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Art Donaldson is a junior at Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy. It’s been a draining year, worse than his past few. College visits, AP classes, and even more rigorous hours of tennis practice. The stress is getting to him for sure. His instructor is getting worried about Art’s ability to go pro, that he’s getting too focused on academics. But honestly, at this point he couldn’t give less of a fuck.
He wakes up with his shoulder aching more than it did the day before, which already wasn’t a good sign. He slumps out of bed, while Patrick is already awake and taking an ice cold shower. He grabs a packet of aspirin and pours it into his water bottle, shaking it diligently with his left hand avoiding using the other. He pulls on a pair of shorts and his uniform polo from his laundry, before unlocking the door.
“Pat I’m leaving!”
“See you at drills then. And don’t call me Pat!” Patrick shouts from the shower.
As Art makes his way to the dining hall, he feels his back pops as it settles into the right position again, locked up from sleeping weird. The menu is pretty plain today, like all days. Art grabs a banana before piling two hard boiled eggs, a few pieces of turkey sausage, and a piece of toast on his plate, sitting at the little table near the window, which looked out onto the outdoor courts.
They were empty besides that one tryhard bulimic girl, Hannah Wiseburg, who always woke up early to train. Poor thing won’t make it to qualifiers, he thinks to himself. He really understood how she felt, how terrible the pressure must be for her to perform like the other players and make it big. He was already so tired of hitting a ball with a racket, but it was basically his only skill in life.
-
As Patrick got out of the shower and slipped on his polo and played with his hair, he thought about how Art had been doing lately. Even though they lived together, Patrick missed his friend sometimes. It felt like unless they weren’t practicing or in class, all Art did was sleep and do homework. It was annoying, frankly. With Art in the room constantly, he hadn’t been able to have Helen Cooper in here for a while.
He grabs his bag and heads to the dining hall, grabbing a donut as he sauntered over too his table. Art was already waiting there for him, and he flopped into the plastic chair.
“Classes today?”
“We’re on the B block so- history, algebra and English, then doubles practice.” Art said simply. He was the type to always memorize schedules, know when things were happening.
“Sounds boring,” said Patrick said bluntly.
“Oh course it’s fucking boring, but I actually have to get into college dumbass, remember?” Art sighs as he finishes off his banana and tosses the peel onto his tray and jokingly slides it towards Patrick to clean up. “I’ll see you later.”
-
As Art slumped through his classes, the ache in his shoulder only began to spread into his back and neck. Writing an essay in History, discussing ‘Grapes of Wrath’ in English, and struggling though his Trig worksheet. Art grabbed a small turkey sandwich from the dining hall on the way to the court complex, eating it as he stretched and put on his tennis shoes. That’s when Patrick clapped him on the back and he almost winced.
“Heyyyyy do you mind showing me that chemistry assignment later? I totally didn’t do it and now Begley is pissed.”
“Sure, if you need it. Do you know who we’re pairing today?” Art sighed as he unzipped his racket from its padded case.
“Thanks. I’m hoping to hang out with Hannah tonight, that cool with you?” Patrick clearly had other plans than small talk, his smile wide and sly like he was trying to charm Art. It was a crucial part of the favor, even though he was sure Art would be fine with it.
“Not tonight, Pat,” Art replies, “I don’t wanna have to ‘accidentally fall asleep’ on the dorm couch again.”
“Just shower while she’s over or something. Also you know how much I hate it when you call me that,” Patrick pleas.
“This is sad, Patrick. You’re such a whore.” Art affirms. He did not have time to deal with Patrick’s affairs. Plus, it was always awkward between them the next morning, when Art would have to sneak back into their dorm to shower. It made getting ready feel cold and robotic, compared to the usual quiet peace that came with throwing their laundry in their overflowing basket and reminding each other that they needed to get up.
Practice went alright, for the most part. Obviously, Art loved playing in the service box. Being so close to the net let him save his energy for the shots that mattered, ones that made him interesting. It made him work well with Patrick, who had a somewhat sloppy, but stunningly powerful serve. It was unpredictable and fiery against people, especially at tournaments, when their opponents expected flawless technique from the kids at MRTA. I mean, this wasn’t just a sport to the kids there. It was a career.
But after they finished their first game, the instructor asked that Patrick and Art switch positions, earning a bit of annoyed grumble from Art. He was worried about his serve. He’d done everything he could to give it a rest, even massaged it a bit during warmups, but his shots from the service box required fast reaction times, and making sure that he angled his racquet enough to hit it far enough away from both of his opponents. It had left his shoulder feeling like it was moments away from snapping. Art reluctantly moved to the service line, lining up his shot before giving a good serve.
Patrick absolutely loved this stupid fucking sport. The rush of friction on his shoes against the court, the sweat getting caught in his hair, the vibration sent down the handle of the racquet as he served. But that was far from the best part of tennis. The best part of tennis for him, was when he got to play doubles with Art. They never spoke, they rank back and forth from the alleys, in perfect sync. It was like they were the same person, and it made his heart race like nothing else. He didn’t even care if he had to play in the service box, anything to play tennis with Art. They were winning too, like always and as Patrick darts across the court to hit the ball on a little drop spot, completely bewildering the opponents.
As Patrick turned to Art though, his elation faded quickly. Art seemed tense and annoyed, hardly even focusing on the fact that he and Patrick had won, and that they could go clean up for dinner. As Patrick sauntered into the locker room, he sped his gait up to be next to Art, he wanted to check on him. Sense what could be done to put his friend in a better mood. But Patrick settled on what he did best, which was make everything a joke or compliment.
“That was a good serve out there today, champ. Thanks for playing service that first game.” Patrick says jokingly, coming up to Art from behind and shaking his shoulders.
-
Art winces as Patrick jostles him. It’s feels like he’s been carrying a forty pound weight in his right arm all day, his shoulder hurts so much that it twitched as Patrick’s grip tightened.
“Yeah. Yeah sure, Patty. Happy to help,” Art cringes.
“What’s going on with your shoulder? It’s tense as fuck lately.”
Art sighs as he steps away to take a seat on the locker room bench, and wipes his face off with a towel. “I think it’s just some hypermobility type thing, I just gotta be easy on it.”
It was the only explanation, at least the only reasonable one. Most of his power came from his right arm, and Art had started pretty young, it was common for athletes to stretch their joints over time, like ballet dancers or gymnasts. But most of them either got corrective surgery or were forced to quit. He had no choice but to just let it rest when he could, it wasn’t like he was gonna be able to attend school anywhere else.
“Anyways, bring me a plate from the dining hall, I’m gonna take a nap back at the dorm or maybe do some homework, I’m already behind,” Art zips up his bag and swings it over his shoulder sad he walks off.
“Yeah, that sucks man. I’ll see you soon,” Patrick resigns. He takes one last glance at Art as he walks away. God, his face always looked so purple when he was tired. His eye bags would puff out even more than usual, and his curls always got looser and messier as he fidgeted with them. Patrick just hoped some sleep would help, and that Art would be okay. It wasn’t like Art wanted to go pro right away, but a long term issue like that could totally ruin his career. He knew Art was good, better than him, honestly. It would be awful to see his best friend crushed like that.
The walk to the dining hall is lonely without Art, so Patrick just spends it eavesdropping on some other kids in front of him, gossiping about one of the trainers supposedly getting kids cigarettes from off campus. That’s an easy way to lose your job, honestly you just gotta get them mailed in, no one checks the mail. He gets all sorts of stuff mailed in, posters and extra muscle tape, things like that, never once was a package opened. He thinks of maybe ordering Art something, a funny shirt or just some snacks they both missed. It’d be fun to just sit on the floor and pig out together.
Helen Cooper is the first person he sees as he walks into the dining hall, she’s sitting with some friends, arguing about Obamacare. She probably got her passion for politics from her dad. Patrick knows she doesn’t belong here, she seems bored, and honestly, she’s terrible at tennis. But he figures the Vanderbilts thought it would be good for their reputation to have her here. It definitely doesn’t hurt Patrick, she’s hot as hell.
She makes eye contact with Patrick as he crosses the room to sit as his usual table, gives a giving a small wave. Patrick swallows as he slides into his seat and quickly eats his piece of pizza, and the small salad he has on the side of plate. For balance, of course. He hates eating alone, but he knows Helen would never invite him to sit at her table. It was embarrassing to talk to him, everyone knew his reputation for talking to girls, it wasn’t like he would contribute much to a conversation about recovering from the recession anyways.
He grabs a to-go box of food for Art on the way out. Some salad, chicken tenders, and a head of fries. He drizzles the ketchup on top of them, just how he likes it. Freak. He grabs a Diet Coke too, with the pebble ice. Maybe the caffeine will help him feel a bit better. He feels Helen’s eyes on him as he walks outside.
-
Stepping into the dorm, Art immediately sets his bag down throws his shirt on the floor. All he wants to do right now is fall asleep, but he still feels sticky from practice, so he slips his boxers off and hops in the shower. He likes them warm, but he always starts off with them cold, otherwise he never feels like he’s truly gotten the sweat off. He steals a bit of Patrick’s shampoo, since he’s all out at the moment. Patrick’s always smelled better anyways. Finally feeling a bit less miserable, he dries off with an old towel. He and Patrick really needed to do laundry. He pulls on an old Martha’s Vineyard shirt he got on vacation with a fresh pair of boxers, then puts on some Alex Turner on his iPod and sinks into his bed. His shoulder continues to ache, the pain pulsating slowly. He decides to get up and pulls an ice pack out and smacks it against his bedframe before rolling onto his stomach and stuffing his pillow in his face.
Art doesn’t even want to think about his assignments. He’s so tired of talking about Steinbeck and trying to remember whether sin or cos goes first. Art just wants his shoulder to stop hurting and have tennis feel fun again. College is obviously his backup plan in case he sucks in the pro leagues, but he has to actually pass his classes when he gets there, and he has no idea what his major is supposed to be. Isn’t he supposed to plan for stuff like this? His shoulder still hurts, and his ice pack is already wearing off, but he slowly dips into an unsteady sleep.
-
Patrick unlocks the door with a satisfying round click, balancing Art’s food in his other hand.
“Wakey Wakey Art, I’m backkkk” he announces in a sing song voice as he realizes Art is dead asleep. Patrick puts the to-go container on Art’s desk and slightly shakes the beframe, waking him up with a groan.
“What is wrong with you? I was sleeping” Art whines, hissing as he pushes himself up onto his side, sheets twisted near the foot of his bed.
“Damn, your shoulder actually that bad?” Patrick asks as he parks himself on the edge of Art’s mattress.
“Pretty much, I might ask you to help me put some tape on” Art says, rubbing his eyes. Patrick noticed just how pink Art’s skin got when it was irritated, you could even notice his pores a bit. It made him tell Art to just go back to sleep, that clearly today was rough.
“Y’know ice isn’t gonna help your shoulder much. I put these heating packs on my calves sometimes when they act up. You can try one,” Patrick gets up before he can hear Art agree and pulls them out of the top drawer of his dresser, shuffling through the mess of electrolyte packs, dead lighters, and old assignments he’s ‘put in the archives’. He tosses the pouch to Art, but comes closer as he watches him struggle to stick it on his back from under his shirt.
“I can do that if you need me to,” he offers to Art as he gets a bit closer, “just take your shirt off.”
“Really, Pat? I’m capable of this, I’ve done it plenty of times before”
“I know that, but it would be a hell of a lot less sad if I just did it for you than watched you struggle like a turtle on its shell,” Patrick retorts as he sits on the side of the bed, facing Art’s back.
As Art pulls his shirt over his head with a grunt, Patrick remembers just how athletic they both are compared to most other people. Art’s not jacked or anything, but his muscles are defined across his back, and he can see a bit of his lower spine flex under his skin, which he had never seen happen to anyone before. Patrick applies the patch right where Art’s shoulder looks the most tense, carefully massaging into his back, trying to help activate the heat from the pack faster, and help relieve some tension. “Feels better?”
“Yeah, thanks,” Art chokes out, “definitely helps more than the ice pack.”
Patrick quite literally felt his face grow warmer and smile wider as he heard Art’s breath shudder from relief. He was so glad to help his friend, especially after all the effort Art had been putting in to push him through school. The silence is nice, too. Taking a break with his friend after talking and training nonstop helped him wind down.
That’s when they both heard a knock on the door, turning in unison. Patrick bolts up and scrambles to pick his underwear off the floor and slam his drawers closed.
“Shit, that’s probably Helen. I’ll talk to her outside for a minute, be back in a minute,” Patrick stammers as he turns towards the door with his exaggerated smile. “Hey Helen, you looked great on the court today,” he says as he steps out of the room, grabbing his phone on the way out. He would just have to make an excuse to use her room.
-
Art watched as Patrick stuffed his phone in his pocket, taking it as a sign he was lying through his teeth. He was probably just grabbing it so he could text Art to let him back in later, so he wouldn’t have to knock and draw attention. Art was hit with a sudden wave of annoyance. Patrick was a great guy, his best friend of at least seven years now, but sometimes he still felt like his closest moments with him would never measure up to even the least meaningful of Patrick’s endless stream of relationships.
Reluctantly, Art rubs the heat pack on his shoulder, and pulls the food Patrick brought to him out, taking a few bites only to realize he’s too tired to eat. He takes a sip of the Diet Coke from the squeaky styrofoam before scrolling down to Frank Ocean and turning the volume way down. I’ll just get some sleep and deal with Patrick tomorrow, Art thinks as he rolls over and into his already crumpled blankets, causing the evidence of Patrick’s presence to shake out of the sheets.
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