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　New York City, New York. 2008.

　His hands feel big and warm on Tashi's neck. The door, contrarily, feels cold and hard against her back. She pushes her boyfriend away slightly, hoping to catch a breath or two. Still, she smiles.

"What?" Patrick asks, tone just as giddy.

The place is dimly lit, only the soft glow of city lights filtering through the drawn, sheer curtains. It's quiet, though—knowing him—Patrick will put on some soft rock in a moment to play in the background. Tashi's been there once before. The decor tries to mimic something like dark Bauhaus, but she doesn't feel too bad about disliking something that clearly wasn't Patrick's choosing.

She shakes her head, looking into his eyes. "This is a nice apartment."

"Thanks," he replies as he glances around briefly. A grimace makes its way onto his face. Tashi can't help but notice his features have been getting sharper lately, with age or with exertion. "It's kind of a mess, though."

She shrugs and pulls him toward the charcoal couch. Coincidentally, she has to be careful not to trip over a pile of (likely dirty) clothes.

"It is, but I like it. Feels lived in."

Patrick chuckles. She pushes him down and sits on his lap, arms around his neck, his thighs between hers. Their foreheads almost touch, but that would be too tender, wouldn't it? He looks to the side.

"You know it's not," he says. "I only stay here a few weeks out of the year because of all the matches."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm so grateful you're allowing me to stay in your humble abode for spring break." Tashi curls her fingers in his hair and fucking giggles at the way his breathing catches. "And you must just have a talent for creating messes, in that case."

"Yeah," he mumbles before surging forward to kiss her.
Tashi's excited yelp is silenced by his mouth on hers.

Warm, warm, warm.

Everything about Patrick is so warm.

She imagines it's from how much tennis they all play—they just run hotter. So, when she parts her lips and his tongue barely brushes against the roof of her mouth, heat pools in her stomach. Kissing Patrick is like breathing underwater. After a moment, and a bite here and there, she pulls away to wrap her fingers around both his wrists and guide them to the seam of her red top.

"Wow," Patrick breathes out. "Very subtle."

"You say that as if you weren't planning to—"

She doesn't finish the sentence, rolling her eyes and kissing him again instead as he lifts her shirt up in a swift movement. This time it's him who pulls away. He throws the shirt in some non-specified direction, though at least not where his disgusting laundry rests.

The inhales and exhales are jagged against her skin, and his teeth are now grazing her neck.

"Patrick," she whines. "What, are you some sort of vampire? Get the rest of my clothes off me."

He dares laugh at her again. "We're not in a rush, are we?"

The man gets the hint only after she smacks the back of his head lightly—he flips them over, one arm on Tashi's back, the other securing her legs, and dives forward. Patrick's nose starts at her belly button and travels downwards at an excruciatingly slow pace. She wiggles a bit to get him to hurry (and because she can be ticklish, even if only on bad days) and he hisses when her knee barely misses his throat, He finally gets his hands on the elastic of her sweatpants.

Like an idiot, he takes ages to pull them down and, like an even bigger idiot, he doesn't immediately do the same with her underwear. He nudges her legs further apart and begins to leave a trail of hot, seemingly bruising kisses on her both thighs, this time working his way up.

"Patrick!"

"Tashi!" he mocks. "What is it with some people and hating foreplay? Let me appreciate you. Those all guys at Stanford want you, Duncanator, so bad and I get to have you. Do you want me to be ungrateful?"

"I want you to not call me that in bed," Tashi grumbles.

"Oh, but this is a couch."

He can't see it this time either, but she rolls her eyes again.

She feels the ghost of a touch on her hip bone as Patrick hooks a finger on the hem of her panties. He looks up, his blue eyes so naturally glassy and genuine.
Tashi lets out a sigh of defeat. "Fine, do what you must."

Patrick grins and she resists the urge to burst out laughing as he licks his lips. She knows it's just the dry air and not an innuendo, it makes her crack up nevertheless. Gives her goosebumps too, but she hopes he won't comment on that.

His hands continue to glide over her body, still big, still warm. He moves to her other, right thigh. Tashi expects another onslaught of lips and tongue and teeth and breath, but he halts in mid-air. His palm cups the curve of her pelvis in a way that makes her feel small.

Shit.

She knows what he's looking at.

There's no rush this time, except most times there is.

That's just the way Tashi and Patrick are: quick, passionate, intense. Efficient. He doesn't usually go exploring or worshiping or paying attention to her moles and, in this case, tattoos.

His fingers trace the cursive.

"Cal, huh?" He tries to sound innocent when he reads the name aloud, but she can recognize the demand in his voice. "Boyfriend?"

She looks up at the spotless ceiling. He can't expect her to— They were in the middle of something, goddamnit! She tries to usher the sudden coldness away by blinking rapidly and bringing him closer into her by his shoulders.

"Tashi?"

Her gaze drops down to the tattoo for a moment. The corners of her mouth twitch involuntarily and her grip on Patrick grows loose.

"A friend," she says softly.

She looks back at her current boyfriend and their eyes meet. She hopes he can't see all she's feeling, just a little bit would be fine.

Turns out that's not the case, because his touch has grown tentative. He shifts on his knees and, still playfully, whispers, "Must have been a special friend to get their name tattooed on you."

"Yeah. Cal was... different. We were close."

He presses a quick kiss to the tattoo and stands, extending a hand.

"What is this 'charming young man' act supposed to mean?" she asks, eyebrows raised up high.

Patrick chooses to ignore the question. "Bed?" he just suggests. "Like you wanted?"

Tashi allows him to help her up and somewhat stumbles into a quick, strange hug. They don't really hug. Is she really being so weird about Cal that he felt he should hug her?

"You don't have to tell me more if you don't want to."

Was he actually able to sense the— Go ahead, Tashi. Go and name those feelings you've been feeling for the past two years.

Anger, regret, nostalgia, yearning, hatred, guilt, sadness, love.

It's gotta be one of those, she's just not sure which. Cal and her, they definitely had something unique. She hasn't met another person like Cal ever again, but it wasn't romance. At least, not the way people thought.

"Thanks," she murmurs into his shoulder. "Now get back to kissing me, asshole."

　Carroll, Iowa. 2005.

　The hustle and bustle of a grocery store—the thing Cal might just hate the most in the entire world. Most of the time, she hates most things. What a refreshing perspective, isn't it? Thanks, she's aware. That's why she has a perfectly sufficient amount of zero friends.

Her whole surroundings are desaturated. The day is drab in its entirety. Only the bright, fluorescent lights break the immersion and make sweat collect in tiny beads on her exposed forehead—ponytails she also hates, but those are company policy. The registers beep, the shopping carts clatter, the customers' shoes make indescribable sounds against the sticky floor. She forgot to wipe the spilled juice in one aisle, which she'll regret till the end of time. Or something. If only she cared.

At the moment, Cal is standing behind one of the three counters in her worn-out apron. Her fingers tremble as she packs the woman's groceries. She wanted to scold hers, but what good would that do? If she isn't any happier after telling herself 'everything's going to be okay', her body won't start listening to her once she calls herself a loser in her thoughts either.

Her arms feel weak. Or maybe the can of beans really is that heavy? No matter. As she nearly drops it, the customer furrows her eyebrows at Cal and opens her mouth to speak.

"Sorry," Cal outruns her. She bows her head down, even if she's not apologetic at all. It's all about pretending. As long as you pretend, no one can say anything. Cal spends her days pretending that she's sorry, that she cares, that she's happy, that she's normal. Things like that.

The woman huffs at her anyway. "Can you hurry? What's wrong with you?"

Cal risks a glance at her shaking hands. This—the state she's in—is her own fault, really.

"Just tired." She forces a smile. "It's been a long day."

The lady stares Cal down as she grabs the bag filled to the brim with her stuff and turns on her heel.

Breathe in, breathe out.

In. Out.

Steady.

That's how the rest of her shift passes—in a few second segments broken up by insensitive clientele. Not that she blames them.

When Cal walks away from the register and the smell of freshly baked bread wafts from the bakery section, she feels nauseous. Call it a hunch.

Her favorite part about the break room is that it's tiled in these tiny squares. Truly makes it feel like some dingy motel bathroom.

Her least favorite is everything else. It's small and cramped. She has to fold herself in half as she eats at the table in order not to bump into the hanging lamp with her head. At the table, which is covered in stacks of old magazines they can't sell and can't bother to throw out. There's also a microwave on one end of it, but that's seen better days too. Cal's panini is cold and still carrying a hint of staleness despite the char as she eats it.

The girl's reflection is visible in the white tiles. She can make out her dark hair and tired face. The bright yellow work-shirt under the apron. She swallows and looks down at her fingers. They've unknowingly been tapping against the surface, drumming the rhythm of... What? Dread? Boredom?

Her phone rings, and she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment before answering it with a shaky voice.

"Hi, babe."

"Hey. Are you on break?"

"Yea—ah," she stretches the word out. "Wouldn't have picked up otherwise; not even from you."

The man on the other side of the call sighs heavily.

"What?" Cal asks.

A couple of seconds pass in silence.

"I really care about you, Cal," he begins and she closes her eyes again. "Really, I like you a lot."

"But?"

"But you still don't make me happy, and I don't make you happy either. We never laugh together."

"Maybe you should consider how we both dress in exclusively black clothes, have long dark hair and paint our nails, Luke."

"Cal. Cal, I can't do this anymore. We're done," her boyfriend announces and she half-expects him to hang up right there.

The scary thing is, he says those words and she can't bring herself to care. He's right. He didn't make her happy.

Either as a rule of thumb or because of her still fragile ego, she still asks him, "What? Why? What exactly did I do?"

"You're just... A lot. I can't handle your issues. Maybe you'll find someone that can or, heck, someone who can fix them for you, but that's not me."

She wishes tears welled up in her eyes and she had to fight to keep them from falling. Instead, she just listens to Luke's breathing before the phone beeps to let her know the call is over.

Oh, well. She continues to stare at her reflection in the wall. Is there something wrong with her?

Nevermind that, she knows there is. She also knows why there is, but she can't just fall back into her old, unhealthy habits. If anything, she could find herself a more metaphorical—

"Three minutes."

Cal turns her head to look at her shift manager. She furrows her eyebrows. "Huh?"

"Until the end of your break," the middle-aged woman says, a hand on her hip and, maybe surprisingly, a smile on her lips.

"What am I doing wrong?" Cal mumbles and later sighs.

"Well, that depends on what area of life you're referring to," the woman replies.

"That was a rhetorical question. I didn't even mean for you to hear it."

"Cal. You're young, so I'm guessing this is about love or something equally stupid—" Cal nods. "—and with love, you need to remember you have to love yourself before someone else can love you and before you can love someone else."

"That's bullshit. And a cliché."

The shift manager rolls her eyes.

"Just go find a fucking hobby. Stop being so miserable! What's worse, being this grumpy makes you so, so boring. You suck, Cal. No one's going to fall for you. Live a little."

Cal almost smiles. "Are you going to give me a raise, in that case?"

"No. And your break is over."

　She hates her mother's house too. Especially when it's this quiet. She's used to the noise of the store or the humming of her newly ex-boyfriend. When her mother isn't on any work trip, the house carries echoes of professional and familial arguments alike.

Cal is hanging upside down from the armchair, her head beginning to hurt, so she slides down onto the carpet and searches for the TV remote.

She starts to flip through channels. Nicole—her shift manager—can fuck off. She's allowed to live her life the way she wants to. And she wants to be miserable.

Well.

Does she really?

"Let. Second serve," a voice comes booming from the television, and Cal suddenly isn't sure she knows English. Especially as a commentator later yells out, "Duncan breaks!"

Cal blinks, focusing on the screen as a girl seemingly younger than her prepares to serve. The camera zooms in on Duncan's face, and Cal feels the urge to look away. The amount of focus and determination casting a shadow on her features, it's scary. Instead, Cal squints her eyes and waits.

"Tashi Duncan is really bringing her A-game today. Her serve has been exceptional thus far, and she's giving her Bogdanova a run for her money."

Tashi bounces the ball a few times, her expression unchanging. Cal finds herself leaning forward, watching as Tashi serves with a single, powerful, precise motion. A 'big serve' as the commentator calls it. The ball blazes over the net, and her opponent doesn't manage to return it. Another serve. The rally that ensues is fast-paced and Cal can't keep up. She doesn't ever watch sports. Both players—Tashi Duncan and Heike Bogdanova—are hitting the ball with incredible speed and accuracy, so much so Cal's own breathing quickens.

"Duncan's agility on the court is remarkable. She's moving with such grace and power, it's no wonder she's quickly becoming a favorite in the tournament."

There's something mesmerizing about Tashi's gameplay. It's not just her skill, Cal has no reason to care about that; there's an energy, an intensity that radiates from her and the way she squeezes the racket. She moves much like a tornado, and Cal can almost see every muscle in her body working in a terrifying harmony. Something warms in the pit of Cal's stomach. Is she actually rooting for her? This athlete she's never seen play before? It's strange.

She realizes she recognizes the name. The girl's a bit of a local star. There's no tennis in Carroll itself, but she supposes people have cars. Hah. So that's who everyone's been talking about.

The match continues, and Cal gets to watch Tashi as she scores another point, her face lighting up with a brief smile, taking away some of her edge in Cal's eyes. Her expression mirrors the player's. She scolds herself for it. That small moment of triumph felt a bit too personal. Private, in a way.

"Duncan takes the lead! What an incredible display of talent from the young woman."

The adrenaline Cal feeds on holds her attention for a couple more minutes, but eventually, her interest wanes. She flops back onto the carpet and just listens to what the experts are saying.

Then, ad break. Literally—not in the way that ad is advantage in tennis and break is also something that's sometimes yelled out after a serve, but in the way that a woman's voice is now trying to convince Cal to buy a new vacuum cleaner.

She reaches for the remote and changes the channel.

"Feeling under the weather? This supplement is—"

She doesn't feel like listening to an infomercial about happy pills, so she turns off the TV, plunging the room into silence.

The buzzing of the tennis match lingers in her mind, mingling with her own thoughts. For a brief moment, she had felt something—a spark of interest, a glimmer of something other than her usual apathy. But now, the stillness of the room feels heavy and oppressive again.

She closes her eyes, trying to hold onto that fleeting sense of excitement and anticipation she felt cheering Tashi Duncan on.

Maybe Nicoleʼs right, she thinks with a small, bitter smile. Maybe finding something—anything—to care about wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Not that she has the time or means to go looking for a new designer drug.

　Grocery store. Registers. Apron. Bakery. Shopping carts. Customers. Doors opening. Now closing.

She looks up through her lashes at the young man talking to her cheerfully.

Cal shifts uncomfortably under his attentive gaze, plastering on a tired smile as the young man in front of her continues his relentless chatter.

Stop flirting with me, stop flirting with me, she thinks.

He's obviously well-off, stupidly confident, with a button or two undone to appear more unpretentious.

People like him don't shop at the store. A testiment to that is what's listed on his receipt: Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra Lights 100's. The way he talks makes both irritated and slightly envious.

"Yeah, so my friends and I are hosting this party at the country club tonight," he says, leaning casually against the counter. "You should totally come. It's going to be amazing. Music, drinks, good company. You'll love it, and I'd love to see you there."

Cal glances at the clock on the wall, counting the minutes until her shift ends.

"Thanks for the invite," she replies, attempting to sound polite. "But I'm not really a party person."

"Oh, come on," he insists, flashing a charming smile that would probably work on anyone else. Cal, on the other hand, wanted his blond curls out of her view. "You look like you could use a break."

"You think so?" She grimaces.

"Sorry." The guy looks down at his shoes. "Didn't mean it like that. Just... Think about it. Who knows? Maybe you'll have fun. Or you'll meet someone or, uh. I don't know."

Cal shakes her head softly. Pathetic.

He just keeps staring at her expectantly. She shifts from one foot to another before sighing internally. She could think of a different, better reason to go to the party—there might be a better job opportunity waiting for her at the country club. Anything to get out of this godforsaken grocery store.

"Okay, fine," she finally says, more to herself than to him. "I'll go."

His face lights up and she feels like an asshole for a brief moment. "Really? Awesome! Here, let me give you the details."

He scribbles down the address (as if she doesn't know where the only country club in the town is) and time on a scrap of paper and hands it to her.

"I promise you won't regret it."

Cal takes the note. She'll probably show up and leave after five minutes, because of people giving her weird looks, but whatever. Or she'll accidently get high and stumble into a pool in front of all the wealthy teens.

She smiles.

"Yeah, we'll see about that."

Notes.

　🎾 /  So. This is: unedited, short, mid, nothing has happened yet. Hope you liked it anyway! I meant it when I said there would be little to none tennis in this fic, haha. No idea how noticeable it was I know nothing about the sport in the segment where Calʼs watching the match. Anyway, she should at least meet Tashi in the next chapter, but I donʼt know when thatʼll be done :) Stay tuned?

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