Chapter Text
To live without the one you love
an empty dream never known
true happiness except as such youth
watching snow at window
listening to old music through morning.
Riding down that deserted street
by evening in a lonely cab
past a blighted theatre
oh god yes, I missed the chance of my life
when I gasped, when I got up and
rushed out the room
away from you.
Loss, John Wieners
Patrick
Queens, New York, 2019
Patrick slumps forward on a cracked vinyl stool, resting his elbows on the sticky surface of the bar. The dim, yellowish lighting should help hide the build-up of grime and dirt in this place, but somehow it has the opposite effect, giving everything a sickly hue. Faded sports memorabilia is nailed to the walls—old jerseys in dusty frames; black and white photographs curling at the edges, hiding their autographs. Big dreams, gone to ruin.
He can relate.
The bar itself is worn down and well-grooved, polished surface showing its many years of use and abuse. He runs his thumb along a particular egregious chip absentmindedly, flicking his eyes towards the TV in the corner and determinedly away.
It’s showing the tennis, of course. The bright fluorescent, pristine blue of the court makes a stark contrast to his dingy surroundings. The sound of tennis balls being struck and the answering grunts from the players punctuate the low murmur of conversation from a couple of other patrons scattered around the bar—none of whom are paying attention to the match.
“Can you change the channel, man?”
Down the other end of the bar, the server ignores him. He continues methodically wiping down glasses with his less-than-clean rag, his movements slow and deliberate. He’s an older guy, thick beard and a frown; a face that’s seen more than his fair share of late nights and bar fights.
Patrick picked this place purely because everything about it was uninviting. Maybe this is why it was so empty. Of all the f*cking sports bars in Queens, he had to walk into the one showing the tennis, and not, say, any of the many much more mainstream baseball or football games happening across the country. The Mets are literally playing a stone’s throw away, for f*ck’s sake.
He asks again. “Hey, dude—mind changing the channel? Who the f*ck watches tennis anyway?”
The bartender seems intent on ignoring him. Patrick leans further over, reaching out a hand to wave, willing to be obnoxious about it, when the guy finally turns and shrugs.
“Control’s broke,” he says flatly.
“Huh?”
“Can’t change the channel. Control’s broke,” the guy says again, setting down another glass with a clink.
Patrick shakes his head, disbelieving. He wonders which goddamn guardian angel has got its wires crossed so badly, and then adjusts his thinking. More likely, they’ve had it in for him from the start.
“Can’t you get another one? Universal remotes are literally like two dollars, dude.”
The server blinks at him. It looks like he’s never considered that option.
It makes Patrick want to put his head through the bar.
“Jesus Christ, forget about it.”
He sits back down and picks up his beer. It’s lukewarm and bitter, but he sips at it anyway and tries to calm himself down. The AC in the bar is weak and the humid air outside feels like it's pressing in. The server frowns at him again and resumes cleaning his glasses.
Patrick counts to ten in his head, gets to five, which is close enough, lets out a breath, and then glances back towards the tennis. The players on the screen are moving with grace and precision, slicing through the court. Arthur Ashe stadium looks like another planet compared to the dingy dive bar in which he’s sitting.
Not that Patrick is unused to feeling galaxies away from whatever tennis is being played at the Slams, of course, but never has the feeling cut as close as it does today.
Art is one set up. He came out of the gate quick, tight and sharp. Everything Tashi taught him to be. The second set is proving to be more of a struggle. As Patrick watches, the two players fall into a rally. The kid—Vasilakis—moves well, and he’s making Art work for it, sending him from one side of the court to the other with erratic shots. Art does well to control him and try and cut him off. For long seconds, it’s an excruciating watch, both players dancing along the baseline. Patrick waits for Art to stumble, to pull up short and miss. It doesn’t happen. Vaslilakis gets frustrated, and frustration means he sends his next return much shorter, slicing so it drifts over the net. Art dives to make it—struggles–flicks it back just enough.
Finding his opening, Vasilakis gets co*cky. He tries it again—unnecessary showmanship.
This time, Art anticipates it. As Vasilakis stands at the net, in one swift, calculated motion, Art whips a forehand behind him, the ball skimming past his shoulder to land neatly inside the baseline. 30-15.
Arthur Ashe Stadium goes wild. The camera pans to Tashi’s reaction in the box; predictably marble-like.
The seat next to her is empty.
Patrick takes another gulp of beer.
Of course, he’s no stranger to watching Art’s matches from this position—another spectator like any other, living out their sporting dreams vicariously through the screen. Patrick has watched Art’s matches in players' lounges up and down the country and across the world. He watched Art’s 2014 Wimbledon win from a hotel room in Slovenia, hunched over his phone, racking up an international data bill he truly couldn’t afford, because the hotel wifi kept cutting out mid-rally. He remembers how young Art had looked; how golden, against all that pristine green. His hair was still long back then. He still looked like someone Patrick knew. But only just.
He watches Art lose a game—Vasilakis’ serve is difficult to get around—and then hold his own service game. Intermittently, the camera pans to Tashi in the stands. She looks gorgeous, of course, if recognizably tense, the set of her jaw rigid. Patrick aches to touch the delicate line of her collarbone, to lick the sweat he can see glistening there, even through the screen.
Art wipes his own sweat from his eyes. The camera is positioned at Vasilakis’ service end. Art looks small at the other baseline, bent at the knees, waiting. Patrick sees the ace coming before Art does—the supreme swing of Vasilakis’ arm undeniable. It sails past Art and into the scrambling hands of a ball boy. Art barely blinks.
Patrick sets his beer on the bar sharply.
“f*cking hell, Donaldson.”
Art resettles into position. The camera zooms in on his face and Patrick looks for the same determination, the refusal to be intimidated, he saw last month at New Rochelle. But Art’s eyes are flat, his face slack.
If Art’s going to let this slip through his fingers, Patrick doesn’t care to watch.
Unsure if Donaldson’s previous injury is making itself known here, the commentators are saying. Vasilakis’ serve is his strength, but Donaldson could be putting up more of a fight than this. This match could very easily get away from him if he lets too many more of those go.
Art fails to break serve, and Patrick drains his beer.
It’s not his f*cking business if Art wants to throw away his last chance at true tennis glory. If Art’s more interested in making the next flight to Atlanta, that’s his choice.
Patrick’s been avoiding Tashi’s calls since he hung up on her, the morning after he left their hotel room last week. He should have got on a flight, too—found a last-minute Challenger he could have turned up for Qualifying at, with his fingers crossed like always.
Instead, he’s sleeping on the floor of an ex-hookup in the city. Every time he opens the ATP website to find a tournament to play, he dicks around scrolling for a few minutes, before exiting out of the tab.
Art said once that he had no sense of self-preservation. You’re so kamikaze, man. How the f*ck do you do it?
He’d been talking about Patrick’s tennis. Mostly.
The umpire calls a time out and Art walks slowly back to his chair, sitting down and draping the towel over his face, denying the cameras following him. Patrick’s stomach twists. He’s only ever seen Art do that when he’s struggling—trying to block something out, desperate to refocus and keep his head in the game.
The twist in his stomach feels a lot like guilt.
Which is f*cking ridiculous, of course. Art and Tashi have survived a whole career without him—whether he’s sat in the stands with a lanyard around his neck like a collar is not the difference maker here. Not just survived, either—f*cking thrived and made their millions while they were at it.
Patrick doesn’t have a place in their team, and he sure as f*ck doesn’t have a place in their marriage. The last month he spent with them wasn’t f*cking real. It was a nice distraction, sure, and Patrick won’t lie and say he didn’t enjoy staying at the Four Seasons and putting his room service bills on their tab, but if Tashi liked to think she’d found the miracle solution in that locker room at Phil’s f*cking Tire Town Challenger, she was deluding herself—like she was deluding herself if she thought she’d be happy once Art retired without tennis to keep her going.
He’s familiar with the lifestyles of the big Slam winners; brushing shoulders with them in hotel hallways, watching them take the elevator to their unmarked private suites, while Patrick stumbled off on the fourth floor to his shared room, where they’d stored all the qualifiers. He knows about the physios and nutritionists and sports therapists big players keep on retainer. The entourage they travel with. None of it is new to him and hasn’t been since he started playing tennis as a five-year-old at his parent’s club.
Patrick’s been doing it alone since his last coach threw in the towel two years ago.
Art’s life isn’t his to have, or to borrow. He doesn’t want a short-term loan, and he doesn’t want a place in their bed only to be kicked out of it, when Art inevitably freaks out about the future and Tashi decides he’s not a sound investment, after all. He’s not their pet and he’s not their f*cking employee, either.
When he looks away from the TV and out the window, the sky outside the bar is darkening, clouds rolling in. It barely makes a difference to the light level inside. Patrick should have known the weather wouldn't hold. A rain delay would threaten the tentative control Art’s managed to establish.
The umpire calls time again, and Patrick watches as Art moves slowly back to his serving box. The perfect slot of his ball into the triangle of his racket head is caught by the camera.
He tosses the ball high. Patrick watches the arc of it, waiting for it to drop and for Art to make contact, but Art snatches it out of the air, dissatisfied. Nervous.
There are clouds above Arthur Ashe Stadium. Any moment now, some stupid official is going to start thinking about trying to get the roof closed, Patrick knows. He holds his breath as Art moves to serve again—fitting the ball to the neck of his racket. Holding, holding, holding—
Art faults on the serve. Out.
The crowd groans.
Patrick’s resulting string of curse words is way too loud.
Down the other end of the bar, the server turns to him, eyebrow raised. “Thought you didn’t wanna watch the tennis, huh?”
“I don’t,” Patrick replies.
He wants to be playing it, obviously.
He wishes Art were here, drinking a beer with him, instead of struggling on court.
Everything would be so much simpler if it weren’t for all the f*cking tennis getting in the goddamn way.
But since that’s not possible, and never will be, he pushes out his stool, squeaking against the sticky flooring, and gets to his feet.
He throws some notes down on the bar. Some of the last he’s got in his pocket.
“Keep the change.”
Westchester, New York, 2005
When Patrick woke, the room was still. The crumpled swirl of sheets on the air mattress below nearly engulfed Art’s whole body, except for the carrot top of his curls poking out the end. Technically, Art had a guest bedroom made up for him, but they always ended up crashing together in Patrick’s, talking into the small hours of the night. The curtains were drawn, strong July morning sun slicing through the crooked gaps, turning the strands of Art’s hair pale and straw-like. For a moment, Patrick grinned.
Then he slipped out of bed. He plucked a shirt from the floor–maybe his, maybe Art’s, he couldn’t be sure in the dimness—and crept downstairs to flick on the coffee machine.
The food his parents had left them was starting to run out or go bad—limp lettuce and some doubtful-looking bell peppers, nearly the only things left in the fridge. He’d have to ask Luisa, their housekeeper, to buy some more. Better yet, maybe he could drive one of the cars into town and he and Art could go grocery shopping on his dad’s credit card. That could be fun—drifting round on the shopping cart, cruising down cool air-conditioned aisles, getting Art to relent and stock up on fancy organic ice cream. His parents would freak out if they knew he’d taken the car, of course, but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. And his dad would never notice a few extra hundred bucks spent in D'Agostino, anyway.
Besides, they were in Europe and would be for another two weeks. What the f*ck could they do about it from there?
He’d salvaged a half-empty pot of greek yogurt and was eating it directly with a spoon, when Art appeared in the doorway.
Unlike Patrick, he hadn’t bothered to pull on a shirt before he came down. The kitchen bi-folds let a lot of light into the room, and Patrick watched it catch against the deep dips of Art’s collarbones and the ridges of muscle he’d spent the previous school year working so hard to perfect, sweating out extra hours in the gym, even when Patrick told him there were so many more interesting ways he could be spending his time.
Art knuckled sleep out of his eyes—yawned—blinked—and then frowned at him.
“Morning champ,” Patrick said breezily. “Nice to have you with us in the land of the living.”
The clock on the oven read 8:52 am.
“It’s summer,” Art grumbled. “I’m allowed to sleep in, f*ck you. It's not even late! And don’t pretend like you’ve been up for hours. I heard you leave the room.”
Patrick just grinned. “Coffee’s hot. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Art sloped towards it, pouring out a cup. Patrick let him get all the way to the fridge, peering inside it, still clutching his coffee, before Art came to the same conclusion he had.
“Are we out of eggs? Dude, are we out of everything?”
“You ate, like, three boiled eggs for breakfast yesterday,” Patrick pointed out.
Art dropped into the opposite chair across the island. His bed-head was ridiculous—crushed on one side, springy and wild on the other. Four years and Patrick had never seen Art’s hair look like it even knew what a comb was, never mind had been introduced to one, despite Art’s many half-hearted attempts to coax it into neatness. Instead of cutting it, he’d taken to shoving it under a cap. Patrick delighted in the new challenge of whacking it off his head continually.
Art nodded toward Patrick’s yogurt tub.
“Can I have some of that, then?”
Patrick licked off his spoon before smiling. Art watched the flick of his tongue with a scowl on his face, which deepened further when Patrick dropped the spoon into the obviously empty plastic pot.
“Pat—come on. Are you kidding me?”
“You snooze, you lose, pal. Anyway, relax. We’ll go grocery shopping today. It’s fine.”
“How are we gonna do that? On your bike?” He snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“No, dummy, we’re gonna take the car.”
Art pushed his coffee mug away from him, suddenly looking a lot more awake than a minute ago. “The car? Patrick, you don’t own a f*cking car. You barely know how to drive!”
Patrick shrugged off his protests. “Of course I know how to drive. I just don’t have my license yet.” He waved a hand. “Details, honestly. The store’s, like, two miles away. We’ll be fine.”
Art gaped at him. “You know that’s super illegal, right?”
“Well, I’m not gonna call the cops on myself. Are you?”
Immediately, Art was back to frowning. “No, Patrick. Obviously, but like—I mean—” He stuttered, sighed, and reached for his coffee again. “It’ll take, like, 5 minutes to drive there, right?” He sounded dubious.
“Less,” Patrick promised.
Art still looked wary but something in his eyes slackened. “What am I supposed to eat for breakfast now?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I think there’s some muesli in the cupboard?”
Art pulled a face. “f*ck off.”
As if he thought Patrick might magically be hiding more, Art made a dive for the empty yogurt tub. Patrick, instinctively, whipped it out of reach, leaning back on the chair to cackle, a protective arm curled around his treasure. It was still mostly empty, but if Art was willing to fight over it, Patrick was willing to let him.
“Nice try,” he laughed. “But not quite. Gotta do better than that, bud.”
There was something satisfying in knowing that only Patrick could make Art’s frustration flare this quickly. Art growled and made another grab for it. The yogurt pot was knocked sideways, the spoon Patrick had dropped in it falling out and clattering against the island instead. The last few big globs of Greek yogurt flew across the marble surface. Some of it caught Art, streaking across his chest, splattering almost up to his chin.
Patrick froze as Art flinched and reared back. He blinked—staring at Art’s pale skin—glowing in the sun, striped in white.
Almost like—
Like—
“You motherf*cker,” Art hissed.
All hell broke loose.
Art launched himself off his chair and round to Patrick’s side of the island, dragging him off his seat and into a headlock faster than Patrick could blink. He had several inches on Art of course, but Art was wily, often stronger than he looked, and Patrick was—distracted.
“You absolute motherf*cker,” Art repeated, although Patrick could barely hear him with his head pressed into Art’s armpit. He smelled of stale sweat, like he hadn’t showered this morning yet, but under that— something cool and familiar—the same smell Patrick picked out every time he walked into the front hall of his own home. Laundry detergent? Fabric conditioner? Luisa had been washing their clothes together, ever since Art came to stay and train for the summer.
Art worked his free arm under his t-shirt and pinched his side. It hurt. Patrick thrashed and Art’s hold loosened, just a little bit, enough for Patrick to buck him off for a few seconds. Their legs tangled together. Patrick knew where this was headed, and he didn’t particularly want either of them to crack their heads open on the kitchen tile, so he pushed, scrabbling, shoving them both over in the direction of the couch built into the window. It was a familiar dance, and Patrick knew all of Art’s weak spots—the space between his ribs where he was ticklish, how to get a good handful of his hair and yank. Art howled as his shins hit the side of the couch and they both overbalanced.
Art landed on top of him, elbow in Patrick’s gut, knee wedged between Patrick’s thighs. The yogurt was now smeared over his skin, and rubbed into Patrick’s shirt, too. They were both panting, but Art was the first to recover, twisting Patrick’s wrists over his head and pressing them into the couch cushion. Patrick felt dazed. Dizzy. The sun was streaming in behind Art’s head, filtering through his loose curls, making them glow. He looked like he had a halo. Angelic.
Which was completely at odds with the way he was glaring down at Patrick underneath him. “Say you forfeit,” he demanded.
“Forfeit f*cking what?” Patrick spat, trying to wriggle away from where Art’s knee was dangerously close to—
Art took a second to think. “Just f*cking forfeit, dude. I’ll decide later.”
“I’m not signing you a blank cheque,” Patrick wheezed. “Jesus, Art.”
Art dropped more of his weight down onto Patrick’s body. His warm breath hit Patrick’s chin. There was yogurt on his collarbone. Patrick had the insane urge to lift his chin and—lick it.
“I wanna play tennis today.”
Patrick stared up at him. “We always play tennis, Art. What the f*ck?”
“Yeah, but today you’re not allowed to be a little bitch about it. You have to try. I want a real match.”
He shook Patrick’s wrists, as if to prove he’d got him trapped. In all honesty, Patrick could throw him off if he really wanted to. He didn’t.
He huffed, flexing his hands—feeling at the edges of Art’s restraint. If he lifted his hips right now, if he—
“Do you forfeit?” Art repeated.
“What the hell,” Patrick grunted, scowling, which Art took as surrender, partially because it was, and they both knew it. He let go of Patrick’s wrists and flopped next to him. It was a good job the couch was deep, so he wasn’t forced to collapse on top of him instead. They were both breathing heavily, while Patrick blinked up at the ceiling. Art was touching him in precisely one place—the back of his hand resting against his stomach, arm flung out where it landed. The touch felt heavy, rising and falling as Patrick hauled in steadying breaths, wheezing on the exhale.
It was barely 9am, but it was already too warm. The back of Patrick’s neck was hot.
“You take tennis so f*cking seriously sometimes,” he huffed, shuffling an inch away.
Beside him, Art blew out a breath. “You don’t take it seriously enough,” he said mildly. “You slack off, sometimes.”
“Everyone slacks off from time to time,” Patrick scoffed. “Geez, Art. You’re not my coach, y’know.” He paused, weighing the impact. “Or my dad.”
Art turned his head, hesitating a second, eyes newly soft. His aim of disarming Art had worked, but Patrick regretted it almost instantly. He looked away.
“Hey,” Art said gently, wind snatched from his sails. “Has he called yet?”
Patrick sniffed. He let the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable before he answered. “Nah. He’s busy, obviously. If it’s an emergency, I can call him.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Art bite his lip. “I don’t suppose running out of yogurt counts as an emergency?”
Patrick smiled, despite himself. “‘Fraid not, Donaldson. Suck it up, kid.”
Art gave him one last slap on the stomach and sat up, back to grinning—half-forced, but Patrick loved him a little for it—even more when he committed to Patrick’s plan. “Come on—if you drive us to the grocery store now, we can be on the court by eleven.”
Patrick pushed himself up on one elbow. “Why are you in such a hurry to lose, anyway?”
Art’s smile wavered for a split second, pasted over quickly, but not quick enough that Patrick didn’t see it. “What if I surprise you, huh?”
Patrick laughed. He reached out, unable to stop himself, and wiped off a smear of yogurt on Art’s oblique with his thumb, before popping it into his mouth.
“There’s always a chance, I guess,” he replied, after he’d licked it clean.
Art choked on his comeback, and Patrick resolved to remember to pick up more Greek yogurt at the store.
Stanford, California, 2007
f*ck.
f*ck.
f*ck.
Patrick stood with his back to the wall of the sports center, the rough brick scratching at his skin through the thin cotton of Tashi’s t-shirt. The fresh spring day was dipping into evening, air rapidly cooling against the clammy skin above his collar. He shivered. He’d been out here twenty minutes already, trying to figure out what the f*ck he was supposed to do now, and hadn’t come any closer to finding out.
Stanford’s sports facilities were clustered together in one part of campus. A block away, the baseball diamond was alive with noise, mid-innings. The sharp crack of the aluminum bat hitting leather sliced through the still evening. Patrick listened to the raucous cheers that followed, mixed with the laughter of the few students wandering down the street, clad in red, face paint on their cheeks. Tinny walk-up music leaked out over the soundsystem; some chart song Patrick had been dancing to in a bar in Spain, two weeks ago now, but still couldn’t for the life of him put a name to.
The tennis stadium to his left was quiet. As if without Tashi, everyone had immediately packed up and gone home. Game over.
He wanted a cigarette but he’d smoked the pack he bought with him earlier, sharing them out with the guys in exchange for the joint. Whatever buzz he’d been enjoying had disappeared the moment he saw Tashi on that examination table, and Art, standing like her goddamn bodyguard, behind her.
Actually, he felt kind of sick.
Patrick didn’t get stoned as often as he did back in Rebellato anymore—random drug tests put a damper on that—but he hadn’t suddenly become a lightweight over the last few months, either.
He couldn’t shake both of their faces, the moment they saw him in the doorway.
Tashi, and her broken, righteous fury.
Art, and his—disapproval.
Patrick could deal with his coach’s disapproval—every time Patrick made the wrong shot choice and lost a crucial service game, ended up losing another match—that was familiar by now—but he’d never seen Art look like that. Not over something serious, anyway. He’d seen Art angry and he’d seen him resentful and he’d seen him downright adamant that he was neither of those things, but that look of disappointment was different. Frustratingly holier-than-thou, and yet Art could have garotted him with a length of tennis string and Patrick thought it would have hurt only slightly less.
Art categorically wasn’t a yeller, either. In ninth grade, Art had given him the silent treatment for a whole damn week because Patrick partnered with Lindsay Hansen for a history project and not him. Patrick hadn’t known he was capable of yelling, and that disturbed him even further.
He could really do with a goddamn cigarette.
He’d had to find out about the whole miserable thing by chance, catching some randomer across campus talk about the audible snap they’d heard when Tashi went down, for f*ck’s sake. How that kid—Donaldson—had rushed in and practically helped carry her off the court. How loud she was screaming, and for so long, too. Haunting, they said.
Jesus Christ. If it was that bad—if Tashi couldn’t—if she never—
He doubled over and wretched, weakly, into the patch of shrubbery he was standing in. Nothing came up, and it only made him feel weak and shivery and humiliatingly stupid. He dragged the corner of Tashi’s shirt over his mouth, wiping at the bile, and pulled himself upright, scrabbling for his phone in his pocket.
The texts he sent Art were unanswered:
are you at the hospital??
can you let me know what the doctors say?
art??? dude please c’mon
i said i’m sorry
It was getting late. The guys he’d hung out with earlier were probably gone. He’d run over from across campus and ditched them when he heard and he couldn’t even remember their names now. The stream of students heading back towards the dorms was getting bigger as the evening rolled in.
Patrick needed to make a decision.
He’d left his stuff in Art’s room, dumping it on his floor before grinning and hopping down the two flights of stairs to Tashi’s dorm to surprise her, leaving Art rolling his eyes in the doorway. The way Patrick had it figured—either he spent the afternoon and evening either side of Tashi’s match happily, gloriously naked, without the need of anything except the roll of condoms he’d stuffed alongside his car keys in his pocket, or—if that was bust—he crashed in Art’s bed, like he’d done countless times before, and enjoyed yanking the covers off him overnight and listening to Art whine about it. He hadn’t given thought to any other outcome. Obviously.
The evening was drawing in, though, and now Patrick had a new problem. He had no idea how long Art and Tashi would be gone, and the dorm building required key cards to swipe in and out. If he wanted somewhere to sleep tonight, he’d have to try and get past the RA Tashi said took their job way too seriously; maybe charm someone into letting him in with them. But still, Art was a pedantic f*cker and usually locked his door, and Tashi was the same. At this rate, he was in danger of them finding him curled up on their doorsteps, like the goddamn dog he’d told Tashi earlier that he would never f*cking be.
And all of his sh*t was still in Art’s room.
He could find a party, of course. Go get blitzed while he waited for Art to text him back. Hell, maybe he’d find someone with a bed they’d be willing to share, even. It’d be convenient.
The urge itched, the temptation compulsive.
The wrong shot. The wrong decision.
He shook his phone, willing Art to text him back, but it remained stubbornly silent.
Maybe he’d figure out what to do on the walk back, then.
He’d followed the guys’ nearly incoherent directions to get to the sports center when he heard about Tashi, somehow miraculously (or not, judging on the outcome) making it to the right place, but he had no knowledge of the campus geography, or how to get back to the dorm building. He wiped the back of his wrist across his mouth one last time, picked a direction he thought was vaguely right, and started walking.
The sky was beginning to pinken at the edges, washed warm as the sun began to sink low. He wandered past more sports facilities, gleaming glass fronts reflecting the changing colors of the sky, splitting it like a kaleidoscope, and then through to a part of campus where the buildings switched out the sleekness of glass for old, historic sandstone. Here, golden hour made the brickwork glow.
A light breeze had picked up. The air was scented with the freshness of newly cut grass from the manicured lawn and vibrant flower beds he walked past. Ahead of him, early sunset spilled across the quad, covering the grass in warm, liquid pools of light. Clusters of students sat, books laid out in front of them, talking or tossing around a football or frisbee. Faint music floated over to him from a speaker, owned by the ringed gathering closest to him, interrupted by their laughter.
He hoped some administrator somewhere had a camera because it looked like something straight out of a student prospectus—the kind of winsome, cloyingly cliche photo he’d seen flipping through the stack Art kept on his desk. Patrick had sneered at their marketing. Obviously, Art would go to the best school, where he could be guaranteed the biggest scholarship, not whoever had the most diverse group of smiling students staged against the most beautiful building on their front page. It had all seemed so fake, and certainly not something he wanted for himself. Now though, Patrick slotted his hands in his jeans pockets, thumbing at the jagged edge of his car keys, and keenly felt the barrier between him and the students on the grass.
The tour was hard, which he’d been prepared for. Mostly. Any junior player, even the title winners, had to adjust to the professional circuit. Teething problems were guaranteed. It sucked, and Patrick hated it, but at least it was expected. What he hadn’t quite prepared himself for was the goddamn loneliness. A few tournaments in, and Patrick realized, to his dawning horror, that on the scale of sufficiently self-confident to damningly naive, he’d landed in the latter.
On tour, his locker room colleagues were men, many of whom had been living this life for years already and were worn down, made thin and coarse by the process. There was no boisterous, good-natured conversation before matches, like he’d been used to as a junior player. Mostly, they avoided eye contact altogether.
Patrick took a R1 exit at Challenger in Portugal, against an opponent much older and more experienced than him—a guy who had once cracked the top 30 and had since tumbled from grace. The loss stung, as all losses did, but Patrick didn’t feel shame exactly at losing to someone who’d once given Agassi a run for his money. Instead, he was pretty pleased that he’d managed to take a set off him, despite it. He made the mistake of asking his coach if he could go to the beach before they took a flight out of there to the next tournament, eager to enjoy the sparkling water and sand he’d glimpsed outside his hotel window. Maybe a congratulatory pina colada, complete with a cute little paper umbrella hooked over the glass. Might as well, right?
“This is your job now, Zweig,” his coach had answered calmly. “I think it’s time you started acting like it, don’t you?”
The men he played seemed to view him as an insult when he did manage to win, and an annoyance who was justly defeated when he didn’t. The locker rooms were smaller than he’d envisioned, and so the way he was pointedly ignored was obvious. His reputation as a junior US Open winner seemed to make it worse. Players turned their backs, giving him nothing but their fading, god-awful tattoos to stare at as he tried to mentally prepare himself for a match. Patrick had always loved tennis because, as far as he had experienced, even in doubles, it rewarded individual excellence. The other side of that coin, of course, was that tennis was an individual sport, where it was every man for himself. It was not these men’s hobby, nor were they playing purely for the love of the game. It was their job. And beating Patrick relied on it.
It was all so f*cking miserable.
Originally, Patrick had tried to hire his Rebellato coach but he’d thanked him for the honor and turned him down. He had a family, he said, and already spent too much time away from them. Money, Patrick thought unkindly, probably also had something to do with it. But it wasn’t like he, at the beginning of his career, could pay him more than his cushy tennis academy job. Patrick should have realized.
In comparison, the coach the USTA had offered up, paid by the grant Patrick was also subsisting off, worked him hard. They clashed often. Patrick started taking walks at night to avoid another painful hour staring down the dinner table at his dour face, his only constant companion, finding local bars to hide in instead or a local supermarket that sold beer and a baguette, if the tournament was in the back of beyond and there were no bars to be found. At least the drinking age in Europe was 18, which made it a hell of a lot easier.
He called Tashi on these walks. She asked about his tennis and he told her the truth: his coach was a dick and he wasn’t winning yet, but he would be soon. She hummed at him and hung up, mostly. Art was more sympathetic. He listened and agreed that Patrick obviously should have had the fourth set against Auclair, if the umpire weren’t trying to crawl up his ass, just because they were playing in France and he was the home favorite. But sometimes, neither of them picked up at all. Patrick got it—time zones and practice and still f*cking having to do algebra homework made it difficult. But there was so much dead time on tour, Patrick had no idea what to do with it, and the evenings he had no one to call stretched on endlessly. His coach wanted him to watch tape, wanted him to try some things. Patrick had started walking out of the room every time he suggested changing Patrick’s serve.
The stands were often empty. The courts, especially clay—the goddamn devil of a surface—were sometimes poorly maintained. The prize money was often barely enough to settle his hotel room tab and pay for his taxi to the airport. The ATP points his junior title had afforded him were beginning to stop holding him buoyant, and he was slipping down the rankings table.
Meanwhile, Tashi was getting t-shirts printed with THE DUNCANATOR on them and playing to packed stands of adoring fans. Even Art beating a guy from Sacramento State in 3 straight boring sets—a guy who had no intention of ever playing pro and more importantly, no hope of it—drew more spectators than Patrick duking it out, actually on the professional circuit. It was galling. Worst than that, it was f*cking unfair.
Patrick shoved his hands deeper in his pockets and kept on walking, leaving the quad and the university marketing director’s wet dream of a tableau behind. Thankfully, signs had started to pop up to follow. The tree-lined avenue he recognized from earlier appeared, the old, majestic oaks throwing shadows across the street. Their leaves rustled in the breeze, gentle white noise. The dormitory building loomed on the left, its red-tiled roof and ivy-clad walls and air of elitism unmistakable. The streetlamps weren’t yet on but the glow of lights from the rows of identical square windows provided another source of illumination. Tashi’s room—ground floor, fourth window along from the right—was dark.
Patrick stopped and hovered, considering his options.
A widening triangle of light sliced out onto the cobbled pathway to the door. The sound of voices carried across to the sidewalk, where Patrick was standing. Two girls, dressed in cute outfits, chattering to each other, tumbled out the heavy, oak front door. Patrick darted forward.
“Hey,” he said, stepping out in front of them.
The girls—one blonde, one brunette, both decent looking—stopped and looked at him. The door behind them swung shut—but that was okay, because Patrick had a plan.
“Hi?” the blonde one said. Her hair was loose and wavy, tumbling below her shoulders. It would be nice to sink your hands into, Patrick betted. “Uh—can we help you?”
“Oh, I’m hoping so, ladies.” Patrick gave them his brightest smile, letting it slip slow across his face. “My friend and I were looking for some fun tonight. We were just thinking about going to a bar, but I’d hate to miss wherever you two are headed. Going anywhere good?”
The brunette looked him up and down, clearly skeptical, but the blonde girl giggled, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Patrick liked her better. “We’re going to the football kegger,” she said. “Up at Kappa Sig? It’s, like, honestly an open house. It’s always crazy up there.”
It was a great answer.
“Is that right?” He switched his focus to the brunette, knowing that for his plan to work, he’d have to get her on board, too. “Would you mind if we tagged along? Sounds like a lot of fun.” He let his eyes linger, turned them soft and hot. Faintly, the brunette blushed. Success.
“Where’s your friend?” she asked anyway, a touch defensive, but the battle had already been won.
“Just getting something from his car,” Patrick lied easily. “Actually—I forgot my phone in his room. Mind letting me in? That way when he comes back we can all go together?”
The blonde girl was already reaching into her purse. “Sure,” she said, pulling out her key card. “Want us to wait here? We’re in no rush.”
“I mean—don’t take forever, though,” the brunette amended dryly. Patrick turned up his smile another kilowatt.
“And miss a minute with you? Never.”
The brunette rolled her eyes, but Patrick saw a hint of a smile of her own. He changed his mind. She was his favorite, actually.
The blonde buzzed her card and pushed the door open for him. “We’ll wait out here,” she said again brightly.
“Thanks,” Patrick replied, before slipping inside. Too easy.
There was someone at the front desk, but they were distracted by another student dutifully singing their guest into the logbook, so Patrick took his second chance of the night and dashed past. The stairs were easier to get to than the hallway leading to Tashi’s room. Maybe he’d be lucky and Art had forgotten to lock his door, this time.
He wasn’t.
Art’s door was firmly locked. The hallway was empty. Dull bass thumped through the walls further down, mixed with the muffled sound of voices. Patrick considered knocking but stopped himself. A beer would be nice, but he didn’t want to miss Art coming back.
He slid down the wall onto the carpeted floor, his knees to his chest, and waited.
Somewhere, a door slammed. He wondered if the girls outside had gotten bored and given up yet. Probably. He hoped the brunette girl got a kick out of being right for doubting him, at least.
He closed his eyes.
He felt tired. He’d flown cross country to visit Stanford and he had another flight booked tomorrow, to go play a Futures event in Ohio, where he’d gotten into the main draw, hoping to pick up some easy ranking points. Patrick’s ticket was non-refundable or exchangeable, let alone the hell his coach would give him if he missed the tournament. He wanted a decent night’s sleep beforehand, although he already knew he’d be hearing the phantom snap of Tashi’s knee in his dreams, made worse by the fact he wasn’t around to hear it. His imagination was too good at filling in the gaps.
“I thought I told you to f*ck off.”
Patrick’s eyes flew open.
Art was standing in front of him, towering over him. He looked like an avenging angel—sharp cheekbones, red mouth, pink cheeks, beautiful halo of blonde hair. He was scowling, though his brow wasn’t as furrowed as it could be, half-hearted at best.
“Where’s Tashi?” Patrick asked immediately.
“At the hospital. Where’d you think?” Art replied, scathing.
It was obvious, of course, but it pissed Patrick off that Art hadn’t bothered to put that information in a text when he asked. Tashi couldn’t object to that, surely.
“Didn’t want to keep vigil at her bedside, then?”
Art’s scowl deepened. “f*ck off, Patrick.”
“You’d make a great nurse, y’know,” he drawled. “Scurrying around, taking orders. Cute little outfit, mini stethoscope. I’m sure Party City still has some in stock.”
Art’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. “Get the hell out of my way.”
This reaction, at least, was what Patrick was used to. It made him oddly happy.
“You think Tashi will be grateful? That you were her knight in shining armor? Apparently you jumped the net and everything. Very impressive. Good show.”
Art rammed his hands into his pockets. Even through the thin material, Patrick could see the shape of them, curled into fists. “You’re such a piece of work, man,” he spat. “How do you live with yourself?”
Patrick pushed himself to his feet, pulled himself to his full height, so he could look down on Art again. “I live with myself fine, thanks. Helps when I don’t live off everyone else’s sloppy seconds.”
He expected Art to swing, maybe. Or storm off, more likely.
He did neither. Art stayed still, the saw of his rough breathing filling the air between them.
“There were two girls outside,” he said, almost softly, when he’d gotten himself under control. “They said they were waiting for you—guy with curly hair, they said. Tall. Wearing a funny t-shirt.” He paused. Swallowed roughly, Adam's apple bobbing. “You were flirting with them.”
Art said it like an accusation. Patrick shrugged. He could explain, but he wasn’t in the f*cking mood, surprisingly.
“And?”
“Your girlfriend’s in the f*cking hospital wondering whether she’s gonna be able to play again, and you’re f*cking trying to pick up outside our dorm?”
Patrick carefully held in his flinch. “Not a lot I can do about it from here, is there? Besides, you both yelled at me to get out. What was I supposed to do instead?”
“Jesus Christ, Patrick.”
Patrick stayed mulishly silent.
Art visibly gathered himself, jerking a step to the side. He slipped his key out of his pocket and went to unlock the door, before throwing a sharp look over his shoulder. “Don’t f*cking move. I’ll get your sh*t.”
“Sweet, I was gonna ask,” Patrick replied, feigning pleasantness. Art’s look turned withering.
Patrick waited.
Art dumped his bags unceremoniously at his feet, his face like granite.
“Do you even care where I’m gonna sleep tonight?” Patrick asked, unable to stop himself.
“The blonde outside seemed pretty interested. Her name’s Amy, by the way. In case you were wondering.” Cold, icy derision dripped from Art’s voice.
“Actually, I preferred the brunette,” Patrick parried. “Blondes aren’t my thing anymore, I guess. Gonna help a pal out and tell me her name, too?”
Art’s face spasmed. It was incredibly satisfying.
“Get out of here now,” he seethed.
“With f*cking pleasure.”
The slam of Art’s door reverberated hard enough to rattle the glass in the noticeboards nailed to the walls.
Patrick marched past the front desk. Art might have spoken to them, but the girls outside were gone by now. Maybe Art had told them to give up on him.
He stood on the cobblestone path, trying to think around the ringing in his ears, trying to get his breathing back under control. He needed to be at the airport at midday the day after. It would take him an hour-ish to drive. He could kill some time in the food court or a diner on the way there, get some breakfast and stock up on protein and enjoy some syrup on his pancakes before his coach banished even the concept of sugar from his diet again.
His blood was buzzing, adrenaline from staring Art down still flickering through his veins, but underneath he felt more exhausted than before. He didn’t feel like partying or trying to wheel a girl to take him home. Trying to find the frat house and walking across campus again to get there, on his own, was incredibly unappealing.
His car keys were in his pocket. He’d leave early, and drive slow.
When he finally made it back to the parking lot, it was folded in shadow. The nearby outside tennis courts were visible only by the green wall surrounding them, tarpaulin ripping in the fading light. Thankfully, there were no traffic guards, and Art had given him his student parking pass, so at least he was still covered there. He’d probably want it back. Too f*cking bad.
With his front seat folded down, it was almost comfortable. There was a blanket in the trunk that he fished out, and he rolled up a hoodie for a pillow. His knees knocked against the side, but not if he angled himself a particular way. It was fine. Doable. Preferable, even.
Through his tinted car windows, Patrick watched wisps of cloud scud across the sky. Every slight noise from outside made him tense up—a sudden peal of laughter, the unexpected flare of a loud car stereo, racing by on the nearby road.
The snap of bone and the abrupt crunch of cartilage. Except that was inside Patrick’s head, instead. Art, leaping over the damn net, his voice yelling Tashi’s name, over and over and over.
Patrick rolled his face into the seat and squeezed his eyes shut. He’d be stiff tomorrow. Maybe he could try and shower at the airport. He hoped they wouldn’t make him check his racket as baggage for the hold. Already, he’d heard horror stories of players getting their rackets back, completely busted to hell, with no apology or recompense from the airline. They’d started categorizing tennis rackets as potential weapons, was the defense given.
Funny, Patrick thought. Potential counted for a hell of a lot, but—as he was learning—it didn’t mean sh*t in the real world. Maybe the airlines could catch on quicker than he was.
He fell asleep still thinking of Art and Tashi’s faces in that medical room, morphed, in his imagination, into twin looks of identical, twisted disgust.
Rhodes, Greece, 2009
PATRICK ZWEIG + LOOKING
Patrick dropped the pen down onto the desk and gave his chicken-scratch handwriting another once over. It reeked of desperation, but it was legible, and also unavoidable. No one else on the practice court sign-up sheet had done the same, but Patrick had to hope some other f*cker here was as friendless as he was and needed the warm-up. He had a R2 match tomorrow, and he’d rather avoid the humiliating ritual of asking another player face to face for a practice set, if he could help it, or worse having to warm up against a wall by himself. His ranking wasn’t so bad this month—he made the main draw of this 125 event—and he sent his R1 opponent packing in straight sets this morning. No really, I’m good, he wanted to tell the other players. Play a set with me tomorrow and I’ll prove it. He wasn’t actually going to castrate himself like that in front of the locker room, though—obviously—so the sign-up sheet would have to do.
Ever since his coach quit on him, at the end of last year, this was what Patrick had to deal with: scrabbling to find practice partners, and too many long, lonely evenings listening to cable news broadcasts in languages he didn’t understand on sh*tty hotel TVs.
At first, the freedom was enjoyable. Patrick relished being able to smoke again without constantly checking over his shoulder, and having no one to apologize to when he flamed out of a tournament except himself was comforting, and certainly less embarrassing. It made things considerably easier.
Except for all the ways it made things harder, of course. Hence, the sign-up sheet. And also the room service pizza he ate last night in bed, leaving grease stains on the hotel sheets.
The referee’s office was along the same hallway as the locker room, standard in these small venues. Patrick was walking past, towel slung over his shoulder, tennis bag in hand, when one of the players stepped out. Hard muscle collided with his shoulder. Patrick staggered—looked up, instantly annoyed.
“Hey, man—look where you’re f*cking—”
The words died in his throat. The other player was one he recognized—6’ 6” and built like a goddamn tree. No wonder Patrick bounced off him. He probably lifted Patrick’s body weight in the gym every day before breakfast.
“Zweig.” Patrick’s name sounded funny in his voice, the low Spanish accent flicking around the vowels, gliding over the consonants, almost a purr. Patrick didn’t realize he’d made a friend already. He didn’t know this guy other than to stare at him across the player’s lounge and to hope to god he didn’t have to face him in the draw. He had cheekbones carved like a marble statue. Patrick didn’t usually get hung up on his own looks, but he felt like a pale imitation compared to this guy’s glossy dark curls; his packed arm muscles, the bronzed sweep of his skin. Forget a tennis court, this guy should be in the pages of f*cking Vogue magazine.
He had to search for his name for a second. He’d stopped learning the majority of players' names a while back; the constant carousel at the lower level made it difficult anyway.
“Moreno,” he nodded, pleased to have remembered, trying to straighten himself.
Moreno really was huge. Abstractedly, he wondered if the dense swell of his shoulders was real, or chemically exaggerated. Patrick didn’t use PEDs of any kind, but that didn’t mean other players didn’t. Tennis liked to keep up the squeaky clean image it projected out to the world at the slams, but outside of the ATP tour, the courts got dirtier, less perfectly maintained, and so did the players. Outside of the spotlight, the goalposts were a lot easier to start rearranging.
Patrick had always thought it was a desperate habit to develop and he’d sworn to himself he’d never, ever sink to that level—would never f*cking need to. Two years in, though, and he was getting to understand why, if you could, you might start messing around with a couple of hormone levels here and there. And hey, you might look like a Greek God at the end of it, like this dude.
“Good game this afternoon,” Moreno said.
Patrick blinked. “Thanks,” he said. Had Moreno played? He must have. Patrick hadn’t watched. Had this guy watched him?
“That crazy serve works for you, huh?” Moreno continued. He raised a dark eyebrow, a smile pulling at his mouth. His lips were full and pink. Unreal. Patrick’s eyes caught on his bottom lip, snagged there.
Moreno’s smile pulled a little wider.
“It’s kinda my trademark,” Patrick replied, trying to sound as breezy as usual. He adjusted the strap of his tennis bag where it was slipping down his shoulder with a fidgety hand. Either he was reading the vibes wrong here, or—?
“I see that,” Moreno replied. He didn’t say any more.
Patrick frowned. “Well, uh—I gotta—”
He needed dinner. Faced another night alone in his hotel room afterward. He could go find a bar, but he was trying to save money at the moment, so it depended on which urge won out strongest.
Moreno stepped to the side. “See you on the court—or before, yes?”
Patrick swallowed. “Right. Yeah—see you.”
Moreno walked away, in the direction Patrick had just come from. Maybe he wanted to check his next opponent, or talk to the organizers about something, who was Patrick to know? His parting comment hung over Patrick for the rest of the afternoon and through to the evening, even as he went down to the nearest bar and ordered a glass of ouzo, the cheapest thing on the menu, swirling the ice cubes around until they turned the liquid cloudy and cool. It tasted of aniseed, like cough medicine, the kind that felt like a punishment for being ill as a kid, but Patrick sipped at it anyway, covering his grimace. Around him, sun-leathered locals watched him curiously, but Patrick looked past them, focused on the door and the sound of the bell above it.
Moreno didn’t make an appearance. Patrick felt stupid for thinking he would.
Being surrounded by other male professional athletes was a minefield, when it came to Patrick’s newly acted-on sexuality. You didn’t advertise it, but there were signals, he’d discovered. Gazes that lingered a little too long—empty hallways and corners of the practice court where innocent conversations about technique nearly buckled under the weight of what was being said in between the lines. Memorably, back in a Challenger in Florida a few months ago, another player had straight up phoned his hotel room, the slight pause and the hitch of breath before he spoke opening up a portal into another universe.
The sex had been average—not nearly satisfying enough. Even if Patrick had wanted round 2, his hook-up didn’t actually make it into round 2 of the tournament, so he was left high and dry anyway. What Patrick remembered the encounter for, embarrassingly, was the half a second where he thought it was Tashi on the other end of the line, who had somehow got a hold of where he was staying and the number of his room, and the following half a second where, as the guy propositioned him and the hope of Tashi faded, he found himself wishing it were Art instead.
Moreno doesn’t turn up at his hotel room door, and nor does Patrick get woken by the chime of the telephone by his bed. He rose the next morning still slightly woozy from the ouzo, with a tinge of a headache he hoped he could throw off while he practiced, and the lingering smarting sensation of having read something wrong.
That is, until he stepped back into the referee’s office and read the alteration to the practice court list. PATRICK ZWEIG + LOOKING had been crossed out and overwritten with + JAVIER MORENO.
Patrick froze.
Sure. If that was the way Moreno wanted to play it, Patrick could follow his lead, he guessed. Maybe this was a two birds one stone kinda situation. A decent warm-up and something else, a little extra on top.
Even early in the morning, the heat outside on the practice court was strong. This had mostly been Patrick’s experience of Rhodes so far—limited to the four wired walls of the courts, or the white-washed walls of the clubhouse, trying to shelter from the sun. He was in one of the most beautiful places on earth; rich with history and culture, and he’d barely been further than a few streets away from the tournament venue. The weather, too, would have been perfect for a vacation spent wandering the streets and ducking into restaurants or relaxing at the beach, but it was less than ideal for playing tennis. The hard surface was already halfway to baking, warm to the touch when Patrick bent down and scooped up a few stray tennis balls from the baseline, left by the players before. There was sweat at the back of his neck and in the creases of his knees, just from walking out from the clubhouse.
On the other side of the net, Moreno raised his racket in greeting.
“Saw you needed a partner,” he called, voice deep and rolling. He was wearing another sleeveless shirt that showed off his arms—Nike branded. He wasn’t ranked much higher than Patrick was, but obviously Nike felt like certain physical attributes were worth shelling out for anyway. Patrick couldn’t say he blamed them. His own brand deal with Adidas had expired a year back, and they hadn’t renewed the contract. He had a new deal with an Italian sports company, now. Their shirts were poor quality. Patrick sweated through them like they were made of single-ply kitchen paper.
“Yeah—thanks, man.”
“Shall we play?”
“Sure.”
They played.
Moreno was strong and powerful. Patrick figured out his serve was his main weapon pretty immediately, and spent the rest of the time trying to figure out a way to dance around it. He needed to keep points going, to win them the long way round. Moreno’s bronze skin glistened in the sunshine on the opposite side of the court, like he’d oiled himself up. Each thunderous forehand made Patrick’s dick twitch in his shorts.
Patrick lost the set 4-6. He let Moreno break him near the end rather than putting up a bigger fight; distracted by both the heat and the way his entire bloodstream was making a valiant effort to redirect downwards.
They shook hands at the net and Moreno grinned at him, white teeth bouncing back sunlight into Patrick’s eyes. “Good game. Thanks, Zweig.”
“Uh-huh,” Patrick gritted out. His hamstrings felt tight. He should probably go find the tournament physio and see if he could wedge himself in an appointment before his game that afternoon. Not now, though.
They walked back to the locker room, down the hall. Patrick was about to push open the door when a hand on his elbow pulled him back. Moreno was looking down at him, one black eyebrow raised.“Yes?”
Patrick swallowed dryly. “Yeah.”
Moreno pushed him into a store room halfway between the referee’s office and the locker room—Patrick had walked past the door only a couple of hours ago. He wasn’t usually the one being manhandled, but Moreno was huge, and Patrick was willing. The room was mostly empty—a few cleaning products and a bucket of busted tennis balls on otherwise bare shelves. Moreno had him backed up against the door in a second. Patrick jutted out his chin.
“Was expecting you last night,” he said, a little surly about it.
Moreno laughed. “This way is more exciting, no? You like excitement. You are an exciting player.”
Patrick preened. “You think?”
“Sure,” Moreno shrugged. “It’s entertaining.”
Somehow, the second time around, it seemed like less of a compliment.
“Tennis shouldn’t be boring,” he said, sharp. Moreno was already working a hand into his shorts, long thick fingers cupping him through his boxers.
“It does not feel like you were bored playing me, though, no?” he replied. Patrick huffed at the laughter in his voice, before letting his head fall back against the door.
“Hard to focus when you look like that,” he grunted. “Which you know. So.”
Moreno gave him a slight squeeze through the cotton; enough to make Patrick sigh. “It is nice to have an advantage, we all agree, whichever way we are able, eh?”
Briefly and blindingly, Patrick wanted to punch the guy, listening to the smugness in his voice, but the urge faded quickly when Moreno shoved the waistband of his shorts past his thighs and dragged his boxers down to follow. Jesus Christ, Patrick hadn’t been half naked in a stock cupboard since an ill-advised hookup with Beccy Rilkington when he was 17, and the logistics were a little different here. Beccy had blown him up against the old tennis rackets the academy was supposed to donate to local middle schools. Patrick was realizing he’d be very lucky to have his dick sucked this time around. Moreno had a hot palm curled around him, jacking him dry and slow. Patrick squeezed his eyes shut. It felt rough. It felt incredible.
“Is this your version of f*cking gaydar,” he hissed, through clenched teeth. “See which players trip over their feet in front of you?”
He meant it to come off as more of a joke than it did. When he squinted open an eye, Moreno was grinning like a shark.
“Enough,” he said, giving his palm another twist. Patrick hissed out another breath. “We don’t have much time.”
“No f*cking. I have a match today.”
Moreno raised an eyebrow. “Of course. So do I.”
They eyeballed each other. Patrick swallowed around a dry throat. And then he sank to his knees. The floor was thankfully carpeted. Small mercies.
Moreno smiled down at him and pulled his own dick free.
Patrick had enough experience now to know that Moreno’s dick was suitably matched to the rest of his body – ie. extremely well f*cking proportioned. The idea of stretching out his jaw around him was probably more of a turn on than it should be. Patrick would feel it later in the day; a soft bruise on his palette, to add to his tennis aches and pains. A reminder; something to keep him occupied between points later on.
Moreno watched him take it in, passing a few smooth strokes over himself.
He was proficient at sucking dick. No—he was good at it. He’d learned to relax his throat and breathe through his nose; learned how to use his tongue; when to move and when to sit back and let the other guy do what he wanted; how to enjoy that part too. Moreno seemed to appreciate it, grunting and nudging his hips forward every time Patrick swirled his tongue in just the right way. Patrick kept going, feeling his jaw starting to tighten, swallowing when Moreno nudged the back of his throat. He was drooling. Moreno reached down and swiped away some of his spit, before running his thumb down Patrick’s throat—and pressing down, thumb against Patrick’s windpipe.
Patrick jerked and pulled off, gasping.
Moreno smiled. “Good?”
Patrick shuddered. He was hard as a rock, leaking down his shaft. He wrapped a hand around himself and squeezed.
“Yeah.”
Moreno’s smile widened. He tapped his jaw. “Open up again.”
Patrick did as he was told. This was another thing he’d found he liked. Usually, anyone trying to tell him what to do pissed him the f*ck off, but there was something thrilling about following instructions like this; making the other person lose their grip on control. It made him feel powerful in some weird, f*cked up way. Possibly, this was something he should be discussing with a therapist, but Patrick had little interest in connecting his sexual proclivities to his childhood, as he was sure a shrink would try to do. And beyond that, as if he had money to spare on a therapist right now anyway.
Moreno tapped his dick against Patrick’s tongue, forcing him to loosen his jaw and make himself soft—ready, receiving. “How long have you been on tour, Zweig?”
Patrick looked up through his eyelashes, trying to speak around the dick in his face. “Couple of years.”
Moreno hummed. “Not bad.” And then; “Close this.”
Patrick shut his mouth, a tingle of pride zipping through his spine. Moreno shoved a hand into his curls, pulling him closer. “You ready?”
Patrick nodded.
Moreno’s pace was steady, but hard. Patrick coughed, spluttered, and recovered, over and over again. His own hand between his legs was uncoordinated, bordering on desperate. Moreno murmured words in a language Patrick didn’t speak, pulling at his scalp, enough to make it sting. He recognized mierda— ‘f*ck’ was an easy one to pick up, court outbursts being common and always clear in meaning. When an umpire missed a call a player thought was going to change the outcome of their match, there was usually only one word on their lips.
Moreno groaned above him, deep and guttural. Patrick breathed through his nose. His chin was messy, slick with spit. His jaw ached. Moreno was using his throat like a toy. Patrick felt dizzy. The need to come was dragging him into oblivion.
The shot of warm salt to the back of this throat was an unexpected jolt. Moreno pulled out and set his hand against Patrick’s throat to feel him swallow. He had no other choice, of course, since Moreno hadn’t given him any f*cking warning, but Moreno seemed pleased anyway. Patrick winced at the taste.
“Help a guy out?” he rasped, when Moreno was satisfied, waving a hand to his own dick, wet and red at the tip.
“Sure.”
Moreno pulled him to his feet, a rough jerk upwards. This time, there was less friction and Patrick was already hanging by a thread. Moreno’s hand was skilled. Still slightly disappointing compared to the stellar blowj*b Patrick had just given him, but efficient nonetheless. Patrick shook through his org*sm in seconds, eyes rolling.
Afterward, they adjusted their shorts, wiping hands on the inside of t-shirts. Patrick would head to the showers. The stickiness was gross, but temporary. Maybe Moreno would join him and pretend not to look at him from the other stall. Again, the thought shouldn’t thrill him as much as it did. His soft dick gave one last eager twitch.
“Good luck with your match today,” Moreno said, after he’d tucked himself away.
Patrick straightened his shoulders. “Yeah. You too. See you in the next round, maybe.”
Moreno grinned. “Maybe. Thanks, Zweig.”
He let Moreno leave the store room first, standing alone against the door for a minute after, letting the smell of sex and sweat and the instantly recognizable must of old tennis balls lingering underneath surround him. Patrick tipped his head back to rest against the door, bringing up a hand to massage his jaw. Moreno had for sure done a number on him. He wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up tomorrow with it fully locked. Having to explain that to the tournament medic would be interesting.
Moreno wasn’t in the showers, which Patrick put down to him having nicer accommodation thanks to his flashy Nike deal. Back in his hotel room, Patrick washed his shorts with soap in his bathroom sink, scrubbing at the stains, unwilling to shell out for the extortionate laundry service, and fished out another pair from his suitcase for his match, the netting starting to wear thin at the crotch.
Facing Moreno in the next round would be annoying; having to stand across the net from his knowing, smug smile and all that f*cking muscle. Maybe he’d been successful, been so good at giving head that he’d sucked Moreno’s brain out through his dick.
Or, failing that, maybe they’d get a random drug test and Moreno would be booted from the draw.
Patrick could only hope.
Palm Harbor, Florida, 2011
The light in Florida in December was flat and endless. Patrick woke up to the slow crash of the waves on the beach outside his small apartment, a sound which he’d welcomed when the off season began, but a few weeks later was no longer appealing. The air was unseasonably warm, pressing through the net curtains on his window. When he reached out a hand from his bed to twitch them aside, the sun spilled in, austere and incessant. It lit up the drab white walls, empty of photos or artwork. The apartment wasn’t his; a sublet from a guy he’d contacted from an ad on Craigslist. The place was just as dodgy as that set-up suggested. It was dusty and dirty and the oven had exactly one setting—burn everything to a crisp. But it was cheap and the guy didn’t do any background checks or look into Patrick’s career at all, before dropping the key into his hand and driving away. Which suited Patrick fine. He had no idea what he’d do if the plumbing stopped working or something, but so far that hadn’t happened, so it wasn’t a problem.
Outside the window, the fine silver stretch of the beach and the sparkling waves were as postcard perfect as ever. The blue of the sea melted into the blue of the sky; one oppressive, endless blanket. Patrick turned away and dragged himself to the small kitchen, spooning out coffee grounds into the pot, filling the water, and flicking the switch. His movements were slow and mechanical. His hip ached from a hard practice yesterday and there was tightness in his calf he was wary about. The courts he was using to train were attached to a clubhouse and spa. He’d been sleeping with one of their massage therapists on and off since he set up camp at the beginning of the off-season. Julia was cute and peppy, had magic f*cking fingers, and was much cheaper and more accessible than a real physio. He made a mental note to text her.
He drank his coffee out on the balcony, watching the beach fill with eager early-morning runners and dog walkers. Being in Florida in winter had never bothered him when he was a teen at the Academy, but now it felt uncomfortably paradoxical. A reluctant longing for the holidays in Westchester washed over him, where the seasons actually made sense; the frigid cold and the snowfall; the festive wreaths pinned to the door of every gigantic house in his parent’s neighborhood; the wonky snowmen in their front yards, each a competition to see who could build the biggest. Back in Florida, the winter felt out of sync, detached from the festivities happening elsewhere.
Patrick had given his parents his address for the off-season but they hadn’t tried to persuade him to come home.
He slipped on a light sweater before his run, unnecessary but a habit. The warmth was already too much even this early, making Patrick’s strides less invigorating and more mindlessly exhausting. He jogged without commitment, taking in the decorations on the houses nestled along the shoreline; strings of lights wound around palm trees, wreaths made of driftwood and seashells instead of spruce and holly. They all felt out of place in the relentless heat.
After a couple of miles or so, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He stopped, happy at the excuse to interrupt his workout, and sat down in the sand to answer it. It was probably his coach, setting up more training sessions. Piotr Mazur had picked Patrick up at the 250 event in Sweden a few months back by offering to buy him a whiskey at the bar after he’d won his first round qualifier, in exchange for a few tips on his shot choice. He was hitting from the baseline too much, he told Patrick. He needed to come up to the net more, switch up the pace. His next opponent had no spin on his shots, didn’t know how to handle the bounce; Patrick should exploit that. Patrick, grateful for the free drink, pretended to indulge him, but the next day, couldn’t shake the comments. He knew that he’d been getting lazy with only himself to answer to, and in his next game, he tested the guy’s advice, rushing forward more than he usually would, sending shots over with more topspin, catching his opponent out. It f*cking worked.
Piotr was old and eccentric and looked more like a motorcycle club member than a tennis coach, with his embroidered denim jacket and his pierced ears, but Patrick liked him—perhaps even more because of that. He knew his sh*t and he didn’t berate Patrick for his mistakes, so much as continue shouting over them. He thought Patrick’s serve was fine and didn’t want to change it. He lived in a rundown bungalow, a few kilometers away in a different neighborhood, and made Patrick watch tape in his front room on his sagging leather couch, picking over the take-out boxes scattered across the furniture to sit down. More than anything, he loved tennis. He had actually helped Patrick go on a tear at the end of the season. They had a perfect partnership. At least so far anyway,
So, he expected to hear Mazur’s accented voice bark out a greeting–
The voice on the other end was sharp and decidedly feminine.
“Hello? Patrick?”
Patrick nearly dropped his phone into the sand.
“Tashi? What the f*ck? What—are you okay?” His stomach plummeted into his running shoes. “f*ck—is it Art? Is Art okay?”
The shock of hearing Tashi’s voice was replaced with twisting worry. Tashi hadn’t touched the phone number he gave her in Atlanta months before, so Patrick could only imagine this had something to do with Art instead. Art had been injured, or Art had asked for him, or—
Art had found out?
“Tashi?”
Tashi let out a string of curses. “This was a mistake. I’m hanging up. Forget I called.”
Patrick’s stomach lurched again. “Jesus Christ, Tashi–no don’t f*cking—Tashi! Is Art okay? Tell me!”
The line went quiet. Tashi’s breaths rattled, in and out. Around him, a few dog walkers were stopping to chat, their pets frolicking around their ankles, tying up the cord of their leads. Patrick ducked his head, hissing at the sand.
“Tashi, what’s going on?”
When she spoke, Tashi’s voice was newly calm.
“Art and I are getting married.”
Patrick blinked. “I knew that,” he replied, thinking about the way Tashi had left her engagement ring on when they’d f*cked in Patrick’s hotel room in Atlanta; how Patrick had wanted her to. The brush of cool metal against skin; the bite of it when Tashi gripped him hard.
“Art and I are getting married. Today.”
The worry dissipated, dissolved and reformed into something bubbling and hot in his gut.
“Wow. Quick turnaround, huh? I take it this isn’t a f*cking last-minute invite? Shame.” His voice curled with something ugly he couldn’t control.
“We wanted to fit in this off season. And we didn’t think it was prudent,” Tashi answered primly.
Patrick scoffed. “Prudent. Oh I’m sure. Not good manners to invite the guy you cucked your husband with to the wedding, huh?”
“Art still doesn’t know.”
“Maybe I’ll tell him. He’s on Twitter now, right? I can get hold of him if I want. Social media these days is amazing.”
The click as Tashi swallowed was intensely satisfying. “Patrick—I swear to God—”
Patrick didn’t want to hear it. “Are you calling just to rub it in my face?”
“I already said I don’t know why I’m f*cking calling—”
He looked up. The sun bounced off the sand, giving off a glare, making him wince.
Tashi was probably in a dressing room somewhere, soft light filtering through the window, her wedding dress hanging nearby; something tasteful and pared down but still stunningly beautiful. Patrick supposed he should be grateful. Inevitably, he’d find out via photos on tennis blogs in a couple of days’ time, Art looking boyishly handsome by her side.
“Cold feet?”
“Patrick. I know this is f*cking hard for you to hear, but I love him.”
“You sure about that? Didn’t seem to stop you sticking your puss* in my mouth a few months ago.”
Tashi swore again. “You’re so f*cking childish,” she began. “I don’t know why I’m bothering—”
“Bothering to what, Tashi? What are you trying to achieve here? You trying to absolve your sins before saying I do? Need to tell me you regret what we did?”
“I don’t regret it, but it was a mistake.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m calling because—” She broke off.
Patrick practically growled with impatience. “Because what, Tashi?”
“Because it didn’t feel right not to! I don’t know! I mean, God knows I don’t f*cking want you here, and Art scowls every f*cking time he sees your name on the ATP portal, but it didn’t feel right you didn’t know! Okay!”
Patrick pinched a fistful of fine sand in his palm, crunching it between his fingers, before letting it sift through, a smooth cascade. “I think I’d respect you more if you said you wanted a last-minute f*ck before the ceremony. Or a getaway car,” he said flatly. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that, Tashi?”
Tashi sighed. “You’re not supposed to do anything.” She paused. “Don’t f*cking get on a plane, I’m serious.”
“I don’t even know where you’re getting married. How could I?”
“Yeah. Well. That’s because we didn’t want you to know.”
“Scared I was gonna be a wedding crasher? Or worse—hopeful?”
“I don’t like drama, Patrick.”
“And yet here you are, calling me on your wedding day.”
“If you see us at a tournament again—if you make it to any of the same ones Art’s playing—don’t talk to us.”
Patrick dug his fingers into the sand beside him, plunging them into the warmth. “That a threat, or a request?”
“I’m asking you, Patrick. For Art’s sake, if not mine. He doesn’t need the distraction. He’s doing really well.”
“I’ve seen the titles,” Patrick answered, pushing his fingers in deeper, until the sand covered his wrist. “That all he gets? “Really well”?”
“He doesn’t have a slam.”
“Yet,” Patrick added. “Geez, Tash. Yet.”
“We’re gonna have a beautiful day. We’re gonna be married. I want you to respect that, Patrick.”
“I will if you do.”
The line went silent. Then; “Are you training?”
Patrick considered telling her it was none of her f*cking business. “I’m in Florida.” It wasn’t Saddlebrook, but at least it was the same state.
“You have a new coach.”
Patrick snorted. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”
“I saw it on the ATP site.”
“Because you were checking my profile.”
“Seeing if you were still knocking around the 200s,” Tashi bit back. “Which you are.”
“Believe me Tashi, I’m well f*cking aware of what my ranking is.”
“Your coach is washed up.”
“I was winning going into the break.”
“It’s called a fluke. The new coach bounce. It won’t last.”
“f*ck you, Tash.” Patrick couldn’t even summon much energy behind it. “Don’t you have a wedding to get to? Why are you talking tennis to me right now?”
There was a long, long pause. “I promised Art I wouldn’t talk tennis today,” Tashi answered, with a soft sigh. “I won’t ruin our day.”
Patrick laughed, startled out of him, on the edge of hysteric. “Wow. You’re worse than a junkie. Shooting up by calling your ex-boyfriend on your wedding day. Jesus Christ, Tash. That’s desperate.”
“Shut up.”
“No seriously, that’s low. Lower than letting me hit in Atlanta.”
“I said, shut up. I’m hanging up.”
Patrick sucked in a breath. “You know, I do hope he makes you happy. I hope you make him happy.”
“We do.”
“I hope you both believe that.” The sun bounced off the water, too bright. “Bye Tashi. I’ll like the photos on Instagram when they’re posted by Vogue, or whatever.”
“Change your coach, Zweig.”
Patrick let out one final laugh, hollow and harsh, and then hung up.
The sound of the waves rushed back in, the steady, rolling ebb and flow replacing the crackling sound of Tashi’s breathing. Patrick stared out at the water until his eyes began to sting, and then pulled his hand out of the sand, pocketed his phone, and stood up.
The beach was busier now. There were more runners, a few families, surfers on the water. His usual morning run carried on a few miles before looping back around, but Patrick turned on his heel and started the walk back home. He’d left his cigarettes on the kitchen counter and, frankly, his fingers were beginning to itch.
He had new plans for the rest of the day: Mazur wanted to meet up, but Patrick would have to cancel. He was going to sit on his balcony and chain smoke until the sun finally dipped below the damn horizon. And then, after that—after his fingers smelled irreversibly like tar and ash—after he’d started to shiver in the breeze off the water, his Mark Reballato t-shirt too thin and threadbare and age-worn to protect him, even in Florida in December—
Well, then he was finally going to go the f*ck to bed.
New Rochelle, New York, 2019
The locker room door swung shut, cutting off the clamor outside. The reporters from the Tennis Network and even—as warned—f*cking ESPN, were swarming Art after his win. Patrick left him courtside, fielding low-ball questions about what the match meant to him. He held in a snort. Patrick doubted whether any of those reporters knew this tournament even f*cking existed two weeks ago. It shouldn’t mean anything to Art, of course. He’d smile and say something diplomatic about confidence and the run-up to the Open, Tashi hovering off to the side, stony-faced. Patrick didn’t need to be an accessory to their little domestic soap opera.
Inside was eerily quiet. The stench of sweat and the cloying lemon of cleaning chemicals filled his nose. Patrick slumped onto the bench. It was always weird during finals; previously busy locker rooms suddenly empty, just you and your opponent. Empty entirely if you were the first one back, ducking off the court with your tail between your legs. A nice couple of minutes alone to sit and think about the match and everything you’d missed, but now could never go back and fix.
His bum knee was playing up now the adrenalin was wearing off, aching something fierce. He jabbed a thumb against the cartilage and tried to massage out the pain, setting aside the small metal trophy he’d be awarded as the runner-up beside him. His name had been hastily etched in and the handles felt loose, rattling as he pushed it away down the bench. It was a piece of junk, but then again, Patrick didn’t exactly have many trophies of his own to compare it to.
So—he’d done what Tashi had asked. Just not in the way she wanted. He’d lost, and Art had won, as fair and square as he could f*cking make it. They’d played a good f*cking game of tennis, the best he could offer, the best he could inspire.
He stripped off his shirt—soaked through with sweat, his hastily applied patch already starting to peel.
Was it egotistical to be pleased about it? Probably. But to Patrick, the match was proof he’d always be Art’s Achilles heel and proof, too, that only Patrick could provide Art with the necessary spark he needed. Maybe it was more mundane than that—a brief pause in Art’s fallible body, and his even more fallible confidence—but if Patrick wasn’t walking away with the winner’s check, he was sure as f*ck going to take that credit instead. Compensation to keep him warm inside on the lonely nights ahead, when his runner-up prize money ran out, of course.
His loss to Art was the rule, not the exception. On paper, at least.
But Patrick knew better.
Too bad that nobody else—the reporters, Tashi, Art himself—understood or cared.
He’d have to hurry up if he wanted to be out of here before Art came in. Patrick didn’t fancy the conversation Art would inevitably want to have—namely, about why Patrick f*cked his wife and decided to taunt him about it in the middle of an internationally broadcast tennis match. As if that was remotely what happened anyway, and they both knew it.
He’d thought—for a moment there—when Patrick caught him—
But Art had drawn back. He lined Patrick up, made up for his error at the net, his temporary moment of madness, and won the tie-break solidly and inarguably, winning 7-4, and finishing it off with a neat backhand slice Patrick didn’t have a hope of getting to in time. So. That was the match. Whatever moment they’d had, even if Patrick was sure Art had felt it—well, Patrick didn’t think it would help him sidestep what he’d chosen to disclose.
Art would feel obligated. Pride’s sake, if nothing else. He was always so damn sensitive.
He showered quickly, washing away the sweat and dust. He’d miss these showers—they were good ones, for a locker room—better than one in his motel, where he had to crouch to fit under the nozzle and where the water pressure felt more like being dribbled over by his neighbor’s asthmatic cat. It was going to suck to leave them behind. He’d take a few days, maybe—go back to Florida and his most recent sublet. Find a local Futures event to play to keep himself busy. Try for the Open qualies and see what he could shake out.
Let Art and Tashi fly back to their mansion and wipe the whole f*cking thing from their memory. Or try to, at least. Let them get a f*cking divorce in a couple of months’ time, so he could read about it on the Reddit tennis boards he shamelessly spent too much f*cking time on. Art Donaldson—divorcé. How sophisticated. How boring. What a f*cking waste.
When did they all get so f*cking old?
“Patrick.”
Stepping back into the locker room, towel held around his hips, Patrick pulled up short.
Not the Donaldson he expected to find waiting for him.
Tashi was sitting on the wooden bench, comically out of place against the rusting lockers behind, with her pristine linen dress folded around her. Patrick’s fingers fumbled where he had them around the knot of the towel, before he pulled it tight. If this was any other time he might make a joke about it; pull the towel down, say something lewd, something stupid, just because. Not now.
“Hello, Tashi,” he said, faking the pleasantry, as if he wasn’t thrown by the sight of her. “How’d I do, huh? Get what you want?”
Tashi folded her hands almost primly in her lap, but she swept her gaze up his body, for long, drawn-out seconds, before she rested on his face. Patrick clamped down on the urge to show he’d noticed her once-over; to flex, or step forward. Instead, he arched a single eyebrow.
“I don’t know what the f*ck happened out there on that court, but it wasn’t you throwing the match,” she said flatly.
“Careful,” Patrick replied, voice light. “Someone might overhear us. Can’t get done for match-fixing, can we?”
Tashi shook her head. “I’m serious. I haven’t seen him play like that in months. Years, even.”
A flicker of pride. “Then you should be happy, right? He’s got his confidence back.”
“I want to know how the f*ck you did it. I want to know what the f*ck that serve was all about. That was part of it, I know it was. Are you going to tell me?”
The question sounded less like the demand Tashi probably wanted it to be, and more like—a question. Tashi, on the back foot, where she hated to be.
Patrick adjusted his towel again. “Why don’t you ask your husband?” The serve was between him and Art. That was the whole point. He wasn’t going back on that now.
“I did. He told me to ask you.”
That made Patrick smile. That, he didn’t expect. Maybe Art was waiting to pull the pin on that particular bomb later. Patrick would let him hold his advantage, if that’s what he planned.
“Well. Guess it’s going to stay a secret then, isn’t it?”
Tashi rolled her eyes, heaving out a breath. “It’s always been you and him, hasn’t it?” she said. Her eyes were hard. Bright. Unexpectedly sharp.
“Huh?”
“You and Art, and me on the outside.”
Patrick rocked back on his feet. “What the f*ck are you talking about, Tashi? On the outside?”
She shrugged. “In that hotel room in Flushing. Today. Not the outside then, but the middle. I know I put myself there. I know I did. And it’s been years, but Art’s never—and you’ve never—you’ve never let go of each other, have you?” She was talking quietly, with a level of detachment Patrick didn’t believe. “And I’ve been there. With you both. We’ve—” She made a half gesture with one of her hands; a circle, dashed away. “Art played his best tennis today because you were on the other side of the net and you made it possible. That means something.”
There was a beat of silence. Tashi rarely made speeches. Cutting one-liners were usually more her style. Patrick swallowed. He’d drunk through dozens of the free bottles of water provided by the venue on court, trying to make up for Art’s specially crafted hydration co*cktails, but now his throat was dry as sandpaper again.
“Does it? Mean anything?”
Tashi shrugged again. “I think it does, yeah.”
“You gonna reveal that one to me?”
Her mouth twisted. “Art needs you. He won’t admit it, but he does.”
Patrick absorbed that. “You know, I never thought I’d say this—but I’m way too f*cking naked for this conversation.”
His bag was still on the floor where he’d left it, now by Tashi’s feet. She flicked her hand towards it, an invitation to be her guest. Patrick leaned forward and grabbed his last pair of clean shorts out. There was another pause, thick with—something—while he struggled to maneuver the shorts around and under his towel. He could have just untied it, of course, but again—something stopped him. Tashi seemed surprised he didn’t. Impressed with his restraint.
“Art needs you,” she repeated, when Patrick straightened up in front of her, tugging his shorts into place.
He felt better now he was dressed. More in control. “As a hitting partner? Are you trying to offer me a job, Tashi? Is that it?”
“Maybe. If that’s what ends up happening.”
If he wasn’t used to the insult, Patrick might have bothered to react more. “I have a job, thanks. It might not mean much to you, in your millionaire mansion, but this is my job, you know.”
Tashi ignored him. “More than that. He needs you for more than that. He needs you in his life, Patrick. You know what I saw out there today?”
“I’m guessing you’re going to tell me.”
“You looked like eighteen-year-olds again. Like kids. That’s what Art needs, to feel eighteen years old again. With you.”
Patrick scoffed. “I know I’m not the one who went to college, but even I know time travel is impossible, Tash.”
Across from him, Tashi stood, a sudden shot up to her feet from the wooden bench, a lurch forward. “Stop f*cking around, Patrick. I’m trying—this is what you want, right? You want Art. You always have. You loved him when we were kids and you still love him now. It’s obvious—it always f*cking has been. And it turns out that he needs that. So—”
Patrick stepped back so hard it was like he’d been punched. He lifted a finger; pretended it wasn’t shaking slightly, aiming it at Tashi’s face, now way too close. “That’s f*cked up,” he said. His throat ached. “You can’t just—say that sh*t—you can’t just barge in here, and tell me—”
“Am I f*cking wrong?”
“That’s not fair, Tashi,” he hissed.
“So I’m not wrong,” she replied, crossing her arms across her chest. “I think you should come by the hotel later.”
It was as if she’d suggested taking a walk outside, or grabbing coffee. Straightforward. Plain. Patrick stared at her. Not a hair out of place, no creases in her Ralph Lauren dress. Manicured to perfection. Despite the grenade she’d thrown.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I think you should come to our room, Patrick. I think you and Art should talk, and I think we should—”
There it was—the faintest of blushes.
“I don’t care what they told you in couples therapy, Tashi, but you can’t make me into a toy to try and spice up your and Art’s sex life. You’re not looking for a third,” he sneered.
Tashi’s cool seemed to falter. She dropped her arms. “No, we’re not. This isn’t like that. This is for Art. This is—different.”
Patrick’s lip curled. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”
Tashi glared at him, and then the expression dissolved, softening the corners of her mouth.
“He watches your matches, you know. I told him not to, and he pretends like he doesn’t, obviously, but he still does. Your online matches. When you won the Challenger in Kazan? He watched it a few times over, the clips on Youtube, too.”
The Russian Challengers were both a nightmare and a potential saving grace. The extensive visas required usually meant a weaker field, and in 2015, on the edge of a rankings slide he couldn’t afford, Patrick went looking for some potential easier-than-usual points. He found them. He’d injured his wrist a couple of weeks earlier, but he strapped it up and played anyway. Mazur, still his coach back then, hadn't made the flight out and the international phone calls were too expensive, so he texted Patrick coaching tips, a few scant SMS messages that still cost a fortune. That was it. The win had taken Patrick by surprise. Temperatures outside the indoor court plummeted below freezing, but Patrick remembers sweating uncomfortably hard in his final, facing off against a home Russian player, who had the full support of the admittedly meager crowd behind him. Everyone expected Patrick to lose, it almost felt like he won out of pure spite, propelling him to make returns even he was shocked by, again and again. It hardly made headlines, except for in the Russian local press, where Patrick didn’t need to be fluent to understand they weren’t being complimentary.
“Yeah,” Tashi said, watching his face; the spasm passing over it he couldn’t control. “He misses you, Patrick. Or a part of him does, anyway.”
Of course, Patrick had wondered over the years—whether Art kept up with him. He knew Tashi did, or had, but wasn’t sure she passed any of it on to her husband. He’d imagined it hundreds of times; Art bent over his phone, checking his match scores while on a flight somewhere, business class like Patrick hadn’t flown in years and years; Art with his laptop in some fancy-as-f*ck hotel room, watching him scrap it out in a match taking place across the world—wanting to see, wanting to know, despite everything.
It was fanciful, he thought. Indulgent. Unrealistic. Pathetic.
Real?
Tashi nodded at him. He’d said it aloud.
“Art—”
The locker room door swung open.
Tashi and Patrick’s necks snapped round to follow it.
Art stepped into the room, still in his match kit, his previously sweat-covered hair now dry and trying to curl, tennis bag hitched over his shoulder, the golden summer sunshine spilling in behind him. For a second, Patrick saw what Tashi did—Art, eighteen again. The familiar silhouette of the boy he went to school with.
“Tashi—what’s taking you so long, did you find him? I thought you—”
He cut off abruptly when he saw Patrick standing there.
He must look wrecked, because Art recovered first, taking an aborted step forward. His gaze swung to Tashi. “What’s happening here?”
Tashi flicked her eyes in his direction, deflecting the question.
Patrick opened up his mouth.
“Congrats on the win, Champ.” He sounded weak and insincere, even to his own ears.
Art looked even more confused, forehead puckering. “What are you two talking about?” he asked, looking between them, slow and suspicious. It was clear what he was trying to decide; if they’d had sufficient warning to jump off each other and extract their tongues from down each other’s throats before he came in. Patrick wanted to laugh at how obvious it was.
He also, bizarrely, wanted to f*cking cry.
Instead, he shrugged. “You, of course.”
“Me?” Art replied warily. His eyes were wide and blue and colored with skepticism.
It was Tashi’s turn to step forward, smooth, as if she was approaching a racehorse likely to spook. “Art, I’ve invited Patrick back to the hotel this evening. My mom’s got Lily for tonight. I thought we could talk.”
Patrick, importantly, hadn’t f*cking said yes.
“Talk?” Art repeated, as if the concept was alien to him.
Which, frankly, with Art—it was. He’d never met a hard conversation he didn’t want to run away from, even when he was younger, if he couldn’t have that conversation on his own terms. Patrick suspected that hadn’t changed.
Tashi had one weapon left up her sleeve; the last, killer shot. Patrick watched her take another step forward, her palm on Art’s forearm. Art looked at her—looked at Patrick—at his wife again.
“Please?” she said.
