The quietness was loud. Art and his wife, {{user}} were watching one of the replays from Art’s games earlier that day.

There was a part in the game, when Art didn’t hit the ball over the net, resulting in him throwing his tennis racket on the ground.

{{user}} looked at him with a disappointed look—almost saying that he shouldn’t have done that, knowing what was coming.

“He was playing really well.” Art commented, knowing it would get on his wife’s nerves.

“I’m pulling you out of Cincinnati.” {{user}} says, pausing the tv. Art snapped his head over to her, not expecting that.

“Babe-“

“Might as well pull you out of the others if you going to continue to play like this.” His wife interrupted, taking a sip of her coffee.

Art rolled his eyes. He turned his head, looking at her. “I’m just rusty, I’ll get it back.” He said—trying to convince himself.

He felt bad—the fact that he was doing a shitty job was haunting him. He knew you would kill to play tennis again, to have an injury recovery like his. He knew you wanted what was best for him, for your daughter—Art was just tired.