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diettwistup · 4 months

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HALF OF YOU

PAIRINGS: tashi duncan x f!oc, art donaldson x f!oc, patrick zweig x f!oc

SUMMARY: No matter how bright Tashi Duncan shined, her best friend, Milan Mikaelson, wasn’t far behind. Though seeming second best, Milan would never let that define her career. Holding as much fame as Tashi, Milan encountered Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson. Would this encounter change the trajectory of her life, and would it completely alter her relationship with Tashi Duncan?

WARNINGS: challengers spoilers, reader is milan mikaelson, sexual situations, language, angst, plot alterations.

WC: 5.1K

NOTES: hiiii!!! hope y’all enjoy this next chapter cuz it’s not my fave thing ever LOL. was also too lazy to proofread so sorry if there's errors. i’m also gonna be going on vacation with no internet for a little over a week so next update will be after that! thanks for reading luv u 💋

READ BEFORE THIS: INTRO and ONE

CHAPTER 2: DOUBLE TROUBLE

CHALLENGERS TOURNAMENT, NEW ROCHELLE - 2019, 1:00 PM

Gnawing on my bottom lip, I gripped my dress as Tashi got up and cursed before walking off, disappointed with Art’s performance.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going.” I shot and grabbed her wrist, eyeing her up as I took my sunglasses off.

Shaking my grasp off of her, she bent down and spoke dangerously close to my face.

“If he’s not gonna play tennis, then I don’t wanna see shit.” She seethed and walked off, brushing off her dress with each stride.

As I watched her go, I could feel a pair of eyes on me. Darting my attention back to the match, Art was already looking my way.

Shooting him a sad expression, I put my sunglasses back on, huffed, and sat back in my seat.

All he did was shake his head and rub the sweat off his face while Patrick smirked proudly.

He sure seems to love this.

Sighing, I raised one hand to my mouth to bite my nails, the nerves of the match taking over my entire being.

At the next serve, I carefully watched the strategic movements behind the boy’s every motion. They have always been outstanding players, and I furrowed my brows as I thought back to the first time I saw them play against each other.

The stupidity of Tashi and I, dumb enough to pin two best friends against each other. We should have never stepped foot in that godforsaken hotel room.

Shaking my head, I closed my eyes. The crowd's roar echoed around me as I thought back to the night that started it all.

The night that ruined it all.

THE BOY’S HOTEL- 2006, 12:00 AM

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?!” I exclaimed to Tashi as we made our way to the boy's hotel room. “Why the fuck would you let them come down when you knew I was there?” I shot at her as I smacked her arm.

Tashi smacked me right back, making me let out a hiss and shoot a cold glare at her.

“I don’t know why you're acting like you don’t have a game. You’re the best at playing hard to get.” Tashi responded and shrugged as if it was as simple as adding two plus two.

“You’re a bitch.” I muttered and rolled my eyes as the hotel came into view. “What do you even plan on doing with these two.” I raised my brow at her and studied her expression to gauge what was going through her mind.

“What we usually do,” she responded, smiling at me. Hypnotize them with our charm and have a good time, of course,” She said proudly as if this was second nature for us.

I won’t say that Tash and I haven’t had our fair share of fun with boys, but something like this, with two boys who knew their way around the game themselves, was certainly daunting.

“Fine, but you should have heard how they talked about us at your match. It was disgusting.” I pretended to gag and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Perfect, we already have them locked in then.” She nudged my arm before leading the way to the room.

Rolling my eyes, I smacked her again before following behind her.

On the way to the room, I got lost in my thoughts. How did we get ourselves into such a situation? I hope Tashi doesn’t expect us to have a foursome of any sort because I don’t have the patience to deal with a whole ordeal like that.

Approaching the door, Tashi stopped to let me walk ahead of her.

“Perfect, Mila, you can see your ass poking out of your shorts.” She smirked and gently patted it until I swatted at her hand with a laugh.

“Fuck off, let’s go,” I scolded, waiting for her to catch up, as she knew which room to go to.

Once we reached the door, Tashi knocked and softly bit her lip. Scuffling was immediately heard behind the door, signifying that the boys were startled by our appearance.

I moved to press my ear to the door with a slight smirk which Tashi returned as she did the same.

“They’re crazy…” I whispered to Tashi, to which she responded with a nod and a soft hum.

When we removed our ears from the door, it swung open so quickly I couldn’t make out the motion.

The boys stood at the door, looking extremely disheveled. Patrick wore boxers and an unbuttoned linen shirt that looked like it had been shoved in his tennis bag and forgotten. Also wearing boxers, Art wore a beater t-shirt that looked like it had never been in the wash and dryer a day in his life. Both of their hair was ruffled and unkempt, making it look like they had just gotten out of bed.

Raising an eyebrow, I was the first to speak. “What, did you two just get done fucking?” I questioned as I looked between them and placed my hands on my hips.

Patrick just burst out into laughter while Art spoke up.

“No…fuck no…” He muttered with a laugh as he patted Patrick on the back.

Drunk as sailors.

I nodded at this before resting my eyes and glancing at Tashi, who smiled fondly at the two, but I knew she was plotting.

“So, hi,” Tashi spoke calmly with a smile that immediately brought the boys back to Earth as they moved aside to let us in the room.

I had to stop myself from covering my nose as we entered the room.

Reeks of beer and cigarettes…typical boys.

Two beds pushed together were messily made. Beer cans, cigarette buds, and clothes were everywhere, though it looked like someone had tried to tidy up a bit.

That explains all the noise.

Patrick mindlessly spoke to Tashi as I continued to scan the room, not noticing that Art was eyeing me up. Turning my head, I caught his stare, which didn’t make him falter. He only continued to stare before coming up to me and handing me a beer.

“Didn’t know you were gonna come.” He spoke as he looked down at me through lidded eyes. Tipsy eyes. And, of course, he had a smirk, but it spoke I’m glad you came, really.

I continued to study his expression as I let my guard down a pinch. I shrugged nonchalantly as I took a long swig of the beer, knowing I would need it to get through the night.

“Had nothing else to do. Figured why not.” I spoke calmly as I let my eyes rake over his entire figure, drinking up his messy look which he really really pulled off. Never would I ever admit that for him to hear.

Or me.

“Well, glad you’re here.” Art said as he took the beer can from my lips and sipped it while he stared into my eyes, flickering to my lips for a moment.

I kept my eyes trained on his as I refused to back down in this staredown, showing that I couldn’t be swayed that quickly just because he was extremely attractive.

“You two, come sit,” Patrick spoke up from the ground by the bed where he sat with Tashi.

Nodding at this, I waited for Art to take his eyes off mine before I made any movement to sit. After a few seconds, he nodded and placed a hand on my lower back to walk me to where everyone was sitting.

I shivered slightly at this as I softly bit my bottom lip, hiding this motion from him, but I knew Tashi saw it by her smug little smile that said I told you so.

We haven’t even done anything, and I suddenly feel like I’m in the trenches.

The next couple minutes were used to discuss how Patrick and Art met each other and how Patrick, predictable enough, taught Art how to masturbate, all while we all took sips from the beer can that Art had given me when we first got here.

“Y’all are weird as fuck.” I snorted, a bit tipsy, wiping my mouth from my last gulp as I looked between the two boys who had red cheeks from a mix of alcohol and embarrassment, and can’t forget, two big smirks.

“No, Mila. I think it's a cute story.” Tashi nodded with a smile in an attempt to reassure the boys jokingly—a tactic she used to fully reel them in.

I rolled my eyes at this and fake glared at Tashi. “Only if you’re fucked in the head!” I laughed again while the rest of them laughed with me.

“Don’t tell me you two haven’t done anything weird like that,” Patrick said, making me whip my head to him before glancing back at Tashi.

“Yeah, you two have known each other since the womb. There’s no way you haven’t done nothing.” Art added and took a long swig of the beer can before passing it to Patrick, eyes trained on me for longer than I would have liked.

I shook my head with a small laugh before looking back to Tashi, who gave me an eyebrow in return, signaling something.

You ready?

…

I’m ready.

We nodded at each other before standing up and looking down at the boys.

“You guys aren’t leaving-“ Patrick started but stopped when he saw the two of us moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

My eyes locked with both of them briefly as I flashed the most innocent smile I could muster.

Here we go.

“Patrick, come sit by me…” Tashi spoke and patted the space to her left.

You didn’t have to tell him twice. He sprung up so fast he spilled the beer can everywhere on the carpet, but he couldn’t give a fuck.

As he sat down next to Tashi, my eyes locked onto Art’s. I did not need any words to tell him to sit by me.

He took the hint immediately, got up almost as fast as his best friend, and sat beside me, thigh already touching mine.

I turned to face him with lidded eyes and a small smile. I could hear his breath hitch as Adam’s apple bobbed, signifying that he took a small gulp. I softened my eyes to let him know it was okay to relax and that he could be comfortable around me.

Even though Tashi wanted to play with these boys like putty, I felt a little different about the situation.

As I tilted my head at Art slowly, I saw his face contort into a grin that radiated his comfort and need.

Leaning in slightly, I placed my hand on Art’s chest, noting how firm it felt through his thin shirt. Art mirrored my leaning in but instead placed a hand on my thigh. As I neared his lips, I teasingly pulled away as I felt Tashi pat my back. I smirked slightly at this and turned around as my lips met hers instead of Art’s.

It was an innocent kiss, a tactic to get these boys right where we wanted them. This action certainly answered their questions about us, and I hope it was worthwhile.

Once again, I could feel Art’s eyes piercing the back of my head, so I moved my hair off my shoulder and tapped the side of my neck so he would know what to do.

Almost immediately, his lips were latched onto my neck. I wondered for a moment if he was a vampire because of the way he was sucking on my neck. I figured he was searching for a blood vessel. Poor baby must have been deprived of any female touch, but the way his lips sucked profusely on my pulse point, I could tell this wasn’t his first rodeo.

Tashi and I pulled away from our innocent kiss and shot each other small smirks when we noticed that Patrick and Art were too lost in our necks to give a damn.

I tapped Art’s thigh so he would know to stop, which he reluctantly did. His lips were a bit swollen, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off them. Biting my lip, I reached up and brushed a finger across his bottom lip. As I did this, Art grabbed my hand and studied it before gently kissing my finger where my nail had broken. My eyes widened at this as my heart threatened to beat out of my chest.

Keep. your. composure.

Shaking out of my daze at his action, I smiled softly once again and leaned in slowly to connect our lips, hands on the back of his neck, threatening to tangle in his blonde curls.

Pillows. His lips feel like pillows.

The kiss was soft until his hand moved from my thigh to my waist. He pushed forward a bit until my back fully hit Tashi and tried to part my lips by biting my bottom one, but I pulled away before he could get that far.

Too easy.

Licking my lips to taste him, I turned back to Tashi, who placed her hand on my cheek to kiss me lightly again. As her lips melded with mine, I gingerly placed a hand on the base of Art’s jaw and slowly pulled him towards Tashi and me’s kiss. Immediately, I could feel Art’s lips meld with Tashi's, mine, and then Patrick’s, knowing that Tashi had done the same with him.

Now, the four of us were all kissing, making me slightly clench my thighs. Only slightly.

After about five seconds, I felt Tashi tap my back to signal me to pull away slowly.

As we both pulled away, Art and Patrick were full-on making out, not noticing that the two of us had abandoned the kiss. I glanced at Tashi with a smirk as she watched them in satisfaction.

It took everything in me not to giggle as I watched the two continue to eat each other's faces fervently.

Specifically Art.

After a beat, Tashi spoke up.

“Okay.” She said, which made the boys freeze and pull away from each other.

Immediately, they both looked at us in shock.

Got ‘em.

I tilted my head at Art as I gently reached my hand out to trace shapes on his thigh while he looked down at me like I had three heads.

“That was cute…” I mouthed to him with a soft smile as he continued to eye me up in shock mixed with a bit of awe.

“Well, we should get going before our parents freak out and wonder where we are,” Tashi says. I sit up as I follow suit, cutting any tension in the room.

Standing up from the bed, I chuckled to myself as I brushed off my clothes and fixed my hair. “It’s been fun,” I said, aiming my comment at Art. Thank you for having us,” I finished with a small, innocent smile as Tashi and I left.

“Wait!” Patrick said which stopped us in our tracks.

Turning around, Tashi and I shared matching grins that we quickly hid when we faced the boys.

Art spoke up next as he looked right at me. “What about your numbers?” He asked as he stared at me like a puppy deprived of dinner.

I crossed my arms and shrugged. “If you win tomorrow, I’ll give you my number,” I said plainly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“And I’ll give you my number if you win tomorrow,” Tashi said to Patrick just as plainly as I did.

Both boys shot each other smirks before nodding in agreement.

Tashi and I said our goodbyes before leaving the hotel room. When we were out of earshot, we both started laughing.

“We have them wrapped around our pretty little fingers!” Tashi exclaimed as she wrapped an arm around my shoulder.

I laughed at this and wrapped an arm around her waist. “I really hope Art wins,” I said in a dreamy tone of voice as I thought back to his face, lips, chest, everything, really.

Tashi shook me back and forth with a smile as she exclaimed, “I’m just ready to watch some good fucking tennis!” She laughed, knowing that the two boys were really going to battle it out with this new prize put into motion.

STANFORD UNIVERSITY - 2007 5:00 PM

As I slowly trudged from the tennis court to the dining hall, I felt my arms giving out.

“Fuck this damn bag,” I whined and went to a nearby bench to take a breather and bask in the California sun.

Today’s practice was by far the worst of the semester. I worked with my coach on my serve to prepare for my upcoming match, where I would face an opponent ranked decently high in the state.

Closing my eyes and throwing my head back to catch the rays of the warm sun, I let out a groan. I probably looked like a corpse to every passerby, but just like Tashi, they knew me, so hopefully, they would just smile and wave.

“Rough practice?” An extremely familiar and captivating voice snapped me back to reality.

Opening my eyes, I was met with my favorite pair of light blue eyes—something he would never know. Of course, a smirk adorned his features, and his blonde curls were tucked into a backward red cap, most certainly saying “Stanford” on the flip side.

“Art…” I spoke almost breathlessly as I sat up, brushed a piece of hair out of my face, and used my other hand to block the sun that Art’s head almost blocked.

“Hey, can I sit?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets, and nodded to where my bag was on the bench.

Quickly moving it to sit in front of my feet, I patted the empty seat next to me. “Sure.” I smiled at him and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear.

Over the summer, I would never allow myself to be so forward with Art Donaldson. I couldn’t speak for my present self, though. Since Patrick won the match, he and Tashi started dating after he scored her number. I, of course, was too upset to act like I didn’t give a damn about not being able to give Art my number. Tashi insisted that to keep their passion and drive for tennis alive, I keep up my end of the deal and don’t give Art my number. Hesitantly, I agreed as I knew how easily a stimulus like that can create great results. Since the match, Art and I have never spoken except for the occasional hello when passing by each other on the tennis court or dining hall. This moment was the first time I could speak with him since everything, and since I may have developed a slight…crush.

“So,” He started and turned his body on the bench to face me fully. “How have you been?” He tilted his head and tapped the back of the bench while studying my face.

Inhaling a sharp breath, I turned my body to face him fully, bringing one leg up and letting the other drape off the side of the bench.

“Do you want an honest answer?” I chuckled softly as I moved my hands to remove my hair from its braids.

In turn, Art laughed gently while smirking at me. His stare narrowed as he studied my face, acting like I was an old friend he had known for years.

“Well, if the honest answer is terrible and cruel, then I’m not so sure.” He responded and immediately matched my energy.

Damn you, Donaldson.

“Hey.” I softly laughed as I moved my dangling leg to kick his gently while I finished taking my hair out.

I wondered for a beat how I wanted to summarize months of memories, feelings, and experiences into one sentence, and this made me sigh.

“It’s been rough. Majoring in biology and the grueling tennis schedule makes me wanna rip my hair out.” I spoke in a low tone as I ironically and subconsciously began to play with a strand of my hair.

“I feel smothered.” I finished and silently cursed myself for acting so vulnerable.

That was three sentences, Milan. Not one.

As I stared at Art almost helplessly, his eyes softened.

“I feel the same way, trust me.” He chuckled softly before removing his hat and running a hand through his hair. “It really sucks, but it’s gonna be worth it,” He ended his thought before putting his hat back on.

“Fuck, and I thought I was the only one. Quite naive of me.” I laughed before looking back up at the sun. “It’s whatever, though. You’re right, and everything will come into place and be worth it.” I continued as I looked anywhere but at Art’s piercing stare.

Silence. He didn’t respond. He didn’t laugh. He did nothing except stare. Stare in a heavy silence that brought me back to the night in that damn hotel room.

After a few beats, I returned to my senses, slowly stood up from the bench, and brushed my skirt off.

“Well, I didn’t mean to stay here for long, so I’m gonna head off.” I went to pick up my bag as I spoke disappointedly.

I couldn’t allow myself to fall into the trenches. I needed to focus on my studies and tennis. Hard work makes everything worthwhile, and a boy isn’t part of that everything right now.

“Wait, Milan,” Art spoke up and grabbed my wrist, his grip as firm as it would be if he held his racket.

This made me freeze in my tracks. What the hell did he think he was doing?

My eyes slowly met Art’s as I parted my lips to speak, but nothing came out, so he spoke for me.

“It’s been months, Milan,” he started, his grip on my wrist still firm, his eyes scanning my face for any hints of discomfort.

“I know we only really talked with each other that one night and had no time to get to know each other, but I would like to get to know you better.” He didn’t falter. Not once. I don’t even think he blinked.

My lips had gone dry, and my voice, for some reason, grew hoarse.

“Art…” I slowly began as I looked down at his hand, gripping my wrists. “The four of us had a deal…” I made sure to tread lightly with a severe tone.

Two feet and ten toes on the ground. Don’t falter. Don’t give in.

“They’re a happy fucking couple, Milan. I doubt they give two shits.” He stated matter-of-factly as I felt his thumb rub up and down on my wrist.

How naive.

Biting my lip in thought, I began an internal battle with myself. I wanted this so bad. And I could tell Art wanted it just as bad as I did—possibly more.

I deserve a win other than tennis.

Sighing, I removed my arm from his grasp and moved to my tennis bag to look for a piece of paper. Instead, I found a piece of muscle tape and a small pencil. Quickly scribbling down my number, I could feel Art trying to see what I was doing.

“Here,” I said with slightly red cheeks as I stood back up and handed him the piece of muscle tape. “Don’t go blowing up my phone now,” I playfully scolded before picking up my bag and walking past him, glancing at the triumphant smile playing on his perfect features.

Perfect? …yeah.

Before I began my trek to the dining hall, I touched Art’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“I didn’t want to admit it, but I really wanna get to know you more, too.”

NEXT DAY, STANFORD DORMS 11:00 AM

MEET ME IN THE DINING HALL FOR LUNCH?

My eyes stared at the text in utter disbelief. Art certainly didn’t take any time once he got what he’d been craving all summer.

“Why do you look so shocked?” Tashi laughed from the foot of my bed as she hit my leg.

Fuck.

My eyes looked to her as I shut my phone, put it next to me, and picked my computer back up to pretend to look at my study guide for an upcoming biology quiz.

“My mom sent me a weird text,” I laughed awkwardly before covering my face with my computer.

“Are you fucking with me?” Tashi laughed as I heard her moving up towards my side of the bed.

She shut my computer to look at my face, which was for sure red as a tomato.

“You’re lying,” she smirked before sitting on her knees and clapping her hands. What is it? A boy? A girl?” She persisted as she grabbed my leg and widely smiled at me.

I rolled my eyes at this before clicking my tongue. “Why are you so dead set on the fact that I was texting someone romantically?” I crossed my arms and bit the inside of my cheek, probably a dead giveaway.

Tashi’s face fell as her brows furrowed, and she crossed her arms, mimicking me.

“You’re joking, right?” She started before studying my stern expression. “We’ve known each other for what, eighteen fucking years?” She used this as a tactic to crack me. “I know your every expression and what it means. I could write a thesaurus on you if I wanted to.” She stated as she sucked on her teeth, brows still furrowed.

I stared at her sternly for a few beats before sighing and turning my head to look anywhere but at her.

“Fine, you got me…” I trailed before uncrossing my arms to fumble with my fingers. “but this is the first time I’ve received a text, so it’s not important.” I put my hands up and looked at her as an explanation as to why she shouldn’t ask questions.

I should know better.

Tashi’s annoyed face instantly turned into a happy one as she bounced on the bed and continuously hit my leg.

“Who is the lucky guy? or girl…” She tilted her head with a goofy smile, which she would only show me.

“It’s a boy…” I sighed before turning my head to look at my closest, as it suddenly looked very interesting.

No matter how long I had known Tashi, I couldn’t gauge how she would react to this. She’s a very pushy person who likes everything to go her way, but I’m hoping that since it’s me, she will react differently.

She shrieked and shook my legs back and forth with a giggle.

She’ll be so disappointed.

“Who is it? Is it that cute boy I caught you practicing with the other week? Or that one boy that you sometimes study with from your Chemistry class? Or maybe it's that random guy from the baseball team I saw you talking within the dining hall last week?” She fired off in a millisecond as I stared at her in utter disbelief.

“Okay, first of all, how did you know about all of those? And second of all, the first guy is gay, the second guy has a girlfriend, and the last one was giving my pencil back to me after using it for a quiz we took in statistics.” I responded as I rolled my eyes so hard I thought the whites of them would turn permanent.

“I’m your best friend. I know everything.” She spoke eerily with wide eyes before breaking into a smirk. “So, come on! Tell me who it is!” She bounced repeatedly on the bed and shook me back and forth until I finally had enough.

“Fine!” I exclaimed and threw my hands up in the air.

Fuck it.

“It was Art, alright.” I threw my hands up as I bit the bullet and came clean.

Tashi’s face dropped almost instantly as his name fell off my lips. She wasn’t happy. Not at all.

“What the fuck do you mean?” She laughed in disbelief as she shook her head and moved her hands from my legs.

I immediately sat up more and moved towards her.

“I saw him after practice yesterday, and we got to talk,” I explained as I bit the inside of my cheek in anticipation. “He asked for my number, and I figured since everything happened months ago, there would be no issue…” I trailed off and looked her straight in the eyes with a pleading expression.

Tashi just stared at me and shook her head slowly.

“We had a deal with them…” She stared at me with an accusatory face.

“Tash, I know,” I exclaimed and grabbed her hands. “But you knew I liked him more than what happened in that hotel room. Plus, you and Patrick are happy, so why should it matter?” I asked and shook my head as I gripped her hands.

She stared at me as if I kicked her puppy and gasped in her throat. “Um, to keep their passion alive? To ensure they both strive for better and strengthen their relationship with tennis?” She spoke as if it was plain as day.

Furrowing my brows, I slowly shook my head and parted my lips, shocked.

“Is tennis all you care about?”

I shouldn’t have said that.

My words echoed in my mind as I retracted my hands from Tashi’s and bit my lip, feeling defeated. Her stare pierced into my soul as she looked away from me and placed her hands on her thighs.

“If this is what you want, go ahead. I can’t and won’t stop you.” She spoke slowly before eyeing me.

Fuck, I messed up.

“But never think for a second that I care about tennis more than you.” She choked out as she looked at the picture of us in fifth grade sitting on my bedside table.

At this, my eyes widened, and I nodded slowly as a single tear slid down my cheek. Moving towards Tashi, I wrapped my arms around her waist and hugged her.

“Pinky promise?” I whispered into her neck while she returned the hug.

“Pinky promise.” She responded and grabbed my hand to interlock our pinkies.

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posalis · 4 months

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"i am you and you are me. compress. repress. repressed. compressed. and then just surrender."

hawk mountain (2023) // challengers (2024)

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tinytennisskirt · 2 months

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A Chaotic Reunion: Part Two

Part 2 Summary: A continuation (find the first part here). ChildhoodBest friend!Art visits the reader's gallery before it opens and asks reader on a date only to have it ruined by Patrick, who is going through something. Things are unconventional, but Art still ends up in the reader's bed by the end...

Warnings: Patrick being suggestive, drunk Patrick, (touching, kissing with Art)

You woke up earlier than usual, nerves, somehow waking you before the alarm. But you used your time wisely. You showered with the good soaps and sprayed your perfume fresh out of the steam. You got ready, fixing your hair up and doing your makeup. You got dressed in your regular business casual work clothes, style, but comfort first.

Julie was up and chatting like she didn't get home and crash on her carpet before you and your other roommate saw and pulled her into her bed. She had a miraculous luck that never let her be hungover the next day, you joked that she was the drinking messiah.

“You’re heading in early?” She asked, passing you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with cucumbers on the side for breakfast. Not the usual, but it was fun enough.

“Yes, I have a friend coming to see the art and I thought he would like it better if it was just us. Without me having to tend to the potential buyers who you know can be a pain in the ass." You told her. Your other room main Shailene hummed.

“That guy from last night?” She grinned.

“There was a guy?”

You chuckled, “Yes. An old friend though, genuinely. From childhood. His name is Art, he’s a… tennis player in town for a tournament, I think."

“Art Donaldson,” Julie said. It didn’t sound like a question.

“Yeah?” you said, surprised. “How did you know that?”

She looked disbelieving, “The only Art in tennis I know is Art Donaldson, no way that’s your childhood friend- he’s hot, Y/N. He’s mega-hot, no way.” Shailene laughed from the kitchen as you ate your food.

“He is mega-hot, Y/N,” she chimed in. “He was totally eyeing you down too, I saw from when I was approaching that man was down bad.”

“He was not,” you laughed. He might have been. Your boobs comment from the night before rang out in your brain and so did how he reacted. Hmm… maybe he was, but not majorly. You weren't ugly, you couldn't rule it out entirely. “But I’m showing him the gallery is all.”

“Mhm,” Shailene hummed again.

“Okay, shhhh,” you said, setting dishes aside and going to the bathroom to brush your teeth. You heard the girls out in the living room whispering about looking up his tennis highlights. You shook your head- you’d gone to sleep last night watching those. “See you later!” You called to them as you spun out the door. Best to avoid more interrogation and just let the morning unfold.

You drove over and opened as usual, keeping the sign on the door saying closed. You ensured everything was tidy and clean and just as beautiful and colourful as the days before. You went through a few gallery emails, replying and sending. And on time, there was a knock at the door. You fixed the sleeves on the black long-sleeve shirt and adjusted the square neckline dip as you walked over to unlock the door.

“Hey,” he said. He had two coffees in hand, iced coffee. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” you answered with a smile. He smiled right back and extended you an iced coffee. You were glad it was iced, hot coffee on a warm morning would just feel too corporate. And gross. “Thank you! You didn’t have to.”

“I’m not bringing nothing for the woman giving me a private tour of her gallery. Plus, I need it after last night," he said. You moved out of the way so he could come in. His eyes widened as he met the colourful surroundings of the gallery. “Wow- this is amazing.”

“My team and I hand-pick everything,” he spun and looked at you. You put a hand to your forehead, “I’m in work mode. My friends, my roommates and I we pick the art. We went with a theme of colour because we thought it is one of the most universal things about art is that there is colour. Sometimes shade, but when you think art, you think colour.” You gestured to everything. “An ode to that.”

He listened to you intently and walked with you as you showed him the gallery, piece by piece explaining things. He would joke, you’d joke back, and the banter was sweet and easy. You caught up on life, more. Talked parents and school and local town things. You sat on a bench overlooking one of your biggest pieces. “It’s nice to speak to someone not so involved in tennis.” He said, looking over at you.

“I was thinking I didn’t bring it up enough,” you replied, eating the ice out of your finished coffee. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” he nodded. He turned more your way so that your knees touched. “Everyone in my life talks about tennis more than their own children, family, accomplishments. Even I talk about it too much. You and the art here- it’s been good to hear about something like this.”

“I’m glad the gallery could be your escape,” you said. “And I’m happy you like it and I will GLADLY speak about anything other than tennis because I know nothing other than hitting a ball back and forth.”

He laughed, “Perfect. That’s all you need to know.”

“Oh phew,” you sighed. It was nearing opening, you heard your roommates come in downstairs. His head turned. “I’m glad you came to see it though. Escape or no escape.”

“Me too. It’s really impressive what you have here for yourself. And it’s been great seeing you, everything you’re doing is amazing and beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Your eyes met his, blue with bits of brown, those long eyelashes. “I wasn’t even sure what I was doing was worthwhile.”

“Probably more than,” he replied. “This gallery is amazing and you're doing it with your friends? Most people can't say they love what they do let alone that they do it with people they like and actually know. I'm jealous, honestly. But I know you open soon, so I should probably be on my way... Do you get off at nine?

“Most days,” you replied. “I can leave a bit earlier today since I started and did the opening process an hour before we opened. And thank you. I needed to hear something like that."

“Always." He said, standing. You stood with him, taking a second to toss your empty cup into the nearby bin. "-And perfect- I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner? Late… dinner. With me.” He asked, hands shoving themselves into his pockets. Your eyes widened a bit. Was he asking you out? “Is there a local place maybe? I’d love to be shown around a bit more if you have the time.”

“Of course- I-“ you fought a wide grin. “I’d love that. There’s a little Italian place just a few doors down from here or there’s an Indian place two blocks from here… or the sushi place a bit closer to my apartment. They’re all open late.”

“Sushi sounds good,” he said, standing up. “So do I call the number on the business card when I pick you up here at 8:10?” He flipped the card between his fingers.

You chuckled. He would pick you up? From work? That was his plan… “Oh, here- you grabbed the card from him, took the pen from your belt loop, and scribbled your number out for him. He grinned his crooked grin and your heart fluttered just a bit. “I’ll see you, then.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said. You both headed down the stairs of the gallery, past your friends who were doing a bit of near-afternoon filing. “I’ll call. Thank you for this, I think I needed it and I will for sure be back.”

“Sounds perfect,” you echoed. “See you later.”

He kissed you on the cheek before saying goodbye and exiting out the front. You turned around and the second he was no longer able to hear, both Julie and Shailene squealed. “The cheek kiss? So cute!” Shailene said, raising her hands above her head. “He so wants you, I honestly wouldn’t have minded if you two went at it against the Rosenthal in the corner.”

“That’s enough,” you smiled.

“Is it?” Julie asked. “Not so much as a kiss?”

“It’s 11am!” You said. “Who kisses someone at 11am? Besides it’s a bit different, we have so much history. Childhood together versus now, I think I’m having trouble not seeing the little blonde boy who would burp for a laugh." That wasn’t true, that image faded last night as you dreamt about him. There was no more little boy in Art.

“Okay, but what was that ‘see you later’ business?” Shailene asked.

“He asked me to dinner,” you started. Both girls opened their mouths to speak. “It’s probably friendly! I have no idea what his intentions are. He said he’d pick me up at 8:10, if I can get off early tonight- is that okay with you guys?”

“More than,” Julie squealed. “I’ll stay at my boyfriend’s tonight, Shai, you can come with me if you want? I have clothes you can wear there.”

“Hold on-“

“He’d be fine with that?” She asked Julie. Julie nodded excitedly.

“Perfect,” Julie said.

“I’m not bringing him back to the apartment!” You said. These girls were too forward sometimes. “We're just catching up."

“That’s what the early opening was for? That’s what dinner is for?” Julie stated, as if it was common sense. “Shai and I are more than happy to get out for a night. You deserve some good sex.”

“How would you even know if he’s-“

“He’s a tennis player! There’s gotta be some force there.” She continued. “You can run home on lunch break and get one of my dresses if you like. Or anything. Just don’t wear work clothes, you won’t be able to let loose that way.”

You nodded. Shailene grinned. “Maybe wear that midi-dress with the slit up the thigh. Ooh, with the red mary-janes!”

“Ooh,” you smiled. “Okay, okay. I’ll go on lunch.”

“I’m so excited for you!” Julie clapped. It was a matter of getting through the day. All day, you three talked about him and your childhood, what drove you two apart, etcetera. At lunch you went home and grabbed the clothes and some of your makeup to touch up on. You worked the rest of the day with a few buyers coming in. It neared 8 and the girls were still just as excited.

Your phone rang. “Is that him?” You asked? You were in the bathroom in a spare moment just getting changed and touching up.

“It’s him!” Shailene ran your phone to you. You smiled and picked up.

“Hey,” you said.

“Uh- hey-“ he sounded preoccupied, you could hear he was in the car. “So I really was looking forward to dinner with you, but my best friend is going through something right now and he is inconsolable in the manly way, which if you know what that’s like, he might be a bit out of control.”

He was cancelling? You shut the door to the bathroom. “That’s okay, I understand. Are you cancelling?”

“I don’t really want to, so if you’re fine to meet a friend, I would love to see you still. I just can’t leave him alone, you know?” He said. “I am so sorry, Y/N. This is the opposite of what I wanted for tonight and I completely understand if you would rather it be just us. We can reschedule."

You shook your head as if he could see, “No, that’s so admirable that you’re keeping him close. Don’t be sorry whatsoever, I promise it’s okay. And if you don’t want to cancel, I’m still free.”

“You promise it’s okay?” He asked. “I am so so sorry I would usually never do this, I promise I will make it up to you.”

You laughed, “It’s endearing! I don’t mind. He’s okay though?”

“He’s okay but on a level where I’m not sure what he’d do if I wasn’t around,” he replied. “I’m picking him up right now, I’ll be there in ten if you still want me?” Of course, you did. It was unconventional, but it was okay.

“Sounds good,” you replied. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t worry too much, okay?”

He chuckled, “I’ll try. See you soon.”

You said goodbyes and hung up. You I immediately updated your girls on the situation and they were disappointed but were sure it would still be good. And soon enough, Art’s car pulled up outside and thank god, his friend wasn’t in the front seat. You waved goodbye to your friends, grabbed your purse, and left, getting into the car. It was nice, clean.

“Hey, you look-“ he started, “Wow.”

“I didn’t want to wear work clothes out or I’d feel like I was still at work,” you told him. You turned in your seat to face another man. He seemed tall, with dark curls, and a bit of facial hair. You recognized him as Art’s tennis partner.

“Patrick,” he said, giving you his hand to shake. You shook it, he smiled.

“Oh, I know,” you grinned. “I’m Y/N- wow, two tennis stars in one car.”

“Okay, as if.” Art said, putting the car in drive again. “No tennis talk, for both mine and Patrick’s sake.”

“Done,” you said. “I don’t have enough tennis content in my head to remark on anything anyways. So the sushi place is just by my apartment, if you take a right up here, then pass two streets and a left, then you’re there.”

“Perfect,” Art said. “How was work?”

“Not too busy today, we had one of our regular buyers in today and sold two pieces to him, but the rest was marketing, emails, and planning for a gallery event.”

“What kind of event?” Patrick asked from the backseat. You half-expected him to stay quiet from the greeting that was just his name.

“Oh, it’s a bit of a sale where the proceeds go to a local children’s hospital for funding,” you told him. “Every year me and my coworkers put it on and it’s usually pretty successful.”

“That’s impressive,” Art said.

“And considerate,” Patrick added. “You’re big on charity?”

“When I can be,” you replied, and you turned back to Art. “The event is in a few weeks, lots of shrimp, so if you want to come just let me know.” Art looked over at you with a soft smile.

“I’d like that,” he replied, seemingly happy that you’d invited him. You smiled back. “You’ll have to send the details.”

“I will for sure,” you told him. You got to the place in no time and Art parked the car. “This is it. It’s a cute place, open late, I can’t tell you how many times me and my roommate have had a random craving at 1am and came down for sushi. That’s my building right over there.” You pointed across the street.

Art looked over, getting out of the car, then back to you, eyes lingering on your dress. “They’re open that late?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “And the sushi is amazing.”

Patrick got out of the car and rose to be about as tall as you imagined. He was a bigger guy than you had observed from the dark of the back of the car. More muscle mass to his body, visible in his t-shirt and cargo shorts. “I’m starved.” Is all he said. You looked at Art and he mouthed another ‘I’m sorry’ and you laughed quietly, hitting him gently in the arm.

You all headed in, got a table, and started ordering immediately. Patrick wondered what the Japanese alcohol was like and ordered some for the table. You didn’t feel much like drinking, but it was headed to the table anyway. You and Art filled Patrick in on all the details of the games you played as kids and he took pleasure in teasing Art about playing the ‘girly’ games.

“Hey, I looked good in the princess shoes,” he said as Patrick reached over and ruffled his blonde hair.

“It’s true. And there was no way I’d let him pretend to be a prince because that meant we would have to kiss, because you know that’s what princesses and princes do,” you said. Patrick chuckled. "- And he rocked the crown and dress as well.”

“A crown and a dress? You were her bitch at age nine?” He laughed at Art, who pretended to hide his face. “I’m impressed, but I’m not surprised. I mean look at her now. Big-time gallerist who runs charity events.”

You pretended that didn’t land as if it was flattery, blinking it off. Art raised his head. You ate another California roll.

“Yeah,” Art said. “It’s not like she didn’t play guns with me.”

“If you ended up a princess and she ended up with a toy gun, that’s a bit telling.” Patrick added. He poured himself a bit of the drink he’d ordered for the table. It was more than a cup.

“He was a bit under my thumb… I was a bossy child,” you joked. Art nodded and smiled. Patrick downed his drink. “I’m not so bossy now.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Patrick grinned a wide grin and part of it was suggestive.

“Is it?” You questioned.

“I’d say so. I think Art would agree. Nothing is wrong with a bossy woman as long as it stays-“

“Okay…” Art said, almost dismissive.

“Hm,” you hummed. You tried the drink, but it was bitter, not for you. Patrick picked up that you hated it from the look of disgust and poured your share into his cup. “I’m collaborative, I think. You’d have to ask my friends because now I’m rethinking.”

“Collaborative is okay too, I don’t complain,” Patrick said, drinking more. He had a slight smirk on his face. Art shook his head and looked at you, your mouth stayed a little open from the words you'd just heard. “You know Art told me he ran into you but he didn’t say anything about how gorgeous you are.”

You felt a bit cornered, your cheeks feeling a faint bit of pink just from the situation. Art rubbed his eyes and rested his chin on his fist, pouring himself a little bit of the alcohol and drinking it. “Thank you,” you replied. “I wish I could reply with anything of the sort but I wasn’t expecting anyone else with us tonight.” You tried to laugh it off.

“Okay, Patrick,” Art came in, dismissive again. “Come on.”

“What?” He said, hands up in questioning. “You said dinner with a friend- I didn’t picture someone like her. You can’t tell me she’s not gorgeous.” The bottle was somehow more than half-gone. You weren’t sure what to say.

“She is- but Patrick, please.” He urged him quietly and you pretended not to hear. Patrick was for sure tipsy and was for sure flirting. All you focused on was the ‘she is’.

“Me? Come on? You’re all stiff, Buddy.” Patrick downed another cup you hadn’t even seen him pour. You understood what Art meant by going through it- something was up with him for sure. “Look at her, look-“

“Thank you,” you said again. Art looked at you apologetically. You took back the bottle of alcohol and drank right from it, just a swig. Disgusting but you probably needed it. “And thanks for coming, honestly. It’s been good meeting you.”

“You’re scaring her away, Artie,” Patrick said, ruffling Art’s hair again. Art looked embarrassed, to say the least. The Japanese alcohol was surprisingly strong. You guessed that was why it was so bitter. Patrick must have been well on his way to full drunk if a swig brought a fuzz to your vision for a moment. It passed.

“I think we should get out of here,” you said. Art nodded immediately. He got up faster than you could and went to the counter to pay. You couldn't even object. Your eyes followed him, tracing your eyes over the long-sleeve dark green shirt he was wearing with pants that looked really nice on him. You wondered if that was what he wore to games- it was nice- but looked comfortable. You wished he wasn’t paying.

You looked back at Patrick, who had just finished off the bottle when you weren’t looking. You were in trouble now. “You really are gorgeous. Are you single?”

“Uh- I am, but-“

“I’d love to take you out,” he said. “I’ll ask Art to send me your number.”

“Maybe…”

“Are we done flirting with Y/N?” Art said, coming back with a huff, sliding a card back into his wallet.

“Hardly,” Patrick grinned. You couldn’t help but smile at that response, it was funny. Art helped Patrick up, letting him lean on him. Art’s eyes practically projected an essay of apology. You were watching the alcohol sink in slowly to Patrick, he was getting worse, it seemed. And when you got into the car, Art put the key in the ignition and the car did not roar to life. It sputtered.

“Fuck!” Art exclaimed. “I knew I should have taken her in earlier. I’m sorry, the car has been on its last legs for a month or two now and I was going to get it fixed, but I put it off-“

“It’s okay,” you told him, hand on his upper arm. “Does it need a jump?”

“I’m not even sure if that would save it,” he laughed, almost, but it sounded fake. Patrick’s laugh from the back seat was very real. “Fuck, I’m sorry guys. I’ll call a cab.”

“Do you want to come back to mine?” You asked. “Just across the street, you can crash there if you’d like. My roommates are out tonight.” Might as well make use of the empty apartment.

“Really? I don’t want to impose,” Art said. He looked you dead in the eyes, looking for something genuine in you, almost disbelieving you'd be so kind to take in his fucked up friend.

“I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t what I wanted. It’s probably best we get him somewhere secure fast- he’s had a lot.”

With a nod, you and Art got out of the car and started pulling a drunken Patrick out and over to the apartment. You and Art tried your best to ignore every pass he was making at you, calling you pretty, saying your nicely the colour of the dress went with your skin, talking about the slit of the dress. And you dealt with it all the way up the elevator and as you unlocked the door.

Patrick stumbled in and Art guided him to the couch. “Colourful,” Patrick said, “But bright.”

You dimmed the lights with the dimmer and shut the door behind you. “We keep some art here. Stuff we’ve bought, thrifted, found."

Art took a second to look around. “It’s nice. Really nice,” he said. Patrick sat up on the couch and looked around for a remote. You tossed it to him. “Which room is yours?”

You pointed to the one at the end, “Second biggest room. We drew straws.” You told him. Patrick looked like he had no idea how a remote worked. He put it down and got up, staggered and swaying. You looked at Art and Art looked at Patrick.

“Can I talk to you?” He asked you, dismissing Patrick. You nodded and pulled him to the kitchen just a bit more away from the drunk stranger in your living room. The second you were alone, he put his hands to his head. “I am so sorry about this. It’s one thing to bring your friend out when you ask a girl to dinner, but another to have him off his ass and go back to her apartment because your car decides to kill itself.”

“Art-“

“I know- because you’re kind and you’re sweet and perfect- that you don’t mind, but that doesn’t mean I don’t. You have no idea how sorry I am for all of this, but I promise you I’ll make it up to you.” He said, eyes on yours, his hands on your upper arms the same way they were when you bumped into him. Gentle, soft. “Thank you for this though, I really appreciate you giving us somewhere to go and I swear it won’t happen again.”

“I do promise it’s okay,” you reassured him, fighting the urge to laugh. He was sweet, worried, but sweet. “Thank you for apologizing though it’s not needed. Shows your character.” He smiled a little, but his eyes widened. You felt a hand on your waist, less gentle, less asked for. Not the hand you wanted there...

“Patrick-“

You turned, stepping away from his grasp. You didn’t know what to do or say. “You smell amazing,” he said, slight slur to his words. “Do guys ever tell you that?”

“Not often,” you replied. “What’s up?”

“Can’t get the TV to work,” he replied. “But if you have any idea of what we can do instead, I’m all ears.” He was so drunk. Japanese alcohol was a quick fix, apparently.

You slipped past and back into the living room, followed by the men. You could hear Art whispering to Patrick behind you as you grabbed the remote and turned the TV on.

ART DONALDSON US OPEN HIGHLIGHTS

In bright white splayed across the top of the screen started playing. You covered your mouth and closed it as fast as you could. You forgot your roommates were watching that this morning- your heart skipped a beat from humiliation.

Fuck. You put on the first thing you saw, some cop comedy movie. You turned it down enough for it to be background noise and Patrick crashed on the couch again. And he was silent.

Art walked over to you, “US OPEN highlights is crazy,” he said quietly, leaning on his arm against the wall you had your back to. “I have better games than that.”

“Mmm, so you saw,” you replied, voice hushed. You felt your cheeks flush just slightly. “My roommates were watching it once they found out you were coming to the gallery early.”

“So they know all about me then. They’re fans,” he said, fake-boasting. You smiled and shook your head. "Sometimes I hate tennis. I can never be mysterious and unknown."

“They think you’re hot mysterious or not. They’re a fan of anyone who is hot. You should have seen how my roommate Shai got about the hot mailman from downstairs- she practically made a fanpage. I swear we had a shrine for him somewhere.” You told him.

“And I don't get a shrine yet,” he laughed. You two kept quiet, leaning against the wall behind the couch. Patrick stayed quiet.

“Tennis player is somewhere high on Shailene’s list, I’m sure I could set you up,” you shrugged.

“What, that’s crazy. You don’t think I’m hot?” He teased. “Is it the crooked smile? I’ve been told it’s crooked.”

“Nobody hates the crooked smile, I promise.” You told him. And that exact crooked smile crept up his face. You smiled back. “I think it’s quite nice.” You added.

“Oh just nice, hm. That’s like me saying you look good.”

“Do I not?” You prodded. “And I said ‘quite’ nice.”

“No, no, you look quite good,” he replied. You smiled and hit him in the arm playfully. “I hate saying it because I know Patrick beat me to it, drunk and all, but you do look gorgeous. And I’m sorry it wasn’t just us tonight.”

“I know you’re sorry, but it’s not the end of the world. You are allowed to stop being sorry, I swear it’s okay,” you replied. Patrick coughed loudly. “Here, come in-“ you stepped into your room and turned on the lowlight lamp in the corner, casting dull orangey light around your room. You sat on your knees on your bed and he sat with you. “My room.”

He shut the door and looked around. And he was gorgeous, observing the things in your room. How he looked under the golden lamp light, over his features, over his curls. You were alone. He looked at you, “Your room is so comfortable.” He said. "I'm too used to empty hotels with fluorescents."

"Yuck, I couldn't live if the only lights I had were white, they need to be warm or I feel like I'm at the doctor."

"Oh, it's the worst. Especially trying to wind down at night, even the lamps buzz with the same feeling as the dentist." He said. "You have so many books and... so many pillows." He chuckled, referencing the pillows on your bed, on your desk chair, in the corner of your room. He sat on the bed next to you, close to you, still observing. You watched his jaw as he looked up at the ceiling to your stain glass light fixture and the art on your walls. It was silent with the low rumbles of the voices on the tv just outside your room.

It hit you harder, in the silence of the room with the closed door, that there was nobody else here with you. No Patrick in the room. Nothing between you two. You felt a bit like you’d just put down a baby to sleep, finally.

“Is it also hitting for you that we are alone for the first time? I feel like we just put Patrick down.” Art turned to look at you, shifting his body a bit on the bed.

Your eyes widened, “I was thinking the same thing! Like he’s a child we sent to bed finally.” You laughed.

He laughed. “Exactly!” He had a nice laugh. You leaned forward into each other as you laughed and his hand rested itself on your knee. Your forehead touched his shoulder just barely.

And surprisingly the laughing lasted a lot longer than you imagined. Every time either one of you tried to catch your breath you’d just start laughing again and it was contagious and all-consuming.

But it ended the second he kissed you.

His hands slipped over your jaw and around your ears and he pulled your face to kiss, lips meeting perfectly in the centre. It was sudden but it was natural and it was easy and you kissed him back immediately, slow, compared to the pace of the day. His hand slowly slid from your jaw, down your neck, to the back of it. Your hand slid down his chest and around his back.

He didn’t stop, he didn’t pull away. He just got up on his knees, kiss unbreaking, just as strong, and leaned you back so your head hit your pillows gently. He situated himself above you, kissing you and kissing you right. The way he kissed was better than anything you’d ever had, it was gentle but still strong and wanting as his hands traveled down your waist and yours migrated to around his neck. The giggling had ended for sure as he kissed the side of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw, over your ear, your neck. Your hand slid up into the back of his hair, finding a grip on the curls.

Your legs wrapped around him, your leg slipping through the slit in the dress, pressing against him. His hand slid down your thigh and over your near-bare hip. his grip on it perfect. If you could have pulled him closer you would have, but in this circumstance it would mean something you weren't quite ready for tonight.

He kissed your neck and collarbone softly, nose grazing your skin as he went along, soft lips pressing to each point until they met yours again. Hungrier, faster, he gripped your hip harder, but enough. His hand slipped further up your dress through the window of the slit, hand on your waist now, your underwear the only thing under it, but ignored by him. He was touchy but in the right way, hand on waist, hip.

You sighed heavily as he kissed over to your ear again, lower lobe, just behind your ear, moving your hair out of the way. It sent goosebumps trailing over your skin.

But you couldn’t help but giggle, the laughter from earlier catching up. He stopped and he moved back over you, face to face. You kept giggling and kissed him once more, a small peck. He grinned. “What’s so funny?”

You laughed again, just a giggle. He kissed you again and you both rolled over in the bed toward the wall and you nearly hit your head but it just made things funnier. He laughed too, placing a hand behind your head to keep it from hitting the wall again. You sat over him, hair falling in both yours and his face. “What’s so funny?” He asked again, but he was laughing now too. And you kissed him again. Just as strong, just as passionately, quieting things again.

Patrick stayed quiet for the rest of the night, presumably passed out on the couch. You and Art spent the rest of the night laying together and talking more, the way you would have if your date earlier had gone well. Talking, kissing freely, a lot of laughter but enough shushing as to not wake Patrick or anything.

"You do smell really good," Art said, brushing your hair behind your ear.

"The communal date-night bodywash bottle," You told him. He found that really funny. "And vanilla perfume."

You kept laughing, talking, connecting. It was easy, like you'd never parted ways. But eventually, he fell asleep. You followed soon after and fell asleep with him, your head on his chest. And it was a rocky, but good night in the end. A good place to resume not only friendship but maybe something else. You’d have to wait and see.

#art donaldson #art donaldson fluff #challengersfic #challengers #patrick zweig #art x reader #art donaldson x reader #romance #challengers x reader #art x y/n #art donaldson imagine

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escapismthroughfilm · 4 months

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⋆˚｡⋆ ⋆˚｡⋆Challengers (2024) dir. Luca Guadagnino⋆˚｡⋆ ⋆˚｡⋆

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jakrispy7161 · 4 months

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you know I’d hate to say it, I told you so

#josh O’Connor my beloved #absolute diva #tennis eleganza #challengers #collage #josh oconnor #mike faist #patrick zweig #art donaldson #tashi duncan #tashi donaldson #challengers movie #chappell roan #my chemical romance #mitski #ethel cain #motif

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silentmacabre · 2 months

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IMAGINE ☁️

art donaldson x fem reader (y/n) // slow burn // foundation/universe building // gym romance // college!art // quick read (~900 words)

(a/n: I am such a sucker for reciprocated crushes and mutually nervous meet-cutes so I had to write one with stanford!art. pls let me know what you think and drop any imagine prompts you have in the comments!)

🪽

walking into the gym was always somewhat of an embarrassing routine. digging your id card out from the bottom of your bag as keys and coins jingle, receipts shuffling to the side. scanning the card, you offer a ginger smile to the girl behind the desk who doesn't bother to look up from her phone.

on the way to the locker room you pass the weight racks. a group of about six tall, fit boys hollering and talking amongst themselves captures your briefest attention. recognizing a few from around campus, however, only furthers your social anxiety. the first few people file past you into the yoga studio, unrolling lush mats that match their water bottles and headphones.

rushing to the locker room now you turn the corner sharply and hit something solid with a thud.

“shit! im sorry i-” he instinctively grasps your upper arms, prepared to hold you steady.

you look up, frozen from the interaction. the blonde haired boy’s expression is soft and you can’t help but notice his eyes. his pupils are wide despite the blinding fluorescents that line the gym, each iris speckled with different spots of turquoise and mahogany.

“it’s okay!” you rush to offer.

his hands relax their grip, his thumbs in delay as they trail over and then off your shoulders.

you attempt another pained smile like the one offered to the receptionist except this time it’s met with a sweet, slanted grin. his jaw hangs slack slightly, lips parted in anticipation of conversation when another boy, slightly bigger and with a mess of brown curls, turns the corner from the men’s locker room.

“art, man…” he says gruffly, slapping the boy in front of you firmly on the back with both hands. he makes no effort to move.

the taller boy enters your field of vision and his steps halt, eyebrows raised then corrected.

“oh- my bad.”

both boys stand in front of you now, obstructing your path to the girl’s room. adjusting your grip on your yoga mat you clear your throat, the weight of their gaze finally too much to bear.

“well excuse me,”

“oh! sure yeah,” the blonde boy shuffles aside, his friend slowly following suit. “…wouldn’t want to, uh- miss that,” he stutters lazily pointing at the mat under your arm. he lets out an anguished, embarrassed sigh as his friend stifles a laugh.

your eyes lock a final time, the bridge of your nose rosy and hot. as you disappear into the stillness of the girls’ room you hear the two boys speaking in hushed voices.

“who was THAT?” a voice you can only attribute to the brown haired boy asks.

“I- I don’t know. I think she’s in my math?” his voice like gravel, words spoken carefully.

“she’s bangin’, dude.”

“c’mon man…”

“what!”

this observation of you in your self described “frumpiest” state makes your ears burn, the back of your neck prickle with sweat and nerves of having been truly seen.

shoving your belongings into a locker, you collect your water and yoga mat. on your way out of the room you pause at a mirror, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

‘I guess im not too bad,’ you allow.

as class winds down, you lie flat on your back allowing the melodic whine of the music to rock you gently as you catch your breath. consciously loosening every muscle in your body one after the other, you open your eyes to sneak a look at the others in the class, all lost in their own moments of reflection alongside you. a series of laughs moving through the hallway causes a few of them to open their eyes but their interest quickly wanes. instead, your eyes trail out the door just as the boys from earlier make their way past. their biceps glisten with sweat and otherwise floppy hair sticks to their temples.

a particularly ragged mane of gold glues your eyes to him. his dimples are deep, his flushed lips framed by smile lines as he grins, deep in conversation. your chest rises and falls faster now, seeing him, remembering his hands fixing you in place.

before he’s out of view again, he turns to peek into the class room, eyes dancing from student to student and finally landing on you. the undeniability of your eye contact forces his head down, the beginnings of a blush dusting his cheeks just as he is out of sight.

you release a breath you hadn’t realized you held at the sight of him. he made you nervous, that much was apparent, but why?

leaving, the gym feels emptier without the chime of boys’ abrasive cackles. stepping out into cool autumn air, you’re about to start back to your apartment when you see it.

leaning against a fence post lost in something on his phone it’s as if he can sense you’re there. looking up, his blue eyes seem darker under the cloudy afternoon sky but the smile that pulls at his lips is profound.

“hi,”

he had waited just to see you again.

“can I walk with you?”

🪽

#juniper imagines #art donaldson #art challengers #art donaldson fanfic #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson slowburn #challengers aesthetic #challengers #patrick challengers #gym romance #challengers fanfic #challengers imagine #mike faist #josh o'connor #slow burn #slow burn fic #mutual crush #stanford art #college art donaldson

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theadoptedfandom · 3 months

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“What Makes You Think I Want

Someone To Be In Love With Me?”

#posting my art on tumblr SCARES me FR FR #let’s see if tumblr likes this #art #my art #challengers #challengers fanart #art x patrick x tashi #they’re in love your honor #you don’t know what tennis is #it’s a relationship #idc tashi is aro-coded and I am seen for it #she said I don’t want your love or your romance I wanna fuck and watch y’all give good tennis #and purr #art donaldson #patrick zweig #tashi duncan #illustration #artists on tumblr

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darkficlord69 · 1 month

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About me!

Italian 🇮🇹, 2️⃣3️⃣, Born to Be a Reader 📖 Forced to Be an Aerospace Engineer 🛬🧰, Soul of a Dreamer

You can ask me to write anything as long as it's fairly respectful/degrading. Don't be shy! 😇

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amymbona · 2 months

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Do I go down to the village with the mission of looking for two guys that would be best friends with homoerotic tension but find my humble but hot self so interesting, or stay in the house and write silly things about to fictional best friends with homoerotic tension????

#challengers #patrick zweig #art donaldson #summer romance but it's just me dreaming about being fucked by someone who doesn't exist

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vendetta-ari · 2 months

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guys pls send newsies or challengers asks I beg 😭🙏

#challengers #challengers smut #challengers fluff #challengers romance #newsies broadway #newsies live #newsies musical #newsies #art donaldson #patrick zweig

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diettwistup · 4 months

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HALF OF YOU

PAIRINGS: tashi duncan x f!oc, art donaldson x f!oc, patrick zweig x f!oc

WARNINGS: challengers spoilers, reader is milan mikaelson, sexual situations, language, angst, plot alterations.

WC: 3.9K

NOTES: hey y’all!!! so excited to be posting the first chapter of this story. manifesting my edits are all good LOL. enjoy! 💋

READ BEFORE THIS: INTRO

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTIONS AND EMBARRASSMENTS

US OPEN TOURNAMENT- 2006, 2:00 PM

Sitting down on the hot bleachers, I put my sunglasses on and adjusted the braids in my hair. Sucking on my teeth and brushing my fingers across the hem of my uniform skirt, I let my eyes gaze at the large crowd of people accumulating.

Damn Tashi, you always know how to make a bang.

Crossing my arms and softly laughing, I let my mind wander back to my match yesterday.

I had lost to the girl who would be playing Tashi for the championship. I really don’t know if that was a good or bad thing. On one hand, I lost from a bad call when I was so close to the end. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have to battle my best friend and get absolutely decimated, as she would say.

As I continued to lose myself in thought, two boys, blonde and brunette, moved through the growing crowd and sat in front of me.

You’re kidding me.

Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson—the “fire and ice” duo—had just won their doubles match, if I’m not mistaken. How could I be when their trophies were sitting right on their laps?

There's still a ton of seats open, and they choose to sit here?

Rolling my eyes and crossing my arms, I pushed my sunglasses up, waiting for Tashi to come out.

Staring at the door to the locker rooms, I clicked my tongue in boredom before grabbing the tournament pamphlet to look at everyone’s stats.

“Don’t you wanna meet Tashi Duncan?”

My ears perked at this as I put the pamphlet down and narrowed my eyes at the brunette boy.

Whoever said eavesdropping was a bad thing…

I had to hold in my laughter as they began to talk about Tashi and how she was the entire package. Telling her this later would be the highlight of my week.

“What about Mikaelson, you know her?” Patrick asked as he slung his arm around his companion.

I froze at this and tilted my sunglasses down to better see the two of them.

“Of course I know her. Have you seen her play? She’s fucking hot.” Art added with a smirk as he attempted to whisper, failing miserably.

My face heated up at this as my eyes narrowed at the boys.

Do they not realize the person they’re talking about is behind them?

“Agreed,” Patrick started as he pulled his friend closer. “She’s also got a fat ass.” He laughed as Art chuckled along with him.

Gag.

Closing my eyes and pretending I didn’t hear that, I heard cheers and claps from around, signaling that Tashi had come out of the locker room. The chair umpire immediately began to talk about her stats and how she was the best female player in our division.

I happily clapped as I beamed at my friend, her eyes scanning the crowd and locking with mine, a large smile playing on her features.

“Fuck, did you see that? Tashi Duncan just smiled at us…” Patrick exclaimed in awe as he pushed Art in the chest.

“Shit, I missed it.” Art complained before leaning back and adjusting himself in his seat.

I almost had to cover my mouth to hide the vomit that was about to let loose.

Dumbasses.

After a few minutes, Tashi’s match began, of course, in her favor. Everything was perfect: her serves, backhand, line receives, counterattacks, and every single step she took.

I smirked widely as I watched Tashi decimate the bitch who, unfortunately, decimated me.

Patrick and Art watched Tashi in awe for the first ten minutes of the match while commenting on how amazing a player she was.

I snorted at this, wondering how long it would take to notice who was sitting behind them.

On the next serve, Tashi’s opponent hit the ball out, but the line umpire declared it as in.

Standing up immediately, I pointed a finger and yelled at the top of my lungs.

“What?! Come on, Tash, don’t take that shit!”

Everyone else agreed with me as the crowd began to roar in protest of the shitty call.

Lost in the moment, I hadn’t realized that Patrick and Art had turned around and stared at me in horror and awe.

“Oh,” I started and took off my sunglasses. Did I yell in your ear?” I looked between them before looking back up at Tashi.

“Fuck, you’re-“ Patrick started in a slightly panicked state before I cut him off.

“Milan Mikaelson? Yeah, I’m guessing you two know me.” I spoke with sarcasm as I kept my eyes trained on Tashi and her opponent.

Caught.

“Shit, I’m real sorry for what I said, I-“ Art started before I placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him, eyes still not leaving the game.

“Don’t sweat it, was too focused on the game to give a damn.” I lied straight through my teeth as I pretended to act nonchalant.

I could feel both of their eyes staring long and hard at my hand lingering on Art’s shoulder before I took it away to throw my hands in the air and yell as Tashi locked in another point.

“Come on, Tash!” I yelled and clapped with the roaring crowd, boys still looking back at me.

Sighing, I crossed my arms and looked back down at them. “Take a picture, it will last longer,” I spoke in annoyance before sitting back down and putting on my sunglasses.

All I could hear were muffled whispers and attempts to counteract my statement before they turned back around and shared we’re fucked looks.

Stifling my laughs, I angled my eyes back to the match.

As Tashi continued to hit the ball effortlessly for the rest of the match, her win came almost naturally.

Standing up and yelling, I quickly ran down the bleachers, feeling two pairs of eyes following me. I stood against the fence and clapped loudly while Tashi caught my eyes after her victory yell and smiled widely at me.

I jumped up and down with all the fans cheering with their signs and matching t-shirts.

Running around the court to thank everyone for coming, Tashi came over to me and grabbed my hands.

“Tashi! I’m so proud!” I yelled and bounced on my heels, extremely happy with my friend's success.

“My biggest fan.” She smiled and reached over to hug me before letting go and continuing to thank everyone.

Smiling proudly at her, I pushed my braids behind my back and took off my sunglasses. Turning around, I looked back at the sea of people cheering for Tashi before my eyes landed on two figures.

What a mystery those two are…

I smirked proudly at them as their eyes shifted between Tashi walking back to her locker room and myself standing by the fence.

Patrick leaned over to Art and whispered something as their eyes darted between us. I could only see Patrick's smirk and Art’s growing grin at his friend's words.

Snorting to myself, I turned around and put my sunglasses back on.

“Fucking morons…”

ADIDAS BRAND PARTY - 2006 8:00 PM

“Tashi!” I exclaimed as I weaved through a crowd of familiar and influential faces to ambush my best friend.

I could see her bright smile miles away as she turned to meet me at the edge of the dancefloor, engulfing her in a hug.

“Milan, I was wondering if you weren’t coming.” She laughed as she wrapped her arms around me and returned my hug.

Pulling away, I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. “Tashi Duncan, my best friend, thought I would miss out on this?!” I questioned as I gestured to the bustling party. "You must be crazy if you think I would miss out on anything that concerned you and your tennis career,” I snapped at her with a knowing smirk.

“I’ll have you know I was late because my mother insisted on making me change ten times.” I rolled my eyes and tilted my head to where our moms were conversing. I stuck my nose up and closed my eyes, annoyed at the memory of how nagging my mother was when getting ready for the party.

Immediately, she raised her hands in defense and raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, Miss Mikaelson, didn’t mean to assume.” She laughed before crossing her arms.

I watched her expression change slightly as her eyes softened and lips parted.

“I watched your match yesterday,” she said, lightly treading. “I’m sorry about the loss.” She finished and brought a hand to my shoulder, rubbing it gently with a sad smile.

Flashes of my match fluttered back into my mind as a small pit formed in my stomach.

I shrugged this off and took up a carefree attitude, whereas my insides were screaming.

“It was a shitty call, what can I say? That bitch had and has nothing on me.” I smirked and made sure not to falter, but secretly, the loss had internally crushed me.

Tashi laughed, brought her other hand to my shoulder, and bent down to level our eyes. “Don't worry, I decimated her for you. Plus, at Stanford, the both of us will be fucking up bitches right and left.” She shot a cocky smirk at this as I gave her one back in turn.

Stanford. The next four years of my life with Tashi Duncan would be the ultimate dream.

Right?

I extended my pinky to Tashi with a slight wink. “Promise?” I bit my bottom lip and smirked at this familiar gesture between us.

As long as I can remember, Tashi and I have made over a hundred pinky promises. Our first one involved her letting me borrow her Barbie doll while we played house and my promise to return it. Since then, it’s been a norm between us.

I felt the confidence radiating from Tashi’s grin as she moved her right hand from my shoulder to interlock our pinkies.

“Promise.” She repeated and swung our interlocked pinkies back and forth.

I laughed like a child all over again before quickly raking my eyes across the entire party. As I scanned the crowd, I let go of Tashi’s pinky and leaned in to whisper.

“Lots of important people here, I see,” I whispered as Tashi’s eyes followed mine.

“And familiar faces too…” She responded in a lower tone, angling her eyes to an older man by the beverages.

“Shut up!” I gasped before looking back at Tashi. “Is that Mr. Reynolds?!” I asked in shock at seeing our fifth-grade English teacher.

“Yup,” Tashi responded, standing straight as she crossed her arms. She studied the older man as he scanned the beverages offered. “He was always my favorite,” she quipped, not needing a huge explanation for why he was here.

At this, I burst out into laughter, as did she.

“I thought he died years ago.” I clutched my stomach before placing a hand over my mouth and muffling my small laughs. “Wait, that’s not nice. I mean, I thought he passed on peacefully years ago.” I corrected in a serious tone as I watched the older man before glancing at Tashi and bursting into laughter again.

As I laughed with Tashi, I felt a burning feeling on the back of my head.

Was someone staring?

Wiping my eyes carefully to avoid messing up my makeup, I slowly turned around and almost froze as I locked eyes with the person, or should I say persons, staring at Tashi and me.

Oh, hell no. Is that who I think it is?

Quickly, I turned back around and whispered to Tashi in a hurried tone.

“Tash, is that Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?” I looked her in the eye as they narrowed at the mention of the “fire and ice” duo’s presence at the party.

“Oh yeah, they’ve been staring all night.” She smirked and looked between the two of us. “Frankly, I don’t blame them.” Her smirk grows even wider, mirroring the Cheshire Cat.

Biting my lip, I remembered my earlier encounter with the two tennis players. I shuddered as I remembered their smirks and remarks about Tashi and me.

“Tash…” I said warningly, pointing my perfectly manicured finger in her face. “Please tell me you don’t have one of your ideas in mind.” I slightly scolded her, studying her face to see what she was thinking. “Those two are complete and utter idiots.” I continued as I shook my head.

She wrapped an arm around my shoulder and whispered back as she lowered my finger and sucked on her teeth. “Do you really need to ask this?” She questioned with an air that spoke obviously, are you stupid?

“And believe me,” She started and moved to fix the straps of my dress. “I know exactly how they are…teenage boys.” She snickered wider at this as I rolled my eyes.

I huffed loudly before grabbing a piece of my hair to fiddle while I groaned. “But Tash, it’s our summer before we go to college. No boys.” I retorted as the music in the background got a little louder.

Grabbing my hands, Tashi dragged us to the middle of the dance floor and forced me to dance. “First of all,” She started as she twirled me around, “This was never a pinky promise.” She spoke, wrapped her arms around my neck, and swayed us to the music.

Fuck, she got me there.

“Second of all,” She continued before touching my neck to untangle my necklaces while swaying with me. “I know you’re internally drooling over Art Donaldson. He’s exactly your type, and he’s going to Stanford.” She laughed to herself as she worked on my necklaces.

Fuck x2 can’t deny that.

I rolled my eyes and turned away, knowing I couldn’t argue either of those statements.

“You’re crazy…” Was all I could protest.

Untangling my necklaces, Tashi clapped and smiled brightly at me before putting her hands back on my shoulders. “This is gonna be a great start to the summer.” She grinned like a mad woman as we kept dancing across the floor.

After dancing, mingling, and trying not to focus on the two hard stares hitting Tashi's and my head for the entire night, I decided to go to the beach.

“Hey, Tash, I’m going to the beach for a quick breather. If my mom asks, I’ll be down there. Come down if you need anything or if I miss something interesting.” I smile gently at her while I take my heels off.

“Got it. Be safe.” She waved before going to get pictures with her family.

I smiled at her before walking to navigate the path to go down to the beach, pretending not to notice the two pairs of eyes following me.

10:00 PM

I wonder how long I had been down here listening to the sweet waves ripple against the hot sand. I almost feel as if the ocean is calling me.

Imagine the escape of living on a secluded island where nothing mattered. Not school, not tennis, and not the future.

Especially the future.

Staring at my newly manicured nails, I continued to get lost in my thoughts while the ocean rang in my ears.

Shit, I’m over everything.

I reached a hand up to my mouth and began to bite one of my nails.

Do I even wanna go to Stanford?

Practically gnawing at it, I can feel the acrylic wearing off.

Doesn’t matter because I’ll be with Tashi… right?

SNAP

“Fuck…” I muttered to myself as I broke off a nail, leaving a tiny bit of blood seeping from my nail bed.

Rolling my eyes, I held onto the broken nail and rested my head on my knee as I watched the ocean.

“We’re not interrupting, are we?” I heard a deep voice ask behind me, making me let out a small yelp and nearly fall off the rock.

Quickly turning around, I was met with two, unfortunately familiar, faces.

Why now?

Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson stood before me, shoes in one hand and cigarettes in the other. Frankly, I had no idea which one spoke, and I had no care to know at this rate. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, and they disturbed that.

“What the fuck,” I explained as I stood up from the rock and patted my dress down. “Do you know how rude it is to sneak up on someone?” I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes as I looked between the two boys sheepishly standing before me.

“Shit, really sorry, didn’t know you were here,” Patrick spoke up as his counterpart dropped his cigarette from his lips upon seeing me study his stature.

Bullshit.

“Hm, okay, well, I’ll be going then,” I exclaimed, irritated, as I bent down to grab my heels. “I hope you two have a grand time.” I sarcastically quipped as I went to walk past them and go back up the path to the party.

“Wait,” Art, almost panicked, stood before me with a lopsided grin as he flicked his cigarette bud beside him and treaded lightly as he motioned to the chairs near the rock I had just occupied. “We’d love it if you joined us, just for a chat.” He had a genuine smile on his face now.

Are they serious?

Before I could open my mouth, Patrick beat me to it as he walked to sit in one of the chairs Art motioned to.

“Yeah, just to talk. You're one of the best players in our age bracket, and it would be a real treat to get to know you as an apology for what happened earlier.” Patrick added and smirked so wide I could feel pure smitten radiating off it.

They are serious.

Both boys were now staring at me, gazes identical in pure amazement, awaiting my response.

Fuck this. Fuck me. Fuck x3.

Sighing softly and crossing my arms, I dropped my shoes, returned to the rock, and sat down.

“You get five minutes,” I spoke curtly as I looked between the boys, waiting for one of them to speak up.

Art took this chance to open his mouth, but before he could begin, I held a hand up to stop him.

“Oh, and there’s no need to introduce yourselves. Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig, the “fire and ice” duo.” I spoke unenthusiastically, keeping my eyes on Art for a little longer before angling my expression to Patrick.

Both boys stared at me with slight smirks as I adjusted my dress and grabbed a piece of hair to play with while they continued.

“Well, Milan Mikaelson,”

I inwardly shuddered as he spoke my full name.

“During your match, I thought that call was fucked.” Patrick spoke up and got right to the point. He laughed as if he remembered it as a fond childhood memory.

Almost instantly, Art chimed in to add to his friends' thoughts, a bit too eager for my liking. “I mean, that Anna girl could barely serve your entire match, and then that?” He stated as he shook his head, acting like he was scolding my opponent to her face like a coach.

My eyes lit up at this. They knew how to crack me. Bring up my pride and losses, and I’ll talk your ear off for hours.

“I think the official was blind because that bitch’s ball was totally past the line,” I explained matter-of-factly. “Did you see the way he hesitated before calling it? He probably had it in with her.” I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms in annoyance at the memory of the loss.

“Still, you were fucking amazing out there. How did you get your backhand to be that powerful?” Art quickly added and leaned forward in his chair as if moving closer to me would allow him to understand my words better.

I let a slight smile adorn my features as I studied his position.

Fuck x4.

For the next four minutes, the three of us talked about tennis and our matches throughout the tournament. Though brief, I could quickly tell how these two relied on each other and their sport. It was definitely the glue for their friendship. I could also tell how they hung onto my every word, like a toddler waiting for his mother to let him out of the time-out-chair.

Checking my watch, I stood up and looked between the boys.

“Though this was fun, your five minutes is up.” I flashed my watch at them with a subtle smile before bending down to grab my shoes.

When I bent down, I could hear some rushed scuffles and whispers. Standing back up, I saw that both boys were also standing, very tense, might I add.

“How can we contact you to do this again?” Patrick asked with a smirk, which I presume was a signature for him.

Raising an eyebrow at him, I crossed my arms and looked between him and his blonde companion.

“Who said I wanted to do this again?” I asked as Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets with a defeated grin while Art let out a muffled chuckle.

“Come on, this was fun.” Art added and took a cautious step towards me. “Can we get your number?” He asked as he studied my face with the cheekiest grin he could muster.

I laughed at his question dryly before pointing my finger between the two boys. “We? You think I’m gonna get between this? Hell no.” I replied, walking past them to the stairs and back to the party.

Immediately, I could feel their eyes staring into the back of my head, and I wondered if they would beg or plead.

They better not.

“Come to our hotel,” Patrick yelled, making me whip my head around. “We have beer,” he grinned once he saw my interest somewhat piqued.

Fuck x5.

“It’s not far from here. We can talk more.” He gestured between the three of us and then pointed up to the party.

This made me look back to the party, about to question what he meant before Patrick chimed in.

“We talked to Tashi earlier and told her the same thing. Would be fun getting to know the beautiful golden tennis girl duo.” He chuckled as I watched his eyes flicker from my face to my lips.

This made my face heat up, but I would never reveal that. Teenage boys don’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing they have any sort of effect on me.

Clicking my tongue, I nodded at this new piece of information.

Tashi did say she had a plan in place. This could be fun.

“Maybe,” I replied as my eyes shifted between the boys.

You’re not easy, Milan Mikaleson. Remember that.

“Depends on my mood.” I finished and shot them small smirks before walking back up the stairs, not giving the boys a moment to retort.

As I walked back to the party, my eyes shut as I felt a headache coming on.

What the hell did I get myself into?

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chlmtsdoll · 1 month

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I 100% use my writing as a manifestation tool so I’m already thinking of doing a continuation of this france with Art fic ;)

#I just love this plot #but I need something spicy to happen at the wedding #I live for the drama and the tea #also romance obvi #idk what do you guys think #art donaldson #i love art donaldson #x reader #challengers

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wannab3-writer · 5 months

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Game, Set, Love

ART DONALDSON X READER (18+)

Mature Content Warnings: spoilers if you SQUINT , Forbidden Love, Second-Chance Romance, Age Gap, Mentor and Protégé, cheating ( sorta, not on reader), SMUT, NOT PROOF READ.

WC: 13.2 k

description

After walking away from tennis at the height of his career, Art Donaldson finds himself drawn back into the sport as a favour to an old friend. His new charge, Katrina King, is a talented but emotionally young player navigating the intense pressures of the professional tennis circuit. Art and Katrina's connection deepens as they train for the 2020 US Open but a single night changes everything.

2020 BEVERLLY HILLS CHALLENGER

August 31st, 2020

Art Donaldson sat in the shaded section of the stands, his arms resting casually on the armrests. He'd made it clear to everyone—Tashi and the media—that he was done with tennis. But Martha King, a long-time supporter of his and Tashi's tennis foundation, insisted that he attend, going so far as to cover all his expenses for the weekend so he could attend. Her daughter, Katrina King, was playing her final challenger before qualifying for the US Open, and Martha believed it was something he couldn’t miss.

"It's just one set; I'm not going to sit here and beg you to coach her or anything. Just watch, Art. I think you'll find it worthwhile."

Art nodded slightly, keeping his expression neutral. "I’m here, aren't I?" he said, keeping an aloof facade. He glanced toward the court, where Katrina was preparing to serve and begin the last set. Her movements were fluid and purposeful. He'd heard about her talent and determination, but he wasn't ready to be pulled back into the tennis world.

The game began, and Katrina's serve was powerful, almost explosive. Art watched with mild interest as her opponent, a seasoned French player, struggled to keep up. He watched her body move, head to toe, taking her in. She was tall and lean; her body was nothing less than an athletes that was for sure.

"She's impressive," Art commented, a hint of genuine appreciation in his voice. Katrina’s mother smiled, her perfectly manicured fingers resting on her lap, glancing over towards him.

"She works hard," she replied. "A lot like Tashi used to. I remember watching her play when she was just starting out. She had the same intensity, the same drive."

That had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Art's gaze lingered on Katrina as she moved around the court with confidence and agility. Each shot was precise. He found himself leaning forward slightly, and his interest piqued despite his best efforts to remain indifferent.

Martha noticed the shift in his demeanor and cocked a brow. "It's good to see you out here, Art. I know you didn't want to come, but I'm glad you did," she said, her voice soft yet firm. Art nodded, his eyes fixed on the match.

"I'm just watching; nothing special, really," he replied, unsure if he was convincing himself or her. — Another ace, and the crowd erupted in applause. Art found himself joining in, clapping slowly, though his eyes were locked on Katrina. Something about her—the energy, the focus—reminded him of the early days, the days of fire and ice, Stanford, Wimbledon, and Tashi. It was electric.

As the match progressed, Art's arms uncrossed, and he sat forward, his attention fully on the game. Katrina was dominating, each point building momentum until she reached the match point. The rallies were intense, and the shots were sharp and strategic. With one last ace, Katrina secured the game and title, and her triumphant fist-pump met with a roar from the crowd.

Art stood, clapping with genuine enthusiasm. It had been a long time since he'd felt this kind of excitement watching a match. Martha looked at him, raising an eyebrow, her expression expectant.

"Well?" she asked, her voice warm but with an edge that demanded a response.

Art hesitated only briefly, the words coming out almost involuntarily. "I'll do it," he said, realizing that he meant it. The idea of coaching Katrina suddenly seemed like an opportunity he couldn't pass up.

Martha smiled, giving him a tight-lipped smile. "I knew you'd come around," she said. "Katrina will be thrilled."

Art nodded, his gaze returning to the court where Katrina stood, smiling at the applause. Turning towards the crowd after a few seconds, she found her mother’s gaze, and then — Arts, and she held a fiery look in her eyes, sporting a raised brow and sly smirk for what felt like at least a minute. One thing was sure for Katrina, on August 31st, 2020, the match wasn’t the only thing she had won that day, and maybe, just maybe, tennis had a place for him again.

THE MEETING

Katrina King walked down the narrow corridor backstage, sweaty, hot, and short of breath, the adrenaline from her victory still coursing through her veins. She was basking in her win, her smile broad and confident. But her mother's text just minutes after the game was clear: "Come to the players' lounge. Now."

She pushed open the door and saw her mother sitting at a small table with Art Donaldson. Katrina knew who he was—everyone in tennis knew. A former tennis champion, the US Open winner from a decade earlier.

Art looked up as Katrina entered the room, his eyes scanning her with a mix of curiosity and appraisal. Her long hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, and her eyes sparkled with a mix of intensity and confidence. He noticed the subtle tilt of her chin—she was used to winning, and it showed.

"Katrina," Martha said, gesturing for her to join them. "You remember Art Donaldson, don't you?"

"Of course," Katrina replied, extending her hand. Art stood, his movement deliberate, and shook her hand firmly. His hair was longer than she remembered, resembling his past self, his Stanford days, and recalling his games she'd seen on YouTube. His grip was strong.

"Great game today," Art said, his voice measured. "You played with a lot of confidence. That last ace was a killer."

"Thanks," Katrina replied, a hint of pride in her tone. She could tell he was assessing her and weighing her potential. She didn't mind—she'd done the same with him, reading up on his career and his playing style as soon as she found out he was attending her game. He was known for his

Martha cleared her throat. "But," she said, her tone turning sharp, "there were a few things you need to work on. Your backhand was a bit sloppy today. And you were late on a couple of volleys. If your opponent had been more aggressive, you could've lost points."

Katrina's expression hardened. She knew her mother was right, but the criticism was not something that needed to be said in front of Art; for God sake, she was a 20-year-old woman but felt like she was a child getting scolded in front of her peers, especially after a big win. Art watched the exchange, noting the dynamic between them.

"I'll work on it," Katrina said, her voice steady. "But I got the win, didn't I?"

"You need to be prepared for tougher competition. Complacency is the enemy." Martha replied. “If you think you can win the grand slam playing like that, you’ll be in for a rude awakening, Katrina.”

Art leaned back in his chair, watching the interplay. Katrina definitely had the spark and the drive, but there was also a stubborn streak in her.

So Tashi

When she was younger, she was always pushing boundaries and never satisfied with just a win. He could see the potential for greatness.

"She's got a point," Art said, jumping in. "There's always room for improvement. But you played a solid game today. The key is to keep that momentum going without getting overconfident."

Katrina glanced at him, assessing his words. She appreciated his straightforward approach. He wasn't coddling her, but he also wasn't tearing her down. It was a balance she could respect.

"I'm not planning on slowing down," she said, meeting his gaze. "I want to keep getting better. Whatever it takes."

Art nodded. He liked her attitude. It was raw and unfiltered, just like he had been. But there was also a hint of something else—an edge that could either make or break her career. He'd have to be careful, tread lightly, and guide her without pushing too hard.

"Good," he replied, a faint smile on his lips. "Because coaching isn't just about winning. It's about building a mindset, a work ethic, and knowing when to listen. You up for that?"

Katrina raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You wouldn’t have agreed to coach me if I wasn’t.”

PRACTICE

Art Donaldson stepped into the grand foyer of the White residence, feeling a slight twinge of unease. The housekeepers greeted him politely, their voices formal and distant, leading him through the opulent hallways.

The backyard was large, with meticulously manicured gardens and a full-sized tennis court at its center. Katrina was on the court, stretching with the fluid grace of a seasoned athlete. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and in her matching tennis outfit, everything was neatly upheld, even Katrina.

"Hi," she said, her tone somewhat neutral, almost formal. "Ready for practice?"

Art nodded, his expression detached.

Katrina stretched a little longer, glancing at Art occasionally. He stood with his arms crossed, his posture stiff and unwelcoming. The silence between them felt heavy, and neither seemed eager to break it. Katrina was used to coaches being more engaged and enthusiastic, but Art seemed distant, as if he was doing this out of obligation rather than passion.

"Let's get started," he replied, keeping his voice level. He placed his bag on a bench and scanned the court, taking in the pristine surface and the quality equipment. It was clear that the King family spared no expense on Katrina's training facilities.

Art finally spoke, outlining the plan for the day. "We'll start with your serve. There's a lot of power, which is why you can get so many aces in, but you need better footwork if you want to avoid long-term injuries. Then we'll work on your defense, and after that, we'll focus on your shot selection."

Katrina listened with a mix of uncertainty and skepticism. Art Donaldson wasn't the type to mince words, and despite his unbothered demeanor, his comments were sharp and to the point. What puzzled her was how much he seemed to know about her style, despite only seeing her play once.?

Art continued, his voice even and matter-of-fact. "I've reviewed some of your past games, mostly the ones you lost. It's clear you have the raw strength and power, but you rely on them too much. That's great for getting those aces, but without proper technique and precision, you're risking injuries and inconsistency. We need to refine that raw power and give it more structure."

Katrina couldn't help but feel a flicker of irritation. She knew she was strong, and her serve was one of the best on the circuit, but hearing someone dissect her game so quickly was unsettling. This was only their first practice; they hadn’t even started playing yet, but somehow Art already seemed to know her weaknesses better than most of her previous coaches.

Art continued, unaware of her internal resistance. "So, I've created a set of drills that will help improve your footwork and balance. It's not just about hitting the ball hard; it's about control and accuracy. If we don't work on these areas, you're going to burn out before you reach your peak."

Katrina folded her arms, her brow furrowing slightly. She wasn't one to take criticism lightly, especially from someone who'd barely spent time with her. Art had a point—she'd heard similar comments before—but his bluntness felt a bit too forward for her liking. Who was he to tell her she needed refinement after only seeing her play once?

As much as she wanted to dismiss him, she knew, deep down, that he was right. Her strength was a double-edged sword; it gave her an edge, but it also left her vulnerable. She'd suffered minor injuries in the past due to poor technique, and she'd lost matches because of these errors. Art's critique, though harsh, had truth to it.

Art noticed her hesitation and the slight edge in her expression. "I know this might sound a bit blunt," he said, softening his tone slightly. "But I'm not here to sugarcoat things. If you want to make it to the top and stay there, you need to listen and adjust. This isn't about criticism—it's about giving you the best chance to succeed."

Katrina sighed, feeling her resistance wane. Maybe Art was a bit too forward, but he wasn't wrong. He had seen something in her that others hadn't—or maybe he was just willing to point it out where others had stayed silent. She was stubborn, but she wasn't stupid.

"Okay," she said, her voice steady. "Let's give it a shot."

Art nodded, his demeanor slightly less rigid. "Good. Let's start with the footwork drills. I'll show you what I mean."

As they moved onto the court to begin the practice, Katrina felt a cautious sense of optimism. Art was a mystery; she had only met him once before and couldn’t recall him being this cold, but there was something about his straightforwardness that felt refreshing, even if it rubbed her the wrong way at first. Maybe this coaching thing would work out after all—if she could just learn to trust his instincts.

Art watched her for a while, his arms still crossed. He occasionally offered a brief correction, but his tone lacked enthusiasm. "Keep your elbow in on your serve. It'll give you more control," he said without much inflection.

Katrina adjusted her stance and served again, this time with better accuracy. "I got it," she replied, glancing at Art to gauge his reaction. He simply nodded, his face expressionless.

As the practice progressed, the tension between them slowly eased. Art started giving more detailed feedback, explaining why certain techniques were important. Katrina listened intently, realizing that, despite his aloof demeanor, he knew his stuff. His advice was sound, and when she followed it, she could see near-immediate improvement in her game.

"You're not bad at this coaching thing," she remarked, trying to lighten the mood. Art gave a faint smile, the first she'd seen from him. "Just repeating what I've heard a thousand times," he replied.

Katrina tilted her head, curiosity getting the better of her. "Didn't Tashi coach you your whole career? There must have been an adjustment when you two decided to retire, huh?" After those words left her mouth, she knew she had hit a sore spot.

Art's expression changed, the brief smile vanishing. "Yeah, she was." She hadn't meant any harm; really, it was an honest question. Art had a successful career with more than enough titles under his belt, not to mention a prior injury; it only made sense to retire when he did.

His voice grew colder. "Alright, breaks over." He turned away, signaling the end of the conversation.

The rest of the practice was more focused, with Art providing steady guidance and Katrina working hard to apply his advice. As the session drew to a close, Katrina felt a subtle shift in Art's attitude. He seemed a bit more relaxed and engaged in the process.

Before they wrapped up, Katrina decided to ask a question that had been on her mind. "Art, why did you agree to coach me?" she asked, her tone softer, almost hesitant. “No offense, but you didn't seem the most pleased when you got here.” She stopped and laughed. “And I know my mother's paying you well, but I'm sure you do good for yourself on your own.”

Art paused, considering his response. He looked up to the sky in thought, licking his lips only to settle his gaze on her while she rolled out her quads. "When I watched your game, I saw the determination and drive for tennis that I haven't seen in a long time," he said, his voice softer, almost reflective. "Not since Tashi," he added, his eyes distant. The memory of Tashi's knee injury and the end of her career lingered in the air. “It honestly felt like I was watching her for the first time again.”

Katrina nodded, sensing the heaviness in his words. "Thank you," she said quietly. She knew there was more to Art's story, but she also knew it wasn't her place to press further. She got up after her stretch, dusting herself off.

Art nodded, "We'll meet again tomorrow at the same time," he said, his voice returning to its usual calm. Katrina agreed, sensing that this coaching relationship would take time to develop but feeling that they were on the right track. “I think it would be a smart move to sign you up for some challengers; we’ll be able to fully gauge your abilities after a couple of weeks of training and see what we need to adjust.”

AFTER PRACTICE

Katrina stepped out of the shower, the hot water having done little to soothe the tension in her shoulders. The first practice with Art had been intense, and her muscles were starting to feel the strain. Wrapping a towel around herself, she took a deep breath, wondering if she'd made the right choice in agreeing to work with him.

As she got dressed, the scent of dinner wafted through the air, a rich aroma that made her stomach rumble. She hadn't eaten much during the day, and she hoped her mom would let her have something substantial.

Katrina entered the dining room, where her mother was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of wine in hand. The table was set with a carefully arranged selection of dishes, but Katrina noticed the absence of anything remotely indulgent. No desserts, no heavy carbs, just the usual assortment of protein and vegetables.

"Good evening, Mom," Katrina said, forcing a smile as she took a seat. Her mother looked up from her phone, her eyes bright but her expression serious.

"Katrina," Martha replied, her tone even. "How was practice with art?"

Katrina shrugged, picking up a piece of grilled chicken. "It was fine. He's... intense, but I guess that's to be expected from someone like him." She paused, then added, "How did you even get him to come to my match? He's been avoiding tennis for ages."

Martha's smile was tight, the kind that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Art and I have a history; we’ve always been interested in his foundational work. I just reminded him of the impact he could make by coming back, even if it was just for one match. And you know, he doesn't say no to me, not when your father and I are as generous as we are during his charity events."

Katrina raised an eyebrow, sensing the hint of manipulation in her mother's words. "So you used the foundation to guilt him into coming?"

Classic

Martha's eyes narrowed slightly. "It's not guilt, Katrina. It's connections; your father and I do a lot for you and your career. There's a difference.” She paused. “The money we put into the foundations were investments for you; we would have preferred Tashi, sure, but after Art retired, she went off to coach some European girls, so we got the second best.” She was irritated. “Besides, I thought you'd be happy to have a coach like Art. You said yourself you needed someone with real experience."

Katrina sighed, realizing that arguing with her mom was a lost cause. "I guess," she said, taking a cautious bite of the chicken. She glanced at the dessert tray on the far end of the table, spotting a small dish of fruit tarts. Her mouth watered at the sight of them.

Martha followed her gaze and shook her head. "Don't even think about it," she said firmly. "Your dietitian would have a fit. You know you're on a strict regimen."

Katrina rolled her eyes, but she didn't push back. Her mom was relentless when it came to her career, and any deviation from the plan was met with immediate correction. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, feeling her appetite wane.

“Where’s Jayden and Judea?” Katrina asked only now, noticing her siblings were missing from the dinner table.

“They went out to dinner with the rest of the kids that train with them and coach Pattcheo.”

“mmh.”

After dinner, Katrina retreated to her room, closing the door behind her. She felt a mix of frustration and curiosity. Frustration with her mom's overbearing attitude and curiosity about Art.

She opened her laptop and started searching for Art's social media profiles. His Instagram was sparse, mostly old tennis photos and a few promotional shots, brand deals, and the foundation. Barley has no pictures of his daughter and no recent ones of Tashi. His Facebook was similar, with long gaps between posts. There were articles about his career, but nothing stood out.

"For such a big shot, there’s not much for me to stalk," she muttered to herself, scrolling through the limited content. It was clear that Art wasn't one for the limelight, preferring to keep a low profile. Katrina found herself intrigued.

She searched for videos of his old matches, curious to see him in action. She found a few highlights from his glory days, watching as he moved across the court with precision and grace. It was easy to see why he'd been a champion—his technique was flawless, and his focus was intense.

"Not bad," she said to herself, watching a particularly impressive rally where he had dominated his opponent.

As the night grew darker, Katrina closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair. Art was weird, and she wasn't sure how to feel about him yet. But one thing was clear—he had a depth that she'd have to uncover if she wanted to make the most of his coaching. And maybe, just maybe, he'd be the one to help her reach the next level.

SIX DAYS BEFORE US OPEN

It was six days before the Open, and Art stood at the far end of the court, watching Katrina as she moved through a set of agility drills. The sun was beating down, but Katrina was relentless, her movements swift and precise. As he took her in, he marveled at how good she looked. The thin layer of sweat that covered her form made her glow in the evening light, with her baby hair clinging to her face as she hit ball after ball. He drank in her curves, nearly forgetting what he was actually here for.

Art was calling out instructions, his voice clear but encouraging. Clearly, the past five weeks of training had brought them closer, both in skill and in the ease with which they interacted.

"Remember to keep your weight centered," Art said, pointing toward her feet. "Don't lean too much into the shot; it'll throw off your balance. Other than that, you’re looking good."

Katrina nodded, adjusting her stance. She enjoyed the sound of his voice, especially when he was praising her. It felt genuine, not just a coach’s platitude. She could sense an unspoken tension between them, but she couldn't quite define it. It was there, in the way his eyes lingered a fraction longer than they needed to, in the way he sometimes reached out to correct her form.

"Nice volley," Art said as she expertly returned the ball over the net. "You're really getting the hang of these drills."

"Thanks," Katrina replied, giving him a small smile. "I learned from the best."

Art chuckled, shaking his head. "Flattery won't save you on the court, but it's appreciated." He watched as she moved into position for a backhanded hit, a play that had been a weak point for her. She swung, and the ball clipped the net.

Maybe she was just tired, or maybe he just looked too good; either way, she was distracted. How was she supposed to focus when he was standing with his broad shoulders and arms crossed and that damn backwards Sandford snapback observing like a hawk? She understood that’s his job; he’s quite literally getting paid to be here. Something was different though; the look he gave her five weeks ago, shit even two weeks ago, was nothing near the way he looks at her now.

“Stop.” He says, and she halts her hit.

Art moved closer, taking a pause, before walking behind her, closing the distance between them. "Here, let me show you," he said, reaching around her to correct her grip on the racket. His breath was warm on her neck, and Katrina tensed, feeling a heat that wasn't from the sun. His touch was gentle but firm, guiding her into the proper position.

"Like this," Art said, stepping back slightly but still close enough to feel his presence. "Keep your elbow straight and your wrist firm."

Katrina nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She took a deep breath and swung again, this time clearing the net with ease.

“There we go, atta girl.” He whispered while cracking a smile.

She felt hot, oh god, and it definitely wasn’t the sun. How could he say that so casually? She didn’t have to just deal with the fact that she’s now all hot and bothered, but also the guilty embarrassment of realizing she has a fat crush on her 30-sum-year-old tennis coach, who just happens to be a husband and father.

Right

Pulling away, she changes the subject, considering he’s been silent for the past minute and a half. "How's your daughter doing? And Tashi?" She felt the atmosphere shift as Art cleared his throat, stepping back.

"Lily's doing well," he replied, his voice controlled. "She's on tour with Tashi, who's coaching her for the season." He left it at that, his eyes avoiding hers as he focused on the court. "Keep hitting the ball with that form," he added, his tone all business now.

Art adjusted his pants, his expression tight, and turned to leave. "I'll be right back," he said. "I just need to run to the bathroom."

Katrina watched him go, her heart still racing from the moment he'd been so close. She tried to push the thoughts aside, focusing on her training, but the lingering warmth of his presence was hard to ignore. The open tournament was coming up, and she needed to be at her best, both on and off the court. The challenge would be to keep her focus where it needed to be.

“Oh, what the fuck, Art?” feeling his own disappointment, he said to himself as he did his best to fix the hard-on that was growing by the second. What would he give to be able to take a cold shower right now?

Scurrying to the bathroom, he quickly shut the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and leans against the door, contemplating what just happened and palming himself.

“Fuck” was uttered in a raspy and hushed manner.

He turns to look at himself in the mirror. He felt guilty forgetting hard for a girl over a decade younger than him. But that wasn’t what he really felt guilty about. He felt guilty because he liked it. She was fiery; she was driven, and the way she looked at him, with admiration, was long since Tashi looked at him with any emotion of the sort. Katrina made him feel good about himself. And fuck, was she hot. He was almost certain that as the days of training passed, the length of her skirt shortened and her tops got tighter, or maybe he just started paying attention to it.

He needed to stop thinking of her for his sanity and his cocks, because leaving every practice with blue balls for the last week and a half hasn’t been pleasant.

Splashing himself with cold water and tucking his dick into his waistband, he walks back out before she starts questioning anything.

"All right, that's it for today," he called out, clapping his hands to get her attention. "Good work. We'll take it easy tomorrow, then hit the road the day after."

Katrina straightened, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. "Thanks," she said, her voice a little breathless from the intense workout. "I feel good about it. I think we're ready."

Art nodded, watching her carefully as she walked toward him. There was a grace to her movements, even in her exhaustion. She carried herself with confidence, but there was also a vulnerability that he'd come to recognize. It was in the way she sometimes hesitated before speaking or the way her eyes softened when they shared a joke.

"Thanks for, you know, doing this," Katrina said, her eyes meeting his. "I know you didn't have to, but... I'm glad you did."

Art felt a strange warmth in his chest, a sense of connection that he'd been avoiding, or perhaps suppressing. There was something about Katrina that made him want to stay, to guide her through the ups and downs of the game. And it wasn't just about tennis. It was something deeper, something that made him feel almost protective.

"It's been a good few weeks," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "You've got a lot of potential, Katrina. I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could go far."

She smiled, a genuine smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Thanks. It means a lot to hear that from you."

There was a moment of silence, a charged pause where neither of them moved. He knew he should step back and create some distance, but he found himself drawn in, his gaze lingering on her lips, then her eyes. There was something about her.

"All right," he said, finally breaking the silence. "Get some rest tonight. We've got a long drive ahead of us, and I need you focused."

Katrina nodded, her eyes locking with his. The tension was palpable, a mix of excitement and something else, something neither of them wanted to name. Art felt the stirrings of something almost primal, a desire that had been dormant for a long time. He knew it wasn't appropriate, but it was there, simmering just beneath the surface.

"Good night," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

"Good night," he replied, his eyes lingering on her a moment longer than they should. "Rest up. I'll see you tomorrow." With his things packed, he walked off the court, leaving her to stretch.

The US Open tournament was coming, and with it, a new set of challenges—both on and off the court.

THE DRIVE TO SAN DIEGO

This was unexpected. Somehow, Katrina was sitting in the passenger seat of Arts Blue Bronco and had managed to snag herself a one-on-one tournament weekend with the Art Donaldson himself. Her mother had only missed three of her games throughout her entire career. The first time was when Katrina was 12. Her mother didn't attend because Katrina had just started playing tennis, and her mother assumed she wouldn't be good enough to watch, so she spent her time on holiday with the neighborhood housewives and was pleasantly surprised when Katrina returned with her first trophy. The second time was when Katrina was 16. Their grandmother had passed away, but Katrina's mother insisted that Katrina should play in the game instead of staying home to grieve like a normal person. She told Katrina that every win was one step closer to a successful career; bad things happen all the time, and you simply “need to get over it and move on." The third time was today, when Katrina was 20, after her little brother's appendix unexpectedly burst at 4 a.m. in the morning, and he and their mom had to rush to the hospital.

"How do you feel about your mom not being here this time?" Art asked, leaning back in his seat. He took a sip of his coffee, glancing at Katrina's expression carefully.

Katrina shrugged. "Honestly? I'm kind of happy she's not here. It's like a weight off my shoulders. I don't have to worry about her criticizing every move I make or every shot I miss."

Art nodded, sensing the relief in her voice. "Your mom seems pretty tough on you."

"She is," Katrina replied, swirling her drink. "She talks a big game, but sometimes I think she doesn't really know what she's saying. Like when she criticizes my plays—she doesn't really get the game, you know? She just wants to be involved, but it's not always helpful."

Art felt a twinge of sympathy. He'd known parents like that, always pushing, always expecting perfection without understanding the sacrifices involved. "I'm glad I could be here for you, then," he said. "You shouldn't have to go through all this alone. It's hard enough without extra pressure from someone who isn't really helping."

Katrina shrugged, her lips curling into a small, ironic smile. "It's been like that since I was a kid. I never had much of a childhood, anyway. The little bit of teenager-like stuff I did, I had to sneak around to do it. Mom was always watching, always pushing me to be the best and to win. I never really got to be a kid."

Art felt a pang of something deep in his chest. It wasn't just empathy—it was a sense of injustice, of the things Katrina had missed out on. He'd seen it before in other athletes whose parents lived vicariously through their children, expecting them to carry the weight of their own dreams. It was a burden no young person should have to bear. Shit went through it himself with Tashi, and it eventually cost them their relationship.

"That sounds rough," he said, his voice gentle. "Everyone deserves a chance to be a kid—to have fun, to make mistakes, to figure things out without a constant spotlight."

“I definitely have to make mistakes." She paused and giggled in embarrassment. “This might be T.M.I. But my first time was with a random guy around my age that was dragged to a dinner party at his parents house.” She side-eyes Art for a moment. “Of course, while the adults did whatever adults do, we snuck off into the liquor cabinet, got so hammered, and then decided to go up to my room.”

Art only looked at her with a raised brow, waiting for her to finish.

“Long story short, by the time we were done, everyone was looking for us — of course we were too stupid to think that anyone would notice we were missing for over an hour.” She sighs with a smile. "Anyways, it turns out they were serving desert, and when the housekeeper came in looking for us, she couldn’t hold back a scream. It's safe to say I can’t even remember how long I was grounded for.”

Art was fully laughing now, not sure if it was from second hand embarrassment or because of how unexpected this was.

“Mistakes aren’t something; you escape, believe me.” He seemed nostalgic.

"Yeah," Katrina replied, her gaze dropping to the table.

“Anyways, I’m sure instances like that’s what made me basically one of the strongest tennis players of all time,” she concludes, sarcastically exaggerating.

Art sighed, leaning forward slightly. "Strength isn't just about winning," he said. "It's about finding your own way, making your own choices, and being okay with who you are, even if it doesn't fit someone else's expectations."

Katrina looked up at him, her expression thoughtful. "That's what I want," she said. "I want to play because I love it, not because I'm trying to prove something to someone else. I just... I wish I had more time to figure it all out."

Art nodded, understanding her struggle. "You'll get there," he said. "You've got a lot of potential, and you're doing it for the right reasons. Just remember, it's okay to take a step back sometimes. To enjoy the game, to find joy in the small things,

Katrina smiled—a real smile that reached her eyes. "Thanks," she said. "I needed to hear that."

Art returned her smile, feeling a connection that went beyond coach and player. It was a moment of genuine understanding, the kind that made all the effort and hard work worth it. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but at least they had each other to navigate it together.

AT THE HOTEL

After a two-hour drive, Art and Katrina King arrived at the hotel where they would be staying during the tournament in San Diego. The hotel was upscale, with modern decor and spacious rooms. They'd been given a suite with two separate bedrooms connected by a shared living area. It was the perfect setup for coach and player.

Art had just finished unpacking when he decided to knock on Katrina's door. It was only 7 p.m., and he thought it might be nice to have dinner together. A little bonding before the tournament might help ease some of the tension they have been feeling lately. There is no harm in a friendly dinner.

Right?

Katrina opened the door, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw Art standing there. "Hey," she said, her voice softer than usual. "What's up?"

"Want to grab dinner?" Art asked, keeping his tone casual. "There's a nice restaurant downtown I've been meaning to check out every time I come down here."

Katrina hesitated for a moment, then nodded with a hint of a smile. "Sure, why not?" she replied. She felt a slight flutter in her stomach—this wasn't just a quick meal at the hotel lobby; it was a proper dinner out.

"Great," Art said, checking his designer watch. "Meet you back here in 40."

Katrina agreed, closing the door to get ready. She picked out a simple black dress, something a little fancier than she normally wears. Her brown hair, usually tied back in a ponytail, cascaded down in curls. When she checked her reflection in the mirror, she felt a mix of excitement and nerves. This was just dinner, right?

When she stepped out of her room, Art was already waiting in the living area. He glanced up and immediately did a double take. Katrina looked stunning, the soft curls of her hair framing her face perfectly. Her dress hugged her figure in a way that made it hard to look away. Art felt like a high school boy going out on his first date. He could already feel himself stiffen.

Blinking, he gives up a smirk. "You look great."

Katrina blushed slightly. "Thanks," she replied, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "You don't look too bad yourself. Nice seeing you outside of tennis attire."

The place was dimly lit with candlelight, adding to the intimate atmosphere. As they sat down, Art felt a sense of ease with Katrina that he hadn't felt in a long time. It was nice to know that for once, something in her life wasn't just about tennis; it was about getting to know each other on a personal level.

As time passed, they got into a comfortable conversation, talking about anything and everything.

"So," Katrina began, looking across the table at him, "you mentioned your daughter earlier. Tell me about her."

Art smiled at the mention of Lily. "She's great," he said. "She's 10 and a total fire cracker; she’s starting boarding school next year. She’s got this energy that lights up a room. She loves tennis, too, but I'm trying not to push her too hard. I want her to find her own path."

Katrina nodded, appreciating his perspective. "Sounds like you're a good dad."

Art chuckled softly, then his expression turned a bit somber. "I try to be. Things have been complicated at home. Tashi and I are technically still together, but it's more for Lily's sake than anything else." He paused, glancing at Katrina to gauge her reaction. "We're not really happy, but we're making it work—for now. Nothing has really been the same since I retired, you know."

Oh, that makes sense. She tensed.

Katrina felt a guilty glimmer of hope. If Art and Tashi were essentially separated, then maybe her fantasies weren't so impossible after all. The thought made her blush, and she took a sip of water to hide it.

As the dinner progressed, they subtly flirted with each other. Art ordered a bottle of wine to keep the conversation going, which prompted Katrina to raise an eyebrow. "Isn't this off-limits?" she teased. "My mother and my dietitian would be so disappointed."

Art smirked. "You have to live a little," he replied, pouring her a glass. "Besides, a glass of wine won't ruin your career. It's all about balance, right?"

Katrina laughed softly. "Isn't it ironic that a thirty-something-year-old man is telling a twenty-year-old to have fun?"

Art chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "Maybe I know a thing or two about loosening up," he said with a playful wink. "Life's too short to be serious all the time."

“You sure look like you know how to have fun,” she said in a teasing tone. It was clear her words had a double meaning.

Art smirked and quipped, “I do; you just have to pry it out of me, I guess.

As the evening went on, the tension between them grew more palpable. The candlelight, the soft music, the wine—all of it added to the atmosphere. There was an undercurrent of attraction, a pull that neither of them could ignore. By the end of the night, you could’ve cut the tension with a knife.

Art leaned in slightly, his voice lower. "We should probably head back," he said, his eyes locking with hers. "I don't want to overdo it before the tournament."

Katrina nodded, feeling her heart race. "Yeah, probably a good idea," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

As they left the restaurant, the night air felt cooler against their skin, but the heat between them hadn't cooled at all. They walked back to the hotel in comfortable silence, each aware of the unspoken desire simmering just beneath the surface, steeling glances here and there.

The tension had been building throughout dinner. As they reached their suite, Art turned to Katrina, his expression neutral but his eyes holding a hint of warmth.

"Well, I guess we should call it a night," he said, reaching for his key card. He didn't want to cross any boundaries, especially with the multiple games she had tomorrow. But the way Katrina looked at him during dinner made it difficult to ignore the desire simmering just beneath the calm exterior.

Katrina held up a finger. "Okay...” she paused, feigning a thought. “But we didn't finish the bottle of wine," she said with a playful smile. "And my mom's going to be back for the second day of the tournament. This might be our only chance to… get to know each other; we’ll have to throw it out if we don’t finish it tonight, just sayin’."

The wine was definitely hitting.

Art hesitated, then nodded. "You're right. It'd be a shame to let it go to waste."

They moved into the shared living room, which had a small kitchenette and a comfortable seating area. Katrina grabbed the bottle of wine and two glasses while Art flipped through the channels on the television, settling on a random movie for background noise. It was an action film with a lot of explosions and fast-paced scenes, but neither of them paid much attention to it.

As they settled onto the couch, Katrina poured them each a glass of wine. The atmosphere was relaxed, but there was an underlying current of flirtation. They started talking about the tournament, about tennis, and then about life in general. The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and playful banter.

"You know," Art said, taking a sip of wine, "I didn't think I'd enjoy coaching, but I'm glad I came back for this."

Katrina raised an eyebrow. "Coaching? You're more like a mentor," she teased. "Plus, you're not that old to be called a coach."

Art chuckled. "Careful, or I'll make you run extra laps tomorrow," he replied, giving her a mock stern look. "I'm not that old, but I've seen a lot in my time."

"Sure, sure," Katrina said, rolling her eyes. "You're practically ancient."

They both laughed, the sound filling the room. As the conversation continued, they found themselves leaning closer to each other, the space between them shrinking with each passing minute. The flirting became more overt—the playful touches on the arm, the shared smiles, and the lingering glances.

Art felt the tension building and the pull growing stronger. He knew he should keep his distance, but the way Katrina looked at him, her eyes sparkling in the dim light, made it difficult to resist.

"You know," he said, his voice low and smooth, "you're more than just a talented player, Katrina.” He looked at her with a dark gaze. “There's something about you that makes it hard to stay away. Even when I know I should."

Katrina's eyes widened slightly, her heart racing at his words. The air between them felt electric and charged with anticipation. There were no words left to be said; they leaned in without even noticing, and there they were, on the hotel couch, lips smashed together. The wine glass in Katrina's hand tilted, spilling a few drops onto the couch, but neither of them seemed to notice or care.

The kiss was intense, filled with the desire that had been building for weeks. It was risky, even dangerous, given their roles as coach and athlete. But in that moment, none of it mattered. The world seemed to melt away, leaving just the two of them caught in a whirlwind of emotion and longing.

Sprawled out like a couple of horny teenagers making out on their parent’s couch, it was almost comedic.

When they finally pulled apart, their breathing was ragged, and their eyes locked in a mix of surprise and exhilaration. The movie played on in the background, the noise a distant echo as they sat there, close together, knowing that everything had changed in a single moment.

“We shouldn’t do this.” Art broke the silence first.

“Yeah, we really shouldn't.” She pulled back for a moment. “But we already did.” She moved up to fix his nonexistent collar. “Unfortunately, I have this really good coach, and he’d hate to see me not finish something I started.” Sha gazed up at him as she finished giving him a cheeky smile.

She was giving him that look, a look that said nothing less than fuck me.

Art couldn’t do anything more than chuckle and give in. “Well, I’d hate to be the reason you disappoint him.“ He told her as he lifted her up into his lap.

“You’ve gotta live a little, you know.” She said it in-between kisses. His lips, his neck, and his jaw. There wasn’t an inch of him; she wasn’t going to kiss tonight.

“You’re right.” Their mouths dance together, their tongues fighting for dominance. Arts hands were taking all her in. Her dress pooled around her waist as he slipped his hands under it, grasping her tits. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this, Katrina.” He breathes out in a hushed manner, biting at her lip.

“Prove it to me, Art.” She says she is pulling her dress over her head. He stopped taking a moment to drink her in; she was beautiful.

“Holly fuck.” He rasps out, unclasping her bra, leaving it to be forgotten, much like the wine.

Katrina could feel the raging hardness beneath her. Grinding into it, she lets out a moan as he kisses and sucked on her exposed breast. “Every time I’d walk on the court, and I’d see you wearing your tight little tennis outfits, god,” he rasped while bighting his lip. “All I could think about was how I wanted to bed you over and fuck you right then and there.” He picked her up and started walking to her bedroom. “Now, I get to be a good coach and teach you a thing or two.” He threw her on the bed, peering over her with hungry eyes and breathing heavily. “Will you be a good student and let coach fuck some knowledge into you, huh, baby?”

“I’ve never let you down, have I?” She answered him, looking up at him from the bed, her big doe eyes saying everything for her. “Show me how it’s done, coach.” She wet her lips seductively.

“Well, first, pretty girl, it’s important to get warmed up. You need help warming up, babe.” Art drags his finger from her thigh to her stomach and back down to her panties. Slowly pulling them off. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, he gazes up at her with hooded eyes. He kisses along her thighs, sucking now and then, making his way up to her sopping cunt. When he does reach her, he begins lapping at her like a man who’s been deprived of water for forty days and forty nights.

“Oh my God, Art, it feels so good.” She could feel herself getting short of breath. It was so good, better than anything she had fantasized about while taking the shower head for a spin. Grasping his hair in her hand, she can’t help but grind her pussy in his face, making both him and her a sloppy mess.”

“You’re so good for me; you've always been a fast learner, you know.” He pulled up, leaving trails of kisses as he made his way up and onto the bed. “My pretty girl,” he says, looking down at her with a smirk, his chin wet with her juices. He gets off the bed and starts to strip. His shirt comes up first, giving her the opportunity to get up on her knees and run her hands over his toned abs as she continues to kiss his neck. He follows with his. Belt slipped off his pants, his cock springing up, strained by his boxers. Katrina can’t help but feel her mouth damn near water. Pulling his boxers down, she lets a glob of her saliva leak on his cock before taking him into her mouth with a moan. Art only grabs her hair in his fist before letting out a deep moan and letting his eyes roll back. “Really got a mouth on you, huh, pretty girl.” He caresses her cheek. “Taking me all in.”

He pulls out, a string of saliva following, only to drip down from her chin onto her chest as he motions for her to lay back down on the bed. “You ready to get that pretty pussy fucked?” he leans down, sucking on her nipples. “You’ve warmed up enough, don’t you think?”

"Yes.” Its barley is above a whisper.

“What was that? You’ve got to use your words, Kat." He says, slightly pulling away from her lips, waiting for a better response.

“Please fuck me, Art.” She moans out, “I need you now."” She pulls him back down for a kiss, lining her hips up with his. He’s teasing at her entrance for a moment before she grabs his lower back and pulls him in the whole way. They both let out a sigh of relief as she felt her walls stretch around his length and he felt her wetness embrace him.

He’s fully thrusting now, with his whole strength, his hips snapping into hers with purpose. Grunts and moans are coming out of both their mouths.

"Switch,” she says, suddenly pushing him back a bit, only for her to get on top, grinding her hips in circles while riding him. “You’re so good, Art; you make me feel so good,” she’s breathless, guiding his veiny hands onto her chest. “I’ve ouched myself so many times fantasizing about this, thinking about how I’d take your cock.” She slips his fingers into her mouth, sucking on them for a second. “Even better than I dreamed,” she smirked. She could feel the pit inside her tighten; she was close, and she could tell that he was too.

She looked down at her and motioned for Art to open his mouth, and when she did, she let her spit trickle down into his mouth with a satisfied grin. That was it for him; after she did that, he started hammering on her mercilessly.

“Oh my god, harder art.” She says this with her head tucked into the crook of his neck. He obliged his vice like a grip.. Her ass was so hard, she wouldn’t have been surprised if it bruised tomorrow. His pace was uneven with labored breaths; he let out one loud moan before pulling out and cumming all over her stomach, some even getting on himself. She didn’t even have the time to process what happened before she was pushed onto her stomach.

There he was again, nose deep in her aching pussy, only this time it was from behind, and he was going between her cunt and her asshole. Moaning into a pillow, it didn’t take long for her to finish all over his face, collapsing onto the bed, flat on her stomach.

After a long and hot shower, Art lay on his back, his arm around Katrina as they were in bed, enjoying the stillness of the night. The hotel room was dimly lit, casting a soft glow that created an intimate ambiance. Katrina's head rested on his shoulder, her hair cascading over his chest. It felt comfortable and natural, like they belonged there.

Art turned slightly to look down at Katrina, her face peaceful and relaxed. He traced his fingers gently along her arm, a simple, affectionate gesture that made her shiver slightly. It was a closeness that was rare for him, something he hadn't felt in years, and he cherished it.

"You're something else, you know that?" He said, his voice low and warm. "You've got this way of making me feel like I'm twenty again. I don't know what it is, but you bring out a side of me that I thought was long gone."

Katrina smiled, her eyes still closed as she nestled closer against him. "That's a good thing, right?" she asked, her voice a soft murmur.

Art chuckled, his hand gently stroking her hair. "Yeah, it's a good thing," he replied. "I really enjoyed tonight. It was... different from what I'm used to, but in the best possible way. I wasn't sure I wanted to get into coaching, but being your coach has been one of the best decisions I've made in a long time."

Katrina opened her eyes and looked up at him, her gaze warm and inviting. "I'm glad you did," she said. "I don't know where I'd be without you. It's not just about tennis—it's about everything else. You made me realize it’s not just hitting a ball with a stick."

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, a simple, tender gesture that spoke volumes. "You've got a lot of talent, Katrina," he said.

Katrina blushed, feeling a sense of warmth that had nothing to do with the physical closeness. "Thanks," she said, her voice soft. "That means a lot coming from you. I feel the same way, you know. You make everything seem a little easier, like it's all going to be okay."

Art nodded, his heart swelling with a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. It was more than just affection—it was a sense of connection, a bond that he knew was special.

Katrina sighed contentedly, her head resting against his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat was soothing, grounding her in the moment. She felt safe, secure, and genuinely happy. It was a feeling she hadn't had in a long time, and she wasn't ready to let it go.

Art tightened his arm around her, holding her a little closer. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about the depth of their connection. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but with Katrina by his side, he felt like he could take on anything.

THE TOURNEMENT

Katrina woke up to an empty bed. The warm spot where Art had lain the night before had cooled, and there was no sign of him in the hotel room. She rubbed her eyes, feeling a twinge of disappointment. It was early, but she figured he had probably gone to start prepping for the tournament—they had a busy day ahead. It had been a long night.

She sat up, stretched, and looked around the room. Everything was in its usual place; nothing seemed out of order. Art's clothes were gone, and her things were neatly put away, almost as if he had never stayed there.

Strange

Katrina didn’t dwell on it. It made sense that he might have moved his things back to his room to get ready for the day. After all, he was her coach, and today was important.

She got dressed in her tennis gear, taking her time in the bathroom to brush her hair and freshen up. The uncertainty about where Art had gone was starting to creep in, but she pushed it aside. There was no need to get worked up—he'd turn up soon enough.

Katrina made her way to the living room and kitchen, expecting to find Art there, but he was nowhere to be seen. She checked her phone, but there were no messages from him. It was odd; usually, he'd leave some sort of note or text. She grabbed one of her pre-prepared meals from the fridge and ate it while waiting for him to return, her mind running through the drills they’d be doing later that day.

After what felt like an eternity, Art finally walked in, holding a cup of coffee from the café downstairs. Katrina felt a rush of relief. "Hey," she said, trying to sound casual. "You went out for coffee?"

Art nodded, but his demeanor was noticeably colder than usual. His eyes were distant, and his responses were curt. "Yeah," he replied, taking a sip of his coffee. His tone was flat, lacking the warmth she had come to expect from him.

Katrina felt a flicker of anxiety. "Is everything okay?" she asked, trying to engage him in conversation. "You seem a little off."

Art shrugged, barely looking at her. "Just focused on the tournament," he said, his voice detached. "We've got a lot to do today."

Katrina felt a pang of confusion. This was a complete 180 from the night before. They had shared something special, something she thought was meaningful. She wasn’t expecting a proposal. But now he was acting as if it had never happened. So she pressed the issue.

"Art, why are you acting like this?" she asked, her tone edged with concern. "Last night was... well, it was nice. What changed."

Art set his coffee cup down, his expression hardening. "I'm being a responsible coach," he said, his voice cold. "You have important matches today. We can't afford distractions."

Katrina was taken aback by his abruptness. "Distractions? Is that what last night was to you?" she asked, her voice rising slightly.

Art sighed, rubbing his temples. "Katrina, we can't do this. You need to be focused. What happened last night." He stopped, choosing his words carefully. "It was a mistake, and I need you to be serious about this tournament."

Katrina felt a surge of anger and hurt. "A mistake?" she said, her voice sharp. "So that's it? We just pretend it never happened. You can't just switch like that!"

Art's expression was stern. "You need to act like you've got an important game today, because you do. And I have to be the coach you need, not something else."

Katrina felt her heart sink. This wasn't the Art she knew. The warmth and connection from the night before were gone, replaced by a wall of professionalism and distance. But there wasn't time to press further—they had to get to the court and start their warm-up drills.

The argument left Katrina feeling disoriented and hurt, but there was no time to dwell on it. She had to focus on the tournament, even if her coach seemed to have turned into a different person overnight. As they headed out the door, she tried to shake off the feeling, knowing that the game ahead demanded her full attention.

FIRST MATCH

The stadium was buzzing with anticipation as the announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, introducing the players for the Challenger tournament. The crowd applauded as Katrina King and Alexis Grace stepped onto the court, each acknowledging the fans with a wave. Art Donaldson watched from the sidelines, his eyes focused on Katrina as she moved to her position.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the first match of the US Open," the announcer said, continuing on.

Art knew it would be a challenging game. Alexis was a good opponent who could hold her own, but based on states alone, this should be an easy win, for lack of better words. Art felt a pang of guilt for how he'd acted that morning. He'd been cold and distant, trying to maintain professionalism, but it wasn't what he wanted. He wished he could go back and handle things differently, but now wasn't the time for regrets—Katrina needed his support.

The first set began with Katrina serving. She delivered a somewhat strong shot, but Alexis returned it with ease, sending the ball back with a blistering forehand. Katrina scrambled to keep up, her movements swift but slightly off-balance. She managed to return the shot, but Alexis was already at the net, volleying the ball with precision.

Art watched, his heart racing. Katrina had the talent, but he could tell she was getting into her own head. The missed points seemed to weigh heavily on her, and she was starting to lose her composure. He couldn't blame her—his behavior hadn't helped.

Katrina's next serve was strong, but Alexis anticipated it, returning the ball with a slice that landed just out of Katrina's reach. The crowd murmured, sensing the momentum shift in Alexis's favor. Art clenched his fists, trying to stay calm. He needed to be there for Katrina, even if she didn't want to hear it right now. Her errors were becoming more frequent. A double fault here, a missed volley there—it was starting to add up.

Art's internal thoughts were filled with frustration and guilt. He knew he had to do something to help her, but he also knew her head wasn’t focused on the game. As the set progressed, the tension in the stadium grew. Katrina's shots were becoming more erratic, and Alexis capitalized on every mistake.

Finally, the set ended with a decisive point from Alexis, securing her the first set. The crowd erupted in applause, but Art felt a sinking feeling in his chest.

Katrina King sat on the bench, her racket resting between her knees, and tried to catch her breath. The set break was supposed to be a chance to reset, to gather her thoughts, and to prepare for the next game, but she couldn’t stop her mind from racing. Her body felt tense, and her heart was heavy with doubt.

This match was supposed to be a warmup, and I’m making a complete fool of myself. She thought, scrunching her brows as she looked up at the sky.

Her hand gripped the racket tighter, the familiar texture offering a semblance of comfort.

A mistake

This morning kept replaying in her mind, each word like a weight pressing down on her. It had thrown her off and shaken her confidence. She couldn't understand why he'd suddenly turned so cold.

What the fuck did I get myself into? She wondered, feeling a mix of anger and confusion.

She glanced at the sidelines, where Art sat, his arms crossed, watching the court with a distant expression. He was focused, but not on her. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, and his detachment made her stomach twist. It felt like a betrayal, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was alone out there.

He's just a coach. I don't need him to win. I've been doing this on my own for years.

But the more she tried to convince herself, the more her emotions swirled. Last night felt like a turning point, like they were connecting on a deeper level. And now, all that warmth and all that understanding were gone. It left her feeling hollow and unsure of her next move.

Forget about this morning. Forget about last night. Forget about Art. Just play the game. That’s all you're good at anyway.

She couldn't forget, not when it felt like her world was shifting beneath her feet. The pressure of the tournament, the expectations from everyone, and now the unexpected 180—it was all too much. She needed to find her focus, but it felt like she was battling more than just an opponent on the court. She was battling her own doubts and her own insecurities, and it was starting to show.

The umpire's call signaled the end of the break, and Katrina stood up, her legs feeling heavier than usual. She couldn't afford to let this slip away. She had to find a way to center herself and regain the focus and determination that had brought her this far. But as she walked back onto the court, she knew it wouldn't be easy. The shadows of doubt were growing, and she wasn't sure if she had the strength to push them back.

The final set was about to begin, and the energy in the stadium was electric. Kat had lost the first set to Alexis, barely clawed her way back to win the second, and now faced the challenge of closing out the match.

A whirlpool of frustration was consuming her. She knew she should be playing better than this. Alexis was a competent player, but she shouldn't have been able to pressure Katrina like she was doing now. The missteps, the errant serves, the missed volleys—it was all spiraling out of control. She knew she had to get her head back in the game.

"Come on, Katrina," Art muttered under his breath, his frustration growing. He knew he should’ve never said what he had this morning, and God did he regret it. Not even because it threw her off her game, but simply because it wasn’t true.

I didn’t mean it, Kat.

Alexis returned Katrina's second serve with a deep forehand, forcing Katrina to run to the back of the court. She managed to get the ball back, but it was a weak return, and Alexis took advantage, hitting a powerful backhand down the line. Katrina struggled to reach it, her footwork sloppy.

The crowd murmured, sensing the shift in momentum. Katrina felt her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Get it together," she told herself, trying to drown out the negativity in her mind. She took a deep breath and prepared for the next point, knowing she couldn't afford to lose her composure.

Art clenched his fists, watching Katrina's struggle. He wanted to shout words of encouragement; right now, he needed Katrina to find her focus and to play like he knew she could.

The next few points were a back-and-forth battle. Katrina managed to win a couple of rallies, showing glimpses of her usual skill, but Alexis was relentless. Katrina's errors were piling up, and Alexis capitalized on every mistake. A missed serve here, a poorly timed volley there—it was all adding up, and Katrina felt like she was falling apart.

He knew he had to do something to help her, but he wasn't sure what. She was slipping, and he could see it in her eyes—the doubt, the frustration. He wished he could just rewind the morning and start over.

Katrina's frustration boiled over as she missed yet another shot, sending the ball wide of the sideline. She clenched her racket, her anger turning inward.

What the actual fuck kat? She felt herself slipping.

Art watched as Katrina's confidence seemed to crumble. Every point felt like a battle, and she was struggling to keep her emotions in check. The crowd's cheers seemed distant, drowned out by her own inner turmoil. She needed to find her focus and remember why she loved the game in the first place.

Katrina King stood at the baseline, bouncing the tennis ball as she prepared to serve. The pressure was immense. The score was tied, but this was match point for Alexis.

"Just get this right," she told herself, bouncing the ball one more time. "Keep it simple, focus on your form, and breathe."

She threw the ball up and swung, her serve powerful but lacking the usual precision.

The umpire's call was clear: "In!"

Alexis immediately raised her hand, signaling her challenge.

Katrina tensed, holding her breath. Fuck. She had already accepted defeat.

The electronic system, designed to track the ball's trajectory, sprang into action. The large screen above the court displayed the replay, with the lines highlighted in bold white against the blue surface.

The slow-motion replay showed the ball’s descent, curving slightly in its flight. It landed, from this perspective, millimeters inside the line, causing the crowd to murmur in anticipation. The pause felt longer than it actually was, with everyone waiting for the official verdict.

Alexis stood with her racket resting on her shoulder, her expression tense and unimpressed. She glanced at Katrina, who remained at the baseline, her stance rigid.

The electronic system confirmed the umpire's call: "In!" The word flashed across the screen, accompanied by a graphic showing the ball's exact position—just inside the line. The crowd erupted in applause, and Katrina allowed herself a small smile. She was relieved that the serve was good, but she knew she couldn't let her focus slip.

Alexis nodded curtly; her challenge was unsuccessful. She adjusted her grip on her racket, preparing for the next point. The moment of doubt had passed, and the game resumed its intensity.

Art saw Katrina's moments of ease, but he also saw the hesitation in her footwork and the slight tremors in her hands.

Alexis's return was a deep shot to Katrina's backhand, forcing her to pivot quickly. Katrina reached for it, but her timing was slightly off. The ball clipped the net, but it went over. Katrina breathed a sigh of relief as Alexis scrambled to reach it. and get her racket under the ball just in time.

The volley was clumsy, but it kept the rally going. Katrina's heart raced as she tried to regain her rhythm. She could feel the momentum slipping away, and she knew she couldn't afford another mistake. Alexis, however, was relentless, keeping the pressure on with precise shots to the corners of the court.

Art clenched his fists, chewing his gum while watching Katrina's struggle. He felt the intensity of the moment, knowing that this point could determine the outcome of the match. He wanted to find a way to ease her nerves, but all he could do was watch and hope she could pull through.

The rally continued, with Katrina barely managing to keep up. Alexis played a drop shot, and Katrina lunged to reach it. She got there just in time, but her return was weak, giving Alexis the upper hand. Alexis moved in for the kill, smashing the ball toward the baseline.

Katrina dove to reach it, her body hitting the ground as her racket connected with the ball. It went over the net, but it was a high lob, an easy shot for Alexis. Alexis jumped, delivering a powerful overhead smash that Katrina couldn't hope to reach. The ball hit the court with a decisive thud, and the umpire called the point.

Art felt a pang of disappointment as the crowd erupted in applause. He knew Katrina had fought hard, but the internal turmoil had cost her the match. He saw the frustration on her face as she stood up, brushing off the dirt from her fall. She glanced toward him, her eyes filled with a mix of anger, defeat, and tears.

Katrina knew she had given it her all, but it hadn't been enough. She felt the weight of the loss, knowing that her own doubts and the fight with Art had played a part in her performance. As she walked off the court, she felt a mix of disappointment and a lingering sense of confusion about what had gone wrong—both on and off the court.

Art made his way down to talk to Katrina. She was sitting on the bench, her head down, a towel draped over her shoulders. Art approached, trying to keep his voice steady. "Hey, it's okay," he said, his tone gentle. "It's just one game; you’ve got three more today. You can still turn this around. Just focus on your game, okay? Don't let this get in your head." He finished and tried to embrace her in his arms for some sort of comfort, but his efforts proved futile because before he could fully hug her, she pushed him off.

Katrina looked back at him, her eyes watery, cold, and distant. "Oh, now you're being supportive?" She shot back, her voice laced with sarcasm. "What happened to the coach who was so concerned about being professional this morning?"

Art winced, feeling the sting of her words. He knew he deserved it, but it still hurt. "I know, I messed up," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Katrina shook her head, her expression hardening. "I don't need your fake support, Art," she said, standing up. "Just let me play my game."

“Kat, don’t be like that.” He said he was stepping forward, trying to get a hold of her.

“Be like what, Art?” she said, feeling her anger rise. “I shouldn’t act like you treated me as if I were a late-night tinder hookup.” She paused, her lips trembling. “I wouldn’t be like this if you would have had the human decency to treat me with a little respect, even if you regrated it!” She took a breath. “You know what the worst part is; you could have waited for the tournament to be over to shit on me, on us, like that. At least I would’ve left this stupid fucking weekend with a champion title and cup.” She started walking away from the locker rooms. “Guess once your balls are empty, you come to your senses, huh?” She hadn’t even bothered to turn around for the last bit.

"Kat, wait!" he said, grabbing her arm gently but firmly. "Please, just give me a minute."

Katrina turned, her eyes blazing with anger. "What do you want?" she snapped. "Haven't you done enough today? Did you finally decide to be a good coach?"

Art knew he deserved that, but he needed her to hear him out. "Just let me explain," he said, his voice desperate. "Not here. Let's go outside, away from everyone."

She hesitated, clearly still furious, but she didn't pull away. Art led her through a side door and out into the area behind the arena, where it was quiet and they could talk in private. He released her arm, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

"Katrina, I'm sorry," he began, his voice soft but urgent. "I'm sorry for everything I said this morning and for telling you it was a mistake. I didn't mean it. I was just... scared."

"Scared?" Katrina's eyes narrowed. "Scared of what? Scared of actually caring about someone? Scared to give up the overdone, nonchalant act you’ve got going for you?"

Art shook his head, struggling to find the right words. "I was scared that I was crossing a line," he said. "I was scared that I was too old for you and that being your coach and being with you would mess up your career. I was worried that we'd end up like... like me and Tashi."

Katrina's anger flared. "I'm not Tashi!" she shouted, stepping closer to him. "So stop comparing me to her; I'm my own person, and I'm nothing like her!"

"I know," Art replied, his voice gentle but firm. "I know you're not her. But that's what scared me. I don't want what happened to me and Tashi to happen to us. I didn't want to mess up your game, your career, or... anything."

Katrina huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, you sure did a good job of that," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Look at what happened today! I lost because you couldn't make up your mind about what you wanted!"

Art felt a pang of guilt, knowing she was right. "I know," he said, his voice low. "I was selfish. I shouldn’t have acted like I did. I just didn’t want you to get hurt because of me. But now I see that I hurt you anyway, and that’s the last thing I wanted." He is groveling.

Katrina looked at him, her eyes still blazing. "So, what do you want now?" she asked. "Are you just going to apologize and then go back to being cold and distant?"

Art stepped forward, taking her cheek gently in his hand. "I don't know what we are, Katrina," he said, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "But I know I don't want to stop whatever this is. It's special. You make me feel things I haven't felt in a long time, and I can't keep ignoring that."

Katrina's anger softened, her eyes searching for any sign of insincerity. Art felt the connection between them, the tension that had been building for weeks, and he knew he couldn't let it end like this.

"I was wrong this morning," he continued. "I was scared, and I acted like an idiot. But you... you're amazing. You didn't deserve the way I treated you, and I know the game today was my fault. You were distracted because of me, and I'm sorry. But I know you're going to win this. I believe in you. I always have, and that hasn’t changed."

Katrina's expression softened, her anger giving way to something else—something that felt like forgiveness. Art leaned in, pressing his lips to hers in a passionate kiss, his hand still gently cupping her cheek. She responded with equal intensity, her arms wrapping around his neck as they pressed against the concrete wall.

The kiss was long and intense, filled with the emotions they’d both been suppressing. When they finally pulled back, their breathing was heavy, and their eyes locked in a shared moment of understanding. Art pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before laying his against hers.

“Are you ready to bring another title home, pretty girl?” He says, gazing into her eyes.

She looked up, her eyes glistening with a familiar spark. “You wouldn’t have agreed to coach me if I wasn’t.” She held a soft smile, bringing him in for another kiss.

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson fic #challengers #challengers fic #challengers x reader #mike faist #mike faist x reader #challengers universe #x reader #smut #Art donaldson x oc

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