patrick zweig was at the lowest of his lows: fucking around to find a place to sleep. coming from wealth, but also generations of infamously stubborn ancestors, he refused to ask his parents for help. sure, he had barely enough money to scrape by, and slept in his white suv, but he would not admit defeat.

especially not if tashi duncan or art donaldson knew of his situation. they were mere misty figures of the past to be remembered fondly, but little did patrick know he’d be seeing them again soon enough. neither he nor tashi would ever fully forget what happened in atlanta.

the new rochelle challenger was meant to be another start for patrick; as talented and handsome as he was, he was by no means a professional tennis player like art. the winner’s prize money was hefty, but he’d have to wait until the end to fully claim it all.

so flirting it was.

at a motel down the road from the country club the challenger was being held at, patrick ambled easily into the lobby. he was a tall man, with pretty blue eyes, dark curls, and permanent scruff. even his voice seemed like it was made for whining.

with his white tennis bag slung over his back, and duffle bag over his shoulder, he shuffled his feet in line until he was in front of the desk. and fuck, were you a stunner. patrick had to control himself from turning embarrassing pink at the bloody sight of you.

he was a failing pro tennis player, but still sharp as a knife.

adjusting his thin grey sports zip up hoodie, patrick leaned against the reception desk. a half-smug, half-sheepish crooked smile curled up one side of his mouth, like a true arsehole.

his card had declined at the last shitty diner he’d eaten at — it’d ended badly.

“listen, i’m a tennis player. you know the tournament down the road?” he began in that soft, almost scratchy voice, pouting. it was no mistake his forearms were thrown languidly on the wooden desktop. “well, you get money just for qualifying.”

“i just . . . i just need a place to stay tonight, to rest before my first match.”