#U.S. Open tennis

[citizenscreen]

On September 8, 1957, Althea Gibson became the first Black athlete to win the U.S. Open. #USOpen #OnThisDay

[newyorkthegoldenage]

The West Side Tennis Club in Forest Hills, scene of the U.S. Open, in which Lewis Hoad of Australia defeated the American Leslie Dodson in the Men's Singles Semi-Final, September 7, 1956. Hoad lost to fellow Aussie Ken Rosewall in the finals.

Photo: Associated Press

[onscarlitos]

Carlos literally being a kid in a candy store at stars of the open 🥺

[sbrown82]

Tony Goldwyn gets a huge shoutout from Frances Tiafoe after his U.S. Open win!!! 🦄

[alazarrr]

Wilson + LV

Content Credit: Sheron Barber

[disarmluna]

[etherealarte]

[lachamagaby-blog]

DON'T ASK ME THE COLOR OF ANYTHING, I'M ONLY WATCHING RESPECTEFULLY TO CARLOS ALCARAZ

[tallestbambi]

[barbarasegalandassociates]

Misty Copeland on the blue carpet at the 2024 US Open.

via. wwd.com

[xtruss]

With Novak Djokovic, It Is Always a Struggle

In the U.S. Open final, against Daniil Medvedev, he battled and even seemed to tire before, as usual, emerging victorious.

— By Louisa Thomas | September 11, 2023

US Open Aug 22–Sep 10, 2023! Novak Djokovic Celebrates Winning the Mens Singles Final on Sunday September 10, 2023, at the U.S. Open with arms raised and tennis racquet flying. Photograph by Matthew Stockman/Getty Images

It was a struggle. For Novak Djokovic, it is always a struggle. We know it is because he says it is. “I’m trying to enjoy the moments on the court, but there is so much stress and pressure going on that it’s hard to have fun, so to say, on the court,” he said after a straight-sets win over Taylor Fritz in the U.S. Open quarterfinals. On the eve of the tournament, he put it this way: “You’re trying to outplay or outsmart your opponent tactically, but then you have to fight with your own demons as well, the self-doubt, tension, all the things that are happening in the midst of such battle.” Stress and pressure, self-doubt and tension: the essential qualities of his flawless game, what he inflicts on others and on himself.

And so there he was, in the second set of the U.S. Open men’s singles final, hunched and grimacing. Pain imprinted crow’s-feet along his eyes. Djokovic is thirty-six years old. He was playing in his seventy-second Grand Slam. He had made the final in half of them. The last time he had played in New York, two years ago, he had also been making a bid for history, attempting to win the “calendar-year Slam”—all four majors in one year. The pressure had overwhelmed him then, he recently admitted, and he had lost, meekly, in three sets, to Daniil Medvedev. He tries not to make the same mistake twice. Still, there it was: the stress, the tension, the struggle.

Medvedev was across the net again. This was a surprise, perhaps even to Medvedev. In the semifinals, Medvedev had upset the defending champion, the wunderkind Carlos Alcaraz, playing the match of his life. (The Russian graded his performance as a “twelve out of ten.”) Alcaraz seems like the perfect rival for Djokovic—as if Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer, and Djokovic himself had been reincarnated together in the form of one happy phenom. Medvedev is more perplexing. His six-foot-six-inch body has the strange quality of seeming stretched, yet he has an extraordinary ability to balance while bending low and remarkable control while contorting himself. And he can run. Instead of the quick, precise footwork of most top players, he takes long, ungainly strides; his legs gulp the ground. His shots, too, are unorthodox. He often hits his second serve with the aggression of a first. He holds his backhand like a shovel. His forehand has a flailing motion. His racquet sometimes seems to wobble when it strikes the ball, as if mishitting it. He prefers to settle into long rallies, sometimes perversely, and yet can invent angles anywhere on the court. Medvedev had actually beaten Djokovic the last time they played, earlier this year, in Dubai—Djokovic’s only loss on a hard court all year. But Medvedev knew, he said before the match, that that result was relevant only in that it gave Djokovic more information about how to adjust.

At the start of the match, Medvedev was terrible. He missed serves not by inches but by several feet—bad misses, not the misses of calculated aggression—and made baffling errors all over the court. Djokovic broke Medvedev’s serve in the second game of the match, and then, on his serve, he began to take Medvedev’s measure. Medvedev was returning from so far back that he sometimes disappeared out of view of the telecast. Djokovic’s strategy was immediately apparent: seize the court that Medvedev gifted him. In his second service game, he tried something the great baseliner does not normally do: he served and volleyed. It didn’t work; Medvedev passed him. On the next point, he did it again—this time with success. Djokovic would serve and volley twenty-two times in the match, and he won twenty of them.

Medvedev settled, but not at a level at which he could hurt Djokovic. He did what he likes to do, playing deep, extending rallies. Not many players can out-defend the greatest defensive player the sport has ever seen. Medvedev can, sometimes; he seemed to be trying to do it, though, all the time. Djokovic took the first set, and the match seemed headed for a boring conclusion: he was 72–1 at the U.S. Open when winning the first set.

But perhaps one moment gave Medvedev some hope. It came only twenty minutes into the match. The two players exchanged ground stroke after ground stroke, the pace of the ball accelerating as the point went on. Medvedev pulled Djokovic wide, then slung the ball down the line. Then back it came crosscourt again: shot after shot. Finally, Djokovic bailed out, hitting a backhand into the net, and stumbled. It was a thirty-six-ball rally. Djokovic recovered with a textbook second-serve serve and volley, stabbing a winner into the corner, and the moment seemed to pass—it was hardly the first time in his career that Djokovic showed fatigue. Still, there were more of those to come.

At three-three in the second set, it happened again: a thirty-one-shot rally. This time, Djokovic fell to the court from exhaustion. This time, he did not immediately bounce back. The points lengthened. Medvedev scrambled, stretched, bunted balls, swung the rallies from side to side, drew Djokovic in and pushed him back. Djokovic was gasping for air. He barely leaned for balls that he might have reached, and hurried to the net to shorten the points. He staggered after long rallies, did lunges after a double fault. Between games, he iced his head.

The set stretched on: past an hour, an hour and a half. Still, every time Medvedev might have gained an edge, Djokovic was there—taking advantage of Medvedev’s open court by serving and volleying, or otherwise pressing forward to win the crucial points. The critical moment came when Medvedev gained a set point with Djokovic serving at 5–6. Djokovic came to the net. The passing lane down the line was open, and the ball sat up for a clean strike. But, instead of going down the line, Medvedev went crosscourt, right to the spot where Djokovic was standing. Djokovic won the point to save the set, and, it seemed, the match. After that, the result never seemed in doubt. Having survived the gruelling set, Djokovic looked revived. The third set passed quickly, inevitably. He won the match in just over three hours, 6–3, 7–6 (5), 6–3.

For all the long points—an astonishing fifty-four of them were nine shots or more—the majority of points, as in most professional matches, were short, four shots or fewer. And, there, Djokovic had the clear edge, winning sixty-three to Medvedev’s fifty.

Somehow, there was something new: a facet to Djokovic’s game that he’d never exploited. There was a time when he had been a mediocre volleyer. In this match, he came to the net forty-four times and won thirty-seven of those points. It was the right tactic, the obvious tactic, playing Medvedev—and yet, even for the best, the obvious thing can be hard to pull off. After the match, Medvedev admitted that he was regretful. He knew he’d chosen the wrong shot on set point. He knew he’d been standing too far back while returning. He’d failed to adjust. “I was too stubborn,” he said.

Djokovic, too, is famously stubborn. (He might have already won twenty-six Grand Slams, had he not refused to be vaccinated for covid-19.) On the court, though, he fights it. He is flexible in body and mind; he adapts to circumstances. There is the struggle. Everything about him suggests that there is something uneasy deep within him: his military bearing, and the visible intensity in his hooded eyes. The honed contours of his body, free of any trace of fat. His flashes of anger and annoyance, and his grand shows of generosity. His complicated relationship to the public, the way that he yearns for love and admiration, and yet also “cocoons” himself, as he said during this tournament, or even seems to feed off their displeasure.

And why shouldn’t it be a struggle? He grew up in a place without a great tennis tradition. When he was eleven, growing up in Belgrade, Serbia, he spent seventy-eight nights sheltering from bombs. During the day, he’d practice on the remnants of tennis courts. (“We’d go to the site of the most recent attacks, figuring that if they bombed one place yesterday, they probably wouldn’t bomb it today,” he wrote in his book, “Serve to Win.”) When he was twelve, his uncle left him at a tennis academy in Munich. Surviving is what he does.

It can be uncomfortable, watching someone struggle with something essential about themselves. It is what makes Djokovic a more complicated figure than, say, Federer or Nadal. Federer never seemed to struggle with anything at all. By contrast, struggling comes easily for Nadal—it seems to be his essence, just as ease seems to be Federer’s. Djokovic is different. He began his career as a talented player who didn’t have the stamina—who had a game almost without weakness, but did not know how to manage the demons, the stress, in all the different ways that they manifest. It’s not enough to say that he figured it out. He has to figure it out every match.

Earlier in the tournament, in an on-court interview, the ESPN analyst Rennae Stubbs asked him who would win a match between the Djokovic of now and the Djokovic who dominated the game a decade ago. “Easy, easy, easy, no problems,” Djokovic answered with a smile. “Straight sets for me, for the thirty-six-year-old.”

Then he became reflective. “I don’t know, I don’t want to play myself,” he said. “But I do. Every single match. I play myself the most, in my head, in my mind. If I win this battle then I win the battle outside as well against the opponent.” This is his twenty-fourth Grand Slam, the most Grand Slam titles of any player in the Open era. ♦

[bobbiedlifeinphil]

Coco Guaff Teenager Wins First Grand Slam US Open

[confused-pyramid]

Breaking Point

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: You and Art were hitting partners (and a bit more) in college, so when you run into him a decade later at the U.S. Open, old sparks reignite...

word count: 3.4k

warnings: SMUT, p in v, oral (fem!receiving), slight marking, drinking

a/n: I watched Challengers last night and then wrote this whole thing in one sitting. Nothing in this is really canon other than Art being a major simp lol so no spoilers for the movie! I usually make playlists (or at least find a few songs that get me in the zone) when writing, so I thought I'd start sharing them here too if people are interested!

You should've known he'd be here. You've been following his career for the last decade since you graduated, and ever since he won Wimbledon last year, he's been tennis royalty, but a small part of you still thought you wouldn't run into him here. At the fucking U.S. Open.

Stanford was a lifetime ago, and you haven't kept in touch with anyone from the college team, but there was always something about Art Donaldson that stuck with you. Ten years later, that hasn't changed.

"It's been so long," he calls out when he spots you from across the practice courts. "I didn't think I'd see you."

You didn't either, and you still haven't decided how you feel about it yet, but when he jogs over to your side, you just shrug. "Guess it's your lucky day."

He smiles, and his teeth glimmer in the bright sunlight. "It certainly is."

The loud thwacks of tennis balls hitting rackets echo around you, but you can't seem to focus on anything but the man standing in front of you. He looks good.

He was beautiful in college too, whether he was training across the net or slipping into your bed, but it feels different now, with so much time apart. He looks like a man now.

"Anyway," Art says, jerking you back to reality. "We should get a drink sometime. To catch up."

He adds the last part almost as an afterthought, but it doesn't escape your notice how his eyes have been trailing up and down your body since he walked over.

A drink could mean almost anything with Art Donaldson, but you're too curious to refuse. "Sure. This weekend, after the semi-finals."

He nods, his eyes glinting with amusement, and you grab your bag from the bench beside you before looping the strap over your shoulder.

You walk off the practice courts after one last glance over your shoulder, and you feel his eyes following along until the doors swing shut behind you.

***

He should've expected this. You were a firecracker in college, and you kept him on his toes every single day you were together, so he really should have known what he was getting into when he met you for drinks that weekend.

Instead, he's one too many beers in, and his buzz is only enhancing the glow of your beauty in the hazy bar light. Your dress isn't even that low cut, but something about the shadows glancing over your strong shoulders reminds him of late nights in the Stanford dorms after a hard practice when there was only one thing he wanted more than sleep.

"You played really well this morning," he says genuinely as he sets his beer back onto the table. "After that first set, Mueller didn't stand a chance."

You flash him a dazzling smile as you shrug, resting your chin on your palm. "I had her after the third game, but thanks. It was a quick match."

Art hasn't taken his eyes off of you since you sat down, and while prolonged eye contact usually makes you nervous, you find that you're actually enjoying the attention quite a bit. Attentiveness was never an issue with him, and you would normally give in to your urges, but there's just too much history with him, and you can't afford to lose focus. Not when the title is so close you can taste it.

"I hear the networks are eyeing you for a commentator post," you say, trying to change the subject.

You trace your finger around the rim of your nearly empty margarita, before lifting it to take a final sip, and you don't miss how his throat bobs as you lick the salt off your lips.

"Uh, yeah," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "It was just some chatter, but I'm not looking to retire anytime soon."

You frown. "Is that right?" He's playing better than ever, but he definitely hasn't been himself out on the court in years.

He glances down, clearly trying to avoid the scrutiny, and when his eyes land on your empty glass, he changes the subject again. "You want another drink?"

You shake your head, knowing that another will lead to a less than fun morning, but he isn't done yet.

"You sure?" His eyes find yours again, and this time the eye contact feels primal. "It doesn't have to be here."

Your eyebrows lift and you tilt your head with a knowing smile. "Where were you thinking?"

"I don't know," he shrugs, before his lips curve up into a cheeky grin. "My room's nice."

You saw it coming from a mile away, but it still pulls a laugh out of you. "Oh, I'm sure it is, but this isn't college anymore, Art. You should get some sleep...focus on your match in the morning."

You push your glass forward and stand up, nodding at him as you turn to leave, but then you see him stand too out of the corner of your eye.

"I'll walk you to your car."

He looks at you with a hint of amusement in his expression, and you can't help but want to play along, even though Art Donaldson was nothing but trouble for you.

You don't respond, instead just stepping out from around the table and walking out the front doors of the bar. You don't have to turn back to know he's right behind you, and when you reach your car, parked in the center of the nearly empty parking lot, you spin around.

He doesn't stop walking until he has you practically boxed in by your driver's side door, his face less than a foot from yours as he tucks his hands into his pockets.

He had pushed his sleeves back at some point in the night, from the humid summer heat of the bar, and you can see the veins on his forearms now, under the dim light of the street lamps.

"This is me," you say jokingly, tipping your chin at your car as he looks at you with an expression you can't distinguish. "I'm good from here."

He doesn't move.

It's not that you expected him to give up so easily; you had just forgotten how persistent he could be.

Art's mouth stretches into a slanted smile. "Do you remember the Davis Invitational? Junior year."

Speaking of his persistence...he had been pursuing you for months, not in any tangible way, but you always knew what he was thinking.

After the invitational, where you and Art had been the respective men's and women's champions, you had gone back to his dorm to celebrate. Three hours and just as many vodka shooters later, he had finally gotten you in his bed. Not that you were complaining.

Art knew his way around your body, and even that first night, he had managed to get you off more times than you can remember.

"What about it?" you shoot back, your eyebrows raising at the insinuation.

"Nothing," he says with a shrug, but you don't miss the humor glinting in his eyes. "You just used to be a lot more fun to celebrate with."

"Fuck you," you spit out, shoving his shoulder harder than you mean to. He barely budges, instead grabbing your hand and tugging you a few inches closer, and suddenly a wave of lust washes over you, making your breath hitch.

You press your thighs together under your dress, hoping he can't feel the heat spreading across your skin, but then his smile turns to a smirk and you know you're done for.

"What do you think?" he whispers, leaning in so close that his lips brush over your earlobe. "Want to celebrate?"

Molten lava pools in your gut and you are only peripherally aware of his hand sliding down your hips to the flowy edge of your dress. His fingers glide over your skin as his hand goes under the loose fabric, before rising up to grab your ass, drawing your hips flush with his.

Your arousal is already starting to soak through your panties, but the feeling of his hard bulge pressed up against you sends you flying back to reality.

You lift your hands to his chest and push him back so that he's a few steps away from you. It's not far enough, but at least you can't feel him from there. "I'm not fucking you, Art."

He shrugs, his smirk only slightly shaken. "Who said anything about fucking? I just wanted to talk."

You huff out a laugh. "You're funny. Besides, I'm too tired for this. I need to rest up before my match."

"What about tomorrow night then?" His lip is still curved up in a smirk, but there's an earnestness in his gaze that surprises you.

"What makes you think you'll still be here tomorrow?"

His mouth spreads into a wide smile. "I always win."

You snort. "Fine. Win your match and we can talk."

You don't miss the grin on his face as you climb into your car and leave.

***

You win your next match in straight sets again, so by the time you're out of the locker room, Art's match is still in play. Driven by a mixture of curiosity and intrigue, you head over to his court and find a seat halfway up the stands.

He has won two of three sets, and he's leading the fourth, so with the prospect of the match ending soon, you use the time to observe him from a different angle.

His form is much better than it was in college, and you've seen him play countless times on TV, but you haven't really let yourself see how good he looks out there. The sinewy muscles rippling in his arms as he lifts them to serve. The rugged sturdiness of his legs as he races back and forth across the court.

You wish you could be down there with him, running your hands over the smooth lines of his abdomen, tasting the drops of sweat as they roll down his body-

The crowd erupts in cheers, and you are thrust back into reality as Art throws his arms into the air with a loud whoop. The scoreboard confirms his victory, and you clap along with the audience as he shakes his opponent's hand and heads over to his chair.

People around you stand up to leave, but you stay in your seat, watching as he grabs his bag and stuffs his rackets inside. When he wipes a towel over his face, his head turns up and his eyes immediately go to you, like he knew you were here the whole time.

Your stomach does an involuntary flip and he flashes his eyebrows at you as you bit the inside of your lip, trying to hold back a smile.

When he ducks back down to grab his things, you stand up quickly to avoid letting him see your blush and follow the rest of the crowd off of the stands.

***

You hear it late that night. Three little raps on your hotel room door, just before midnight.

You're in the finals, and you don't have any friends here to celebrate with, so you were sipping a beer and watching old match recordings when you heard the knock.

There's no one else who would come to see you this late, so you're not surprised when you open the door to find Art, dressed in a tee shirt and comfy-looking pajama pants.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

Art just looks at you, his pupils already massive. "You said if I win, we could talk." He shrugs. "I won."

"Okay," you concede, opening the door wider to let him in. "Just talking then."

He nods, before following you inside and shutting the door.

"You want anything to drink?" you ask as he trails behind you.

He shakes his head. "I'm good."

You grab your beer bottle from the side table and sit down on the floor, crossing your legs beneath you.

Art sits across from you, his feet in front of him and his elbows on his knees. You were assigned to a modestly sized room, but for someone as tall as him, the space must feel cramped.

"How did the match feel?" you ask, taking a swig of beer.

He thinks for a moment. "It was close at first, but once I shook my legs out, it became a breeze."

"Your legs were never the problem," you say, leveling him with a serious look. "It was always your attitude. Or your confidence."

He frowns, his eyebrows scrunching slightly. "I'm plenty confident."

"You are now," you tell him as you swirl the bottle around in your hand. "You won Wimbledon, you have a reason to be confident."

That makes him smile. "So you're saying my legs are fine."

"Yeah," you say before you can process what you're saying. "You looked good out there."

His smile turns to a smirk so fast it nearly gives you whiplash. "You think I look good?"

You let out an exasperated scoff. "At tennis."

His grin doesn't falter so you roll your eyes at him before lifting the bottle to your lips to take another swig. When you tilt the bottle back down to swallow, his hand reaches forward to take it from you. Your grip on the beer doesn't loosen, so the motion sends you pitching forward.

Your mouth parts with a small yelp as his arm wraps around you, tugging you closer, and before you can process what's happening, his lips are on yours.

If you let yourself think too hard, you would realize that there is way too much shared history and way too much baggage here for this to be a good idea...so that's why you don't.

Instead, you let him pull your body flush against his and when his tongue slides over the seam of your lips, you grant him access immediately. Your shirts come off in quick succession and you gasp as his hands run up and down your body, his strong, calloused fingers grasping at every inch of purchase they can find. Yours reach up to tangle in his messy hair, and when his lips move down your neck, your grip tightens, making him moan quietly against your skin.

Something about being on the floor takes you back to your college days, when you'd both be so worked up after practice that you couldn't even make it to the bed, but that feels too real right now.

"Art," you whisper as he runs his lips and teeth over your neck, before replacing it with his tongue to soothe the quickly blossoming marks. "Art, the bed. Now."

It takes him a second to process your words, but when he does, he loops an arm around your waist and lifts you up and onto the bed in one motion, before pushing you back onto the covers.

By the time your head hits the bed, he's already pulling your shorts and panties down, exposing you to the cool air. His lips follow the path of his hands as they trace up your legs, making you squirm under the hot touch of his rough fingers. He presses wet kisses to the insides of your thighs before spreading them apart and dropping to his knees on the floor in front of you.

"So wet for me," he whispers, almost to himself, before he dives in, his mouth making lewd noises as he licks a thick stripe up your core. "You taste so good."

He lifts your legs over his shoulders to give himself some leverage as he makes a mess between your thighs, licking and sucking your clit into his mouth before fucking you with his tongue.

His grip on your thighs is the only thing keeping you pinned to the bed as you writhe beneath him, trying to not squeeze your legs together from the heat spreading up your core.

His mouth feels amazing and it takes only minutes before you're already nearing the edge. You don't want to come until he is inside of you, though, so you yank his hair, pulling him up and off of you.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and he looks ethereal with his disheveled hair and his chin wet with your slick.

You, on the other hand, look like heaven itself with your eyes half-hooded from pleasure, and he can't help the grin that crosses his face as he licks his lips and climbs over you onto the bed. He lets you taste yourself as he kisses you again, and he lets out a low groan when you bite his lip just hard enough to sting.

"Fuck me," you gasp, your voice too breathy to be actually authoritative. "Fuck me the way I like."

Art grins at your desperate tone and the wild lust in your eyes, committing this image to memory for a later time when you're much further away.

He kicks his pants off as he lifts you both further up the bed, and after covering himself with a condom from his back pocket, he lines himself up and slowly pushes forward.

He gives you a few moments to adjust to his size before slowly pulling out nearly all the way and then thrusting in again.

The slight pain turns to pleasure almost immediately, but he keeps his pace steady so as not to hurt you. You need more right now, so you wrap your legs around him for leverage and flip him over so that you're straddling him.

He groans as his head hits the pillow, and when he tries to sit up, you press your hands to his chest, pushing him down as you ride him. This position gives you a lot more control, and you use it to your advantage as you bounce yourself on his cock, feeling the way he fills you up so fully from this higher angle.

His fingers dig into your hips as he helps lift you up and down, and his eyes are practically feral as he watches the spot where his cock disappears inside of you.

He's the perfect size to fill you up completely, and with each swivel of your hips, you get closer and closer to your climax, which is approaching so fast you can taste it.

You cry out when he hits exactly the right spot deep inside of you, and his eyes fly to yours as your movements start to stutter from your impending release.

Needing to see the look on your face when you come, he pushes your lower back forward so you fall against his chest, before lifting himself up to meet you halfway. With one arm locked around you, he brings his other hand down between the two of you to rub quick circles over your clit. The new angle lets him thrust up into you, and the increased pace of his movements mixed with the speed of his fingers sends you flying over the edge.

Your mouth falls open with a loud cry, and you squeeze him so tightly he's practically seeing stars. You look so beautiful when you come, like a goddess sent down here just for him, and when your eyes meet his, he finds his own climax.

His body jerks forward with the force of his release, and you let him thrust a few more times as he finally finishes inside of you.

After pulling out, he tugs you down to lay next to him, and at first you let him, but the emotions warring inside of you don't stay quiet for long.

You know that whatever this was isn't going to go anywhere. You didn't work in college, and you won't work now, and you don't want anyone to get hurt again, so you have to make a choice. Now.

"I need to get some rest," you say quietly, a tiny part of you hoping he doesn't hear you. "Before the next match."

"Yeah," he sighs after a beat. "Me too."

You let him hold you for a moment longer, before he unwraps himself from your body and sits up, tugging his shirt and pants back on. You tug the sheet back and wrap it around your torso as he stands up and walks to the door.

You're not sure what you're expecting as he goes to leave, but what you get is a silent nod as the door swings shut behind him.

[fairene]

hello!! i LOVE your work you write the most interesting dynamics and your style always completely sucks me in! i saw you mentioned in the tags that requests were welcome and if it sounds fun, i'd love to read something with lando and a tennis player!reader, not just bc i love tennis lol but also bc it could be interesting to have him with someone who has experienced the same level of pressure. i'd love anything you wrote though!❤️

say less, my love.

pressure / ln4

a/n ⋯ a short pause from the one of your girls dual part. this was a beautiful request, and as a huge challengers enthusiast, i had to put it to paper. thank you so much for the request. also i am aware that the u.s. open takes place in new york, but for simplicity sake, we'll say its in miami.

music ⋯ link

warnings ⋯ no smut, fluff, angst, insecure thoughts, anxiety.

wordcount ⋯ 2.6k (unedited).

“you’re going to do amazing, my love.” lando’s words were soothing as he held you firmly against his chest. it was a saturday night in miami, both of you were dueling your own matches for the weekend. you were in the finals of your tournament held for the US open, whereas he was debuting in the miami grand prix the following afternoon. 

your head shifted into his chest, nose burrowing into the fabric of his shirt with a soft hum. you knew he was right, but the pressure waned on you. how could it not? your entire career balanced on your performance, and thousands of people would be watching you. not only were you lando norris’ girlfriend, but also an up and coming star in your own career. 

you kissed the fabric of his shirt, knowing the sentiment held little, but he appreciated the gesture regardless. his hand found the back of your head, threading his fingers through your hair. his touch was gentle, kind, one reserved only for you. it was moment’s like these that the pair of you found solitude in one another. 

“i know, i just…” you hesitated, lifting your head so your chin rested on the center of his torso. he tightened his hand around your hip, cradling you against the firm shape of his body. 

“what, baby?” he said with a soft tone, velvety to your ears. you couldn’t resist him. couldn’t hold anything back from him, despite wanting to spare him the worries you held. the last thing you wanted him to do was worry about you. especially when he had a huge event of his own.

but all he did was worry about you.

day and night he would dream both through the sun and beneath the moonlight of you. you. it was always you that he was concerned about. you, that he searched for atop his podiums. you, that he would attend all your matches when he could.

this was one of the rare events where they overlapped. he would only be there with you in the morning to see you off before your matches. then, you would reconcile with him in the evenings. post race, post tournament. it would be a tough day to manage on your own, but he felt the same way. you were the light to all of his races, the focal point of which he could relax. his anxiety roared in these conditions, but you somehow soothed him at every turn. 

he needed you. but you couldn’t be there. 

“i want you there.” 

his features softened. there was a cloud of guilt brewing a thunderstorm above his head, threatening to rain down tears in your obvious distress. he hated seeing you this way, and most of all, he hated being the one who caused it. 

“i know.” his thumb stroked across your cheek. “i would if i could.” you believe him. he was your number one fan, just as you were his. a match made in heaven, one might be able to jest. “‘nd i want you there, tomorrow, with me on the radio.” 

you blushed, letting your face drop into the fabric of his sweatshirt. you felt his chest bellow with a deep laugh, centered at his core, letting his lids flutter at your bashful expression. your teeth even went as far as biting at his sweatshirt, which had him grumbling and pulling your hair up into a makeshift ponytail, raising your head to meet his eyes. 

“you’ll be the death of me,” he uttered, saying with pure love. your relationship with him was full of complexities, but overall dominated by your fatuous love for one another. the pressures you both face in consequence of your performances…

“you’re going to win tomorrow.” you sat up on his lap, straddling his hips. you were both in your shared bed in the hotel, lounging in your sleepwear in the messed up sheets. tonight was between you two and no one else. lando slammed that ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door the minute the pair of you walked in for the evening. “i can feel it.” 

“you think so?” he gulped, both his hands coming to run up the skin of your thighs. you shivered at his touch, but you were determined to keep a clear mind. 

“i know so.” you watched his face relax with relief. your words of comfort meant ten times than anyone else's, and you would always give him the truth. its what he loved about you so much. your blatant honesty, your charisma, your ability to power through every obstacle in your life. but he knew just as much as you did that you wouldn’t be able to do any of it without each other. it was one of the many little beautiful things about your relationship.

lando’s anxiety would gnaw at him every chance it got. but since he’s entered a relationship with you, he feels like a fucking king, but he was nothing without his queen. 

“don’t know,” he said, breaking the silence. “you’re my lucky charm.”

you rolled your eyes. “you’ve scored points at every race this season,” you pointed out. it was a fact. he was one of the only contending drivers to have such a prosperous season. you were delighted for him. “with or without me there.” 

but he didn’t like your excuses. he squeezed your plush thighs beneath his calloused fingers, which had you gasping. 

“don’t do that.” 

you quirked a brow. “do what?”

“pretend like you don’t mean the world to me.” 

you blushed and fell forward on his chest, your head falling into his neck. you giggled against his skin, unable to contain your smile. “stop that,” you insisted, blushing fiercely. a hand of his came to hold the back of your neck in a comforting grip. 

“loving you?” you caught his gaze, bleary with love. “i don’t think i can.” 

you were up at 5:30 that morning getting ready. lando was still sound asleep, snores being heard from the ensuite bathroom as your brushed your teeth and fixed your appearance. you wore a white tennis dressed, sponsored by fila, and just left when you made your way to the bed.

your hand brushed over lando’s exposed hip, shirtless in the bed with only a pair of boxers. he moaned in his sleep, pulling a pillow closer. but he was wide awake when he realized the pillow was made of feathers, and not you. 

“come on, my love.” you said to him in the dark room, looming over him with your hair undone and bright white dress. he turned to face you, sitting up against the headboard. his hands came to rest over his head, stretching. 

then he leaned in for a kiss, his hand cupping your cheek. you met him half way, sucking on his lower lip. he groaned, and you felt yourself shift, but couldn’t fall into his trap of desire. 

“ah, ah.” you pulled away before his hand came to snatch you down into the bed. “you promised me breakfast.” 

he fell back into the bed with disappointment. you laughed to yourself and made your way to the foyeur. you didn’t have to wait long when you heard him shifting and getting ready for the day ahead. 

when you arrived to the courts that morning, lando was carrying most of your things. it had you smiling with appreciation, insisting that you could carry your wilson tennis bag. but he refused, saying that you worked too hard for this day to be carrying your own bag. let me help you, and you were sold. 

you caught on to how much the crowds began to fill in. you were a sensation. but the notion would consistently fly over your head. 

you were tense and lando could see that. 

“hey,” his hand came to rest on your back. you leaned into him. “you’re going to do great, baby.” 

you sucked in a tight breath. but what if you didn’t? what if, that these set of matches, would damn your career to near ruin? what if you could never be perfect? 

your breathing became erratic. lando’s eyes widened, jumping into swift action as he covered your body with his. he backed you into a corner where no one could see the pair of you, and wrapped his hands around your body tightly. 

“match me.” he said. the words were so familiar to you. the both of you had discovered a coping mechanism when things got too much, too overwhelming, and too over pressured. you’d fall into each other’s arms and hear one another breathe. 

your lip quivered with tears. but you did as you were told. 

with an ear pressed to his chest, you could hear the steady beat of his heart. the strength in his muscles. the blood rippling through his veins. most importantly, the rise and fall of his abdomen against your own. 

with your thummering heart, you found pace with him. “in and out,” he would soothe, saying into the top of your head where he left kisses in his wake. 

he stroked the small of your back, thumb running circles over you. you fell completely into him. 

“what if i’m not good enough?” 

the words broke him. 

“then the world is full of fuckheads, i’ll tell you that.” his tone was firm, but ebbed with softness as he spoke into your scalp. his attempt at humor had you breaking into a soft chuckle. you appreciated him in this moment. “i’d kill all those fuckers, you just tell me who–”

your head broke away with a smile, finger coming to shush him. 

“lando!” 

“what? it’s true.” 

you loved him. 

“maybe so,” you reached up to kiss both of his flushed cheeks. “but i want you here. with me.” 

his forehead connected with yours. 

“you’ll always have me.” he placed his hand over your heart, and you placed yours over his. 

“always?”

“always.” he promised. 

the matches were flawless. you played to your body’s ultimate limit. you were skating across the base line, the volley line, snapping your shoulder with everything you had for your serves. 

“love, all.” the announcer began. 

you were up serving first. 

this was it. 

the final match out of six. whoever won this, won the title. 

you thought about lando. you thought about his breath against your neck. the texture of his stubble. the pride in his eyes. sweat dribbled from your forehead as you let the tennis ball bounce a few times before you to get a feel for the clay courts. 

and with one fluent swing and leap, the ball was set into the air. 

the cockpit was hot. lando was sweating profusely in the miami air. the humidity had changed their course of strategy at mclaren, but he agreed with his engineers wholeheartedly. there had been a safety car, and he abused it. attack it. 

when he was rounding corner after corner, lap after lap, he only thought of you. he thought of you in your pretty tennis dresses. you and your bright smile. you and your comforting touches, kissing him goodnight. it had his racing heart relaxing, fingers flexing against the steering drive. 

you were perfect. his perfect fucking girl. you were all his– his soon to be championship winner. and he wanted to make you a promise that he would win. he would win this for you. 

‘you’re going to win tomorrow,’ you said idly from atop his hips. you looked towards him with such riveting devotion. such intimacy that he never imagined was possible for someone to convey. but with you, anything was possible. 

the two of you were not so different from one another. the pressures you both faced were immaculate. it’s what held you both so heavily bonded to one another. you needed each other’s comfort. the touch of your hands. the sweetness of your lips. he didn’t give a fuck about codependency. fuck who ever came up with that. 

he’s going to fucking win. he will win for you. whatever it takes, he will stand on that podium in the firelli hat, and dedicate it all to you.

the score was 40-40. 

your body shook with adrenaline, muscles pounding beneath your layer of skin. your body pumped with red hot blood, blood of a future champion. this title would be yours. you knew that the minute you walked onto this court with your opponent. 

he was a smug gentleman. too smug. you wanted to wipe that fucking look off of his face. bruise it black and blue if you could. 

though your anger could be taken out on the court. you let it. 

your strokes were harder. faster. your serve pace was up to 140mph. he couldn’t even get to most of them with how your body contorted mid air, slamming it down and leaving an indent into the clay. you were a powerhouse. a machine. a gauntlet of beauty. 

and when you scored the winning point after an intense rally, jumping high into the air for an ace, you rocked back into the balls of your feet. your hips swung, racket thwanging, and you cheered; “come on!” 

your anger for him was palpable. it blinded you enough to forget the crowds. the only thing you had on your mind was winning, and that you did. 

the stadium lit up and you were met with a flushing amount of cheers. you were handed a towel from one of the members of your team before being swarmed with paparazzi.

they all complimented you. congratulated you. asked about certain points, but there was one member that caught your eye. 

“lando’s in the lead!” a cameraman said from the back. your head raised, brows quirking.

“what did you say?” you forced a path for the man to walk forward. he accepted your invitation, holding up his phone screen in one hand.

sure enough, you saw the standings. lando was in first. your boy was in first. 

your eyes widened. “this is live, isn’t it?” you were panting, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the lemon-scented towel. 

the man nodded, holding a microphone to you. 

“how do you feel right now?” you kept watching. lap 55. 

you kept quiet, and the rest of the paparazzi did too.

lap 56.

your hands clasped together, raising them to your mouth. 

“come on, baby…” you said beneath your breath. this was the longest minute of your life, you were sure of it. 

and when he crossed the finish line, he was only thinking about you. 

lando norris, first time grand prix winner, shrieked with joy over the microphone. 

you did, too, jumping up and down from your place on the court. the paparazzi swarmed you again, anticipating what you had to say for the both of you. 

“he’s incredible, isn’t he?” you gushed with a smile on your face, tears dripping down your cheeks. 

“what a day for you two, isn’t it?” 

you couldn’t agree more. “i’ll cheers to that.” 

you practically ran through the paddock. your tennis dress was still on, your team was irritated that you didn’t stay for press. you didn’t give a fuck. you just wanted to see lando. you had the rest of your life to deal with the press, but he only had one maiden win. 

you were greeted with a plethora of congratulations from the mclaren team. zak brown even caught a glance at you, waving you over. 

“podiums just about to start.” perfect. you made it in time. 

and when you saw him there, standing idly as they played the national anthem, you were brought to the front. the camera panned on you and your weeping expression, hand covering your mouth from your sobs. 

he saw it from the distance and his head snapped down to find you. his own emotions couldn’t be contained, not with you there– you, here, looking beautiful in the sea of people– and the tears slid down his cheeks. 

your face broke into a smile when he saw you. he was yours. 

and you were his. and you were in this together. 

forever and always. 

[hvneybuckin]

tashi duncan

afab reader, age gap (reader’s in college), cheating, implications of oral sex & fingering, tashi’s kind of manipulative

18+. minors dni

950 words (not proofread)

Tashi knows real talent when she sees it.

She can tell when someone has the potential. The passion, the drive. When they just need that one last push to get them exactly where they need to be. Tashi saw that in you.

The way you held yourself off and on the court was admirable, maybe because of the fact that she saw a little bit of herself in you. Of course, you still had room to improve (i.e, your serve was the smallest bit off), but you were constantly crushing your competition regardless.

You could go so far with just a little bit of help, Tashi knew this. If you kept this up, the U.S Open could be right around the corner.

However, when you received the email in which she informed you of how much she adored your matches, going on to say that she’d be pleased to speak with you sometime soon— you definitely weren’t as composed as you are on the court. With trembling hands, you sent a short and simple email back, praying that it made you look professional.

The two of you agreed to meet at the hotel she and her husband stayed at. The building was humongous— it left you feeling like a fish out of water as soon as you stepped through the large glass doors. If rich people had a smell, that was what this hotel smelled like. Even the lobby was pretty big, decorated with modern art that claimed to have some kind of symbolism behind it.

It wasn’t long until Tashi had come downstairs to welcome you into her hotel room.

She looked so much more intimidating in person, feeling as if every time you made eye contact, you shrunk in size.

“I’ve seen you play. You have a special talent for tennis, something that’s rare in most players these days. You just landed a Uniqlo partnership, right? Imagine what else you could accomplish in the future.”

Her praise makes your cheeks flush. You’re afraid that if you try to look directly at her, the words you plan to say will die right there in your mouth— so you speak into your freshly made cup of coffee (courtesy of Tashi).

“Thank you, Mrs. Donaldson, that’s a really big deal coming from you.”

“Tashi’s fine. There’s really no need to thank me either. I wanted to talk to you because I think you can be even greater than you already are, hon. You just need someone to help you get there.”

It didn’t take a genius to understand what she was implying.

“Oh. Well, Tashi…I appreciate the offer but, don’t you already have a lot on your plate? You’re already coaching your husband, and you also have a kid— I don’t wanna cause you any stress.”

You could hear her chuckle, your eyes fleeting back up to meet her own.

“I think I can risk getting a wrinkle or two. Can you risk losing the career of a lifetime?”

Huh.

You stay silent, letting her words swirl about in your head. Your eyes are reluctant to meet hers, but you force yourself to do it anyway.

“No. I can’t.”

“You can’t.”

Tashi’s eyes urge you to say something, anything more. Your fingers trace the edge of the mug in your hands. You knew what she was waiting for. The words die on your tongue, your hesitation preventing you from speaking further. You could use the help, you knew that.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

When you accepted, you thought you had an idea of what you were getting yourself into. Key word; thought. It started off harmless. Tashi was the teacher, and you were the student. She was helping you, training you to become better.

However, it was starting to feel less and less innocent.

It felt less innocent whenever she’d come up behind you, carefully helping you fix your stance and you could feel her lip graze your ear.

It felt less innocent when she invited you out for lunch and dinner, disguising it as a chance for the two of you to discuss future matches.

You knew it definitely wasn’t innocent anymore once Tashi’s head was slotted comfortably in between your thighs.

And for some strange reason, you didn’t quite seem to have a problem with it.

Maybe because of the fact that whenever you’d voice your doubts, she’d tell you that it was fine, that she was just trying to “calm your nerves”.

In fact, she’d tell you that every single time— right before burying her fingers in you, hitting that one spot that made your eyes roll to the back of your head.

It made you forget just for that moment; then the feeling was back just as quickly as it left.

“…Are you sure we should be doing this? It doesn’t feel right,” You took her silence as a sign to keep talking, Tashi continuing to put her shirt on while you rambled. “What about Art? Or— God, even worse, what about Lily? Jesus, both of our careers are on the line—“

“Do you wanna be a good tennis player?” The way she cut you off was expected, but for some reason it rendered you speechless. You didn’t respond, but instead blinked. Then you resorted to averting your gaze, head hanging low with…shame? Embarrassment? You weren’t entirely sure.

Tashi’s hand moved to grip your jaw, forcing your eyes back onto hers. “Do you…want to be a good fucking tennis player?”

You nodded— or, well, attempted to.

“Uh-huh, well, good players don’t question their coaches. Go get dressed, we have to see your dietitian.”

She lets you go, and you move to locate your panties— because professionals do what they’re told.

from aiden — AH i tried my best with the characterization but it might be just the slightest bit off 😭 IDK i wanted to get smth else out rq so i hope u guys like it eek !!!!!!!

[tinytennisskirt]

Fresh Laundry and Other Things

Summary: Art sees reader at the laundromat, the first time he sees her outside of the tennis world. A simple question turns into a sweet bit of flirting and a few hours of conversation

Warnings: cheek kiss, flirting, fluff, and Art for sure likes Car Seat Headrest when Twin Fantasy came out in 2011, you can’t say he didn’t, I won’t listen. Unedited from my notes app and a little scene inspired by Baby Driver.

Art looked at you from across the laundromat. Perfect, pretty, digging through your laundry to separate the whites and colours. He watched you play today, he was a little shocked to look up to see you in the same laundromat as him.

You’d played an amazing game. It was almost even until the very end where you absolutely crushed your opponent and won the game. He’d only ever heard great things about you and the way you played. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t watched a few of your games online before.

He hadn’t put his things in the machine yet, so he took the chance to move a little closer.

Art had only ever seen you in your tennis skirts and tank tops, hair in a braid when you played but here you were in a sweater that draped over your bare shoulder and loose shorts, your hair down. You looked different, softer, comfortable, but still pretty. Sorting laundry.

He did the same, sorting his clothes, thinking back to your game, wondering why on a day like this you were doing laundry. But a college student is a college student, Art was doing his laundry days early because Patrick had accidentally shaken a can of Fanta and cracked it open over pretty much everything. You went to Stanford with him, so I guess it was expected to see you once or twice around doing college stuff and not just tennis.

Seeing you dressed down was hot, honestly. Cute, but hot. You weren’t wearing that activewear eyeliner from the brand you endorsed, your eyelashes were the colour of your hair and not much else. You were pretty, all casual. Art was surprised he hadn’t seen you like this sooner, being on the same residency as you. He tried not to stare, turning to put his stuff in the washing machine.

“Hey,” a voice chimed. It was funny how he had never really heard it before. He almost didn’t place it until he placed it spatially, half-turning. “You’re Art Donaldson.” It was you. Your voice was surprisingly soft. Art dumped his laundry in. You stood where you were folding.

“Yeah.” He smiled shyly. You knew who he was. “You’re Y/N Y/LN.” He replied. “I watched your game today.”

You smiled, tucking your hair behind your ears, “Really?”

“Whole thing,” Art replied. He kicked himself mentally for sounding like a dunce and a creep. “You have an amazing swing, by the way.“

“You’re sweet,” you smiled, bringing your basket over to the machine, putting your things in. Art tried to pretend that didn’t bring a bit of heat to his cheeks. He acted like it was nothing. “Thank you. I’ve seen you play too, you and your friend are incredible. I was at the U.S. Open when you won.”

“Oh, that’s crazy. That was a good game.”

“Your friend’s save at the end was something I’d only heard about, never seen. It was a great win.” You smiled, pushing the rest of your things in. Art was reminded that he too was doing laundry, resuming his activity. You’d noticed Patrick, he thought, not exactly pleased thinking about that. “But I’ve watched you at Stanford too and you’re great on your own.” Like a dog, Art perked right back up.

“Which games?”

You thought back, eyes looking up to remember, “Ummm… versus Kaplan, I think the other game was versus Campbell. I remember hearing how bad they moped after from one of my friends. You kicked their asses.” You grinned and Art felt just a little proud. Art was so glad there was only two other people in there with you. You turned the dials on the washing machine, putting your money in as you spoke.

“They were moping?” He laughed.

“Big time, I heard. Swearing, broken racket, the works,” you smiled and Art could see you were a little cheeky. “I mean if I lost to a backhand that good, I’d be doing the same.”

Art’s first instinct was to geekily reply with ‘really’, but he just laughed, doing the same with the dials and putting his money in, “Thank you, but it’s nothing compared to your volley today. And your serves? Crazy.”

“Uh huh,” you leaned against the machine. You had this cute smirk to you Art noticed-he couldn’t ignore it. “You’re too sweet.”

“It’s nothing untrue,” he replied. You lifted yourself up to sit on the top of the washing machine just as Art closed his, turning it on. He turned his attention back to you. “I bet some of those girls you demolished today had their own moment to mope.” He straightened out, putting hands in his pocket as he swayed closer to where you sat.

“As they should,” your smirk was more apparent and Art knew it would be burned into his brain from this point forward. You were a little evil, he liked it. “It was tough, though. A close game.”

“Was it though?” Art squinted just a little, “Did they stand a chance?”

You grinned, looking away, “Mmm… no.” You giggled and it was a perfect sound. Art found himself trying to fix his hair over it, suddenly wanting to look better in front of you. “Oh you-“ you pointed to his hair, giggling just a little quieter, pointing at his hair. “Can I?” You asked.

Art knew he just fucked his hair up in front of you, he grimaced, shutting his eyes tight and giving a nod, succumbing to the embarrassment. The second your hand touched his hair, the feeling melted. It was just a second and you fixed it from just looking a little silly, but your hand in his hair for a split second was completely worth it. “Thank you,” he said,

“Of course,” you grinned. Then there was a moment of silence between, you looking at your hands, Art watching your eyelashes from your side profile, how pretty they were. You looked back at him. “I’m surprised we haven’t spoken before.” You confessed. Art had that exact thought earlier.

“Me too,” he replied. “I’ve seen you at games but never on campus.”

“I rush around a lot,” you nodded. “Never sure why. I’m at the campus cafe a lot if you’re ever around there.”

Art shook his head, “I’m not. Any good?”

“I’d say so, but I’m a coffee freak,” you replied. “It’s on the North end of campus, like a ten minute walk. Do you want to go? We’ve got an hour to kill, it seems.” You asked. “We can discuss your backhand.” That smirk of yours pulled at your lips again and how could Art say no? He raised his eyebrows, surprised at the offer.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like ‘why not?’ when it took all he had not to stumble over the simple word. “You’re asking if I want to get coffee?”

You smiled a sweet smile, “Mhm. If you’d like.”

“Yeah, I’d love that.” He watched you hop off the washing machine and grab your bag. Art couldn’t help but grin. He followed you out, putting his hat back on backwards. The conversation slowly drifted from tennis to music as you neared the coffee place. You were engaging and you talked a lot with your hands, Art noted. It was adorable.

“-And there’s Car Seat Headrest.” You said. “I love Car Seat Headrest.”

Art’s eyes widened as you approached the doors to the cafe. “I love Car Seat Headrest, Twin Fantasy? So good.” He grinned.

You lit up, “Oh my god everyone I know says they sound like they were recorded in a tin can, you like Car Seat Headrest.” Art loved how loud you were in the cafe. You were cute excited. “That’s amazing.”

“Patrick hates on it a little too much, I get that.” He said, stepping into line. “My favourite song on the album is Sober to Death.”

“Ooh, that’s my second favourite. Next to Cute Thing. I found them on Bandcamp last year I’ve been obsessed, it’s so good to find someone else who likes them.” You tucked your hair behind your ears and Art noticed just how close you’d gotten to him when you were excited. You were so pretty this close. “Sorry, my spatial awareness when I’m not playing tennis is not great.” You said, stepping back. You must have noticed Art’s reaction.

“I don’t mind,” Art grinned his winning smile. You covered your smile with your sleeve, looking away. The flirting was obvious- you both knew it. You crossed your arms over your chest. It was your turn to order, Art went first, he looked at the menu and got himself a mocha iced coffee, which was exactly your order. He turned to you, pulling out his wallet. “I’m paying.” He told you. And you shyly ordered the same thing.

“Thank you,” you said, twirling your cup around to move the ice. “You didn’t have to pay.”

He brushed past you to grab two straws, all too aware of how good you smelled. “No worries. I had to spend my laundromat change somehow.” He said, looking over at you. He grinned back in response to your perfect smile. The sun was setting as you walked back to the laundromat, the dimmed light of the sun casting over you. You were sweet, you were kind, you were funny, and your hair blew perfectly in the light evening breeze. “Do you have Facebook?” He asked.

You turned, excited, “I do. Do you want it?”

“If you’d give it to me,” he grinned, glad he asked. “That or your number.” He swayed a little bit closer to you.

You pursed your lips to hide your blush. It was just a question, but it made you smile uncontrollably. “Sure.” You said, looking back at him. “I’ll call you when I need to work on my backhand, I honestly can’t believe how good yours is.”

“Sounds perfect, I’ll need tips on how to serve that smoothly,” he joked back, handing you his phone to enter your number. You took it, entering your number and your name into his phone and messaging yourself a simple

:)

Art thought it was cute. He gladly, whilst grinning, shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Now we’re even for the coffee.”

“Mhm?” Your smile turned to a smirk and you knocked your iced coffee against his cup happily. You returned to your laundry, putting the second load on after moving your other clothes to the dryers.

You stood, leaning against the dryer across from him, watching him as he picked up his heavy basket, carrying it back over to where you were. You had your chin propped up on your hand, eyes on his forearms. He was sweet. He was cute. He was pretty much perfect and he played tennis. And he loved Car Seat Headrest. You pulled your iPod out, unravelling your earbuds.

Art shoved his things in the dryer and put his coins in, shutting the door and turning it on, facing you, leaning against the very same dryer. You popped an earbud in, extending the other one to him wordlessly, sipping your iced coffee. He took it without hesitation, enjoying how close to you he needed to be to put in his left ear while it was in your right.

You had Cute Thing cued up, already a few seconds in and he grinned when he heard it. You were so perfect. “It sounds much better when someone isn’t on your ass about how unprofessional it sounds,” you said. He chuckled at your choice of words.

“Oh yeah,” he agreed, leaning with his elbow onto the same dryer you were leaned against. “Patrick, he listens to only 80s, early 90s music before a game, which I don’t mind but I prefer when I play singles so I can listen to whatever I want.”

You nodded, “I love music before a game. Usually it varies depending on the day but I really like Ginuwine before a game. Guilty pleasure.” You said, sipping your coffee again. “What about you?”

“Oh that’s…” he laughed to himself, “I set myself up, it’s too embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing than Ginuwine?”

“More embarrassing than Ginuwine,” he replied. “No, I can’t.” He tried not to smile so hard but you were giggling excitedly at the pending information and he couldn’t help it.

You got just a little closer to him even already being fairly close in proximity, “Please?” You said. “You have to now, you can’t tease something like that.”

“I can’t, I really can’t,” he laughed, trying not to show how flustered you were making him just being this close. He was an adult man… “It’s too embarrassing.”

“Please, Art, I’m begging.” You giggled. “I probably have it in my playlist if our music taste is similar,” you said, handing him your iPod. “Flip through this and find something.”

Art was embarrassed, taking it and flipping through. Your jaw dropped the second he stopped flipping at the very intro to a song by the Spice Girls. Art pressed his mouth into a thin line as you burst out laughing in the near-empty laundromat. “Oh my god!” You laughed. “This is so good! This is your pre-game music?”

He nodded, trying not to smile with you but it was so hard when your smile was so bright and your laugh was so contagious. “I should have made you promise not to laugh.” He said sheepishly. “Yeah. Spice Girls. And sometimes Britney Spears, but don’t tell Patrick.”

“Your secret is so safe with me,” you said, listening to the upbeat tune of the song. “I won’t tell a soul, I swear. Oh my god I love this, this changes everything.”

“Like what?”

“For one I think I like you a lot more knowing that before an intense game you have Britney in your ears whining out lyrics,” you started. “And two, you have amazing music taste. This is some lesser known Spice Girls, you must be really into it.”

“What can I say?” He shrugged with a smile, getting just a little closer, pretty much against you as you spoke, but neither of you paid any notice. Both of you pretended you didn’t. He smelled good, like fresh cologne and a bit like citrus.

The buzz of a nearby dryer startled you both and in a second you were moved a step back again. Art kicked himself once again. You got into a conversation about tennis clothing prices and about past experiences with bitter tennis players and it once again drifted back into movies, music, books, media of all sorts. You loved what you loved a lot and Art took about a hundred mental notes of all the things you said you loved and hated. A list of things to watch were made as he spoke to you.

Soon the laundry was done and it meant that the trip to the laundromat was over. Art looked over at you. “I’ll walk you back if you want? It’s getting a little dark.”

“I’d like that.” You replied. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he answered, happy for more time with you.

You picked up your things and grabbed the basket you had and the two of you walked in conversation back to residency, right up to your door. You were a building over from him. You stopped outside your door, setting the basket down. “It was nice meeting you properly,” you said. It was more than nice. “And thank you for the coffee and for walking me home. You’re sweet.”

Art rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, looking away to hide the flush to his face. “Nothing out of my way,” he maintained. “It was nice meeting you too.”

“So you’ll call me?” You asked. You were forward, secure in it.

“For sure,” he replied with a growing grin. “I should probably head back, I’ve got a game tomorrow morning- I- completely forgot.” He exhaled. He’s spent all this time with you when he was meant to be practicing.

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” your smile immediately left and he hated how cold this hall felt without it.

He touched your arm just bracingly, “No, no, it’s fine! I’ll do fine, I just forgot,” he said. He chuckled at the way you wiped his mind clean of everything in his world but you. “You should come.”

“I should?” Your smile returned in seconds.

“If you wanted,” he replied.

“I will.” You beamed. “What time?”

He pressed his hand to the side of his head, “I… am not sure.” He pointed at you, “But I’ll text you it. And I’ll talk to you soon, absolutely.”

“Sounds amazing,” you replied. “Talk to you soon.” You reached up and placed a hand on Art’s cheek and raised yourself on your toes to kiss Art on the other cheek. “Goodnight, Art.”

He liked you. And it was so obvious when you kissed him on the cheek because he felt the flush return to his cheeks like a faint sunburn. You saw it when he met your eyes, blue with just a little bit of brown meeting yours. It took him all his mental strength to say it back. “Goodnight, Y/N.”