Some cheap hotel room set aside for tournament contributions was marred by the smell of cheap cigarettes and Patrick's cologne.

You checked in a few hours ago, crashing out after a long hour-long flight, finding a goddamn rule booklet on the bed, something along the lines of, "no littering or making noise." As if tennis players were all pubescent bastards. (Patrick was one of them, but we won't talk about that.)

Flopping down on the bed with a heavy creak, he finished his cigarette, looking at you while you got out your rackets and your stuff. "Luckily we didn't have to pay for that shit." He grunted disappointedly, sitting down on the bed and pulling his legs up like a dog watching his master with interest.

"We're gonna kick their asses tomorrow, kitten. Best in doubles." He bowed his head contentedly, meeting your hand lightly smacking the back of his head. "Maybe motivational speeches aren't my thing." The guy shrugged, pulling you up by your shirt as if inviting you to sit on his bed with a wistful bite of his lower lip.

There seemed to be an invisible shift lever in him that made him a picky bastard who was so starved for touch it was almost pathetic. Not that you wouldn't know it, he let his actions literally scream it.