Chapter Text
Patrick returned downstairs with wobbly legs, heart in his throat as he prayed that nobody else was awake to witness his walk of shame back to his room. He washed his hands, changed his clothes, and spent five minutes lying in bed with eyes wide open before accepting that there was absolutely no way he was going to fall asleep. He needed a smoke.
Out on the back patio, his hand was still shaky as he brought the cigarette to his lips. Did Tashi even know what she had done to him? Of course she did, of course; Tashi always accounted for all variables when she executed a plan. That wasn’t it. It was that Patrick himself didn’t know, that the sea of possibilities and fast-forming memories was swirling too quickly for him to grasp. Tashi had put up that performance for his benefit—among other things. But Art. He couldn’t have known. There was no way she would have told him.
Art hadn’t been putting on a show at all; he was just responding to what he had been given. Natural. It was beyond anything Patrick had ever considered, every fantasy he’d ever had as a teenager, a spectator, a guest this past week. Did Art always take it so easily, or was this special? It had taken so little to get him completely open and ready for it. To follow every order like it was all he knew how to do.
Tashi had said that he had made Art this way. Patrick. He wanted it to be true. He wanted to be the thing that made Art give in like that, to lie back and surrender control and do as he was told. He had been, hadn’t he? Tashi had been the one on top of him, but it was Patrick’s name on both of their lips. It was the thought of Patrick that had finally made Art come. It had to be.
Patrick was in over his head. In a good way. The best way. Tashi had seen through Art’s soul and spelled it out plain to see, but she’d spelled it out for Patrick as well. If he got what he wanted, got Art beneath him in the same way, wide-eyed and desperate for it, following every bit of Patrick’s lead, it would all be because Tashi had willed it to be so. She was the one pulling the strings; Patrick was every bit as beholden to her whims as Art had been. She had brought him here for that specific purpose. It should have made him feel emasculated, ashamed—and maybe it did. But at the hands of Tashi Duncan, there was no better way to be.
He could have stayed out there for the rest of the night, chain-smoking and watching the light of the moon reflect off the trees. But his alarm would ring the next morning as early as it had every other day, and for the first time, Patrick meant to take his training very seriously. He couldn’t be caught flat-footed. He needed to do a good job for them.
* * *
The next morning, Patrick walked into the kitchen expecting it to be empty. Every other day, it had been: he was the straggler, the only one who didn’t appear to keep an early schedule by nature.
Today, he was not alone.
Art and Tashi sat at the little table in the breakfast nook, poking at their respective bowls of chia pudding and fruit. They both looked up when he walked in; Art for only a second, eyes back down at his bowl, but Tashi with a steady gaze.
“Late start?” Patrick said.
“You’re just early,” Art said. The miserable energy that had been pulsating through him ever since Patrick arrived had fallen by half. He was almost subdued. So this is Art Donaldson the morning after,
Tashi didn’t break eye contact. Until she did: a flit of her eyes to Art’s neck, and Patrick followed. Peeking above Art’s collar was half of a purpling bruise.
Patrick swallowed. Tashi reached out to adjust Art’s shirt for him, showing just a little bit more, and pushed a straggling bit of hair out of his eyes. Art looked her with the hint of a smile. Was he oblivious or actually trying to be a tease? Patrick couldn’t let himself stare. He went to open the door to the fridge.
“Hey, Patrick,” Tashi said. “You should be excited.”
Patrick was grateful to already be looking away: his eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. He knew Tashi was escalating, but he hadn’t expected it so quickly. She hadn’t even given him the time to do his part.
“You’re ready to actually play today,” Tashi clarified. “Conditioning to warm up, but before lunch, I want a match between the two of you.”
Patrick grabbed an orange and leaned against the closed refrigerator door. In the height of everything, he’d almost forgotten the original reason that Tashi had brought him here, to coach and be coached. If she knew, she wouldn’t like it. “Okay,” Patrick said. “Works for me.”
Art didn’t say a word. Whatever attention he had was for Tashi alone; it was like Patrick was a black hole sitting across the table from him, and Art needed to avoid looking at him to avoid being sucked in. Fine. There was no need to push. He’d be looking at Patrick soon enough.
Art finished his breakfast, kissed Tashi on the cheek, and went to go get ready for the day.
Tashi turned to Patrick and smiled.
“Late night?” she said. “You look tired.”
“Ha ha,” Patrick said, deadpan. “You know, somebody else is going to see that bruise of his.”
“Nobody’s going to notice. You’re the only one trying to look down his shirt.”
“Fucking hell, Tashi. How long were you planning that?”
“It was a spur of the moment idea,” Tashi said. “I had an opportunity, and I decided to take you up on an offer. You kept talking about wanting to watch.”
“Watching? You’ll have to try again for that one. I didn’t see a thing.”
“Even better.”
Impasse. She was so pleased with herself, in a way he hadn’t seen off the tennis court. It didn’t bode well for him that Patrick was going to be the one to disrupt that.
“Did you tell Art about me?”
“I didn’t tell him anything.” Her eyebrows were a straight line. She looked defiant, waiting to fight as much as she needed to.
It was as much as he had expected, but not what he wanted to hear. Art was so skittish, so quick to run in the face of anything that made him feel under the microscope. “Worried we’ll run off together if he knows I’m an option?”
“Please.”
“Then what is it? Afraid of how he’s going to react?”
Tashi threw down her spoon with a clang. It took her an agonizing few moments to speak. “He’ll get too embarrassed if I tell him,” she said finally. “He hates it when he feels like I’m controlling too many things that he can’t see.”
“Didn’t seem that way to me.”
Tashi frowned. “He’s not usually like that.”
Maybe that should have disappointed him, but in its own way, it made the night before even better. Patrick had gotten to witness Art in rare form. “What, does he usually try to fight back?” He meant it as a tease, not as desperate as it ended up being.
Tashi was looking at him like she suddenly remembered who she was talking to. “Haven’t I given you enough jerk off material for one twenty-four hour period? You want any more, you make it yourself. I already told you what you need to do.”
She was leaving again, walking away from him like she always did. Tashi Duncan, always with the last word. Impulsively, Patrick reached out to grab her wrist. Tashi could have easily kept walking, but the surprise of it made her stop. “Can I help you?” she said, venomous.
“Yes,” Patrick said. “I need you to explain to me just what exactly you’re thinking here. Not just what you want me to do for you, but why the hell you’re asking me to do it in the first place.”
“And why would I do that?”
Patrick didn’t let go. “Because I need to know what you’re getting me into. I need to know your…intentions.”
“Intentions? Patrick, this isn’t Jane Austen. We’re not courting.”
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “We’re pretty far past that, don’t you think?”
Tashi pulled her arm away from him but didn’t move. She was as close to off-kilter as he’d ever seen her; there was a decision she needed to make fighting its way to the surface. “Do whatever you want, Patrick. I’m not making you do anything.”
“I am doing what I want,” Patrick said. “Very much so. Haven’t I already proven that to you?”
“Then what the fuck else do you need from me?”
Patrick sighed. “It’s like you said. Art’s going to bolt like a fucking baby deer if I do this wrong. If he thinks I’m doing it just for fun—”
“So don’t do it wrong.”
“Tashi.” Patrick waited until she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Is this just for fun?”
“Why not?”
The words sank like a stone in his stomach. “Art wouldn’t be able to handle that.”
“Art wouldn’t?” Tashi raised a prim eyebrow.
Last night had been objectively riskier, but Patrick had never felt more exposed. “Fine,” he said. “Fine, I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Happy?”
“No.”
Patrick exhaled sharply through his nose. He felt like a bullfighter, circling the ring with something stronger, faster, and more than willing to gore him. “I can’t do it again, Tashi. I can’t handle you guys letting me in and then turning around and pushing me back out again when I’m no longer a necessary fucking part of the equation. Do I really need to explain that to you? We both know I’m at rock fucking bottom here. I need to know if the plan is to kick me while I’m down. Because if this is just—I don’t know, a training technique, you need to tell me now, because I can’t fucking do it again.”
She took a few steps toward the door, and Patrick didn’t try to stop her. If that was it, then it was all the answer he needed.
But the door didn’t open. Patrick looked up, and Tashi was still there, staring down at him like it was taking every inch of her willpower not to scream. “It’s not working. And I don’t know how to make it work. This is my fucking life, Patrick, and it’s not working.” Her voice was strangled, anguished, like if it was any other person she’d be on the verge of tears. “And maybe that’s just my fault, maybe I’m just fucking—constitutionally incapable, whatever. That’s what Art would probably tell you, huh? That I’m just the bad guy who can’t love anyone. And if that’s all I’m going to get to be, the big bad bitch of my own marriage, then—well, it wouldn’t be the first thing in my life to end up being a big fucking disappointment, would it?”
She pressed on, determined to ignore the waver that was forcing its way into her voice. “But I want to be happy,” Tashi said. “As completely fucking pathetic as that sounds, I want to be happy, okay? And I thought that the challenger—New Rochelle—whatever—I thought it was going to be enough to at least make things different. And it was. For that one fucking game, it was, and then it was back to normal, and then it was worse.”
She looked so beautiful, so angry, and so sad. Had Art ever seen her this way? Patrick hoped for Art’s sake that he hadn’t; otherwise, he wouldn’t have a single excuse. “I didn’t know what to fucking do anymore, Patrick. This is my life. Art’s never going to do anything without someone to push him, and he doesn’t want it to be me anymore. So maybe it can be you, all right? I think he wants it to be you. And if fucking you is what makes this thing work, then welcome aboard. Because I don’t know what else to do.”
Tashi was still standing exactly where she had stopped, fists clenched by her side and chest heaving with every breath. Patrick at last stood from his chair and walked the few steps to stand in front of her. “Tashi.” He reached up to cup her cheek in his hand. She didn’t move, but she didn’t look away from him. “It’s not pathetic to want to be happy.”
He felt her jaw clench beneath his hand. “It is for me.”
It only took the slightest of movements to tilt her face up, and then she was kissing him as tentatively as she ever had, arms stiff by her side at first and then thrown around his neck. Kissing Tashi had always been a journey: there was always somewhere better to go, the kiss just a prelude to the important parts. This time, all the urgency was in having her mouth on his. After that, it was nice and slow. Almost gentle. So different from the Tashi he knew, but so much better than he could have imagined.
Finally, finally, Tashi put her arms down and moved to pull away. Patrick’s arms were still tight around her shoulders, and he didn’t budge.
“Can you go ahead and repeat that?” Patrick said. “Especially the part about how fucking me is powerful enough to save your marriage. I quite liked that part.”
“Don’t get cute with me, Patrick,” Tashi said. It was hard to take her scowl that seriously with her breath tickling his face. “Besides, I already told you that I’m not having sex with you.”
“Until I fuck Art, you mean.”
It was a spectacular vantage point for watching her eyes roll. “If you fuck Art. I’m still not completely convinced that you know how to make it happen.”
“Want me to show you how?”
“No,” Tashi said, but she let Patrick kiss her again, just for a moment. “Just show me the results. You want to make it happen? Try winning today. That would be a good start.”
* * *
Trying to pivot to practice mode was excruciating, but the match that afternoon was too important for Patrick to start tripping over his own dick. The morning passed as slowly as any other that Patrick could remember. Tashi was a dispassionate drill sergeant, running the two of them through routine exercises that got Patrick’s heart beating but never enough.
If Art was nervous, it didn’t show. He was back to ignoring Patrick, but without any of the hard-edged hostility that had characterized him in the days before. Art was focused on the tennis and on Tashi. Patrick was a part of the landscape like any other.
But he wasn’t, wasn’t he? Patrick would have killed to know what was happening in Art’s head. He hadn’t known that Patrick was there last night in the hallway, but even without a physical presence, Patrick had been fully involved. The things that Tashi had said must have echoed through Art’s head just as vividly as they did through Patrick’s. She’d asked him a question, right at the end, but she’d closed the door before Patrick could hear what Art had to say as an answer. He wanted to hear the answer, but it was going to take something for Art to be willing to give it to him. It was just like Tashi said.
Finally, as the sun started threatening to reach midday, Tashi looked around with her hands on her hips and said it was time to go.
They weren’t joined by the entire rest of Art and Tashi’s staff, but there were enough of them there for Patrick to feel like he had an audience. The other two assistant coaches stood on either end of the court, suddenly demoted to line judge, and Art’s physical therapist was there on the bench in case for some godforsaken reason he ended up being needed. Tashi’s PA set up a camera to record, so they could review the tape later, but even she put her laptop away and came over to watch. Tashi, of course, sat at the raised chair at the center net, inscrutable behind her sunglasses with her arms crossed. She was going to be the judge.
The coin flip gave the serve to Art, an accident of luck that Patrick found distinctly unfair. He stuck out his hand for a handshake before Art could retreat to the other side of the court, and after a moment, Art took it.
“Good luck out there,” Patrick said, smiling.
Art seemed to find that amusing. “You too.”
And then they were off. Art took no time in making his intentions clear: he started off with a flat serve that whizzed past Patrick, just out of reach. An ace.
“Fifteen, love,” Art called, and readied the next serve.
The rest of the first set was not much better than that. It didn’t take Patrick long to get into the rhythm, and even force Art into a couple of extended rallies, but Art owned the court. It was Patrick who danced back and forth across the baseline, meeting Art’s hits with everything he had, but each hit managed to return precisely to where Art already stood. His own breath was already coming heavy; every cigarette he’d smoked the night before was coming back with a vengeance. Art was sweaty but otherwise looked pristine. Patrick could have hated him for it, but all he could think to do was stare.
In the end, it took seven games, including the one he managed to eke out by force of luck more than anything. At the changeover, Art downed half a bottle of water in one go; Patrick sat in the chair across from him and watched.
Art leaned forward, peering around the poles that held Tashi’s chair aloft, and raised an eyebrow when he saw Patrick looking at him. “You’re welcome to start actually playing at any time.”
Patrick smiled, matching Art eyebrow for eyebrow. “Didn’t you learn anything from last time? My time is coming. I’m lulling you into a false sense of security.”
“Is that what it is?” Art was still in such a good mood; how long had it been since he’d looked at Patrick with anything approaching affection on his face? Except for the end of their match at the challenger, of course. Art had smiled at him then, just before he came to his senses and realized what he’d done.
That, at least, made it easier for Patrick to puncture Art’s good mood. It only took a moment for his smile to turn devilish. “Of course. Wouldn’t want things to come too hard, too fast, wouldn’t we?”
It was only for half a second, but that was enough: Art whipped his head back in Patrick’s direction, eyes frozen wide, hand crumpling the plastic bottle that was still in his hand. A moment later he had schooled his face back into neutrality, but Patrick could see where the bottle was still clenched tight. Patrick smiled even wider. Good to know that every word Tashi had said the previous night was ricocheting around Art’s head every bit as much as his own.
“Funny,” Art said, standing up and picking his racquet back up. “Isn’t that supposed to be the point?”
They were back on the court, exactly where they had been only moments previously, but Patrick already knew that this set was going to be different. He balanced the ball on his racquet for a moment, then hit a slice that curved toward the back corner. Art didn’t have to work for it to return, but the hit was off, too slow and too high, giving Patrick ample time to line up exactly the shot he wanted. He hit the ball straight down the line, square in the opposite corner. It hit the ground and arched into the netting of the back fence.
Point: Patrick.
The next point was Art’s, with a ferocious backhand that Patrick had to dodge to avoid getting hit with, and then it was Art’s turn to serve again. He threw the ball into the air a couple of times, but instead of hitting it, the ball bounced back uselessly to the ground.
“Come on, Art,” Patrick called. “Tashi’s going to call time on you if you don’t hurry up and serve.”
“Shut up, Patrick,” Tashi called in return. There was something especially arresting about her sitting where she did, a slender figure sitting against the blue sky. “Art, stop fucking around.”
Per usual, Tashi was what it took: Art levied the ball and hit it this time, but the ball hit the top of the net before rolling over onto Patrick’s side of the court. Not a legal serve: Art had to try again.
Patrick paced up and down the baseline, daring Art to look in his direction. He never did: the second serve was better, but Patrick was feeling better prepared. He returned; Art hit back, and then Patrick, again and again, into a rally that had both of them running back and forth, neither side hitting his mark quite right, always leaving just enough of a gap for the other one to slide in and deliver the ball back to the other side. Art’s face was a mask of concentration, but he was settling into a rhythm. Patrick was going to have to break that, too.
Opportunity arose at last. Art’s backhand was not quite right: the ball soared over the net, and Patrick rushed forward to meet it, dropping it right back over the net in a drop shot that Art reacted to too late to adjust. So sloppy, and from the barest provocation at all. Patrick hadn’t felt so powerful since the last time he and Art had played.
The next two points came in quick succession, short plays that gave Patrick each point, and then one last point to round out the game. It was time to change sides: Art was back at his chair, sipping an electrolyte drink this time.
“Enjoying yourself?” Patrick said as he walked past.
“I’m going to enjoy beating you.”
The next game was indeed his, but Patrick made him work for it, and they were both breathing heavily by the time Patrick hit the final point. The following three games, however, were Patrick’s. It felt so good to play well, to feel in charge of the court under Tashi’s watchful gaze. Even better was watching Art unravel: his disorientation was subtle enough on first glance, but the score spoke for itself. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Patrick felt the tiniest twinge of guilt: as they were both well aware, this was a match for Art’s benefit, to get him ready for the US Open that was right around the corner. But every point that Patrick scored sent that thought further and further to the back of his mind.
Patrick was up, four to one. Two more games and they’d be tied; the momentum would be his going into the last set. It was only a practice match, but for Patrick, it may as well have been a Grand Slam. It was the closest he’d ever get to playing in one, anyway.
The break after the fifth game was only two minutes, and Patrick needed it, but the opportunity to needle Art was too tantalizing to resist. He’d tested the waters to see how Art was going to react, and he’d been rewarded spectacularly for his efforts. It was time to see how far he could push.
“You doing all right, Art?” Patrick said. “You seem a little off balance. We really do need to get you practicing those backhand returns.”
Art wiped a sweaty forearm across his sweaty face. “I know that Tashi might have given you a job title,” he said. “But I’m going to need you to stop pretending like you’re my coach.”
Patrick put his hands up in surrender. “Touchy, touchy. I’m just saying, I have some insights that might be useful for you. You’re an open book, you know that? You just can’t stop yourself from leaving the door open for me. It makes it so easy to hear what’s going on on the other side.”
This time, Art couldn’t collect himself. He was openly staring. Once was a coincidence, but twice was too much to write off, and it wasn’t like Patrick was trying to be subtle. He could see the wheels spinning in Art’s mind, and to Patrick’s utmost gratification, there was a flush on his cheeks that couldn’t be completely written off as part of the game. He had to be remembering all of the things that Tashi had said, that he had said. Patrick was remembering them too.
“What’s going on down there?” Tashi yelled down from above. “Get back on the court.”
It was exactly as Patrick had expected. What had remained of Art’s composure had disintegrated. He was making sloppy errors, things he would have been embarrassed to do back when they were kids, let alone now. Only a couple of lucky shots stopped the last two games from being complete blowouts, but Patrick still one each of them with ease. The second set was his. They were tied going into the third.
When Art and Patrick returned to the sideline, Tashi had come down from her umpire’s chair and was standing with her hands on her hips, foot tapping as she looked back and forth from Art to Patrick. “What the hell is going on here?” Tashi said. “Art, tell me it’s not your shoulder.”
Art looked resigned. He didn’t even bother to pretend not to know what she was talking about. “It’s not my shoulder.”
“Okay,” Tashi said. “Then what the hell is it?”
“It’s nothing,” Art said. “Just having an off day, I don’t know.”
Patrick laughed before he could stop himself. “Liar.”
That got both Art and Tashi’s attention. Art’s blush was back, and he was looking at Patrick to Tashi like he wasn’t sure who he needed to run away from faster. Tashi was still in her sunglasses, and her eyes were hidden behind their mirrored lenses. But Patrick could see the way her lips quirked up in a fraction of a smile.
“Well then,” Tashi said. “We’ll just have to look at the tape later.” She returned to her chair.
Art was looking at him like he was debating saying something but couldn’t find the words. “What?” Patrick said, all innocence. “We both know that’s not it, don’t we?”
“Shut up, Patrick,” was all he got by way of response. Art stalked back to his side of the net.
If the last comment had disoriented him, this one had set Art right back on track. He seemed to channel all of his fury into his tennis arm. Patrick put up a good fight, and even pushed Art into a couple of extra points in the second game, but in the end, they were both Art’s.
But Patrick hadn’t worked so hard to let it all fall away from him so easily—because he was working hard, somehow. He was pulling up from a deep well of motivation that he’d thought had long ceased to exist within him. Or it was more than that: it was motivation borne of Art, of Art looking this way, reacting this way, putting it all into the tennis match when Patrick knew that all he could think about was what had happened last night in his bed. It was a thrilling level of control. No wonder Tashi liked it so much.
Patrick started off the third set with an ace that was more luck than anything, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was the point, and that Art was now pacing back and forth along the baseline, swinging his racquet like he might be gearing up to smash it against the ground. Patrick’s provocation had worked better than he had ever thought it was, and the nagging feeling of guilt started rearing its head once again.
“Hey.” Patrick let the ball he had been about to serve bounce down until he could stop it with his foot. Art looked up at him, but didn’t respond, only went back to pacing.
“Hey,” Patrick said again, this time walking closer to approach the net.
Art looked around, then reluctantly walked forward to meet him. “What?”
“You can calm down,” Patrick said, and watched anger flare behind Art’s eyes. “Easy! I mean, stay worked up if you want to. We can both see how that’s working out on my end—fine by me. But I’m just saying.”
“You’re just saying what?”
“Calm down. It’s not that big a deal.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” Art spoke like the words were being forced out of him.
“Sure,” Patrick said. “But that’s true about just about everything, isn’t it?”
Art scoffed, and went to return to the end of the court.
“Hey!”
Art turned around.
“I’m serious. You don’t need to get that worked up.”
“Yeah, you’ve already shared that insight.”
“I’ve got a lot of wisdom to share,” Patrick said cheerfully. “Maybe I am a good coach, huh? I can always watch a game and imagine myself in any position. Yours, Tashi—anyone. I’m telling you, it’s not that big a deal. Might even be a good thing.”
Art was tapping his racquet against his leg, staring at Patrick yet again. Patrick smiled guilelessly and waited. “We can’t talk about this right now,” Art said finally. “We have a match to play.”
“Of course,” Patrick said. “You’re right. Let’s play. I’m just saying, let’s talk about it later. It’s not a conversation you need to be worried about.”
Art didn’t respond to that, just went back to his end of the court. But the rest of the game was steadier: Patrick still gave as good as he got, but the unravelling that had been occurring in front of him came to an end. Three points in short succession gave Art the win.
“Let’s go!” Tashi’s voice said from somewhere above them.
The second game was Art’s, too: he was back in regular form, in fine form, and though Patrick was giving it his all, Art’s endurance was better. It was enough to give him the edge. Patrick took the third game, but not without a fight: Art won three points in a row before Patrick clawed them right back and won on advantage. The next game was even more of a scrapping fight to the finish. Patrick only won the game point when Art’s serve just barely touched outside the lines.
The sun was brutally hot and the air was damp with humidity, but Patrick barely felt it at all. All that mattered was the court, the tennis ball, and Art standing across him on the other side. Back and forth they went against a soundless background. The only sounds that Patrick could hear were the thwack of the ball and the little exclamations that Art made every time he hit it.
Patrick couldn’t tell what he wanted more: for the match to end, so he could finally corner Art once and for all and force him to talk about everything he’d wanted to avoid, or for the match to continue on as long as he could stretch it. They’d been doubles partners, once upon a time, but back then Art’s game hadn’t looked half so good. He had been learning, still figuring it out. This was an Art who knew what to do and did it with power. He looked so beautiful out there. He’d have to remember to tell him that. He’d have to remember to see how Tashi agreed.
The games went on tit for tat. One for Art, another for Patrick. Art, Patrick. Patrick broke the cycle with one more win, bringing him up to five games against Art’s four. If he won the next game, he’d win the set. And if he won the set, it was over.
Art bounced the ball a few too many times as he went to serve, and for a moment, Patrick thought he was stalling again, that Patrick had gotten him back in that same mindset that lost him the second set. But then Art’s serve was arcing through the air, a perfect specimen that Patrick lobbed right back him. Back and forth, back and forth, until Patrick’s cracking overhand smash locked away the point for good.
It was back to his serve. Patrick hit the ball with a heavy topspin, sending the ball careening toward Art’s weaker left side. Art adjusted, but not well enough: his backhand set the ball right into the net.
“Thirty, love,” Patrick called out. He served the ball again. Art returned with a heavy smash—a beautiful shot, really, the kind of hit that put Art’s face on the front of magazines and his name on people’s lips. Patrick couldn’t get to it quickly enough. Art’s point. Thirty to fifteen.
But Patrick took the next point after a lengthy rally that left both of them out of breath. Patrick tried to wipe the sweat out of his eyes and only succeeded in making them even sweatier. How long had they been out there? It was past midday now. He’d neglected to reapply sunscreen; it felt like there was a sunburn forming on the back of his neck. Patrick was bone tired. He felt incredible. The next point was match point, make it or break it. This was his opportunity to put it away.
Art knew it, too. He said nothing, but Patrick could see it all over his body language. Too tense in the shoulders. He was going to get too wound up and restrict his full range of motion; worse, he’d swing for the fences anyway and hurt himself again.
“Hey!” Patrick yelled.
Art wasn’t too focused not to be exasperated. “What?” he shouted back.
“Calm down.”
It was a beautiful serve, if Patrick could say so himself, but Art returned with just as beautiful of a shot as his own. Back and forth, back and forth, every shot perfect until the other one found his own perfect way to respond. Even before it ended, before Patrick had time to think of anything other than the hit and return of the tennis ball, he was so grateful to know that Tashi was there, watching. She had to know that it was all for her.
But it had to come to an end, and Patrick was determined that he was going to be the one to end it. At last, he saw his opportunity: Art tried to disrupt the pace with a volley, but it swung too far over to Patrick’s right side, and Patrick returned with brutal, hard-earned ease. The ball smashed down on the other side and bounced away. It was his point.
Patrick had won.
The whoop he let out was undignified, or at least not an appropriate reaction to the scale of their match. Art tossed his racquet away with more resignation than rage. His hands were on his hips and his breaths were coming quickly. The sweat poured off of him and made his clothes stick to his body.
Tashi was climbing down from her chair, but Patrick got to Art first and stuck out his hand for a handshake. Art looked down at his outstretched hand, back up at Patrick again, then slowly lifted his own hand to grasp Patrick’s in kind.
Patrick couldn’t help himself, but that wasn’t his fault. Who would be able to resist? He gripped Art’s hand and yanked him forward with a sharp tug that Art would have been able to bolster himself against under better circumstances. As it was, he was tired and off-guard. Art fell into Patrick’s chest with a jolt, and Patrick threw his arms around him jubilantly.
“Now we’re even,” he murmured into Art’s ear. Art jerked away, but Patrick refused to let go. It wasn’t the first time that Art had fallen to his arms at the end of a tennis match, but the last time had been truncated so quickly when Art decided to run away. Patrick wasn’t going to give him an option this time. Art was as sticky and sweaty as he was, but Patrick could feel Art’s heart beating, same as his own.
Only when Tashi reached them did Patrick allow the two of them to fall away. She handed a towel to Art and then, reluctantly, handed another one to Patrick. “Good game,” Tashi said.
Art looked at her askance. “I played like shit.”
“Yeah,” Tashi conceded. “But when you didn’t, it was beautiful.”
It was like Patrick had receded into the background. Art was staring at her like he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard. Patrick wanted to concur, to tell him that he was beautiful, it was like she said, but Tashi reached out to cup Art’s face with both of her hands. “Listen to me,” Tashi said. “You did good.” And she leaned up to kiss him.
Patrick had seen them on TV, seen the occasional perfunctory peck on the lips, but this was the first time that he’d seen it happen in person since they were in that hotel room all those years ago. Art’s surprise soon gave way to a pleased acceptance. Patrick knew he was staring, but that was what Tashi wanted, wasn’t it? It didn’t last that long, anyway, until Tashi started pulling away. It could have lasted longer but it didn’t.
Tashi reached up to smooth Art’s sweaty hair. Neither of them even looked so much in Patrick’s direction. “Let’s go reset,” Tashi said. “And then we can watch the tape. I’ve got some ideas.”
They walked away, Tashi’s arm looped through Art’s. Patrick stood there and watched. They were going, going, going, further and further away, and Patrick almost stopped, almost picked up his stuff and went back to begin his cooldown. But then there was a shift, and Tashi was looking over her shoulder. Just for a moment, but looking straight at him. And she smiled.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon was a blessed break. Patrick took a shower and tried to take a nap, but sleep wouldn’t come to him. All he could think about was the match. Art’s game, his own game, sure; he didn’t have Tashi’s fanaticism, but Patrick could revel in the aftermath of a good game of tennis. But that was just window dressing: he was thinking about the match, but he was thinking about Art. Every inch of his reactions to the teasing had burrowed their way into Patrick’s way and stayed there. His pretty blush, those big blue eyes. Art knew now, but he was never going to take another step without outside assistance. He was going to wait to see what Patrick did.
When Patrick changed into a shabby pair of board shorts and went over to the pool, he hadn’t even been looking for Art. Cooling down seemed like a good idea, and it appeared to be one that Art had shared: he was sitting on the steps in the shallow end of the pool, fidgeting with a can of beer in his hands but never taking a sip. Even the squeak of the gate swinging open wasn’t enough to make him look up; Art only noticed that Patrick was there when he splashed into the water beside him.
“Good job,” Patrick said, and reached over to pluck Art’s can of beer out of his hands and take a sip. It had already gone warm.
“Yeah, you said that already.”
“No, I didn’t. That was Tashi. You back to confusing the two of us already?”
Art was back to flushing pink. “Listen, Patrick, I don’t know what you heard—”
“I heard everything.”
Art squeezed his eyes shut. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I can’t believe I was that fucking stupid. The whole staff must have heard everything.”
There was a panicky quality to his voice that Patrick did not like. Once Art started panicking, he was going to shut down. That was the last thing Patrick needed. “I don’t think so,” Patrick said. He pressed the beer can back into Art’s hands, and gave him a meaningful stare until Art took a sip. “I was already upstairs.”
Art gave him a sharp look. “What the hell? Why?”
“Because Tashi told me to. She wanted me to hear you.”
Art was refusing to meet his eyes, looking down at the beer in his hand like he could crawl into the can and save himself from this situation. Patrick scooted that much closer and splashed water on the both of them. Their knees were touching. “I’m glad she did,” Patrick continued. “Because that was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“Patrick—”
“No, listen. I need you to answer me something important.”
Art didn’t answer, but he didn’t try saying anything else either.
“Why did you walk away from me? At New Rochelle. Why did you walk away?”
“What?” Art was fiddling with the tab on the top of the beer can.
“At the end of the match. We played this beautiful fucking game, just you and me. And then you threw yourself nto my fucking arms, and I thought, finally. But then you got this look like I’d fucking electrocuted you and you walked away again. You went back to acting like it didn’t mean anything. And I want to know why.”
Art was silent for a long, agonizing moment. “I don’t know. I was in a weird fucking headspace, all right? That whole match was a blur. I don’t know why I did any of it.”
“God, Tashi is right. You are such a little fucking liar.”
Art started to stand up, but Patrick grabbed his forearm and pulled him back down. The surprise of it made Art stay. “Tell the truth,” Patrick said. “I already heard you say it. You just need to say it to me.”
But Art didn’t say anything at all. He leaned forward and paused, uncertain, looking at Patrick from beneath his dark blonde eyelashes, breath hot on Patrick’s face. Patrick waited for him to give up, to chicken out like he always did, but then Art was leaning forward all the way and pressing his mouth against Patrick’s own. It was nothing like kissing Tashi. It wasn’t even anything like kissing the boy that Art had been, that one and only time that had played through Patrick’s head a hundred times over. Art had been confident back then; this Art was tentative, questioning, like after all that he still wasn’t sure if Patrick wanted it. It was like he was afraid that Patrick was going to push him away.
Patrick pulled him closer, one arm around Art’s shoulders and another one on his face, running his fingers through his hair, tilting Art’s jaw so the angle was just right. Art may have been a tease, but Patrick had waited for this moment for too long to go anything other than full steam ahead. He bit Art’s lower lip to make him gasp, and thrust his tongue into Art’s mouth once he did. His hands held Art steady against him, beneath him, while he took the first things of many for himself.
Eventually moved down to Art’s jaw and pressed kisses along it while Art gasped above him. The bruise on Art’s collarbone was out for anyone to see. Patrick wanted to add to the collection. “Patrick, I—”
Patrick moved up and kissed him again before Art could say another word. He felt Art sigh against his mouth as he gave in. Every moment that Art had to think was another step closer to him talking himself out of this. Patrick had to make sure that any of Art’s objections came up against an utterly solid rebuttal.
“You look so good.” His hand was on the back of Art’s head keeping their foreheads pressed together. Art’s eyes were still closed, and he was breathing hard. “You looked so fucking good out there. You did such a good job for me and Tashi.”
Art kissed him again; Patrick let him set the pace. Less tentative this time, but still gentle. More than anything, Patrick wanted to see what Art would look like laid out beneath him, spread out like Tashi had had him, but the ground next to the pool was hot to the bare touch and the water was just deep enough on the steps to make it impractical. They were going to have to go inside sooner or later. Art wouldn’t want to do this where just anybody could see.
Art’s hands fell to his shoulders, as if that would guarantee some amount of distance between the two of them. “Patrick, I can’t promise you anything.” The words fell from Art’s lips in a jumble. “I don’t want Tashi to think—I don’t want her to think I’m trying to get back at her.”
Patrick laughed softly and pressed a kiss to Art’s cheekbone. He’d thought about the angles of Art’s face for so long that it felt surreal to have them there at his disposal. “Tashi won’t mind. I promise you.”
“How can you know that?” Art was getting back in his own head now, exactly what Patrick hadn’t wanted to happen. Every inch he pulled away was an inch that Patrick followed him.
“Because she already told me,” Patrick said. “Why do you think she brought me here, Art? She knows you’ve been gagging for it. I think she wanted me to be your present.”
It should have been the right thing to say: Patrick hadn’t forgotten Tashi’s warning from that morning, but they should have been past that. Kissing Patrick should have been enough for Art not to care that Tashi had made it happen for him.
But, not for the first time, just because something was right didn’t mean it was enough. Art’s face went white and he pushed himself away from Patrick to look at him from afar. “That’s why she hired you?” Art said.
“Why else? She saw the end of our match in New Rochelle same as everybody else did. She knew we had unfinished business.”
But Art was getting out of the pool. Water cascaded down from his legs and splashed Patrick in the face as Art started to back away from the edge of the pool. “Okay,” Art said. “That’s fine.”
Patrick stood up to follow. “It doesn’t sound like it’s fine.”
“It is,” Art insisted. He was recovering his flip-flops where he had tossed them aside. “It’s fine. I just—not tonight, Patrick, okay?” It was late afternoon. The sun hadn’t even gone down behind the trees. “I need to talk to Tashi first.”
There was nothing Patrick could say to that. For the second time that day, Patrick sat and watched while Art walked away from him, across the lawn and into the door of the guest house. He didn’t turn around.