Chapter Text
2007
Everything changed after the incident.
Tashi Duncan, once the promising tennis prodigy, now faced a future irreversibly altered by a soul-crushing injury, leaving her dreams behind and her career at a halt. The chain of events set in motion had far-reaching consequences, affecting not only her own life but also the lives of those around her. The lives of the three people so close to Tashi's story would be forever changed, for the better—or for the worst.
Despite the accident not being her fault she could sense Tashi's silent resentment towards her. And although Tashi never outright accused her, she could sense the undercurrent of bitterness between them. It was as if the balance of power between them faltered, with Tashi's control over her slowly slipping through her fingers.
Tashi's attitude towards Patrick hardened after the accident. Despite his efforts to reach out to her, she wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Patrick's visits to Stanford became rare—eventually stopping altogether. The once close connections between Patrick and her, Tashi, and Art had dwindled to nothing.
Art’s interactions with Tashi took on a different tone, with him accepting her instructions and following her guidance. Perhaps this was the start of Tashi's next target, with Art willingly playing the role of the obedient follower she craved.
She couldn’t help but feel tremendously guilty about Art and Tashi's situation. She also couldn't shake the feeling of pity for Patrick. Despite Patrick’s attempts to fix things, Tashi refused to engage with him—and consequently—Art did the same. As she reflected on her last encounter with Patrick at Stanford, she could still hear his resigned voice. “Good luck with those two.”
She did everything she could.
Her desperation pushed her to plead with Tashi. "Tashi, please," she implored, "I'll do anything . I just want things to go back the way they used to be between us." Tashi's silence and distance had become too much for her.
"Yeah, I also wish things had gone differently," Tashi said coolly, "but there’s nothing I can do about it, so what are you begging me for?"
She found herself begging for forgiveness, even though she knew deep down the accident wasn’t her fault. "I can't begin to imagine your frustration, Tashi. I’m just asking that you forgive me."
"You want my forgiveness?" Tashi says, her tone commanding. "Here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna let me have Art and you’re going to play for me. I'll be here to train you and turn you pro." Tashi outlines her conditions unwavering determination, setting clear boundaries. "I don't want to hear any bitching, any complaints," she orders. "I don't want you distracted, trying to start anything with Art. If you're gonna be playing for me, you do it under my rules."
In her determination to secure Tashi's forgiveness, she found herself submitting to Tashi's demands and orders without question. She endured Tashi's harsh training daily, pushing her limits to the extreme during her final year at Stanford. The hardest part of her new reality was watching Tashi make Art fall in love with her, unable to decipher whether her jealousy was stronger for Art or Tashi.
Her own downfall came not long after. The intense pressure took its toll on her, leading to a breakdown during an important match. Overwhelmed, she dropped her racket and succumbed to an intense panic attack. She couldn’t take it anymore—making a promise to herself—she would never pick up a racket again.
Her studies came to a halt. The cursed year of 2007 and her Stanford days were over. She disappeared, similarly to Patrick.
-
Atlanta, 2011
Patrick
Patrick walks down the streets of downtown Atlanta, feeling the warm summer night air caress his skin as he takes a puff from his cigarette. His gaze scans the surroundings, taking in the luxurious interiors of the hotels that line the area. He probably could be staying in one of those hotels if his tennis career was as bustling as he expected it to be back in the day. Sure, he has his family’s money, but he never had the guts to ask his parents for anything.
He takes a deep puff of his cigarette, savoring the taste before flicking it away onto the pavement. With a final breath, he steps forward, his gaze fixed on the doorway of a hotel ahead. He can't help but notice the elegant wooden paneling of the hotel's interior, and the sparkling chandelier.
Patrick takes another step forward and comes to a stop in front of one of the windows.
She doesn’t seem to notice him at first, giving him the opportunity to observe the person he used to know. He notices how she’s changed—or, in fact—how little she’s changed since he last saw her. Her copper hair is slightly shorter, lending her a more sophisticated look, and her face holds a gentle expression as she gazes at the TV in the corner of the bar. He can't help but notice the familiar tilt of her head, a mannerism that is uniquely hers, and how she still looks youthful, yet more at peace and seemingly more adult.
As she turns her head and her eyes meet his through the window, her eyes widen in surprise. The soft glow of the reflection from the window falls upon her features, highlighting her beautiful expressions. Seeing her reaction, Patrick can't help but let a familiar smirk play upon his lips—his typical smirk.
For a brief moment, the two of them simply stand there, staring at each other through the window before he makes his way to the doorway to join her inside.
Her eyes follow him as he approaches over to her table in the empty bar. Patrick notices there’s no trace of hostility in her expression and decides to take a seat opposite her, his gaze briefly flicking down to the glass in her hands before meeting her eyes again.
As Patrick sits across from her, she can't help but notice how good he looks—perhaps too good—and she finds herself feeling extremely weak under his gaze.
She recognizes that familiar hint of smugness that has always been a part of his personality. But there is something different about him too, a gentleness beneath the surface.
The silence hangs in the air for a moment before she breaks it with a casual question, "Still playing tennis?"
“Yeah.” He pauses for a moment, considering whether to mention the lack of success in his career, but there’s no need to embarrass himself. "Guessing you're not."
As she shakes her head slowly, her eyelids flutter downward in a bittersweet expression. Art Donaldson's name is mentioned from the tennis commentary on the TV in the background, reminding them both of the shared history and memories that connect them.
Patrick's low, calm voice breaks through, asking the question that hangs between them. "So, what is it you've been up to?"
There's a hint of irony in her voice as she speaks. "I can't seem to fully escape tennis," she admits. "I'm an editor."
"You write about tennis?" Patrick quirks an eyebrow as he asks her a question.
"Sometimes, yeah." She nods slightly in confirmation.
The moment of silence stretches out between them, neither wanting to bring up the topic of Art and Tashi, yet knowing that it's unavoidable. Patrick breaks the silence first.
"Are you still in touch with them?" The words hang in the air, carrying a heavy weight.
Without needing to say their names, she knows exactly who is being referred to. "I wrote a paper a few months back," she explains, "I spoke to them briefly. It was cordial." She recalls her last encounter with Art and Tashi.
"So it was awkward?" His smirk becomes more pronounced as he awaits her response.
She shrugs casually, refusing to admit anything. She tries to maintain her neutral facade, but Patrick's smirk implies that he sees right through her.
Patrick leans in closer as he begins to tease her lightly. "You know," he says, "the thing about me is that I was never obsessed with Tashi the way you and Art were. Maybe at the beginning I was, but you're still going strong, aren't you? What's it been—six years?"
She catches a hint of the familiarity in his comment, reminding her that perhaps he hasn't changed much since their teenage days together.
"Well, I'm not the one marrying her," she says calmly, "maybe you should tell that to Art." Her words carry a subtle sense of finality, ending the discussion about Tashi's presence in her life.
Patrick’s expression changes slightly, and she can see the surprise that flickers across his features as he absorbs the word "marrying." He’s slightly caught off guard by this news, and there is a momentary glint in his eye that indicates that he now realizes his assumptions were misguided.
"And how's life going now that she hates your guts forever?" She leans in closer, taking the opportunity to tease him back.
He simply looks at her with a smile. "What about me? You hate my guts too?” He asks, his tone still somewhat playful—but with a sincere undertone—as if hoping for a different answer.
She notices the glint of subtle loneliness in his eyes and she can read past his facade of smugness.
"I wouldn't let you sit at my table if I still did." Her words are spoken in a soft, gentle tone, a hint of affection in her gaze as she looks at him.
Her hand freezes mid-air, her fingers just about to reach her glass, as she feels the unexpected touch of his hands as he gently guides the glass back onto the table. Their eyes lock once again, and she sees an expression on his face that is completely new to her.
"I miss you." The words come out of Patrick’s mouth smoothly. There is no facade, no bravado, just a simple, raw confession that hangs between them.
His words aren’t directed to Tashi, nor Art. He’s in the moment—talking to her—and only her. Maybe that’s exactly what she needed to hear, both of them having been deprived of affection for so long.
Maybe he’s just in the right place at the right time.
Holding her hands at the center of the table, he leans in and she accepts his lips against hers, sharing a slow yet passionate kiss.
His hand cups the side of her face before making its way up to her hair. She feels the smoothness of his face and his familiar scent. Someone she once hated so much she finds herself kissing with such tenderness.
After breaking the kiss, she takes his hand and leads him past the lobby and up to her room. They exchange few words, and as they step into her room and the door closes behind them, she looks up at him with an almost pleading gaze.
The look on her face, filled with desire, stirs something primal within him, and he knows at that moment that he will remember this night for a long time.
He slowly wraps his arms around her, pulling her close, his touch is firm. His eyes lock with hers. "Tell me what you want tonight." His voice comes out as a raspy whisper.
“Take care of me.” She whispers back, wasting no time before reaching up to hold the sides of his face to kiss him again—needy and hungry—but still savoring the moment.
The vulnerability in her voice tugs at something deep within him. His mouth moves hungrily against hers as his arms tighten around her, holding her close. Slowly, carefully, he walks her backward toward her bed, deepening the kiss as he lays her down, their bodies pressed together in a tangle of limbs.
She starts to feel the reality of the situation settle in, sensing the rush of adrenaline, her heartbeat increasing along with the redness in her cheeks—but she doesn't back away.
They shuffle around to get rid of each other’s clothes. Patrick watches hungrily as she begins to undress, his eyes taking her in as he sees her in this light for the first time. He leans down, brushing his lips gently against her skin, his touch firm yet tender, as his hand softly caresses her side, tracing a path up to her breast.
"I want you so bad." He confesses in a hoarse voice. "You have no idea how beautiful you are."
She looks at him, searching in his eyes, craving the affection from him that he’s proved to be very good at providing.
“Have me, I’m all yours.” She replies in a breathy whisper, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. At that moment—as much as she feels like it’s her duty to be in control of every aspect in her life—she can’t help but simply let him take control.
His mouth moves to her neck, his lips burning against her skin as he places gentle, fleeting kisses along her collarbone. He moves lower, his mouth moving to her breast—his hand gently cupping the other—his thumb brushing against her.
He lifts his head, looking down at her with a burning gaze, his breath ragged. "Tell me what you want," he urges, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
She barely has the opportunity to answer as he doesn’t hesitate for a second. He moves down her body, kissing a trail down her stomach, down her hips, down her thighs, until he’s nestled between her legs, his breath hot against her.
“I want you, please .” She swallows, finding it harder to breathe with each passing second.
She’s now had all three of them in this exact position before—Tashi, Art and now Patrick—faces buried between her thighs.
Patrick can practically smell her arousal, can feel the heat radiating from her, and it sends a shiver through him. He grips his hands on her thighs, his breath hot against her as he looks up at her, watching her grip the pillow behind her head. Without any hesitation, he leans in, his tongue teasing out of his mouth to lick and taste, his eyes not leaving her face, watching her every reaction.
Things quickly escalate to her fumbling to grab her wallet, fishing out a condom to pass over to him. She’s unable to contain herself from admiring how good he looks while he tries to focus while rolling the condom onto himself. It seems that every little gesture he makes is swift and somehow so attractive, and as much as she would like to take a more active role, she simply feels glued down to the mattress, her body still warm and limbs feeling heavy.
He reaches down, his hand gently gripping her hip, as he positions himself between her legs. He looks down at her, his eyes burning with a mix of desire and affection, his expression a strange combination of intensity and tenderness.
"So pretty," He reaches down, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and kissing the side of her neck.
“Patrick, please, put it in .“ She practically begs as she wraps her legs around his hips, almost locking him in position.
He breaks away from her neck, his eyes burning as he looks down at her, panting softly as he takes in her expression. Then, slowly, carefully, he lines himself up with her entrance, his grip on her hips tightening ever so slightly as he slides himself into her, joining their bodies with a soft moan.
She cups her hands up to bring his face closer to hers. It’s almost pathetic how eagerly she receives him. “Keep moving—keep moving.” She begs in a breathless voice.
At the sound of her needy pleas, all restraint goes out of the window. He starts to move, his hips rocking against hers, his breath catching in his throat at the feeling of her, warm and wet and perfect around him.
“Oh god, ” he moans, his voice low and breathless. "You feel so good, so amazing." His body moves automatically, seeking out the best angle and position to drive her wild.
She feels perfectly helpless underneath him, her limbs tightly wrapped around him and her hand reaching for a fistful of his curls while she nuzzles into his neck in attempts to drown out her moans. “Fuck—” She breathes out, biting down on the back of her index finger.
One of his hands comes up, tugging her hand and pulling it away from her mouth with a breathless groan. “I wanna hear you.”
Patrick really could care less about how late it is and about the poor guests next door.
In the end, both of them are glad she happened to be in Atlanta at the same time as him.