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helenanell · 6 months ago

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Every Saturday || Challengers

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Every Saturday || Challengers

Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader

CW: Kissing. Emotional affair. Infidelity. Angst. Yearning. Bittersweet / slightly sad ending.

Notes: No smut. No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film.

(This is not connected to my other Challengers story - ‘Breath Of Life)

Wordcount: 4K

This is the response to a request from @anehkael :

‘Art, exhausted by the pressure of competition and his wife, decides to escape for a day. He ends up at a local tennis court, where he meets a talented and charismatic female player. Their instant connection on the court turns into an unexpected love affair, but Art's professional and marital obligations threaten to keep them apart.’

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You had always known that tennis would never be your vocation. Vocation implies dedication; a calling to pursue that ever evasive thing in life: utter fulfilment.

You love it and you know that you’re good, really good, but you’re also realistic.

The expanse between ‘really good’ and ‘great’ also contains the capacity to make something your career. You don’t have the capacity to go pro. Which is fine. Totally fine.

You content yourself with filling all of your free time on your local–and free to use–court. Hours that would otherwise be whiled away on the realisation of your own loneliness or swiping right on dating apps only to panic and ignore any messages you receive.

It’s Saturday evening and the sun is waning, its outlandishly burning rays absorbed by clouds as it sinks down the horizon.

You’ve just wrapped up a match with a woman who you see at the courts from time to time- shamefully you don’t remember her name. She did tell you it once, the first time you met, but then a month passed before you saw her again and you felt too awkward to ask. Besides, there’s no post-match conversation between the two of you, the woman is in a perpetual rush and always disappears immediately after you finish playing.

You, on the other hand, have nowhere else to be.

A young woman with nothing to look forward to beyond the hits of adrenalin and the all too temporary sense of fulfilment that comes with beating other amateurs at tennis.

You’re alone as you sit down on the bench at the edge of the court, chest still moving with erratic breaths. Your skin is already adorned with beads of sweat but when the sun dips down even further, its light is replaced by a swathe of blue shadow and your burning flesh immediately pebbles at the sudden change in temperature.

Your body is seized by a reactionary shiver, so you jump up off the bench and hurry over to your bag, crouching as you unzip it and dig around for your sweater.

Your fingers have just closed around the soft fabric when you hear the metal gate to the courts creak open, the chainlink shaking as it shuts again.

“You forget something?” You call out.

As you’re presuming it’s your acquaintance, you don’t bother to look, busy pulling the sweater over your head.

Your head is awkwardly pushing through the neck hole when a distinctly male and very amused voice hits you square in the side of the face:

“Not to my knowledge.”

You go still, your sweater settling down onto your torso of its own volition.

Your mind has a sort of detached recognition for the voice: you’ve heard it before, but perhaps not in person. On the radio, or a movie or…or in a post match interview on tv.

You scramble, pivoting violently to face the new arrival.

“What the fuck?!”

You’d meant for the exclamation to be internal, but in your shock it tumbles out of your mouth that’s already agape.

Art Donaldson, the champion tennis player– infamous and beloved athlete– is standing in your shitty, free to access local court.

A genuine, full watt smile spreads across Art’s face before he lets out a soft chuckle.

“I’m sorry if I startled you.”

You watch, dumbfounded as he saunters closer to you, placing down his bag and racket just beside yours.

Fuck, his racket…it probably costs more than your practically antique car.

“I'm sorry, but are you lost or something?” You blurt out.

Art straightens up, hands placed on his hips as he surveys you. He’s enjoying your panic, you realise. Not in a malicious way, just highly amused.

“What gave you that impression?”

You let out a clipped laugh. “Well…you’re standing here when the exclusive country club is fifteen minutes that way.” You point over his shoulder.

“I know where it is.” He answers simply, still smirking.

He’s toying with you. And never one to back down from a challenge, defiance rids you of your nerves.

“So why aren’t you there, Mr Rich and Famous Tennis Champion?”

At that Art tilts his head, as though he’s been given new information and has to reassess you.

“Because I don’t want to be.” He responds. “Why are you here?”

You shrug, brushing past him to gather up your things, heart beating punishingly in your chest.

“Because I want to be.”

“But you’re leaving.” Art points out, bordering on exasperated despite his goading tone.

“Because my match is over.” You throw your bag over your shoulder and turn to face him, unable to stop yourself from teasing him back. “Oh, did you think I’d stay just for you?”

“Yes.” He answers unabashedly. It glues you to the spot. “I caught the tail end of your match, you were great but you were holding back. I’m guessing you don’t encounter many people here who challenge you.”

His tone injects some defensiveness into your veins. “I don’t need to be challenged, I’m not a professional. This is fun for me.”

Art quirks a blonde brow. “Oh, but being challenged is very fun.”

“Are you offering?” You shoot back sarcastically.

“Yeah, I am.”

And just like that you’re gawking at him again. “Are you kidding?”

Art holds his hands up placatingly, as if showing you he’s not concealing a weapon. “Deadly serious.” He says.

You look around the abandoned park, searching for hidden cameras. This has to be for a prank show. It has to be.

“I can’t play you.”

Art frowns as if disappointed at your lack of self-belief.

“Sure you can. I was watching you, I'm certain you can keep up.”

You hold his stare, his blue eyes glinting as his expression settles into something anticipatory. You glance at your racket that’s sitting on the nearby bench.

“Don’t go easy on me.” You order. “I’ll know if you do.”

“I don’t doubt it. Come on, quit stringing me along and pick up your racket.”

You reach down, your fingers hovering above the racket as you grin at him.

“Careful Donaldson, it sort of sounds like you’re calling me a tease.”

His cheek dimples as the corner of his lip tugs up. “Prove me wrong then, pick it up. Play tennis with me.”

Eyes still on his, you curl your fingers around the racket and straighten up, raising your eyebrow.

Challenge accepted.

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The moment Art wins, you let yourself fall to the ground.

You lay down, uncaring of the harsh surface beneath you as you suck in breaths, your throat aching, your whole body shaking with exertion.

You’d never felt like this after playing tennis.

Whoever you’d gone up against before, it had always felt like you were waging war on a one person army across from you: you would bear down on them with all your might to achieve victory. You were an attacking force.

But playing with Art it hadn’t felt like a battle it had felt like…a joining. You were so attuned to all that he was and every move he made, that it felt like you had become one with him.

For a brief moment in the daunting expanse of time, it had felt like only the two of you existed, only the stars bearing witness.

Stars.

Only now as you’re staring up at the sky, do you realise that night has well and truly fallen; the harsh automatic floodlights throwing your exhausted form into stark relief.

You let out an almost giddy laugh.

In your peripheral, you see Art run over, easily jumping and clearing the net to get to you. But you’re too tired to move, so you just lay there inertly as he comes to stand over you, placing one foot either side of your hips.

He smiles down at you.

“How you doing down there?”

All you manage to do as your eyes drift shut, is lift up your hand and flip him off.

Art lets out a full-bellied laugh that catches hold of you and takes you along for the ride. With your breaths slowing, you find yourself able to laugh along with him.

“Okay.” He begins, shaking off another chuckle. “Let’s get you up.”

You feel a shift in the air and open your eyes to see Art stepping to the side of you before he’s leaning down and holding out his arm for you to take.

Like you, he’s drenched in sweat, but neither of you even really notice as drops of it fall from his cropped blonde hair and onto your body.

With a dramatic groan, you sit up and grab onto his arm.

Art tightens his grip and pulls you up, placing his free hand on your back for extra support and tugging you close.

You’re quickly back on your feet, but as you sway slightly Art keeps his hands on you.

“You good?” He asks genuinely. His face is so much closer than you realised.

When the hand on your back begins to rub soothing circles, a traitorous flutter appears in your stomach.

You’re suddenly extremely grateful that your face is already flushed. How embarrassing, fawning over a married man who likely just wanted to play some tennis in relative peace and with no absolutely no stakes.

God you needed to have sex.

Your own thought startles you- the same effect as being doused with a bucket of ice water. How desperate were you, that playing tennis with Art had got you so worked up?

No, actually you knew the answer to that. The experience had been beyond any sort of intimacy you’d ever felt. You want him.

You shake your head, scolding yourself as you pull away from him, stepping back.

But Art follows you, closing the small distance you’d created. As concern blooms on his features, his hands settle on your arms, bracketing you in his hold.

“You’re not okay?”

You blink up at him. “What? No, I am. I’m fine.”

Art narrows his eyes, unconvinced. “But you shook your head.”

When one of his thumbs starts brushing back and forth on your skin, the answering heat that begins to pool in your belly tells you it’s time to leave.

“Did I?” You ask airily as you shake out of his hold and pick up your racket.

“Yeah, you did.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to. I’m fine. That was great. Really great.” Each word is forced out.

As you walk over to the side of the court and start gathering your things, you feel him walking up behind you.

“Yeah, it’s the panic in your voice that’s so convincing.”

You shove your racket into its case, your back still to him. “I don’t think you know me well enough to judge my moods. You don’t know me at all.”

He’s by your side in an instant. His hand is hovering over your waist, as if he wants to hold you in place to stop you from leaving but knows he has no right to do so.

“Look, will you please slow down? I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

You let out self-pitying scoff as you turn away from him again and throw your bag over your shoulder.

“You’ve not done anything wrong. This was…I’ve never felt like that playing tennis. Or ever, really. So thank you.”

“So why are you running away?”

You halt, your sneakers scraping against the abrasive ground. Art’s voice has taken on a new severity; a frustration that even he sounds confused by.

“I’m not running, I’m just going home.”

You’re stepping out of this court and extricating yourself from his orbit that he’d so easily pulled you into. You’re not just attracted to a man who’s one half of America’s Favourite power couple, you also really like him.

But this court isn’t the real world and he’s almost certainly just passing through. If you can get out now, he’ll be gone: by the time you wake up in the morning, he’ll likely be on a flight with Tashi Duncan, en route to his next competition.

When you walk away and out to the gate, you’re beyond grateful that Art doesn’t call out to you again.

But instead of the disconnect you hope to feel once you're free of his presence, instead there’s a tugging, as if he managed to tie a cord around you and is pulling on it in the hopes he can reel you back in.

You keep walking until you reach your car, still tense as you peel out of the parking lot.

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Exactly a week after you first met him–almost to the hour–Art Donaldson reappears in your life.

As you’d played your weekly match with the woman whose name you still don’t know, he had been watching. You’d caught him in your peripheral vision, leaning up against the fence and tracking your every movement.

You curse him and thank him in the same breath.

You curse him because he’s only going to exacerbate the issue that you’ve been having, which is that he’s taken root in your mind. He’ll burrow his tendrils deeper and stop you from thinking of anyone else for a long time.

You had been so sexually frustrated after meeting him, that you’d actually committed to a date with a Tinder match for once. You’d just been there for the sex, which you might have felt bad about had your date not made it clear that he had had the same motivations.

It had been fine.

You’d thought of Art the entire time.

And you thanked Art, because…well, you thanked him because you’d been desperate to see him again. Tortured by the ghost of his touch and furious at yourself for the way you’d left things.

It’s a good thing your opponent is always seemingly in dire need to be somewhere else, because she leaves the court with such rapidity that she doesn’t spot the world famous tennis player making his way over to the now open gate.

Your breath stutters in your throat as Art approaches. It’s the same time of day you’d first seen him the week before, so the light is at the exact same point of fading into darkness. But this time, he seems to be bringing the shadows with him.

Art looks utterly forlorn. And yet, he still manages to smile at you as he approaches.

You’re still standing on the centre of the court, your racket hanging in your hand.

Only as he gets closer do you really register that he’s not in sports gear. Instead he’s dressed in jeans and black t-shirt.

“You never told me your name.” He says, still making his way over.

The statement jolts you out of your reverie. Had you really…he didn’t know your name? The evening you’d shared had been so intense that you already felt like you knew him and he knew you.

You give him your name and he smiles almost gratefully, as if you've bestowed him with a gift.

When he comes to a stop before you, you find more words waiting on your tongue:

“Why are you here?”

Art pushes his hands into his pockets, eyes dropping briefly to the ground.

“You didn’t ask me that last time.” He says quietly.

You scoff, gesturing at his clothing and the clear disparity between his casual attire and the tennis court.

“You’re clearly not here to play another match.”

“You shouldn’t presume.” He teases. “Maybe I secretly love the feeling of denim and sweat on my skin.”

Despite yourself, you laugh and it causes Art’s dimples to make an appearance.

“Well, that would make you a psychopath.” You say.

Art’s eyes skitter over your face, it’s brief but unnerving. It’s probing. Then he steps closer, so close you can feel his breath on your face.

You’re suddenly sure that meeting his gaze will open up a horrible, confusing can of emotional worms, so you set your eyes on the racket in your hand, twisting the handle around in your fingers.

Art is undeterred by your withdrawal: “Let me walk you to your car?”

The question sounds so much like a hopeful supplication, that you have to look at him. When you make eye contact, his brows draw together as his gaze turns entreating.

Your eyes widen slightly as your heart sinks. You know what this is. A goodbye.

“You’re leaving New York.” You say flatly and with the utmost certainty.

“We have a flight in a few hours.”

“Art.” You say admonishingly, a sharp pain in the shape of that ‘we’ digging into your chest. “You shouldn’t be here.”

We. ‘We’ meaning him and Tashi Duncan. Art and his wife.

He says your name for the first time and it makes your heart stutter.

You’re pathetic. You scold yourself internally. You’ve only interacted with this man once before. He’s a professional athlete with a beautiful wife. He can’t be wanting for anything more.

So then why has he been driven to this run-down public court? Why did he spend an evening playing with a stranger? An amateur stranger.

Why has he felt the need to come and say goodbye to you?

You know why:

It’s because the two of you have started something that you can never finish. You’re both enamoured with the idea of a connection that can never be fully realised.

Art reaches out and tentatively touches your arm.

“Please let me walk you to your car.”

You can’t bear to see his face, not when his words sound so sorrowful. So you nod shortly and then move past him to collect your things.

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The walk to your car is made in utter silence, but Art remains close to you the entire time, his arm brushing yours. A couple of times you even feel the touch of his fingertips, as if he’d gone to take your hand but stopped himself.

As if to compound on your delusion that in this moment only your and art exist, your beaten up red car is the only vehicle in the parking lot. It stands bright against the darkness as an ominous ending point: the moment you reach it, you both know whatever this nascent but potent thing between you will be stifled.

You don’t let yourself dwell on how Art might have got here if his car isn't here. Whether fear of being spotted had him parking elsewhere, or he was staying somewhere so close that he’d been able to walk to you.

You both slow your pace as you approach the vehicle. You want to stop completely but you know you have absolutely no rational reason to.

Once you reach the car, you dig your keys out of your pocket.

“Thank you for walking with me.” You say on an uneven breath.

When you turn to unlock the door, Art steps up behind you, his arm crossing into your vision as he closes his larger hand around yours, stopping you from completing the action.

You go still, relishing the contact but feeling awful for wanting more. All you find yourself able to do is stay still and wait- wait for him to do something that he shouldn’t.

You let out a conflicted sigh as his other hand lands on your shoulder and turns you around to face him. He then takes your hands in his own.

Your sight can’t help but snag on his wedding ring and he must be watching you so closely that he notes the very brief flicker of your eyes.

“It’s just a ring.” He says the sentence like he’s afraid of it. “It doesn’t mean what it used to. To either of us.”

“But you are still married.” You reply, hating how small your voice sounds.

“Yes.”

“And you’re leaving.”

Art’s hands tightens on yours, his thumbs running over your knuckles. “I’ll be back in New York.”

“When?”

He reaches up and cups your cheek, fingers sinking into your hair.

“I don’t know.” His tone is somehow simultaneously mournful and apologetic. “But I will.”

Even though you know you need to pull away, you lean into his touch.

“I guess I’ll see you then.” You say, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

“You will.” Art concurs softly. His heavy-lidded eyes drop and his hand shifts, his thumb running along your lower lip. Then his other hand is on your thigh, rising up beneath your skort.

“Art.” His name is meant to be a warning on your tongue, but it comes out as a whispered plea.

His thumb drops away and then he’s cradling your face in both hands, he closes in and presses a slow, sweet kiss to your lips.

But his next words are anything but chaste. “Unlock your car.”

His command is feverish, his hot breath skimming over you as he kisses along your cheek.

Only then do you remember that your car keys are still clutched in your hand. You're holding them so tightly the metal grooves are digging into your skin.

“Art, you have to go. You have to get on a plane. We can’t have sex in the back of my car.”

You let out a small gasp as both of his hands fall from your face to encircle your waist, then they go lower, gliding over the curve of your ass before settling just beneath, causing your skirt to ride up.

“I have time.” He mumbles against your jaw, moving down to press desperate kisses to your neck. “We have time.”

His words are so glaringly false to both of you, that a visceral melancholy appears between the two to you and as it grows larger forcing you apart.

Art strains to stop his kisses, his lips lingering as if he’s fighting against an engrained instinct to be connected with you. When he presses his forehead against yours, his hair tickles your skin. Then as his hands shift to grip your waist, you rest your own on either side of his neck.

You feel a tightness in your throat, panicking as you realise how deeply entangled you already feel with this man you’ve only met twice. You don’t know him. He’s a stranger.

And yet, you can’t let this unknown being go.

But you have to.

You force yourself to say the words, making them sharp and swift like the severing snip of scissors: “Art, you need to go.”

He nods, his forehead brushing yours where you’re still pressed together. But he doesn’t move, instead his lips press to your forehead as he encircles your body with his arms. The hug is the same sort of crushing yet comforting force of gripping someone’s hand when you’re afraid you’ll lose them in a crowd.

When Art buries his head in the crook of your neck, he places a gentle kiss there. You raise your arms and squeeze him back.

“How often do you come here, to the court?” He asks, another kiss placed on your neck.

“Every Saturday, the same time.”

Art pulls back and takes your face back into his hands. His eyes alight on each and every dip and curve of your face as if he's mapping your features like they’re the stars of the night sky. As though he’s memorising patterns so he’ll be able to find you again.

“Then I’ll see you on Saturday.”

You smile sadly, smoothing back his hair. “Which Saturday?”

His answer is another passionate kiss.

#art donaldson x reader #challengers movie #art donaldson #mike faist #art donaldson x you

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