#Tennis umpire chair

[sithighchair]

Tennis umpire chair

When you are looking for the Best Umpire Chairs USA, your one stop destination is Sit High Chair Company located at Waynesboro, Virginia, United States. Here you will find a great variety of umpire chairs along with many sports products.

[wimbledon2008]

rafael nadal is and always will be that guy

[bluespring864]

umpire going: Grigor, "atp" or "the world"? at the coin toss and then when Grigor chose "the world" and that side came up: "the world is yours" 🤣

[categoricalglitches]

I finally watched this movie yesterday and ngl I wonder how long that poor ump let the whole... thing go on for until he was like, Okay, guys? Do you... want to continue this tiebreak any time soon, or...?

(Maybe he was too stunned/mesmerized to call the point for a looong time, lmao)

My favorite part of Challengers was the referee at this local tournament in New Rochelle who is just trying to call a game of tennis while a fifteen-year throuple situationship implodes in front of him. Like you know after the movie ended he went to Chili’s down the street and had five glasses of wine while he attempted to unpack what the hell just happened

[sportsallover]

Iga is so fair-play!!

[suna-cerely-yours]

Break Point ft k. sakusa

synopsis: tennis!au -you shouldn't be letting your boyfriend's rival feel you up in the locker room, and you certainly shouldn't be getting on your knees for him, especially given the history between the two of you

warnings : mdni, smut, fem! bodied reader, reader has she/her pronouns, degradation, cheating, oral (m! recieving), public sex, pussy jobs, hair pulling, reader is called a good girl

song rec : fetish -selena gomez

"and we're back folks! that was some first set- of course, we are in the US Open semi-finals, and it is sakusa and terushima on the court!"

the crowd roars as you adjust your sunglasses and pick up your honey deuce to take a sip, eyes trained on terushima sitting on the bench with a towel over his head. unwillingly, you find your gaze pulled towards the player on the other side of the umpire's chair, sakusa kiyoomi uncapping a bottle of electrolytes before tilting his head back and bringing the bottle to his mouth. you take another sip, watching the strong column of his throat move as he gulps his water.

"this infamous rivalry's brought everyone together today. over in terushima's box, is, of course, his beautiful girlfriend- joined by his high-school friends!"

you raise your head and smile, raising your honey deuce as the cameras pan over to your seat at the commentator's words. in the row behind you terushima's friends holler and whistle, waving a banner with his face on it.

"terushima's partner is pretty private, so it's a real treat that we managed an interview with her before the match- she's had some fun stuff to say about this rivalry and today's match."

you watch as you pop up on the big screen, dressed in the blue and white dress you'd picked out specially for this match- makeup and hair fresher than it currently was. the string of diamonds around your throat winks in the light as you nod at whatever the interviewer was saying.

"what do you think about sakusa? he's given your boyfriend quite a good amount of grief this season."

the video-you laughs at the question, red lips curling upward. "well, he's been a household name for some time now. yuji thinks more about him than about me, if we're being frank."

"do you think his victories are earned? sakusa's won 5 out of the 6 times they've met so far, and their rivalry goes way back to their juniors days."

"sakusa's definitely a really good player, and he's improved a lot since his defeat at last year's wimbledon final. i- we, yuji and i both think he's someone to watch out for, especially if he can clean up his net play a little more. he, for sure, has the potential to surpass the big 3."

the interviewer raises her eyebrows at your admission, and Arthur Ashe clamors in real time. you sink your teeth into your lower lip, as the other screen shows sakusa's reaction to your words. as usual, the man is stoic, showing no signs of having heard your praise. however, his sharp eyes are focused on the screen showing your interview, having stopped all his inter-set preparations.

"and what about terushima? do you think he can surpass the big 3?"

you're silent for a touch too long before showering yuji with praise, however it doesn't seem like anyone except you had noticed the pause. yuji's grinning from his bench on the court making kissy faces at the screen. he has everyone's attention.

you swallow, shifting your focus back to sakusa, who's no longer looking at the screen, but has his eyes trained on you, a faint smirk evident on his face. well, that pause hadn't escaped everyone's notice. kissing your teeth, you avert your eyes- taking another sip of your honey deuce. arthur ashe titters one final time before silence settles again as the players take their positions, sakusa's serve.

"and at 144 mph that's this season's fastest serve yet! i would not want to be the one who faces that serve, that's for sure."

you lean forward, taking off your sunglasses as the men enter the fifth and final set, sakusa breaking in the first game itself. you, as well as the rest of the centre court, watch with bated breaths as the game gets tense- so focused that you completely miss the dark clouds rolling in and the thunder rumbling ominously. there's not a moment of notice as the sky opens up, the downpour brutal. fat, cold raindrops assault your senses as you scramble for cover- dress already sticking and hair frizzing. making your way down the stairs into the gallery, you hear the commentators announce the official postponement of the match.

going down a level further, you push open the double doors to reach the locker rooms. surprisingly, there's no one around. there's a clang of a locker closing somewhere, and you walk towards the sound- your heels clacking loudly. turning the corner, you freeze as a pale, muscular back- scattered with moles- comes into view. sakusa kiyoomi stands with his back to you, shirtless, with his shorts riding low and a towel slung over his shoulder. at your sharp intake he turns, hooded eyes pinning you in place.

"sorry, i um- i'll just-"

you shouldn't be here. (you've been here too many times to be anywhere else.)

he says nothing but keeps his eyes on you as he towels his hair. your gaze unconsciously strays to his biceps as they flex at the motion, before snapping back to his face. he stares at you for a moment longer, before throwing his towel back into the locker and slamming the door shut. you feel heat creeping up your cheeks as he turns to you again.

"why are you here again?"

"sorry, i just- i thought-"

he keeps quiet, cocking his head to the side, waiting for you to continue. you stammer once more before shutting up.

"sorry. i'll leave."

you feel a lump in your throat at his curt words, but you have no right to be upset. you know that very well. you're almost at the corner when his words cause you to stop.

"the big three?"

you pause, memories of younger kiyoomi talking about his dreams flashing through your mind. swallowing, you turn around.

"you know you could do it. coming from me it means nothing."

"nothing?"

you pause again, feeling your neck prickle with heat against his intense stare. he hasn't moved an inch, yet you feel cornered- like prey.

"it should mean nothing."

he scoffs at this, taking a step closer.

"is that what helps you sleep at night? do you say it before you slip your hand into your panties imagining it's my dick inside you, or do you say it after- as long as there's no guilty conscious right?"

you blink at his words, before retorting sharply, "kiyo you can't speak to me like that, watch your words-"

"so i'm kiyo again? what happened to sakusa? you said it so sweetly in the interview. i'm a regular at your perfect white picket fence household, right?"

you step back, hitting a locker, unaware that you'd been backing up. he's in front of you before you can blink, pressing up against you, one hand gripping your waist the other flat against the locker beside your head. leaning closer his breath fans across your face as he pants, still breathing deeply from his match.

"you show up- as you always do when he's playing against me- wearing the dress i bought you, the dress i fucked you in- wrapped in diamonds i bought you, diamonds that rest where my hands used to-

and that's fine. that's perfectly fine. but showing up here? in this locker room? and saying your words mean nothing to me?"

you whimper, eyes falling shut as he grips your face, smearing your lipstick with his thumb. the scent of his cologne mixed with his sweat crowds your senses, dimming them. slipping his thumb into your mouth he presses against your tongue. you obediently part your mouth, pressing your thighs to relieve some of the pressure. sakusa scoffs again, slotting his thigh between your legs, allowing you to press down and rut against him.

"what a slut, do you get wet like this for everyone? or am i just special baby? do you let every fucker who plays against your darling boyfriend feel you up in the locker room? does the idea of you getting fucked by someone he'll lose against turn him on too?"

your eyes roll back as you moan, sliding a hand to your breast, before it's snatched back by kiyoomi, pinned against the locker. his touch is too familiar for you to consider him as sakusa, he's always been your kiyo.

"you're going to get off humping my leg like a dog in heat baby, i know you can do it," he coos, grip on your face tightening.

you whimper at his words, grinding down harder. everything feels so hot, with kiyoomi pressing his body against you- weight heavy. his scent is everywhere.

"actually- i don't think you deserve that."

your eyes fly open as he shifts his thigh and moves away, leaving you cold and slumped against the lockers. you breathe heavily, fingers scrambling for purchase behind you to keep yourself upright.

you open your mouth to say something, anything- but you draw blank. what can you even say?

kiyoomi stands still in front of you, arms crossed- but with his shorts tenting it's clear he's not entirely unaffected. his dark eyes remain fixed on you, but he says nothing. the two of you remain suspended like this for a few heartbeats. you see his adam's apple bob as he swallows once, twice- before taking a step back.

"you should leave. he's probably waiting for you."

you should leave. he's definitely waiting for you.

you nod slowly, straightening your spine. taking a deep breath, you reach for your bag which you had dropped sometime during and dig through it for a tissue. your makeup must be a mess.

glancing back at kiyoomi you pause- watching as he sinks down on a bench and leans back to rest on his elbows. his legs part as he breathes, chest rising- erection still straining against his shorts.

the sight is so familiar, your heart aches. your mouth feels dry as he drops his head back, revealing the strong column of his neck.

your panties stick uncomfortably, pussy still throbbing. your breasts feel heavy as you drop your bag again, turning towards him. heat trickles down your spine as you reach for the zipper of your dress, unable to move your eyes from his physique. your dress pools by your feet as you step out of it, now dressed in nothing but your panties, heels, and his diamonds.

kiyoomi still hasn't moved.

teeth sinking into your lower lip, you reach to unbuckle your heels, your brain on autopilot. now barefoot, you pad towards kiyo, sinking to your knees in between his parted legs.

you should leave.

you reach forward to mouth at kiyo's erection, pressing open-mouthed kisses on his cock through the fabric. above you kiyo still hasn't moved, but he sighs, carding a hand through your hair. pressing a hand to his thigh for balance, you move to pull him out, continuing to mouth at his shaft. leaning forward you take him in your mouth, slowly easing him in until you feel him hit the back of your throat. eyes watering, you breath slowly, sucking him the way you know he likes it. you feel kiyo tug at your roots, and you look up at him, eyes locking. his eyes are hooded and impossibly dark, mouth bitten red as he pants.

"my pretty girl, so good for me, only for me," he slurs, grip on your hair tightening. you moan, taking him deeper, swallowing him. kiyo groans, head tipping back again. you slip your hand into your panties, desperate for some friction, moaning again. before you can move however, you find yourself being lifted straight up onto his lap.

now straddling him, your pussy slides against his dick, as you grasp his shoulders for purchase.

"you just couldn't stay away could you? what a filthy little whore. what would those reporters say if they could see you now, hmm? tennis's favourite girlfriend is nothing but a cock hungry slut, but not for her boyfriend, no- for her boyfriend's rival," he coos.

"kiyo, fuck," you whimper, everything is too much.

he moves you again, this time standing up to push you against the locker once again. your legs tremble as you lean back. he slaps your tits, as you jerk, gasping.

"kiyokiyokiyo, please," you whine, unsure what exactly you want him to do. yanking your panties down, he pumps his cock once, before tapping the head against your clit. bullying the head between your lips, he groans, rutting against you.

slapping your tits once again, he grips his cock, inhaling sharply- and he cums all over you pussy and panties. you whine again, reaching to pull his head down, needing to kiss him.

"fuck. fuck, you're so-," he pants into your neck. you nod deliriously, you need to cum so badly it hurts.

the doors clang loudly.

"yo, sakusa, you in here? the weather's cleared up, they're sayin' if it's cool with the both of us we can continue in 30 minutes."

the two of you spring apart, alarm bells ringing in your mind as you pull up your panties. rushing to your dress, you struggle to put it on.

kiyo shoots you one last look, before calling out, "sure man, you mind letting them know on my behalf? i'll be right up."

the footsteps stop just you're stumbling into your shoes.

"of course my guy, no problem."

the doors open again, and you sigh in relief.

"say, you wouldn't have seen my girl anywhere, would you? she's disappeared."

you freeze again, but sakusa's moving past you now, rounding the corner with his tennis bag hung over his shoulder.

"nah, haven't seen her."

[rafecameronssl4t]

I need to see reader calming Rafe down during a meltdown in a match and maybe she’s being firm and like telling him to stop and listen to her and to calm down and he shuts up because reader can get scary when mad lol 😂

Fault lines || Tennis player!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: wag!reader stands on business 😙

Warnings: none

Word count: 1,441

MASTERLIST (tennis player!rafe au masterlist)

The sun hung heavy over Sydney’s Ken Rosewall Arena, and the crowd’s energy buzzed like static electricity. Team USA’s match in the United Cup had been one of the most anticipated games of the tournament, but all eyes were on Rafe Cameron. Not just because he was one of the best players on the circuit, but because his temper had become almost as famous as his forehand.

Today, the storm brewing inside Rafe was palpable. He was down a set and struggling to keep up in the second. The opponent, an unseeded underdog from Russia, was playing like a man possessed, returning every shot with precision that only fueled Rafe’s growing frustration. The boiling point came during a controversial call.

“Are you serious? That was in!” Rafe shouted, his voice echoing across the court. The crowd’s murmurs turned to gasps. His face was red with anger as his hands rest on his hips, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The chair umpire remained stoic, unmoved by the outburst. “Out. No let, Mr. Cameron,” the umpire announced, his calm voice doing nothing to quell the fire in Rafe’s eyes.

Rafe strode to the net, pointing furiously at the spot where he was convinced the ball had landed. “Are you blind? It literally hit the fucking line!” The umpire’s expression didn’t falter. “Warning for Mr. Cameron, please return to your position.” Rafe’s jaw clenched, his grip on the racquet so tight his knuckles turned white. “This is bullshit!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the tense silence as he stormed toward the baseline.

With unrestrained fury, he slammed the racquet against the ground—once, twice, three times—until a deafening fourth strike splintered it into shards of graphite. The crowd gasped collectively, shock rippling through the stands as fragments scattered across the court. “Unbelievable!” Rafe yelled, tossing the mangled remains aside before stalking toward the Team USA bench, his frame vibrating with unspent anger.

His teammates and coach looked uneasy, unsure whether to intervene or let him vent. In the vip seats behind Team USA’s area, you sat with your arms crossed, your sharp gaze fixed on Rafe’s theatrics. Rafe threw himself onto the bench, oblivious to the camera following him as he mutters curses under his breath, ripping open a new racquet from his bag, his jaw clenched so tightly.

From your vantage point, you leaned forward, resting your arms on the barrier in front of you. You could feel the heat of his frustration from where you sat, and you knew he needed someone to pull him out of his spiral before he self-destructed.“Rafe!” you called down, your voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd and the chaos on court. He looked up, his brow furrowed, still fuming. “What?”

You didn’t flinch, meeting his glare with the same intensity. “You need to calm down. Right now.” His lips curled into a frustrated sneer. “Are you serious right now? Did you see that call? It was bullshit!” “I don’t care about the call,” you snapped, your tone sharper than the sun’s glare. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Stop acting like a child.”

Rafe blinked, letting out an exhale. The crowd had gone quiet, all eyes were on the exchange. Even the cameras were trained on the two of you, capturing every moment of the heated conversation. “I’m not—” he started, but you cut him off. “Be the bigger person,” you demanded, your voice low but commanding.

“Do you think smashing your racquet and yelling at the umpire is going to change the call? Get your head in the game.” Rafe leaned closer, his voice lowered but still defiant. “You don’t get it. That point—” “I do get it,” you interrupted, narrowing your eyes. “What I don’t get is why you’re wasting energy on this instead of focusing on winning.”

“And now you’re handing the momentum to him on a silver platter,” you shot back, your voice firm but quiet. “Do you think your opponent cares about the call? He’s focusing on the next point while you’re sitting here sulking like a brat.” His jaw worked as he struggled to find a retort, but before he could, you leaned in even closer.

“Screw your head back in, Rafe,” you hissed, your words like ice water on a fire. “And get back out there. Now.” The way you said it left no room for argument. He stared at you, the fire in his eyes dimming slightly as your words sank in. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re really not letting me off the hook, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you replied, leaning back slightly but keeping your gaze locked on his. “Now shut up, get your head in the game, and play like the champion I know you are.” A flicker of something—respect, maybe even a little fear—crossed his face. He nodded, more to himself than to you, before standing and grabbing his racquet.

As he walked back onto the court, he glanced back at you over his shoulder. You raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to argue again. He didn’t. The crowd began murmuring again, their attention shifting back to the match. But you stayed still, arms crossed, shaking your head in exasperation. The cameras, however, lingered on you for a few more seconds, capturing your unimpressed expression as Rafe got into position to serve.

The commentators couldn’t resist. “Well, that was quite the reaction from Y/n,” one said, chuckling. “I don’t think Rafe’s girlfriend approved of that outburst,” the other added. “And who could blame her? That’s another fine coming his way.” The match resumed, and while Rafe’s temper was still simmering beneath the surface, your words seemed to have had the desired effect.

He channeled his frustration into his game, hitting with renewed focus and precision. Each shot landed with a ferocity that made the crowd gasp, and slowly but surely, he clawed his way back into the set. When he finally won the second set in a tiebreak, the crowd erupted into cheers. Rafe allowed himself a small smile, glancing toward your seat in the stands.

The third set was a masterclass. Rafe played like a man possessed, leaving no room for error. By the time he won the match with a blistering ace, the crowd was on its feet, applauding his comeback. As the players shook hands at the net, the commentators couldn’t help but bring up the earlier exchange.

“Well, it looks like Rafe Cameron had some help keeping his cool today,” one of them quipped. “I’d say his girlfriend’s pep talk worked wonders.” Back on the sidelines, Rafe grabbed his bag and towel, his eyes landing on you. When he reached you, he leaned against the barrier, his expression a mix of sheepishness and irritation. “Happy now?” he asked, his tone teasing but softer than before.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “I’ll be happy when you stop smashing racquets.” “Fair,” he admitted, glancing down at the broken one still lying near the bench. “I guess I owe you for that.” “You owe me a lot more than that,” you replied, your smirk turning into a genuine smile.

As the crowd began to disperse, you sat back in your seat, finally allowing yourself a small smile. Rafe might be a handful, but if anyone could handle him, it was you. And judging by the camera footage that was already going viral, the world was quickly realising the same thing.

[playwithsyd]

Tennis Enthusiast Pack

discover university, high school years, spa day required

03/26/2025 - updated for Patch 1.113.297.1020

includes the following:

Tennis Enthusiast Trait

Social Interactions

Enthuse About Tennis

Discuss Tennis Techniques

Gossip About Tennis Players

Insult Tennis Techniques

Compliment Tennis Strokes

Whims

Play Tennis

Use Treadmill

Go for a Jog

Watch Sports

Make a Protein Shake

Tennis Court Lot Trait

all Sims will be able to use the custom social interactions when visiting a lot with this trait, even if they do not have the tennis enthusiast trait. Sims will also gain the Fitness, Charisma, and Wellness skills faster on these lots.

Tennis Player Career

Levels

Tennis Intern

Tennis Assistant

Beginner Tennis Player

Intermediate Tennis Player

Professional Tennis Player

Career Rewards

The Zenus Tennis Net

Pro Training Tennis Ball Machine

The Robinson Tennis Umpire Chair

The Donaldson Tennis Trophy

Tennis Club After School Activity

Levels

Junior Varsity Team Member

Varsity Tennis Member

Tennis Club Team Captain

Club Reward - Tennis Club Athletic Poster

download (public release - November 24)

thank you for the support // please do not re-upload or claim as your own

[miley1442111]

(part 8) choices in hindsight- a.donaldson

-------------------------------

-------------------------------

summary: eleven years later.

(dw there are more parts after this :))

pairing: art donaldson x reader, patrick zweig x reader

warnings: angst, feelings of disappointment and depression, hurt, cheating, loneliness, etc.

PART 8 of 12

-------------------------------

Eleven years later….

You sat beside the umpire, your opponent smashing her racket in frustration as tears fell down her face. You were tired. Every bone in your body ached, your muscles were tense, your skin felt too tight. 

Your mind was worse. Playing tennis since you were a little girl does that to someone. Being in the public eye does that to someone, being alone does that to someone.

“You fucking bitch!” She shouted. “You fucking bitch!”

You didn’t care about it, the match was done, and you’d won. As usual. 

You hated tennis. You hated your life. Your lonely, empty life. 

-------------------------------

“How about a challenger? To boost your motivation?” Your manager, Michael, offered. 

“I’ll do whatever,” you shrugged. 

Michael stopped in front of you, stopping you from walking. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m fine,” you plastered on a fake smile. “Just tired.”

“In what sense?” He asked. He’d always been able to see right through you. You rolled your eyes. 

“In the sense that I’m completely alone and I’m sick of knowing that I’m a winner while I feel like a failure!” You exploded. “Tashi and Art got married. Patrick isn’t anywhere near as good as he was. I have no friends. I have no family. I have nothing but a bunch of cold, metal trophies, and a team who don’t care if I want to play anymore. All they care about is my game. And I fucking hate tennis!” 

Michael stared at you, face hardening. “You really had to do that in front of everyone?” He asked. You looked around. Your team was around you, but so was your next opponent.

“I’m not exactly worried,” you snarled. 

Michael rolled his eyes. “Go win the match, then we’ll let you have some alcohol and you can drown your sorrows.”

“Fuck yourself!” you shouted as he walked away. 

“How can I do that when you’re constantly fucking me over anyways!” He shouted back. 

-------------------------------

Back on the court again. Another subpar player against you. 

HIT. You’re worthless. HIT. You’re awful. HIT. You’re nothing. HIT. You deserve to be lonely. HIT. You deserve to be alone. HIT. You deserve to feel worthless.

HIT. Be better. HIT. Be stronger. HIT. Be more. 

HIT. 

“We have a winner!” 

-------------------------------

“Come on!” Lily shouted from beside him, her eyes on the court as you won, yet again. She’d seen her mother do it so much she was turning it into a catch-phrase. 

“She’s pretty good, right?” He chuckled, his eyes never leaving you. He didn't want to let himself admit it, but god you looked good. The white tennis outfit you had on was practically making him weak in the knees, as well as the 'I don't give a shit' attitude you carried with you. You were simply leaning in your chair, a drink in hand as your opponent screamed to her manager about how unfair playing against you was.

I mean she wasn't wrong. You were the top female tennis player and you were practically unbeatable. You were incredible.

“She’s amazing!” Lily smiled. “When does she play again?”

“Tomorrow,” he answered. He had your schedule memorised. 

“Can I meet her?” 

Art shook his head. “She and mom have a complicated history.” Also, I’m still madly in love with her.

“How so?” Lily asked as he walked with her, hand in hand to the concessions stand. 

“Well, back in college mom and her didn’t get along because mom couldn’t beat her-” he started but he felt Tashi beside him. 

“You’re lying to Lily now?” She snarked. 

Art felt his skin go cold. “No. It’s true-”

“I beat her,” Tashi nodded. “Dad used to date Y/n as well, isn’t that right?”

Art nodded and Lily looked up at him.

“That’s weird,” she confessed. “Why did you break up?”

“I was in love with mom,” Art lied and kissed Tashi on the cheek, the entire display looking awkward and rehearsed. His regret and resentment grew everyday. He’d never regret having Lily, but he regretted everything he did to you, and letting you get away. 

“That’s gross!” She squealed, shielding her eyes from her parents kissing.

“Alright peanut, what do you want?” He asked, moving up in the line and getting ready to order. 

-------------------------------

HIT.  Train harder. HIT. Work harder. HIT. You deserve nothing. 

The ball hit into your side and you groaned out in pain. “Fuck!”

You let yourself rest on the ground, not even bothering to turn off the automatic ball-throwing machine. 

“Hi,” a familiar voice smiled at you. Your eyes opened to find Patrick Zweig over your head. 

“Hi,” you mumbled, getting up. 

“How are you?” he asked, following you as you began to hit the balls again. 

“Fine,” you grunted out. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he smirked, watching your figure as you bent to hit a ball. “Very good.”

“Your dad give you a job yet?” 

Patrick’s fantasy was broken. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “No, not yet.”

“Too bad. You’d make a much better corporate asshole than the piece-of-shit tennis player you are.”

“Tread easy,” he chuckled, a touch of pathetic begging in his plea. You just rolled your eyes and continued on your exercise. 

“How about you go fuck yourself, Patrick?” Tashi scoffed from the stands, Art beside her. 

“How can I go back to that when she fucks me so well?” He joked. HIT. 

“Leave her alone Pat,” Art sighed. HIT. 

“Why are you defending her?” Tashi questioned, turning to Art. HIT. 

“She is right here in case you don’t see her,” Pat defended. HIT. 

“Pat we fucking know-” Art started, but it just ended up in Tashi talking over him to the point that Patrick started talking over both of them in the argument. 

HIT. HIT. HIT. 

“All three of you can fuck off!” you screamed. “I never want to see your stupid face again Patrick, Tashi you can stop flaunting that you got the love of my life, and Art, go be a dad or something! I don’t care anymore!” 

All three of them turned to you with various faces. Patrick was smirking, happy he’d finally pushed your buttons to the extreme. Tashi looked awkward and caught, maybe even guilty. 

But Art. Art looked at you like you’d hung the stars just for him, then tore it all down in front of him. His beautiful blue eyes filling with tears as he finally got to hear you admit that he was the love of your life, only eleven years too late. 

“I’m content with being alone, as shit as it is. I suggest you all move on from me now,” you sighed, grabbing your bag and walking off to find you manager. 

“See you at the challenger!” Patrick called after you. The ATP Challenger Tour. 

The same one from eleven years ago. 

Where everything fell apart. 

You got that familiar sinking feeling in your stomach.

-------------------------------

art donaldson masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

people who asked to be tagged :)

@fkaams

@emily-b

@yourmommycallsmemommy

@hrtsj1m

@januarycolor

[mousemannation]

x | steve vivian | 30/1/2022

The unholy experience of watching Daniil Medvedev lose, even when he wins

"Will you answer my question? Look at me. I'm talking to you."

Like an irate chef taking out the night's frustrations on a down-on-their-luck kitchen hand, Daniil Medvedev delivered another masterclass in melting down during his semifinal defeat of Stefanos Tsitsipas on Friday night.

Has anyone ever sincerely asked someone, "are you stupid?", and come out of the exchange looking good?

It didn't do all that much to endear Medvedev to viewers when he posed that question to chair umpire Jaume Campistol during his semi-final meltdown, berating Campistol for doing nothing about Tsitsipas's father supposedly coaching his son from the stands.

Ironically, as the commentators pointed out on the telecast, Tsitsipas really doesn't like it when his father coaches him during games.

If this was all you knew about the two players, you might not be surprised to learn the fans leant heavily pro-Tsitsipas, leaving Medvedev again playing heel to a crowd often about as respectful to him as he was to the chair umpire.

A player throwing a wobbly is no surprise in men's tennis, but what makes the 25-year-old Russian's outlandish emotional vulnerability so thrilling is that it's such a strange case.

People differ on their approval levels of Nick Kyrgios's on-court act — the sulks you can set your watch to; part petulance, part chaos-agent showmanship — but his charisma and I'm-just-trying-to-figure-it-all-out personality can often win over even the harshest of critics.

Then you have the Medvedev outburst that, seemingly lacking all self-awareness, as if scripted to get the crowd offside, is probably best watched peaking through your fingers.

In his standard operating environment, Medvedev out rallies his opponent with a cool detachment bordering on a baffling indifference from the back of the court.

Limbs perfectly calibrated, he is somehow both gangly and efficient in his movement, combining long levers and uncomplicated form into ruthless precision.

His style, or lack thereof, appears almost as a rebuke to the flourishes and preen of the modern player.

It's in the no fuss of those two bounces before each serve. Bang. Bang. Ball toss. Whack. Unfailingly replicated without appearing premeditated. All over before most opponents would have elected which ball to use.

So where does the uncomplicated man that just wants to get on with it suddenly go?

A viewer might feel cheated by the reveal – the ruthlessness dissolving into desperation — if it wasn't so perversely endearing.

The Medvedev experience is a little like watching Eddie Brock trying to deal with his new symbiote friend in the superhero movie Venom.

Except not everyone will go in for the Russian as their hero.

As a character, he more resembles a creation by his countryman, novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky's the Underground Man — a proud guy who craves the admiration of those around him.

But when it comes to being adored, the Underground Man can only shoot himself in the foot whenever he gets the chance.

And so it was that Medvedev blew the Dorothy Dixer Jim Courier served up to him in his post-match interview following his semi-final victory.

Courier: I want to ask you … will you take a peek at Ash Barty and Danielle Collins — the women's final?

Medvedev: It depends what time they're playing … 7:30pm? I'm usually going to dinner at 8:15pm …

Courier: Come on, man. I'm trying to set you up to win this crowd over, and you're just kicking it.

But the Underground Man is an underdog — which we love — and judging by the large chip he hacks into his own shoulder each match, it seems like Medvedev believes he's the underdog, too.

Australian tennis watchers lost their pantomime villain in Novak Djokovic on the eve of the tournament.

But in Daniil Medvedev, they have a true antihero.

[newtonsheffield]

Okay but we need Anthony umpiring a Kate vs. Charlotte charity match.

Oh my god. It’s for their charity The Sharma Foundation and they start doing it every year. Kate Sharma vs Charlotte Bridgerton centre stage at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet club.

Tickets and Sponsorship money goes directly to charity as does all of the merchandising once it gets bigger. It started as Kate playing Anthony, then it became Kate playing Anthony and all of their children and then it morphed into Kate vs Charlotte. The game sells out a year in advance because not only is it great fucking tennis but it’s hilarious to see them all argue with one another. They’re such a competitive family.

“Out!”

Kate gaped at her husband as Charlotte grinned at him, “Anthony, do you have your glasses on? Do you need me to get them for you?!”

“Hurtful take on a very loving marriage.”

“I thought it was a great call, Papa!”

“Thank you, Chickie,” Anthony grinned at her.

“Oh you two are out to get me! Can we put Neddy in the chair please?!”

Neddy looked up guilty from his place at the back of the court, “Well… Amma…”

“Oh I can’t believe this! I birthed you all and this is the thanks I get?!”

“So I need to let you cheat because you birthed my children?” Anthony blinked, “doesn’t seem exactly fair.”

“It’s not cheating! The ball was in!”

[lifeofpriya]

Reader being super worried with jannik’s fall and then celebrating his win

and with this...jannik weekend is over [for now 🤭😉]

Everything's Okay

wc: 1.8k

"Oh dear, and it appears that Sinner has landed on his left wrist," the commentator's voice echoes through the stadium, a mix of concern and anticipation. You grip the edge of your seat, your heart pounding in sync with the crowd's collective gasp.

You watch as Jannik, your boyfriend of three months, clutches his wrist, his face a canvas of pain and confusion. He's always been so graceful, so in control of his movements on the tennis court. But now, as he winces and tries to get up, you see a vulnerability that's rarely present in the public eye.

Although it was his non-dominant wrist, you knew the impact could still be severe. You've seen him train for hours on end, pushing his body to the limits. You've felt the tension in his muscles and the occasional complaint about a sore joint or two.

The umpire then proceeded to call a medical time out for both Jannik and Jack, who had thrown up multiple times on the court. You stand up, a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead as the medical team rushes to check on Jannik. The trainer kneels beside him, gently examining his wrist. His eyes meet yours, and you send a silent plea for everything to be okay.

The air feels thick and heavy with the tension of the moment. You take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside you. You know how much this match means to Jannik, and you can't bear the thought of him being sidelined by an injury.

"Yeah, I can move my wrist around fine," Jannik insists, "I think it's just the way I landed on it. Give me a minute, and I'll be okay." The trainer nods, looking slightly less concerned but still cautious. You can see the determination in Jannik's eyes, the same look he gets when he's down a set but not out of the match.

The medical team retreats, giving him space. You watch as Jannik takes deep, steadying breaths, his eyes never leaving yours. He flexes his fingers, wincing slightly, but then a tiny smile of relief crosses his face. You let out a sigh, your heart rate gradually returning to normal.

After what feels like an eternity, the trainer nods to the umpire, giving the okay for the match to continue. You sink back into your chair, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. The crowd's murmurs crescendo into applause as Jannik gets to his feet. He waves to acknowledge their support, his smile forced but earnest.

As the players return to their respective sides of the court, you study Jannik's every move. The way he holds the racquet, the tension in his shoulder, the tentative way he bounces the ball before serving.

The match resumes, and with each swing of his racquet, you hold your breath. You've seen his determination before, but this feels different. It's as if he's playing not just against Jack, but also against his own body. The crowd seems to sense the shift in the atmosphere, their cheers slightly more subdued, eyes glued to the Italian's every move.

Jack serves first, and you watch as Jannik's eyes follow the ball, his mind calculating the trajectory, the spin, the speed. His wrist looks stable, but you can see the slight grimace each time he makes contact with the ball. He moves with precision, his focus unwavering, his body compensating for the newfound weakness.

The first few points are tentative, with both players testing the waters. You bite your lip, willing Jannik's strength to hold up. Then, something shifts. The crowd senses it, and the energy swells. Jannik hits a powerful forehand, the ball whizzing past Jack with a satisfying thwack. The crowd erupts into cheers, and you find yourself standing, fist pumping the air.

Jannik's smile is genuine now, a spark igniting in his eyes. He's found his rhythm, his wrist holding steady despite the pain. You watch in awe as he plays with a newfound intensity, each shot a declaration of his resilience. The match becomes a dance of wills, a back-and-forth volley that keeps the spectators on the edge of their seats.

The sun beats down on the court, casting long shadows across the blue surface. Sweat glistens on Jannik's forehead, his breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. Yet, his movements are fluid, almost effortless. You realize you've been holding your breath, and you let it out in a rush of air.

The set is tight, each point a battle in its own right. You feel the weight of every shot in your own chest, your eyes never leaving Jannik's wrist. It's a silent war waging between love and fear, willing him to push through the pain. His grunts of exertion become a soundtrack to your anxiety.

Jack, noticing the situation, capitalizes on it, aiming for Jannik's backhand side. But Jannik is no pushover. He adjusts, moving with a grace that belies the pain he must be feeling. His backhand is still a force to be reckoned with, sending the ball back with surprising speed and accuracy.

You can't help but admire his tenacity. Despite the accident, despite the pain, he's fighting with everything he has. It's a testament to his dedication to the sport, to his fans, and to you, sitting here, willing him to victory.

"Game, set, match, Sinner!" the umpire calls out, and the stadium erupts in a cacophony of applause and cheers. You stand up, heart racing, as Jannik raises his racquet in the air, a grin of pure triumph lighting up his face. The tension of the past few minutes dissipates, replaced by an overwhelming sense of pride. He's done it—he's won despite the odds.

Jannik walks over to the net, shaking hands with Jack, who looks defeated but respectful. The two exchange a few words, their close friendship evident even in the heat of competition. You're dying to know what they're saying, but you're too far away to hear. The crowd's applause crescendos as Jannik heads towards you, his eyes searching for yours through the sea of faces.

When he finally reaches you, his smile is a blend of relief and triumph. He leans over the barricade, and you catch a whiff of his sweat, a scent that's uniquely his. He whispers, "It's okay, love," and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

You lean in, your hands trembling slightly as you grasp his good hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. His eyes crinkle at the corners, a silent thank you for your support. The cameras flash, capturing this intimate moment, but you're lost in the warmth of his gaze.

"Are you sure you're okay?" you ask, your voice barely audible over the din of the stadium.

Jannik nods, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's nothing too serious." He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, and you feel the adrenaline that's been coursing through you begin to subside.

The post-match interviews are a blur of questions and flashing lights. You hover at the edge of the court, watching as Jannik fields questions about his injury with a careful optimism that you know is partly for the audience's benefit. His eyes keep finding yours, sending messages of love and reassurance across the distance.

Finally, the press retreats, and you make your way to the locker room, feeling a mix of relief and exhaustion. The cool air is a welcome reprieve from the heat of the stadium, and you can't wait to wrap your arms around him, to hold him tight and make sure he's really okay.

When you enter, the room is a flurry of activity. Coaches, trainers, and staff members are everywhere, their eyes flicking to Jannik's wrist before returning to their tasks. You find a quiet corner to wait, your nerves jangling with every second that ticks by.

The locker room door swings open, and Jannik walks in, his gaze immediately finding yours. The smile that spreads across his face is tinged with weariness, but the victory is still present in his eyes.

You rush over to him, your eyes searching for any sign of pain or distress. He opens his arms, and you fall into his embrace, feeling his heart beating rapidly against your chest. He winces slightly, and you pull back, remembering his injury. "I'm sorry," you murmur, but he shakes his head.

"It's okay," he says, his voice low and warm. "I've got you. Besides, it's a non-issue."

You study his face, looking for any hint of doubt or pain, but he seems earnest. You want to believe him, so you do, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him tightly. His grip is firm, his breathing still a little ragged from the exertion of the match. The locker room's chaos fades into the background, and it's just the two of you, the sound of your hearts beating together.

As you pull away, his left hand lingers on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing small circles, soothing you without words. His right hand holds onto yours, his thumb tracing the outline of your palm. The simple, comforting gesture grounds you.

Jannik sits down on the bench, his legs stretched out in front of him. You take a seat beside him, his head dropping to rest on your shoulder. The coolness of his damp hair seeps through your shirt, sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the tremble in his body as the adrenaline wears off.

"Thank you for being here," he whispers, his voice hoarse from the exertion. "I couldn't have done it without you."

You lean your head against his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the dampness of his sweat. "I'll always be here for you," you reply, squeezing his hand. "But you're the one who played through the pain."

Jannik chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. "I had to. This match was too important to let a little fall ruin it."

You nod, understanding his drive but still concerned. "It looked pretty bad from up there."

He shrugs, "thankfully, everything is alright now."

The reality of what just happened sinks in, and you lean over to kiss his cheek gently. "You're incredible," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Jannik's eyes find yours, and he smiles, the warmth of his gaze wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. "I had to be," he says, his voice a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction. "For you, for me, for all of us."

You both sit in silence for a moment, the sounds of the bustling locker room fading into the background. You feel the tension in his body begin to unravel, the tightness in his muscles loosening as he finally allows himself to relax.

"What now?" you ask, stroking his hair gently.

Jannik sighs, his eyes fluttering closed. "Rest, and hopefully no more of those scares for a while."

You nod, feeling the weight of the past few minutes lifting from your chest. "And ice," you add firmly. "You're icing that wrist as soon as we get back to the hotel."

[alacants]

!!! important SAFIN/FERRERO update, thanks to a noble youtube hero (h/t tumblr user dashakastkina for this info) you can watch juanki & marat's roland garros 2005 third-round match, aka the culmination of an arc in which:

1. fresh off total humiliation at the hands of rafael nadal in valencia, juanki bounced back in monte carlo and beat marat in their qf (only to blow a 4-0 lead in the sf and lose to coria in straight sets)

2. a month later they met in hamburg (still a clay masters) and despite taking the first set marat lost his shit at the chair umpire over an overrule and would not stop arguing, then juanki got irritated and told the umpire to (marat's quote lol) "make him shut up and play", then marat lost his shit at juanki, then when they resumed marat lost the set and the match, then afterwards marat accused juanki of acting like a 14-year-old. then marat vented in the press for the next two weeks while juanki was like GOSH i hope this doesn't AFFECT OUR RELATIONSHIP. i can beat anyone btw. not naming names. rafael nadal.

3. then they met at roland garros and their match lasted almost four hours and marat won 7-6(5) 7-5 1-6 7-6(2) and stopped juanki's comeback in its tracks. and then rafa won his maiden roland garros and everything changed forever.

you can also watch their 2002 rg sf which is less narratively chewy and much more one-sided but better tennis from juanki.

(you can also watch ferru and marat win a doubles qf in dubai which i have never seen and am sending immediately to the top of my watch list because. i simply have to see how that works.)

[pinkcaraz]

always in awe of the changeovers in tennis. the benches for both players are on the same side, their opponent is not too close but always within their periphery. the pathway between the net and the umpire's chair is only about a meter wide. when the time comes to switch sides, each player has a decision to make: will they do the polite thing? will they tarry just a bit too long, slow their steps just enough to allow their opponent to pass through first? or do they surge forward, quicken their pace with their shoulders back, pretending to not even see their opponent approach as their eyes lock onto their bench? and what if they reach that pathway at the same time? they were both just trying to annihilate the other on the court, now they have to do the "sorry, excuse me" tapdance, their shoulders brushing ever so slightly and smelling each others sweat as they pass by

oooOOO YES ANON! i'm so fascinated by the intricate rituals of tennis. it all seems like a complicated dance of posturing and exerting dominance in the most subtle way possible (most of the time). and it's all dressed in this thin veil of classiness and elegance and tradition. tennis is so rigid. you're constantly playing in between the lines and procedures and rules. there's not a lot of room to work with during points sometimes so you find other ways to play your opponent and changeover mind games are a part of that. ooo it's all so interesting to meeeee mmmmmm delicious 🙂‍↕️

[gggcherry]

TÁNGER: 6.

[ART x OC x PATRICK]

extract

When Tashi served the second set, it felt like divine justice when she won against her, maybe she could actually win her on the third; she still had an opportunity to win, she still had a chance to dethrone the queen.

A small break was announced by the umpire, and she almost sprawled out on her chair out of air, quickly remembering she was wearing a skirt; shaky hands holding a bottle of water towards her lips, she quickly noticed the hospital wristband still around her arm, nervously she pushed her hand between her legs, looking around to see if anyone noticed her weird behavior, making eye contact with a blond boy across the tennis court, he a  longing expression plastered on his face, he looked almost like a puppy kicked down.

Isadora gave him a sad look, eyes looking down to her sneakers. She was so tired, she could probably drop dead after the next set either if she wins or not.

Patrick noticed their small interaction leaned towards Art, "Guess with who I was las night?" A teasing tone in his voice.

Art quickly turned almost giving himself whiplash, "What?" His voice almost breaking. He turned back towards the blonde girl, who had her face up gazing at the sun, eyes closed.

Patrick only replied with a smirk, he knew what he was implying with that question, he didn't care if he was being selfish. He wanted to get back at him in some way, and if that meant making Art spiral down, about the possibilities of him, being back again with Isadora, he will happily take this chance.

[onboardsorasora]

everytime is see something tennis related I can't help but think if tennis!daniel I love him dearly

I love him tooo! I see him everywhere now. I know he'd be so good in like the Gatorade ads and maybe Nike ads. Idk idk idk!

BUT! I saw this ask and got my ass into gear because I was so excited to write Part 10!

@blacklaces thank you for working through this with meee. this is for you! (I also literally haven't edited this, sorreh)

Part 1 | Part 9 | Part 11

Intense was never a word that Max would have, before today, used to describe tennis. Or Daniel. But as he sat in the seats procured by Vicky; surrounded by celebrities, socialites and other world renowned athletes, he could say that he had never met this man before in his life.

The Daniel he knew was bubbly and always laughing or making jokes. That was the Daniel that stepped onto the clay. He had smiled widely at the crowd, giving a wave. And his dimples had deepened once he had spotted Max. Max who had given him a small smile and a thumbs up, who had then leaned over to whisper something to Christian and Geri as Daniel got himself settled on the bench beside the chair umpire.

The match had started off reasonably paced, with both Daniel and Novak seemingly evenly matched. Then Novak had started leading and Daniel was forced to go on the defensive more often than not. Their grunts and groans hadn’t been pleasing to Max while he watched Daniel’s brow furrow lower and lower as the games went on.

Novak was up two sets to Daniel’s one when a series of unforced errors by the Aussie contender and an ace by the Serbian champion further pushed the stakes out of Daniel’s favour. The look on Daniel’s face was one Max had never seen before; not even in any of the videos he had watched so far. 

There were a few heckles coming from the crowd, cheering for both Novak and Daniel that would set the entire upper stadium off and the umpire would have to call for silence. It was during one of those calls for silence while Daniel furiously looked around as he prepared to serve, that Max was sure he heard an Australian accented Cool it DR. The response was instantaneous as Daniel took a deep breath and slipped his eyes closed. He breathed deeply for a moment or two before opening his eyes and nodding over to his box.

Max held his breath as Daniel served a fault. A double fault. 

Daniel destroyed his racquet, whacking it furiously behind the baseline with a growl. Max shifted in his seat and the umpire called for a break. The crowd’s gasp of surprise turned into murmurs and then scattered applause and cheers. Geri leaned over to mention how Daniel hadn’t lost his cool like that since 2017. Christian hummed and asked a follow up question that led to a short explanation of what a honey badger was and why Max always saw those emojis beside Daniel’s name on social media posts. He never thought anything of it and never cared to ask.

Daniel took the break to go into the tunnel to the side of the court, Max watched the stiff line of his back as he disappeared into the darkness. If this were F1, Crofty would be dropping a statistic about the last time Daniel had to dig deep to eke out a win even though his car was starting to give out on him. Maybe this would be like a fucked up pitstop or having a serve a penalty and now the rest of your race is a recovery drive with the hopes of getting back on the podium.

When Daniel returned from the tunnel, he waved lightly to the crowd (that cheered heartily for him) before walking over to Novak, who he fist bumped and then the umpire who he stopped and spoke to. The umpire nodded and Daniel took his seat, drinking some of his electrolyte drink and reaching into one of his huge duffels and procuring an identical racquet. Blake and Micheal stood in the family box directly behind him, Daniel didn’t turn to look at them, instead keeping his eyes steadily towards the white net. His gaze was steely, but he nodded periodically, clearly accepting their coaching.

The umpire called for play to resume and Daniel bounced to his feet, shaking his shoulders and neck out. His demeanor didn’t change, the steel in his gaze didn’t lift even as he crouched in waiting for Novak’s serve.

Max would forever categorize his life as Before Daniel and After Daniel. But now, he planned to add a new sub category; Before Honey Badger and After Honey Badger. Because while Max could say that sometimes, depending on the day, he might have popped a boner or two in his car while driving for the win. He never before in his life felt as horny as he did right now, watching Daniel switch into a second, third and even fourth gear in this match.

His movements were precise, he watched Novak’s every move, before striking back. Max wasn’t completely sure that a honey badger was the correct animal to call the Daniel he watched lunge and reach. Returning backhands and forehands with power and slicing the ball across the net with precision. Their rallies got longer as both men refused to give up an inch to the other. Each volley was heartstopping, keeping the crowd gasping and on the edge of their seats. 

If Max thought he could get away with cupping himself in his pants, he would have already. Shifted his erection to rest against his waistband, maybe. But as it stood, he hoped the program in his lap and everyone’s distraction was enough to continue to keep his arousal a secret.

The match went on forever, tie breaks and over time. Max felt like he had been edged for hours. Daniel’s groans as he returned a volley had crossed the border of sexual four sets ago. Every time he hit the ball, Max was brought back to moments where Daniel made the same noise while bouncing on his cock, when Max fucked into him hard hard hard or when Max fucked himself of Daniel’s thick cock. Max felt like he could blow his load at any moment and he hadn’t had any physical stimulation.

Daniel had Novak on the ropes, the older champion had been getting more and more annoyed the longer the match went on. From challenging (and losing) calls to making more and more unforced errors. 

But at the end of it all, a guttural growl backed by the cheers of fifteen thousand people signaled the end of the match. Daniel stood in the middle of his service box, surrounded by clay and adoring fans, and slammed his fist into his chest. His face was feral, and his wild gaze sweeped the crowd before locking onto Max’s. Max felt like the air was punched out of his chest, a euphoric feeling tingled in the back of his head. He barely stopped himself from checking if he came in his pants.

Daniel hugged a pissed Novak. They whispered something only they knew and Daniel cracked the first smile since the ‘moment’. Christian and Geri congratulated Max smilingly, teasing him in a way that only people familiar with him could.

He found that he couldn’t focus on anything, only counting down the minutes until he could fuck his boyfriend.