ONCE TATUM HAD FINALLY GOTTEN PATRICK TO GO AWAY FOR A MINUTE, she slipped back inside her bedroom and began changing into a new set of clothes, ones that prepared her for her match today.

Art comes out of the closet, his smile fading with the look of anger on Tatum's face. "Where are you going?"

"Can you go?" Her voice is cold and uncontrolled, her mind and body swarmed with unforeign feelings and she was so tired of feeling them. Yet, here she stood in a mind-blurring anger. "I have to get ready."

He falters, her opposing disarray of emotions confusing him. "I don't understand."

She walks past him, careful not to even bother hitting his shoulder as she storms in the closet for her bag.

It's like the day Art Donaldson lost the love of his life all over again.

"Tate." He reaches for her hand but she doesn't react, just slings the white bag over her shoulder as she walks away from him. "Talk to me."

"You're married." she couldn't even believe her own words... she couldn't believe that even after all these years, her heart beat for only Art and his only for Tashi. His wife.

"She left me—"

"You're married." She says, tears threatening her big brown eyes as she looks up at him, her hand lingering over the door handle.

He stands there mouth agape and eyes pools of emotion.

"You have a daughter." Her voice breaks and anger fuels her body once more because it isn't even 9 in the morning and she's already ridiculed herself with feeling so heavily for her high school boyfriend.

"She left me." He repeats, taking another step closer to her.

"I'm not a homewrecker."

It's a funny, sad thing, actually. All those years ago Tashi was the one to tell the boys that — Art especially. It feels different on Tatum's tongue. Foreign.

And now, even thirteen years later, Tashi still carries the same effect over Tatum and she hates it.

Tashi is always in the back of her mind like some cruel voice shouting at her with every waking action.

"Please," Art looks like a man that lays at her feet — at her mercy. Like a lost puppy or a follower of religion. "Tatum, you're the oxygen that I breathe."

Tatum gives him a sad smile, her thumb caressing the small of his cheek as he looks up at her. "You've lived without me for thirteen years, Art."

They both know what she means.

But neither of them like it.

A tear of Tatum's own falls upon Art's face and she wipes it carefully, looking into his blue eyes one final time before walking out of that room.

         "WHAT'S UP WITH YOU?" Aaron asks for a second time. Tatum didn't hear the first.

She shakes her head but doesn't reply.

He gives the side of her arm a gentle nudge. "Seriously, what's going on?"

They'd been sitting on the side of the court together, mere minutes before the start of the match and Tatum had still been consumed with guilt and anger from last night's actions.

This was likely to be her last match and because of one stupid mistake, she'll have her mind on everything but tennis.

Or, perhaps, maybe she'll imagine her racket hitting the felt green ball is Art's face and she'll win with her powerful swings.

"Tate." Aaron says once more, this time sitting with his folded hands displayed in between his speed legs — looking as though he was ready to give a lecture.

Tatum meets his gaze, slowly exhaling before mustering together a response.

"Starting positions." The umpire says into his microphone, cutting any conversation the two siblings could have had short. 

Tatum runs the palms of her hands down her bare thighs and stands up, blowing out one final breath before taking the court. 

"Nichols to serve." He says as she catches the ball thrown to her. "Ready? Play." 

She positions herself, her feet squared perfectly apart as she hunches down just the slightest before tossing the ball in the air. 

Her opponent hits the ball back at her and she follows it with razor sharp vision. Hitting it, her entire body jolts with the power of her movement. 

And it continues, the two of them doing that back and fourth until someone is able to score a point. 

And lucky enough for Tatum, the brunette woman on the other side of the net has just missed the bright green ball flying at her. 

There was hardly a challenge in fact, Tatum was used to winning. She was a professional after all, playing at Wimbledon and winning Opens, yet still, here she stood in Jersey doing challengers. Surprising the world with her anti-climatic comeback. 

But if she lost today she knew that it would be it. 

She knew with one missed point then she'd retire from the sport with that. 

And the thought alone was what made her hit the net -- her push not being powerful enough. 

The crowd erupts with a shared gasp and it causes Tatum to roll her eyes when she walks away from the court, taking her first water break. 

"Tate," Aaron says as soon as she sits down, frantically trying to see what's going on in that head of hers. Because clearly, obviously, it's something. "What's going on?" 

Aaron had seen the looks on Tatum's face a dozen times -- and each time, ended in injury or loss. 

"I'm not gonna win." She says simply, reaching into her bag for the packet of electrolyte powder she'd take dry during every match. Even though she didn't need them. 

Aaron's entire face contorts in horror as if he'd just seen a ghost. Though, he tries to laugh it off. "Of course you are--" 

"I'm not winning, Aaron." she says, finally. Looking straight into his eyes like it's a promise. 

She'd been living in misery since she was a 14-year-old girl going to Hillford School for Girls all over this sport. Her body a canvas of scars and pain. 

And honestly, whether she won or not didn't matter. 

She was tired of waking up and feeling the way she did, dreading starting the day because she knew tennis was to come, knowing that the entire world was watching her and waiting for her to return to the very sport she despised so. 

"You're throwing it?" His jaw is clenched so tight he looks as though he might pull a muscle somewhere in his neck. 

Shoving her water bottle back in the side of her bag, she jogs in place quickly to rejuvenate her energy before walking back on the court. "I'm tired." 

"We're all tired." He actually laughs now, but there's no humor implied. Just pure anger. "Tatum--" 

"Of Tennis." 

She'd been thirty-one and still had barely a life. She was tired of the empty promises and the fame she didn't want and the family she never started. 

He stands there, staring at her like he's just been brokenhearted. But they both know he's only so upset is because she's doing what he never got to do with his injury. He would give anything to be the one on that court and they both know it, but only she knows why. 

"I'm not winning, Aaron." 

BLAKELY SPEAKS !

thank you all so much for 100k 💋💋