Chapter Text
“Fuck!”
You inhaled, practically gasping for air as you rested your hands on your knees and allowed the beads of sweat to collect and drop down to the court underneath you.
Your legs throbbed in pain, your wrist ached, and your throat was unbelievably dry. You sighed lifting yourself up, sheltering your eyes with your hands and looking into the direction of the California sun. You squinted but refused to look away, your own form of self punishment, the thought of burning your retinas so you could possibly blame your current lack of talent on the fact that you’re blind.
“Fucking tennis.”
You spoke under your breath, speaking to your ever fleeting confidence and diminishing self esteem.
There were times when the game had the ability to make feel like a shit person, but an exceptional player, a notion you had learned to accept.
It was an incredibly toxic relationship, but one you weren’t willing to discard in the fear that nothing would ever be as good to you as the highlighter yellow balls, and wrist breaking rackets.
If someone were to ask you to look back on your life and cherry pick your favorite memories, 9 out of 10 of them would be the image of you on a court, scraping your sneakers against the painted concrete.
You could make peace with the taxing physical strain it put on your body, accept the constant mental anguish, and even the various life altering experiences you’d endured over the course of your career.
You continued to do it though because the risks never seemed to outweigh the reward. You could only describe it as runners high on steroids. The euphoria of hitting a ball back and forth was your reason for being and if it was going to kill you that was something you were just going to have to make peace with.
But today the very foundation of the game made you want to claw your eyes out.
You yelled, tossing your racket to your left and walking in the opposite direction.
You were well aware of the fact that your behavior went against the very clear standards of etiquette that the sport required, but you didn’t care. This wasn’t the U.S open, or Wimbledon, or even a state tournament where you were under the intense scrutiny of refs and audience members alike.
This was simply Stanfords tennis court, with a complete lack of competition, and you were loosing to your fucking self.
You sighed dropping to the floor, unraveling the athletic tape around your palms. You were partly grateful for the lack of onlookers, sparing yourself of the inevitable embarrassment that comes with tripping over your own feet, twisting your wrist, and scraping your knees over the course of an hour and a half.
You attributed your “off day” to the never ending mound of homework you had waiting for you on your desk, the overbearing-ness of your mother, and the argument you had had with your boyfriend earlier in the week.
You didn’t like blaming your lack of focus on supplemental factors, but with all things considered you preferred to accept that reasoning as opposed to the fact that you might just be a shit player.
You groaned, sliding your hand down your face and like some sick magic trick when your eyes readjusted to the glare of the sun, your coach was standing in front of you, sporting his typical unreadable expression.
You internally screamed and prayed that he hadn’t bared witness to your less than ideal playing, that he wasn’t here to reprimand you or inform you that over the past couple of weeks he had simply grown tired of your sub par athletic abilities.
You scrambled to your feet, hoping to become conscious of the manners that had been embedded into your mind. You reached out your hand in the attempt of an informal handshake.
He ignored it. Thank god, your hands were sweaty and bruised beyond repair. Instead he greeted you with a smile and a request.
“I need a favor.”
You nodded, he had a tendency to come across as very straightforward.
You smiled massaging the base of your palms. Your own way of attempting to calm your nerves.
“Of course, anything you need.”
He clicked his tongue, looking past you and at your discarded racket. You couldn’t gauge his reaction, hopefully he didn’t take it as a sign that you were an overly emotional player, even if it was true you would prefer for that to be an unnoticed trait.
“You know you’re one of my favorite players Andrea.”
Translation: You’re one of my most profitable players.
You took notice on his choice to opt for your full name rather than the ever so popular “Andy.”
You thanked him for his surface level compliment, anxiously awaiting his request.
The two of you engaged in more pointless small talk before he so graciously gave you his full attention.
“You know Donaldson right?”
You furrowed your brows, the abrupt question interested you.
“Art?, yeah I know of him.”
Everybody did.
“I thought so- there was a slight pause, the sign of a commitment that would have to maintained by you- Andrea, I need you to coach him.”
The request was clear, absolutely no room for confusion or questions.
You knew what the job would entail, you weren’t stupid. And the man standing in front of you was well aware of that as well.
You let the question sink into your skin, mixing in the with unbearable heat surrounding you.
Your initial reaction was no. It’’s what you wanted to say, needed to say, and all together failed to say.
It was an odd request, not something completely unheard of but something you had hoped to narrowly avoid during your time as a Stanford tennis commit.
You didn’t come to this school to find a sense of community, you had one waiting for you in upstate New York, or gain the most quality form of higher education, years of private school had already provided that for you.
No, you came for one reason and that reason was to play tennis, and you sure as hell weren’t interested in assisting Art Fucking Donaldson in becoming a better player. That was widely known as Tashi Duncans job, or more accurately, was her job.
Instead you nodded, swallowing your pride in the process. Replying with a small yes and a strained smile.
Your coach clapped his hands, signifying that both his needs and interest in the conversation were over.
You peered over your shoulder, waiting for his silhouette to disappear before taking hold of a pair of your back up shoes and throwing them across the court.
You ran your hands through your hair, attempting to regain control of your emotions.
“Fuck my life.” Was all you managed to spit out.
———————————————-
You had gotten a sense of who art was as both an athlete and a person, and you had come to the almost immediate conclusion that you didn’t care for either. Art, aside from being a tennis player was also a business major, you had taken notice of him him in your accounting class, halfway across the room where didn’t bother with the material and more than likely schemed on how to cheat his best friend out of a girlfriend, a fact you would later learn didn’t exactly work out in his favor.
The fact that his chosen major was business didn’t at all surprise you. It made sense, a lot of sense actually. Especially when you took his tax bracket into account. It was an unspoken rule among the wealthy children of the Stanford community, it existed in most top schools actually. It was along the lines of this: If you were rich and smart you became a doctor. Rich and dumb, lawyer, and if you were rich and had considerable athletic abilities, you went into business.
A feeble attempt at profiting off of the talent you didn’t really deserve. A fact you knew better than you’d like to admit.
Aside from the fact you didn’t like him as player, you didn’t care for him as a person. You didn’t exactly feel bad saying this because front the looks of it he didn’t even like himself. For the past couple of weeks he had been going through a sort of depressive episode. And almost every person on campus knew why.
His mission of breaking up a friendship for the chance at. A relationship had blown up completely in his face, and you had been given the pleasure of watching it happen from afar.
From what you knew it started with Tashi’s injury. You saw no point in going over it in detail, the school paper and gossip had done that for you. But in short, art won, or so he thought. Tasha rejected Patrick, opted for art and for 3 weeks it was perfect. He had won the only game he ever cared about, but of course it didn’t last. If it did you wouldn’t have been here.
Patrick drove back up to campus 3 weeks later with flowers and a proposition in hand. The deal he had presented to Tashi was simple, if she took him back, he’d be complacent. Allow her to mold him into her perfect image of a player, and unsurprisingly she took it. Sure art was willing to be her lap dog, but what she would learn to hate about him is his own lack of self respect. She needed someone who would fight with her, question her methods, make her excited to fuck him up. If she was going to be cruel, she needed someone who was going to be boarder line evil.
And Patrick could be that for her. So their trade off was Patrick would get the sex he so desperately wanted, they’d engage in minimal conversation (to keep up the appearance that there was more to them than there actually was), and then Tashi would run him to the ground, and do it with a smile on her face.
You knew that she was manipulative, you wouldn’t go as far to call her a bitch, but you could see why others did. You admired her perseverance , her intelligence, her motivation. You had always seen apart of yourself in her, something you learned to appreciate about yourself.
So now Patrick would visit every couple of weeks while she finished up the year and as a couple they avoided art like the plague and he had no choice but to walk around campus like a kicked dog, he resembled a punished golden doodle.
You smiled to yourself, he really was a pathetic blonde haired fuck.
After a bit more complaining and discussion with yourself you gave in. It was a chance to exercise your own leadership skills, and maybe even improve your own game, which admittedly had faltered over the past couple of weeks.
You threw your bag over your shoulder, making the short walk back to your dorm. When you did push your door open you weren’t surprised to see your roommate Cassie already sitting at her desk, writing a paper she should’ve started a week ago.
She spun in the chair, facing you with a smile.
“Look who’s back, you’re early Y’know.”
You smiled, throwing your bag on the floor.
“Practice ended early, which thank god it so fucking hot out there.”
She shrugged, turning back to her computer.
Cassie had come from a family of bankers in Houston so while you had grown up in the fluctuating weather of New York City, she was already quite accustomed to the heat.
You sighed, pulling a pair of shorts and a t shirt from your drawer.
“You’ll never guess what coach asked me.”
“Hmm.”
She answered simply, not taking her attention away from the screen.
“To coach Donaldson, well assist him anyways.”
Cassie, quirked an eyebrow in interest.
“Art, why? He’s already a great fucking player.”
“Yeah but great players still need coaching.”
“But that much?”
You pulled your tank top over your head, still engaged in the conversation.
“Well he basically lost a coach.”
You both looked at each other, smiling. The insinuation was there, and as each others best friends you found it funny, even if it was borderline bullying.
Cassie laughed to herself, returning to her paper.
“You’re evil Andy.”
You scoffed.
“I’m not. I mean i feel bad for the guy.”
“So you’re gonna grant him some grace when you’re coaching him.”
You didn’t answer, just laughed. You both knew why.
“Does he even know you’re coaching him?”
She asked the question as you turned the corner to the bathroom.
It then dawned on you that there was a very real possibility that he had no idea. Really no say in the matter. It put a small smile on your face.
You turned on the shower, decompression under the cold water.
“So what’re you gonna do about it if he’s not exactly on board?”
You shrugged, a pointless gesture considering Cassie couldn’t even see you.
”Kill him with the racket.”