bastard racoon

It’s four years after The Incident that she makes her return to the singles. Not entirely her own choice, Trinity had said she wanted to focus on her game more because on god she was going to beat Garcia one of these days, so that meant Samira would need a different doubles partner.

Samira hadn’t wanted a different doubles partner.

She worked well with Trinity, they’d had a good partnership. They’d been friends since they’d been assigned as training partners in tennis camp when they were fifteen and had continued to play together every now and again as they’d grown up. Samira liked playing with her.

She didn’t want to play with anybody else.

But needs must, when you want to keep making a living.

Finding a new coach had been easier than she’d expected it to be. After Robby’s rather dramatic exit, Samira had imagined her name would’ve been blacklisted amongst most other prospective investors, but Baran had reached out to her before she had even thought to ask.

She guessed she had Trinity to thank for that.

Baran was a good teacher. Not much older than herself but a hell of a lot more accomplished, with seven Grand Slam titles under her belt by the time she’d stepped back from the court.

Samira had never faced her herself but she’d seen Baran play. Calm, confident, disciplined, even in a loss.

She liked her style off of the court too. Endlessly graceful, charming, cool and kind when it came down to her teaching. She actually made Samira think instead of just hitting the ball over the net, made her into an athlete rather than just a girl with a racket in a white sport-dress.

That being said, Samira still cries after her losing her first appearance back on the circuit.

It’s a humiliating score. 6-2. 6-0.

Granted, she’s made some progress with her temper by saving her racket smash for the privacy of her own changing room, but the humiliation still burns enough tears that she ruins Baran’s Lululemon-sponsored jacket the minute her coach pulls her into a hug.

Maybe she just isn’t meant for tennis. Maybe it’s just not her.

Baran puts her on a different tactic.

Before, when she had Robby, it was exercise drills. Practising serves and pushing weights until she dropped, running until she couldn’t cry anymore, getting her head down and focusing on the work.

With Baran, it’s the media that gets her to open up again, gets her to clear her head. Nudging her in front of some kid interviewer with a microphone and asking her what her favourite movie is.

It’s different, silly even, but Samira comes to like it a lot more than she did before. Before, it was post-match press conferences and being asked why she was so crap, why she was always losing, why she couldn’t keep a racket intact or a ball over the net. Always harsh, always judging.

Now, she gets to laugh and forget about the tennis, forget about the judgement and the humiliation, just gets to have fun and feel a little brighter.

She learns she’s actually got fans.

Her game improves all the way to the Indian Wells open where Baran pulls some strings to get her on the wild card.

She gets through round one.

Then round two.

By sheer luck she faces Trinity in round three and beats her in straight sets, something her friend doesn’t seem to be altogether too mad about, thank god.

But it’s round four where it all drops away.

Round four, she faces Emery Walsh.

She’s heard of Walsh. A dynamic player, raised on tennis, two-time Grand Slam champion, once at Roland-Garros four years ago, the other at the American Open the year before that. She’s one of those players that makes everything look so fucking easy that it’s frustrating. A natural star.

Nobody ever sees Walsh practice. She just turns up, wins, waves and leaves. Whatever’s going on in her head stays purely there, never on her face, never in her serve, just plain and simple in her head. There’s no overthinking and no bad playing. Consistency at its finest.

Samira loses to her in straight sets. 6-3. 6-4.

Usually, that would have her running to Baran, throwing a racket and dumping her bag on some poor physio until she could calm down again. But not this time.

Most players would be happy about getting to the quarterfinal at Indian Wells. Ecstatic, even.

Not Emery Walsh.

Emery Walsh, when she approaches Samira at the net after her win, has a look on her face so peculiar that Samira worries they’re not going to shake hands.

When they do, the shorter player leans in and says:

“Make it harder next time.”

What’s even stranger is that Samira can see it’s not meant to provoke or mock her, it sounds almost disappointed.

Emery gives her a tight look and walks off before Samira can reply, shaking the umpire’s hand and giving the crowd a brief wave before disappearing down the tunnel.

She doesn’t even stick around for her post-match interview.

If it’s a tactic to get into Samira’s head, it works.

She spends the rest of tournament watching Walsh like a hawk. She’s not a total recluse it seems, Samira catches her walking around with her coach Shamsi and her training partner Abbot, signing autographs and posing for the occasional photo with a young fan but she doesn’t watch any matches though they would surely benefit her.

Walsh doesn’t seem at all fazed either that she’s playing some of the biggest names in tennis, day in and day out. If it does bother her, she doesn’t show it.

Even when she loses to Parker Ellis in the semi-final, she doesn’t look all that put off. In fact, Samira’s pretty sure she sees Emery shrug when Parker grins and shakes her hand over the net.

She can’t get the player out of her head.

The next time they face each other is Miami, a month later.

Emery beats her 6-4. 7-5.

This time, when they meet over the net, Emery grins like she’s won something.

“Much better, Mohan. Still, make it harder.”

Again, she’s off and down the tunnel before Samira can get a word in, left standing at the net with her mouth open and her racket unbroken in her hand.

Not only do the commentators pick up on it, so do the fans. Everyone’s wondering why Slo-Mo is gazing after Emery Walsh after losing to her in such spectacular fashion.

It becomes a rivalry.

A rivalry that Samira keeps losing at, and a rivalry that keeps Emery Walsh smirking at her from over the net.

Yolanda is wrapped around Baran’s back with her hand pressed between her legs. Trinity can’t see much more from her spot in the corner, but she can see Baran’s thighs and part of her ass as the dress has been pulled up under Yolanda’s forearm. Baran’s hands are braced on the policed surface of the bar, knuckles tense as her body moves in small, helpless jolts against Yolanda’s hold.

Trinity is suddenly frozen and unable to look away.

Yolanda’s noises are the ones that first hit her ears in the parlor now that she knows what they are, it’s all she can notice— low and rough, spilling out against the back of Baran’s neck. Each one of them lands somewhere under Trinity's chest and sinks lower and lower.

“Come on,” she hears Yolanda’s voice, rough and scratchy and nothing like the tone she uses when she orders the crew around on deck. She shifts on her feet before she can stop herself. Heat drops from her stomach into her core. She clenches around nothing as she watches one of Yolanda’s hands curl around Baran’s neck. Her fingers sprayed across her dark neck. Even from a distance away, Trinity could see that there was no tension in her fingers. Yolanda was simply holding her in place, as she spoke into her ear.

Leave, Trinity tells herself. Turn around and walk out of the parlor and let them finish. Stop being a pervert about it.

It’s not the first time that she’s caught guests having sex; it happens. People rent out the boat to be able to fuck whereever they want and Trinity usually has discretion about it.

Except now—

“Say her name for me,” Yolanda says as she continues to move her hand underneath Baran’s dress, like she has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it on her wife. “You want to say it for me.”

Trinity thinks there must be some other women they are thinking about. Someone that they have flirted with over dinners and now they’re using it as some sort of game.

“Yolanda,” Baran’s voice breaks. From the hallway, she sees Baran resting her head back against Yolanda’s shoulder at the words and movement. It’s infinitely worse now that she can see Baran’s side profile. Her mouth is open and her eyes are closed as Trinity watches. Trinity’s eyes keep flickering down, back and forth between the hidden movement of Yolanda’s fingers and the look on Baran’s face.

It is the hottest thing that Trinity has ever seen in her life.

As Yolanda moves her fingers, she’s also grinding against the back of Baran. She can’t see Yolanda’s face, it’s hidden behind her wife from this angle, but if Trinity closes her eyes she can picture it.

Her heart might as well be beating between her legs at this point, for every pulse of it lands there.

If she holds her breath, she can hear the wet, obscene sounds of Yoland’s fingers moving in and out of Baran. It’s slick and unmistakable in the quiet.

Trinity nearly lets out a whimper.

She’s never orgasmed without touching herself, but with her thighs pressed together, she thinks that she’s about to find out she can just based on the two of them and the sounds they make.

“C’mon, mi amor,” Yolanda growls and Trinity’s clenches again around nothing, wanting it to be her that Yolanda is pushing into, or maybe be the one to thrust into Baran, or just be in the middle or on her knees between them, she doesn’t even know anymore, she just wants it all. “I know you want to say her name.”

“You’re being mean,” Baran says with little breathy pants in between each of her words. Each thrust of Yolanda fingers under her dress have her hips pressing over and over into the bar.

“You like it when I’m mean,” Yolanda says. “Give me what I want, what you want.”

Baran drops her head forward between her braced arms. Her shoulders shake for a moment before Trinity realizes she’s laughing.

“You want me to say it,” Baran pants, but there’s a hint of the laughter in her tone now. “You want it so badly.”

Yolanda lets out what Trinity thinks has to be a growl before she starts thrusting faster into Baran, who starts shaking not from laughter this time. She lets out a broken moan that dissolves into a whimper.

Trinity’s mind races to come up with the image of the women they must be talking about. A colleague, maybe? Someone that they’ve met on one of their other trips? Trinity’s mind is cruel and supplies an image of a woman who fits into their world. Someone taller that wears silks instead of cotton. Someone more beautiful who can order wine out in the city and not have to count the money in her account down to the dollar to do so. Someone older who already knows who they are going to be instead of standing on the edge of the rest of their life.

Baran’s breath catches again, and Yolanda says something too soft for Trinity to hear. Whatever it is makes Baran’s fingers slide against the bar before she catches herself.

“Fine,” Baran breathes. “Fine, God, you—”

“Say it.”

Her head tips back onto Yolanda’s shoulder again, Trinity can see that her mouth is open now. She doesn’t even need to hold her breath to hear the noise of Yolanda’s fingers anymore. It fills the whole parlor, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by the little broken sounds that Baran could no longer keep inside her.

Trinity watches as Baran's throat works against the cool air of the cabin, then watches as she pushes herself back up against Yolanda’s body. She watches her hip grind down against Yolanda’s fingers like some sort of sick wet dream.

When Baran finally gives in, when she finally lets Yolanda win, the name she lets out is not a strangers’ at all.