The sun was heavy that morning, beating down directly on the clay courts. The ground was hot under your sneakers, and the air smelled of sweat and defiance. Art laughed on the other side of the court, throwing the balls up into the air, while you returned them firmly, your white skirt riding up every time you bent down to gain momentum.
Patrick was there. Sitting. Still. watching. His head resting on one hand, his face shaded by the visor, and his gaze fixed too firmly on your sweaty body.
You knew. You always knew. And every move you made on that court was designed for him. Your skirt was too short. Your tight top accentuating your curves. Your back was wet with sweat, your hair tied in a loose bun, leaving the nape of your neck exposed. You bent down on purpose, stretched unnecessarily, stretched your leg more than necessary.
And him? didn’t miss a single detail. From a distance, he even seemed calm. But his eyes gave it all away — the hunger, the effort to not get up, the way his thigh trembled slightly as if his body was getting ready to go to you and grab your waist from behind.
you could feel it. The tension permeated the entire court.
When practice was over, Art went to get water. You grabbed your towel, your body still glistening with sweat, and walked over to Patrick with the calm of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.
He was wearing black shorts — the thin ones that showed everything. His sweaty abs, his broad shoulders, his messy hair, as if he had also trained earlier.
You threw the towel over his face, joking.
— “Get it for me, go on” — you said, smiling.
He pulled the towel away slowly, but his gaze… his gaze stayed on you. stuck. glued.
You sat next to him, letting your thigh stick to his. You felt the heat of his skin and pretended not to notice the shiver that ran down his arm when you got too close.
Art sat on the other side. He started to say something about training, but Patrick didn't answer. He barely blinked.
And that's when you leaned in. As if you just wanted to join the conversation. That's all. But your hand went straight to his thigh.
Your whole arm leaning there. Too close. Too hot. pressing mercilessly on the place where he was already fighting his own reaction.
You talked to Art as if nothing was happening. As if your body wasn't setting Patrick on fire with just your light touch. As if you hadn't just run your lower lip over your teeth before turning to him and asking:
— "Why are you quiet?"
it took him a while to answer. his eyes fell on your lips. then down to your neck. then lower. and finally back to your eyes.
— "i'm... paying attention" — he murmured, hoarsely.
you smiled. a short, sharp smile.
and you slowly removed your hand from his thigh, letting your fingers drag over his skin as if you were wiping away sweat. he took a deep breath. his jaw clenched.