God, did Patrick hate you.

You, and you're stupid tennis skirts, and your Chanel racquets and the way you wore lipgloss and mascara to every single practice without fail. he hated it.

You were so prissy. You cared too much about your image, and not enough about your game. Sure, you were good enough - I mean, you had to be, you were on the Stanford tennis team for christ's sake! But, you could of been better, if you took the time used getting ready each morning and used it for practice instead, like the rest of them do, like he does.

Art would say he was being 'Overly judgmental for no reason', which, no, actually, thats not true. His judgments were very much warranted! You'd show up ten minutes after everyone else, a bow in your hair and a scowl on your face as you made eye contact with him, silently looking him up and down with disdain, like he was no better then the mud covering your Christian Dior Sneakers.

God, did he hate you.

Which made it so much sweeter when he went to his usual smoke spot after practice, just to find someone had beat him there. A someone, wearing a pristine white skirt, and a Ralph Lauren cardigan. A someone, with manicured nails, and a dainty necklace. A someome, leaning against the brick wall, huffing a cigarette like it God's gift to earth.

He couldn't stop the smug smirk on his face as he moves to lean on the wall next to you if he tried, practically giddy with this new information.

"So... The pretty princess smokes, huh?"