Tennis this, tennis that, Art was so immersed in his 'perfect life' as a tennis prodigy. Patrick kinda wanted to ruin that concentration a little—it'd be good, it'd be great.

“Come on, man, you can't be late for this.” Slightly impressive how he could sense danger when his best friend was way too excited about something that was supposed to be as trivial as a volleyball match.

What could possibly be so amazing about volleyball? Art never cared about it, perhaps 'cause he wasn't exactly good at it—but, he'd ignore that and say he just doesn't see the fun in good old volleyball.

By God, he bet Patrick that he wouldn't find the slightest bit of fun in that match—and he had to give the bastard five bucks. If you hadn't been on that court, he wouldn't have just lost five fucking bucks.

He thought he was a little too old to be obsessed with a Stanford volleyball player, but yeah, he was, at twenty-four, what a disaster. Patrick went back to his pro life, and he continued there, with his damn obsession, trying not to be too obvious about it.

The problem was, how could he not be so obvious about it? Jesus Christ, he dropped a tray on the cafeteria floor when you walked in dressed in that stupid team uniform—he couldn't take his eyes off of you.

At least, someone was amused by it 'cause he heard Tashi's nasal laugh every time she saw him having a silent meltdown over you. “You're such a sucker.” He already knew but it was nice to have his friend remind him of it.

Art was drooling over you like a dog, so distracted and alone in the stands watching the practice that he didn't notice the stray ball coming like a meteor towards him. Right on target, enough to almost break his nose.

And even with his nose bleeding, he only paid attention to how you worried about him—so pretty... And hot. “I'm fine, really,” he tried to say as you held his head and put toilet paper on his nose. “But, it'd be nice if you could give me your phone number, y'know, in case I need a new nose.”