

And then you’re in his lap, the quietest of whimpers escaping you as he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth before slipping his tongue into your mouth, exploring like he’s on a mission. He’s not slow or gentle by any means. It’s like he’s trying to kiss his way through you, like he’s the river forming the Grand Canyon, finding each little crack, each little thing that makes you gasp against his lips, molding you into a mess just for him, your hips helplessly grinding against his. 

You’re so lost in him that you almost don’t notice that Art and Tashi have detached, and the blonde boy is now laying wet, sloppy kisses up your throat, along your jaw, inching closer and closer to mash his lips against Patrick’s. Tashi tugs your face away from Patrick so she can lock her lips onto yours, and you melt into her. It’s familiar. She tastes like the sweat lingering on your skin after every evening of running drills together. She tastes like every stone-cold comment she’d make about your form, your serve, your skill, that she’d throw in between kisses. She tastes like marschino cherries and 88% dark chocolate. She tastes like your entire fucking life. Because she’s always been there. She always will be. She never wants you to know a life without her—not because she loves you, not because you’ve spent nights behind closed doors, begging her to tell you that her feelings weren’t all in your head—but because you were good. At tennis. Good enough to be her partner, good enough to give her a real fucking challenge. But never good enough to win. Never good enough to win her.

Tashi stops Patrick before he can slide his hand past the waistband of your shorts, pulling you up from his lap gently. 

“Okay,” you whisper under your breath, chest rising and falling a little heavier than normal. “Well, goodnight.” You wave awkwardly at both boys, because what else are you supposed to do when you're being dragged away from a potential foursome?

“Wait!” Patrick says. “What about your numbers?”

Surely she’d let you now, right? Wrong.

“I told you,” Tashi says. “We aren’t homewreckers.”

Art locks eyes with you. “Please.”

The level of desperation in his voice matches the one in your chest. You want him just as bad.

Tashi looks at you, and then back at them. She laughs. 

“How about this? We’ll be at your match tomorrow. Whoever wins can text me.” She shrugs as she says it. It hits you in the gut. Now that she was getting famous, being wanted… what were you there for? Other than to make her look better, more untouchable?

You watch as Art’s shoulders drop, while a bright smirk lights up Patrick’s face. 

“You can beat him,” you mutter softly, your eyes on Art’s. “You should.” You almost don’t want to say it, because it’s not you that they’re vying for. It was never you. Not for brand deals and endorsements, not for the match-winner predictions, not for anything. 

“Are you saying you want me to?” He asks.

“She’s saying you’re not getting my number if you don’t,” Tashi replies. 

“Well, what do you want?” Art asks, his eyes flitting between both of you.

You sigh, answering for Tashi. The same thing she would say to you every time you asked why she didn’t want you. “She wants to watch some good fucking tennis.” Tashi misses the disdain in your voice as you say it. Art doesn’t. 

With one last condescending “goodnight,” from Tashi, she’s dragging you out of their room. The moment the door slams shut, though, you’re tugging her arm, pressing your ear up to the door.

“Remember when you said you’d let me win?” Art’s voice is muffled through the door.

“That was a lifetime ago,” Patrick replies. You can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

“But what about my grandma?”

“I hope she has a fucking stroke.”

There’s a low thud, followed by a pained groan from Art. You and Tashi grin at each other.

It’s later that night when you’re in your hotel room, Tashi’s slow breathing being the only noise filling the small space. Your fingers were still coated in her, the taste of her still on your lips. She never would’ve shown it to them, but she was just as wet as you were after leaving the boys’ room. The moment you were back in your own room, she was pulling you down, coaxing your head between her thighs. 

“My girl, aren’t you?” She murmured, her fingers carding through your hair. You moaned against her in response, lips latched to her clit as you worked your middle and ring finger in and out of her. “So sweet. You know, if you put this much effort into practicing your tweener, maybe you would’ve won, earlier.”

You pretended like you couldn’t hear her. She laughs at her own words—the thought of you actually beating her was a pipe dream.

You adjust your fingers to find that sweet, spongy spot inside of her, the one that always makes her let out the softest little whimpers when you hit it. It’s the only time you ever feel like you’re the one in charge. But you both know that she still is. Neither of you needs to say anything about it. It’s evident in the way that you eat her out until she’s exploding on your tongue,  and she reciprocates by saying, “Don’t forget, we’ve got court time tomorrow morning at 6,” before she rolls over and turns the lamp off before falling asleep. 

It was always like this. You’d do anything for Tashi. Every time you got on the court with her, every time you locked eyes or fingers or lips, you fell for her all over again. She’d parade you around like you were her cute little puppy, but she always knew exactly where the line was. She molded you into being hers, but she was never yours. Tashi Duncan didn’t belong to anyone. You used to admire her for it—her free spirit, her determination, her power. But… too much of anything is bad. Admiration becomes resenting. But, maybe Art and Patrick would be good for you guys. It would help to step outside the box that was just you and her, right?

---

The Stanford Athletics Cafeteria is buzzing with the usual lunchtime noise—clattering trays, the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter from a table full of exhausted athletes. You and Art are sitting at your usual spot near the window, halfheartedly picking at your food, waiting.

Tashi and Patrick are late. Again.

You know exactly where they are. Running drills. Tashi had dragged Patrick to the courts before the sun was even up, and he’d gone willingly, just like always. Patrick had that kind of energy—relentless, restless, always moving toward the next high. And Tashi? Tashi never stopped. Never slowed down. Not for you, not for anyone.

Art stabs a fork into his salad, expression a grin playing on his lips. "I give them five minutes before they storm in here like they just discovered the cure for cancer."

You breathe out a short laugh, stirring your drink with your straw, eyes flicking toward the cafeteria doors as if willing them to appear. It’s always like this—waiting. Waiting for Tashi to be finished with whatever she deemed more important than you. Waiting for Patrick to fall into step behind her like a well-trained soldier. Waiting to see if today is the day something shifts. If she sees you sitting here and realizes what she’s about to do.

The doors slam open, and like clockwork, they’re here.

Tashi walks in first, her expression sharp, jaw tight. She’s still dressed in her practice gear, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, sweat cooling at the nape of her neck. Patrick follows a second later, far less affected. He’s buzzing, the post-drill high still clinging to him, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. He slides onto the bench next to Art, stealing a fry off his plate without hesitation.

Tashi drops into the seat across from you with a dramatic sigh, leaning back like she’s trying to keep herself from physically vibrating with irritation. You don’t even have to ask before she launches into it.

“This is a waste of my time.”

You glance at Art, already bracing yourself. Here we go.

Tashi gestures vaguely with her hand, like the entire concept of college athletics is beneath her. "It’s too fucking easy. The competition? Not even close to what we’re used to." She scoffs, shaking her head. "The only matches that are even remotely worth playing are our practices."

Patrick, as expected, nods along. “Yeah, I mean—duh.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "We could be playing at a whole different level right now. The only thing keeping us here is, what, some obligation to a school that’ll replace us the second we’re gone?"

Tashi points at him. “Exactly.”

You frown, stomach twisting. Art just crosses his arms over his chest.

Then Tashi delivers the real blow: “So if we win the championship this year, I’m going pro.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Patrick grins like he’s just won the lottery. "Fuck yeah. Let’s all do it." He leans forward, excitement radiating off of him. "Seriously, why wait? We win, we go pro. The four of us."

You and Art exchange a look. “No way,” you say at the same time. Art lets out a short, incredulous laugh.

Tashi blinks, her head tilting slightly. She wasn’t expecting that. Not from you.

“What?” She laughs, but there’s a thin layer of confusion beneath it. “Come on, Y/N.” She leans forward, all charm, all ease, like she can just fix this with a few well-placed words. “This is us. It’s what we’ve always wanted. It’s what we’re supposed to do.”

You hesitate. Because that’s exactly how it’s always been. Tashi decides, and you follow. No questions asked. No hesitation. But this time, you shake your head. “Not yet.”

Tashi’s smile tightens. "Why not?"

You exhale, feeling the weight of the moment settling over you. “They recruited all four of us. We can’t just bail after one semester.”

Tashi gives you a look. “Yes, we can.”

Patrick scoffs. “Y/N, come on. You could easily go pro right now.”

It’s meant as a compliment. It doesn’t feel like one.

Art leans back in his chair, expression unreadable. “You’re really just gonna leave?”

Tashi shrugs. “Yeah.”

And that’s when it really hits you.

She doesn’t even care that this means you won’t be together anymore—not just as a doubles team, but as… you and her. This is the first time since you were kids that you won’t be at her side. And she’s fine with it.

Maybe she always assumed you’d follow her. Maybe she just never thought about you at all.

But instead of letting it go, she shifts—just slightly, just enough for you to feel it. “I mean,” she continues, tilting her head, her voice softening into something almost pitying, “I get it. The pro circuit is brutal. You have to be able to keep up. And, you know—” she waves a hand vaguely in your direction, “—you still have some weaknesses you need to work on.”

Your stomach drops. “Excuse me?”

Tashi shrugs. “I mean, your second serve still isn’t aggressive enough. And your net game—” she clicks her tongue, shaking her head like she’s disappointed in you. Like she’s coaching you. “It’s probably better for you to stay, actually. You wouldn’t want to get out there and just… flounder.”

The air in your lungs turns sharp like it’s been knocked out of you. Art visibly tenses beside you. Even Patrick stops chewing, sensing the shift in the air. You stare at Tashi. Really stare at her. And for the first time in your entire life, you wonder if you’ve been blind this whole time. Because she’s doing it on purpose. She couldn’t convince you to follow her, so now she’s making sure you question yourself instead. She doesn’t like that you didn’t just fall in line. She doesn’t like that for once, you said no. And for the first time, something different sparks inside you.

Not admiration. Not longing. Not even resentment.

Something closer to rage.

That night, you’re in Art’s dorm room, the air thick with something unspoken. He’s already on you the moment you sit on the bed, hands sliding up your thighs, thumbs pressing into your skin like he’s mapping out every inch of you. It’s familiar—effortless in a way that doesn’t need thought.

Except you’re not here, not really.

His lips find the curve of your neck, dragging slow and warm along your pulse. His hands slip beneath your shirt, fingertips teasing over your ribs. “You good?” he murmurs, voice low, lips brushing against your skin.

You hum in response, but it’s absent, distracted. Your mind is still in the cafeteria, still locked on Tashi’s voice, the way she had said your name like she pitied you.

Art pulls back slightly, studying your face. “You’re thinking.”

You blink, snapping out of it just enough to meet his gaze. “No, I’m not.”

He scoffs, trailing a hand down your spine, fingers pressing at the small of your back, urging you closer. “You are. You get all stiff when you’re thinking too hard.”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off, but he’s not wrong. You are stiff, not melting into his touch the way you usually do.

Art leans in again, pressing a kiss just below your ear, voice dropping lower. “What’s in your head, Y/N?”

You sigh, tilting your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. “Nothing.”

His teeth scrape lightly against your skin, not quite biting, but enough to make you feel it. “Liar.”

You exhale, pressing your hands against his chest, pushing him back just enough to look at him properly. He’s watching you with that same unreadable expression from earlier—except now, there’s something else. Something heavier.

“She needs you where she wants you,” he murmurs, thumb stroking a slow, lazy line along your hip. “She doesn’t like that you said no.”

You go still.

He waits, watching it sink in. Watching you process the thing you’ve been avoiding since lunch.

Your throat tightens. “And you? Where does Patrick need you?”

His fingers flex against your waist, just for a second. If you weren’t looking, you might’ve missed it.

“Wherever he puts me.” There’s no bitterness in it. No anger. Just fact.

Your stomach twists, something ugly settling in your ribs. Because you get it. Because you’ve spent your entire life letting Tashi decide where you belong, too. You swallow hard, fingers curling against his chest. “You don’t mind?”

Art doesn’t answer. Instead, he shifts, pressing you back against the mattress, his weight settling over you, warm and solid. His mouth finds yours, slow but insistent, like he’s trying to pull you out of your own head, to drag you back here—to him. And for once, you let him. The dim glow from his desk lamp barely reaches the bed, casting long shadows along the walls. It’s easy, this—familiar in a way that doesn’t require thinking.

“You’re being a hypocrite,” you murmur against his lips after a while. “I know what you’re going to tell me. That I’ve spent too much of my life holding her up.”

He rolls his eyes at you, but there’s nothing malicious about it. “You have a martyr complex. A terrible one.” He’s staring down at you with an incredulous smile.

You scoff, a smile playing at your lips. “You need to quit reading my notes from my psych class. And you need to stop trying to diagnose me when you’ve spent the last, what, 6 years? 7? Letting yourself lose to Patrick.” You poke at Art’s chest, pressing your finger directly to his heart. “He wants a fight from you, you know? He wants to feel like he’s being challenged.”

Art’s face hardens for a moment. He clearly didn’t want to hear about it. “Shut up,” he murmurs, bringing his lips down to your collarbone. “Just shut up. You need to stop thinking. And talking. And perceiving me. I hate when you go all psych major on me.”

You laugh, but you listen anyway, letting him tug your shorts off of you. He’s pushing your shirt up, his hands, calloused from years of white-knuckle grips on tennis rackets, grazing the skin of your stomach. He trails his lips from your face down your neck, sucking in marks along the swell of your breasts—a spot where nobody will see them, but he’ll know they’re there. He’ll know he has you somehow.

It doesn’t take long before both of your outfits are strewn around his room. He’s kneeling between your legs, now, holding your thighs on his hips as he teases your entrance. His tip is red, weepy. You’d probably make a joke about how it’s ‘Stanford red,’ tease him for being needy, if you were paying attention. But you aren’t, and he can tell. He’s not offended, not in the slightest. But he’s worried that you’ll overthink your way into a spiral, and the last thing he needs is his girlfr—someone he cares about going off the rails. So he’s grabbing your chin gently, forcing you to look at him, to see him. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, forehead creasing as he frowns at you. 

“Yeah?” you ask, a little lost. 

“Hold on to something, okay?” 

“Wh—fuck!” You can’t ask him what he means, because he’s ripping a cry out of you as he stuffs himself in you, balls-deep. He groans at the sight of your tight, greedy pussy swallowing him, the way he fills you like you were custom-made just for him. He gives you two slow thrusts before he’s ramming into you like a jackhammer. He knows better than to go slow and soft, this time. He knows that if he does, it’ll give you enough time to think. He’s trying to fuck the thoughts out of you, now. The only thing he wants you to think about is him. 

He’s precise. He knows exactly how to position himself so that his tip is hitting your g-spot with almost every thrust, the slight curve of his dick giving him the perfect angle. The hand he has on your chin adjusts so that he can slide his index and middle finger past your lips. He had to keep you quiet somehow. It’s not like you could get away with being loud when the walls of his dorm were that thin. Patrick’s room was just across the hall, after all. You groan around his fingers, swirling your tongue around them, sucking them like you’re trying to brand his fingerprints on your tongue.

“You’re so pretty,” he mutters, his pupils blown as he takes in the sight of you. “So fucking sexy. Too beautiful to be disrespected like that,” he says. He catches himself as soon as he says it, but you don’t even bother to respond, too lost in the way his hips slam against you. 

It’s not long before the noises leaving your mouth are growing more frequent and less comprehensible. He takes that as the sign to pull his fingers from your mouth and bring them to your clit instead, rubbing with enough fervor to get your hips involuntarily bucking underneath him. You gasp his name as you hurtle over the edge, your cunt squeezing around him. It’s enough for him, too, because it’s right after that that he pulls out, pumping himself as he comes on your stomach, painting you with the evidence of his desire.

After a few moments where the only sounds in the room are both of you trying to catch your breath, you’re the first one to speak. “I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to be honest.”

Art turns his head to look at you, still breathless, his fingers trailing lazy circles on your bare hip. “Jesus. Do you ever stop thinking? Or is giving me a heart attack something that turns you on?”

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly with your knee. “Just answer me.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face, but the corner of his mouth twitches up. “Fine. Shoot.”

You take a slow breath. “Why’d you actually say no about going pro?”

Art freezes for half a second. It’s barely noticeable, but you feel it. His fingertips are still on your skin, his chest rises and falls a little too evenly—like he’s bracing for impact.

You press on. “Because I don’t get it, Art. Patrick is your best friend. We all—” you hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “We all have each other. In every possible way. So why are you staying?”

He exhales sharply, like he was hoping you wouldn’t push this far. “Not everything is about—”

“Sex?” you cut in. “I know. That’s exactly my point.” You sit up slightly, resting on your elbow so you can look at him. “It’s not about that. It never has been. So what is it? Because you know you’d hold your own out there. You’d rather die than let Patrick keep that edge over you forever. So why?”

Art is silent for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because if I go, I lose everything.”

You frown. “You wouldn’t lose—”

“Yes, I would.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so you’re face to face. “Patrick and Tashi? They’ll survive without me. They already are. You saw it before I did.”

You hesitate, throat tightening. Because he’s not wrong.

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You think Patrick needs me? He doesn’t. Not like he used to. He doesn’t ask me to come over first, anymore. He checks for you and Tashi. And if we learned anything at lunch, it's that Tashi definitely doesn't need anyone.

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come.

Art sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I stay, I get to hold onto this—us—for a little longer. If I go…” he exhales, looking away. “I don’t know what’s left for me.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. Because there it is. The thing neither of you have ever said out loud. Your voice is softer when you speak again. “You don’t think I’ll follow them.”

Art’s eyes flick back to yours. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

You swallow hard. “That’s why you stayed.”

A beat of silence. Then, finally, he nods.

And for the first time, you don’t know whether to feel grateful or guilty.

---

“And now, your 2002, 2005, and 2006 NCAA Women’s Tennis Champions… Give it up for STANFORD TENNIS!”

The air inside Taube Family Tennis Stadium is thick with noise, the kind that thrums in your chest, rattles in your teeth. Stanford’s home crowd is loud, a sea of red and white, feet stomping against the bleachers in a deafening rhythm. The banners are already preemptively celebrating, a massive GO CARDINAL! stretched across the upper deck.

It’s suffocating.

You shift in your seat, heart lodged somewhere in your throat as you watch Tashi bounce on the balls of her feet, rolling her shoulders back, twirling her racket in one hand like it’s an extension of her body. Across the net, Sally What’s-Her-Name stands still, eyes locked on her, gripping her own racket tight. She’s good. Really good. She wouldn’t be here otherwise. But she’s not Tashi.

No one is.

Tashi is coiled tension, electric, barely contained. The first serve is brutal, a 121 mph bullet down the T-line that Sally barely gets her strings on. The return floats too high, and Tashi pounces, stepping inside the baseline and crushing a forehand winner down the line.

Stanford’s crowd erupts.

Patrick lets out a low whistle from beside you, shaking his head. “Fucking lethal.”

Art, arms crossed, just exhales sharply through his nose.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. Because the match plays out exactly how you knew it would. Sally fights, but Tashi smothers her. Precision, power, instinct. Every angle cut off before Sally can react. Every ball sent screaming off Tashi’s racket, clipping the lines with surgical accuracy. It’s like watching a lion toy with its prey, drawing it out just long enough before going for the throat.

Sally is desperate, but Tashi barely looks like she’s trying. She’s in complete control, dictating every point, making the girl run until her legs are gone. Until her breath is ragged. Until she’s broken.

Sally manages to steal a set. Barely. But Tashi? She smiles. Like she enjoys it. Like she wants the fight.

By the time the third set rolls around, it’s inevitable.

It ends, fittingly, on a backhand winner, because of course it does. Because Tashi Duncan loves a clean kill. She barely watches as the ball paints the line, untouched. The second it lands, she already knows.

Game, set, match—Duncan.

She doesn’t fall to her knees. She doesn’t drop her racket. She just exhales, tilts her head back, and grins.

The stadium erupts.

She turns, finally, and for the briefest second, her eyes lock onto yours. The grin widens. Not a thank-you, not a see-that? Not even a simple acknowledgment of this moment, this win, this final nail in the coffin of what you had.

It’s a challenge.

You swallow hard.

Patrick yells something beside you, but you don’t hear it.

Because the thing is—you don’t just admire Tashi Duncan, anymore.

You want to beat her.

It’s dark outside when Tashi steps into Patrick’s unlocked dorm room. She’s not at all surprised by the scene as she enters: you on all fours, Patrick fucking into you from behind as you choke yourself on Art’s cock. Patrick’s the first one to notice her entering, his grip on your hips tightening just enough to get you to glance up.

“Took you long enough,” he remarks, his eyes sweeping over her with a lazy, shameless grin on his face.

“Interviews,” she shrugs. “And I needed a shower.” She strips as she replies, tossing her clothes in a small pile on the floor. She strides over to the other side of the bed, watching the way Art’s eyes flutter shut, his fingers tugging at your hair as your head bobs on him. 

“Up, Y/N,” she softly clucks. You don’t listen. “Y/N,” she says again, her tone a little more firm. “I said up.”

You pull your mouth away from Art for a moment, eliciting a groan from him as you look at her. “I’m busy, Tashi. You can wait your turn.” You don’t mean to say it with as much sass as you end up conveying, but it happens. Probably because it’s how you actually feel. 

A frown crosses her face. Patrick’s eyes widen a little, and he doesn’t stop his thrusts, but they slow significantly. 

“That’s not how this works,” Tashi says. “You’re not the one calling the shots, here.”

“First time for everything, right?” you reply, keeping your eyes on her as you lick another stripe up Art’s shaft. “Pat, you can keep going. No need to stop.”

Tashi’s gaze burns your skin as she watches you pull your eyes away from her, your mouth working Art even harder than you were before. Patrick’s still a little shocked by what he just saw, but he listens, slamming back into you at a more moderate pace. 

“Such a good girl,” Art murmurs, his fingers streaming through your hair. To Patrick and Tashi, it’s just general praise—an in-the-moment statement about how good you’re making him feel. But you and Art know the meaning behind his words. Sure, your mouth feels like heaven on him. But he’s talking about the words that came out of your mouth.

Tashi steels herself—she’ll deal with you later. She kneels on the bed, capturing Patrick’s lips in a long, sloppy kiss. Once she’s had enough of him, She’s forcing the three of you to adjust so she can position her cunt directly above Art’s face. He keeps one hand tangled in your hair, and he snakes his other hand around Tashi’s thigh to pull her down onto his mouth. 

She comes on his tongue, instead of yours. You can’t decide if you feel more guilty or more relieved that for once, she was being forced to settle instead of you.

---

About a month later, it’s late. The kind of late when campus is quiet, the world outside your dorm window humming low and distant. The sheets are still tangled around your legs, the residue Tashi’s sweat and perfume clinging to your skin. The smell of your sin lingers in the air. It makes your stomach turn. She sits on your bed, one leg tucked under the other, bare shoulders glowing in the dim light—like she always does. Like she owns it. Like she owns you.

“The press release goes out tomorrow morning,” she says, voice smooth, casual. Too casual. Like this isn’t gutting you. “About me leaving Stanford. I got a wild card spot. But I wanted to tell you before you saw it in the news.”

You don’t look up from your phone. If you do, she’ll see it. The anger burning low in your stomach, the betrayal clawing at your ribs. “This isn’t news.”

Tashi’s head tilts slightly, just enough that you catch the shift in her expression from the corner of your eye. “What?”

“You told me forever ago. That day at lunch, remember?” You finally glance at her, your voice deliberately even. Empty. “This isn’t new information.”

She blinks, and for the first time in a long time, you see it—that flicker of something uncertain, something almost lost. “Right,” she says after a beat, running her tongue over her teeth. “I just thought—” She stops herself, and exhales sharply through her nose. “I thought you’d have something to say.”

You shrug, shifting slightly under the weight of her stare. The sheets rustle, cold against your skin. “What do you want me to say?”

Tashi doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she watches you, eyes sharp, searching. “You’re pissed,” she accuses, but there’s an edge to it, like she’s testing you, waiting for you to crack.

You stretch your legs out in front of you, feigning nonchalance. It’s all muscle memory now, this performance. “I’m not.”

Her jaw tightens. “You don’t have to act like you don’t care.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable?”

Tashi shifts, leaning in slightly, her voice dropping. “Because it’s bullshit.”

You don’t flinch. Don’t fold. Just hold her gaze, steady and unyielding. “You wanted this,” you say simply. “You’ve always wanted this.”

Tashi’s lips press together, her fingers curling into the fabric of your blanket. “That doesn’t mean I wanted—” She stops short again, her throat bobbing as she swallows. “Never mind.”

You could push. You should push. You want to sink your teeth into it, tear it apart until there’s nothing left but the truth. But you don’t. Instead, you exhale, turning your attention back to your phone. “Congratulations, Tashi.”

It’s dismissive. Final. A lie.

And for the first time, you leave her with nothing to say.

-------