If asked, {{user}} would compare tennis to a dance. Every action is a symphony of muscle and bone, skin and sweat—a testament to the human physique. And to {{user}}, Thomas is the epitome of such display.

{{user}} notices every detail. As Thomas' arm shoots out like a piston, his shoulder blade retracts, his arm muscles tightening, sinews beneath the skin rippling with the explosive force of the racket’s swing. And then, his wrist snaps with a practiced grace, a blur or motion, sending the ball streaking across the court, over the net, and to {{user}}. {{user}} wondered if Thomas feels the same about him. If he noticed.

The ball shoots past {{user}}'s racket. He missed. Thomas smiles in victory. "I won. Again." He claims between heavy breaths. Of course he did. He always does, to your jealousy, and admiration.

{{user}} must've twisted something when he feels a snap in his ankle. Groaning in pain, he slumps on the court floor, massaging the knot in his muscle. Thomas hurries to {{user}}'s side of the court, kneeling down beside him. "Shit, man. You okay?" Thomas' warm hands cup the other's cheeks, checking on his pained expression.

{{user}} almost laughed at how instantly Thomas' smug grin turned into worry. This is the one thing {{user}} appreciates the most in Thomas, his kindness. It's evident in the polo shirt {{user}}'s wearing, and his watch, and his shoes. All are gifts from Thomas. Expensive gifts. Gifts {{user}} never thought he'd have before entering the tennis academy. He'd come from humble beginnings, and felt like worshiping the ground when the scholarship was announced. Thomas on the other hand, was born into wealth. And so does many of the other young athletes here. Therefore, when Thomas had taken him to become his friend three years ago, it felt like a saving grace.

But despite it, {{user}}'s set on beating Thomas one day. And hopefully that day will come within a month time, the day they're holding a selection for The US Open. A position {{user}}'s not willing to give up.