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Art hasn’t seen Tashi since the medic bay, since Patrick had barged in begging for a chance to explain himself, since Art had yelled at his best friend to get the fuck out . He had chosen Tashi. He had chosen Tashi Duncan over a boy he had known since he was twelve.
Art turns the racket over in his grasp. It had to be done. Tashi had looked near tears, vulnerable, and reeling from perhaps the worst thing that could ever happen to her—the worst thing that could happen to any tennis player. Patrick was a storm, a hurricane of charm and charisma; Art had no doubt that Patrick Zweig would be able to talk his way out of it. The same way he had when one of the coaches at the academy had caught him sneaking beers into their dorms, or when he had sweet-talked Art’s grandmother into letting him spend part of the summer at the Zweig mansion instead of the care home she was in.
He had texted Tashi after the injury. At least, at first. Simple messages like Hey, how are you doing? Or McKenna beat that blonde from Pepperdine last week , and when he had gotten really desperate: I miss you .
He never got a response. If Art was being honest with himself, he hadn’t been expecting one either.
With Patrick gone, disappeared once more into the world of circuits, challengers, and professional tennis, Art kept even more to himself. He was friendly with the other boys on Stanford’s tennis team but other than some nods in the locker room, simple encouragements (or trash talk) on the courts, and a few team dinners here and there, Art hadn’t made any sort of lasting connection. The only person he ever really spoke to at Stanford was away, being fussed over by sports psychologists and the best physical therapists Stanford’s money could buy. She was Tashi Duncan, the Duncanator. Art wasn’t surprised that the university was pulling out all the stops in efforts to retain their most famous college-aged tennis player.
So when he walks onto the tennis courts in the early pink of sunrise, the best time to get a few volleys in with the ball machines, Art is surprised to see a familiar, wiry silhouette standing on the other side of his favourite court. (Court 2, because it had the best view of the lush Stanford campus and kept the sun mostly out of his eyes.)
He approaches the court, footsteps hesitant. His entire routine has been thrown off-balance, not majorly but in a way that Art would notice anyway. Like a picture frame set slightly askew. Irritating and eye-twitching but not unbearable. The tension bleeds from his shoulders when he realizes who is on the other side of the net.
Speak of the devil , he thinks—though Tashi Duncan is the furthest thing from a devil. A vengeful goddess of tennis perhaps, but not a devil.
The sight of her reminds Art of the fifteen (he counted) messages he had left her without a single response and something similar to embarrassment claws its way up his throat. Slowly, he raises a hand in greeting. His fingers do an awkward wave and Art is certain the smile he has tried to put on resembles a grimace. “Tashi,” he says. “Hey.”
He’s not sure she’s even heard him. Humiliated, embarrassed, and not willing to further debase himself, Art turns to leave. He can always come back a little later. Art knows that Tashi wouldn’t want an audience for her triumphant return to college tennis, to the Duncanator that Stanford is so proud of. Maybe he can get a head start on that paper for his Introduction to Philosophy course.
“Too good to be my hitting partner, Art?”
Art pivots on his heel, eyes wide. He’s a little embarrassed that he’s catalogued this as the first thing Tashi had said to him since she’d disappeared for her recovery. Through no fault of her own, she had left Art to battle his own demons, to learn to live without his own limb. Patrick .
Even now, he hangs between them, his presence burgeoning through the stale air.
“I thought you’d want some—”
“Again? I thought we’d been over this. What would you know about what I want?”
Just like that, she puts him back in his place. His ears are burning. Art feels appropriately chastened, the way he had in the Stanford cafeteria that fateful March afternoon. He gives Tashi a wry smile. “Absolutely nothing, Tashi.”
Art has gotten better in the past couple of months. He knows when to speak, when to not, knows how to mince his words, and when to set them free. This is not one of the times where he should be doing the latter. He takes a few steps forward, back towards the court, back towards Tashi. The ball machine has stopped spitting out yellow-green Wilson balls and Art heads to move the machine out of the way.
He’s not expecting any apology from Tashi. He knows she’s never been like that. She’s just like Patrick in that sense, unapologetically herself. And Art… Art is still learning. Learning to take up space, learning to not make himself smaller. It had been instinct, to make himself smaller. Patrick had always been such a large personality. Art had no choice but to adjust.
Even now, he adjusts. He pulls a tennis ball out of the pocket of his shorts and raises it, showing it to Tashi. Art settles into the service motion, long, clean lines as he serves the ball over the net.
Tashi hits it back with ease.
Art starts a relaxed volley, never hitting the ball too hard, never letting it fall too far away from Tashi, always sending it into the middle of the court.
Tashi’s eye twitches.
Art ignores it.
They pass the hour like that. As the sun brightens, slowly rising into the sky, the courts start to fill up. Art watches as Tashi, self-assured, confident, whirlwind Tashi, slowly retreats into herself. It would slip anyone else’s notice but Art isn’t just anybody. He had spent their entire first year at Stanford watching Tashi, observing her both on and off the court. Before Tashi, he had done the same with Patrick their four years at the academy.
Art catches the ball from their last volley and tucks it back into his pocket. He‘s barely broken a sweat and the usual clear mind he gets from hitting a ball with a racquet seems to have evaded him this morning. He doesn’t mind it this once. The morning has given him a greater present: Tashi.
🎾🎾🎾
“So, you’re back?” Art cringes at the coarse way he says it. He’d run the sentence over in his mind at least twenty times. It had started to eat away at his nerves. Art knew he needed to get it out before he lost his opening. He was getting better at it, now that he was no longer waiting for Patrick to fuck up .
Tashi looks up from her salad. Her hair is wet. It flows down her back, tendrils hanging by her face, framing it. Tashi takes her time, makes Art wait as she twirls a bite of pasta onto her fork. “For now,” she answers finally. “My physio thinks that I need to try to play again, see the range of motion.”
Art tries not to cringe when Tashi mentions her injury. Somehow he feels responsible. Over the past couple of months, he has been running through every what if scenario offered to him. What if he hadn’t meddled in Patrick and Tashi’s relationship? What if Patrick had come to the match between Tashi and Susie Nobody Country Club? What if Art had let Patrick stay in the medic bay? What if Patrick had talked his way out of Tashi’s bad graces? What if… What if… What if…
“I’m sure you’ll be back to form in no time,” Art offers. He cuts another piece of his grilled chicken, careful with his knife as he does. “You’re… You’re Tashi Duncan .” Her name is explanation enough. Art had known about Tashi back at the Junior US Open. He had feigned ignorance when Patrick had brought her up; as he was wont to do. Patrick had always liked knowing, knowing more than Art especially. Patrick liked to be the one to “teach” Art the ways of the world. For the most part, he really was. And even when he wasn’t, Art wasn’t sure how he could take away the sheer joy Patrick seemed to get from taking Art under his wing.
Tashi rolls her eyes. She spears some greens onto her fork and raises it in Art’s direction, almost accusingly. “Do you ever say anything you really mean? Or do you just say what you think people want to hear?”
He looks down. Somehow, Tashi manages to see through him. It’s fascinating. He’s known— knew —Patrick for six years, lived in each other’s pockets for five, and Patrick had never said a word. Tashi, who he has barely interacted with outside their overlapping tennis practices and the occasional acknowledgment on campus, has him all figured out.
Art feels bare. Vulnerable.
He takes a sip from his drink to buy himself some time. “I’m not just saying that, Tashi.” This much is true. Tashi’s tennis is a marvel to watch. She has all the fire and unpredictability of Patrick’s tennis but she doesn’t scrimp on the technique. She lives, breathes, and thinks tennis. Art wishes he were half as good. He wishes… Well, he wishes for a lot of things. They sit on his chest, claw at his insides, growing bigger and bigger until they burgeon, pressing against his ribcage, begging to be let out. “When you play tennis, people pay attention.” He pays attention.
This is apparently the right thing to say. Art sees Tashi bite back a smile as she looks down at her plate. Even with her head lowered, Art can see the corners of mouth curving upward. White hot pleasure rushes through him at the thought of pleasing her. Having Tashi’s attention, having her approval, is a high all on its own. He remembers feeling this way once before: the night he and Patrick won the doubles tournament at the US Open.
As though she can read his mind, Tashi asks, “Have you heard from Patrick at all?”
Art’s heart drops to his stomach. He pushes the food around his plate. “Have you?” He volleys back in lieu of having to provide a real answer. If he ignores it, maybe he won’t have to think about the radio silence from Patrick. If he ignores it, maybe the single, drunk voicemail from Patrick sitting in his inbox will disappear.
“He won’t stop calling. I’ll have to change my number.”
Art feels like he’s submerged in ice cold water. Patrick calling Tashi, desperately, constantly, consistently, hurts worse than the silent treatment Patrick is giving him. He glances down at his watch. “I have class in thirty minutes. I should get going.”
🎾🎾🎾
For the next two weeks, Art avoids Tashi. He knows it’s childish. He cannot punish Tashi for Patrick’s behaviour but since Patrick isn’t here, Tashi is the closest thing to him. He stares at his phone with a vehemence, daring it to ring, or buzz, or do anything. Anything at all to announce Patrick’s presence.
It doesn’t.
Art runs into Tashi at the coffee shop when he’s standing in line. He’s been standing in a what feels like a never-ending queue for the past ten minutes. He seriously considers slipping out before Tashi spots him but he’s running on approximately three hours of sleep and his body feels like it’s been through a washing cycle. He needs caffeine more than he wants to avoid an awkward run-in.
True to form, Tashi approaches him. She already has a cup in her hands. Art knows it’s tea. She prefers tea to coffee, something about how caffeine is bad for athletes. Art gave up cigarettes when he gave up Patrick so coffee is his only vice.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
He has. “I’ve been busy.”
“Bullshit.”
Art cringes. He racks his brain for a way to talk himself out of this but he has never had Patrick’s gift of charisma, his sleazy charm, and slippery wiles. Art is who he is, no matter how hard he tries to be otherwise. For a little while there, he thought he had blossomed into someone else, someone who could exist outside of Patrick’s shadow.
It was ironic, how Patrick’s absence from his life had pushed him further into Patrick’s shadow; his ghost loomed over Art’s neck like a sword waiting to fall. His gaze flickers down to the brace wrapped tightly around Tashi’s knee. “You’re doing better.”
Avoid, avoid, avoid.
He sees the irritation flit across Tashi’s features before she accepts Art’s topic change, accepts that Art can never give a straight answer. He may play a clean, technical game on the courts, but off it, he is difficult to read, hard to reach. “Yeah,” she agrees.
Art moves forward as the line does, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise when Tashi follows him. “That’s good. Are you still on the courts?”
“Been practicing with some of the girls from the team.”
“That’s great.” Somehow the conversation is even more stilted than it was before. Art wants the ground to swallow him up. He wishes he were someone else; someone suaver, someone who could impress Tashi. Not for the first time, Art wishes he were Patrick.
Tashi scoffs. “Not really. When they’re done looking at me with those I’m sorry you’ll never be as good as you were eyes, the ones where they pity me but are secretly glad it’s not them, they play the weakest game.”
Art goes to speak but the barista beats him to it, asking for his order. He glances at Tashi who nods at him to go ahead and watches as she moves to stand at the other end of the counter, waiting for him presumably. He orders quickly, handing over his Stanford student ID, and makes his way over to Tashi.
He must be a glutton for punishment. To always want to be in Tashi’s orbit like this, to be able to bask in her presence even when she’s mad at him, even when she despises him. (Even when she wishes he were someone else. Even if that someone else is Patrick Zweig . Art doesn’t mind. How could he?)
Finally, he speaks. “They probably don’t want you to overexert yourself, Tashi.” He raises his voice a little to be heard over the awful playlist blaring over the cafe’s speakers, Justin Timberlake crooning about a pretty little face on a pretty little frame .
“When are you going to get over whatever chip you’ve got on your shoulder? I’d rather you on the other side of the net than any of those girls.”
In a way, Art gets it. The other players on Stanford Tennis’s roster are good, perhaps even the best from their respective schools and states but tennis is just that to them. It doesn’t live under their skin and Art knows none of them think of ever going pro. “I’ve got a meeting with my advisor in an hour but I can meet you on the courts after that.”
Tashi smiles.
Art falls.
🎾🎾🎾
“So what’s the deal with you and Duncan?”
Art looks up from where he’s wrapping a new overgrip around his racquet. The entire changing room seems to have gone quiet and Art can tell this is a topic of conversation they’ve had when he’s not around. “What do you mean?”
The guy who asked the question, the one who wears so much gel in his hair, Art wonders how the hell it doesn’t all melt while he plays, Brandon Weissman, gives Art a strange sort of grin. Like Art is in on the joke too. “Come on. You’re her hitting partner and she’s not even back, not officially anyway.”
“With that kind of injury, doubt she’ll ever be.” This comes from further away in the changing room. Art recognizes that voice. Henry… Henry something. This is why he never spends too long in the locker room. There’s always some jackass who thinks he knows best.
“She can play better than you with a busted knee!” Art snaps. They don’t get it. They hadn’t seen her that day, when she played Anna Mueller. Art had. He had been captivated. Tashi’s tennis was better than tennis. It was a dance, it was a ballet; it was perfectly choreographed. People spent their lives trying to play tennis like that. Art would spend a lifetime trying to be half as good as she was.
“That’s what I mean, man,” Brandon says. “Are you her bitch or something? Part of her fanclub?”
The condescending tone bristles. Art’s shoulders tighten. He rips off the excess overgrip tape and tucks it back into his tennis bag. “So what if I am?” Too defensive, he thinks. He’s showing all of his cards. Not that it matters to this lot. They don’t know him well enough. Hardly know him at all. He’s not cracked open, laid out for everyone to see the way he is around Tashi. The way he was around Patrick. “She’ll be back on the courts soon.”
“Told you they were fucking,” he hears. It’s soft enough that Art had to strain his ears but his hearing has always been excellent. The back of his neck feels warm. He needs to get out of here.
Art stands, shouldering his bag. He glances down at his watch as he makes his way through the changing rooms towards the exit. He pauses when he spots Henry and smiles, slow and serpentine. He leans in closer, hand resting on Henry’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. His grip on Henry tightens, fingers digging into the muscle. “You should really work on tightening that backhand slice. Otherwise, you’re practically giving points away.”
He smiles, pats Henry on the shoulder, and heads out of the changing rooms.
🎾🎾🎾
The pinkish orange hue of dusk slowly begins to settle over the tennis courts. Art looks across the net to where Tashi stands in her Stanford colours, racquet in her hand. There is a determined expression on her face. Art looks down to the racquet in his own hand. They’ve been going at this for the better part of an hour. Concern burns his tongue but he holds back. He doesn’t want Tashi to think that he feels she might not be ready, that she’s still too weak to adhere to the rigorous training schedule she followed before her injury.
He lifts his racquet and serves.
Tashi returns it with ease.
They settle into an easy volley. Art doesn’t move across the court like he usually does, doesn’t try for any trick shots, or slices. He’s not looking to win. Hell, he’s not even looking to play a real game of tennis. It’s comforting almost, the sound of the ball going back and forth.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
“Stop going easy on me.”
It’s the first thing she’s said to him since they came onto the courts. The shock of hearing her voice forces Art to pause. The ball buzzes past his ear. Instinct teaches him to lie. Instinct tells him he should say what Tashi wants to hear. The memories he has of his parents are few and far between but he remembers learning there was a stark difference between the right thing to say and the wrong. The line was a fine one and Art taught himself to balance it before the age of seven. “I’m not.” The words are like butter on his tongue.
He watches Tashi pace and it’s only when she comes to a standstill that he pulls out a tennis ball from the pocket of his shorts. He raises it to show her and returns to his service motion. His lines aren’t as clean as they usually are, his grip on the racquet, his posture, loose and relaxed. Art watches the yellow-green ball soar over the net to Tashi’s side.
They start another volley. It barely lasts five hits before Tashi lowers her racquet. In defeat or annoyance, Art can’t tell. He hasn’t been able to read her as well anymore. Not since the injury.
“Hit. The. Ball.” Irritation then. It drips from every syllable. Art feels the words puncture through him.
“Tashi...”
She approaches the net. The racquet in her hand held out in front of her like a weapon. In Tashi’s hands, it may as well be. “Actually fucking hit the ball.”
Art approaches the net when Tashi does. He’s said the wrong thing. He’s done the wrong thing. In a split second, Art is transported to his childhood home. Christmas, 1996. His parents are arguing again. They argue on every holiday. Art shrinks under the weight of their voices, picking at his pudding. Instinctually, he wants to take up less space. “Come on,” he pleads, placating.
“You’re afraid you’re going to hurt me?”
He remains silent. Art isn’t sure what he can say to make this better. The last time he’d tried, it ended in a car crash, a car that exploded into flames, and charred his parents’ remains. His eyes soften. He hopes Tashi can read the sincerity wafting off of him.
“Pussy,” she spits.
And then, she’s leaving. Art feels the situation spiralling out of control, slipping through his fingers. He digs into his pockets. “Wait,” he calls out.
To his surprise, she does. Art takes it as a win, even if Tashi is staring at him like she wishes it were him who had injured himself.
He raises the tennis ball like a white flag of surrender. “Okay?”
“And actually try to win.”
This time when Art serves, he really means it. He pays attention to his form, to his forehand, to his backhand. He oscillates from one side of the court to the other. If Tashi wants to play some real tennis, if that is what will make her happy—then that is exactly what Art is going to do.
For a moment there, it seems like it’s going well. Though Art has been telling anyone poking their nose in business that isn’t theirs that Tashi will play again, he had been a little skeptical too.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
In the heat of the rhythm, of the game they are playing, Art analyzes the game. Tashi wants him to play a real game of tennis so he goes for a drop shot.
He watches in horror as Tashi extends herself, over-extends herself, and her knee gives. She sinks to the court. Art’s heart plummets.
He jumps over the net, approaching Tashi. He has to be careful. Now, more than ever, she reminds Art of a spooked animal. If he moves too fast or approaches too suddenly, she’ll scurry away.
“I’m fine.”
“You okay?” Art holds out a hand for Tashi.
She ignores it.
He is unsurprised.
Art watches, helpless, as Tashi walks further away from him. He sees the meltdown coming before it even happens. After all, he’s spent the past two months observing this version of Tashi too, cataloguing her behaviour to better understand her. Understanding Tashi is like unscrambling a particularly difficult game of tennis: challenging but ultimately, rewarding.
There goes the racquet.
He lets her pace around, stewing in her own anger and disappointment before he approaches. Art knows she’ll resist; he is expecting her to. Even so, Art wraps his arms around Tashi. He doesn't hold her like he wants to; doesn't crush her to his chest as if holding her tight enough would put together all her broken dreams. No. His hold is loose enough for her to break away if she really doesn’t want to be comforted.
Something in his chest blossoms when she doesn’t. She might be protesting, trying to convince him—more likely, herself—that she’s fine but she remains in Art’s embrace.
He hopes she cannot hear the way his heart races through his shirt.
🎾🎾🎾
Art steps into the changing rooms, dropping his tennis bag in front of his locker. He knocks on it twice before it pops open. Art tries not to look at the photograph of him and Patrick kissing their doubles trophies at the Junior US Open (god, was that only a year ago?) when Brandon Weissman approaches him.
“Hey man, did you hear?”
“What?” Art is expecting some nonsense about drills or perhaps their coach has decided to shuffle doubles pairings again.
“I mean you probably already know but—”
“Get to the point, Weissman.”
“Tashi Duncan dropped out.”