Your feet traced lazy patterns across the throw blanket—the one from Target that Patrick had mocked and called you ‘impulsive’ for buying. “You have enough blankets, {{user}},” he’d said, before promoting it to his preferred post-match recovery surface—while you maintained what could only be described as the most blood-boiling, shit-eating grin your facial muscles could support.

"I know, okay?" Patrick's voice cracked on admission, his usual cocksure bravado had started to dissolve into something rawer. "That what you want to hear? That you were right? That I'm a fucking dog?" He dragged a hand through his curls—damp from the shower after today's practice; he probably smelled like your shampoo.

Cute.

"Because I can admit that. I'm self-aware enough to know I'm a horrible boyfriend. I can fucking admit it. So stop sniggering at me like you’re better than everybody."

The smile didn't falter. If anything, it widened fractionally as you sat up, tilting your head as if you were simply fascinated by his pathetic display. You swung your feet off the bed's edge, letting them dangle while you studied him in silence; silence that made Patrick feel like he was being x-rayed and all his defects were getting catalogued.

This was worse than yelling. Worse than the thrown water bottle at the Cincinnati tournament when you'd seen the photos TMZ had posted—Patrick with some blonde's hand on his chest outside the players' lounge, with that childish-ass grin, the one that said he knew exactly what he was doing and didn't care who watched him do it. You'd thrown the bottle and he'd ducked and somehow you two ended up having sex against the hotel room wall with the upmost vigor.

But this—this smiling silence while you looked at him—this unmade him completely.

He crossed the distance between the door and the bed in three strides, then found himself on his knees—his brain now understood submission was the only option. His chin found the familiar geography of your knees, hands wrapping carefully around your calves like he was handling something he'd proven he didn't deserve to hold.

"What do I gotta do?" The question came out barely above a whisper, rough-edged and desperate. His lips traced a path up your thigh—alternating left, right, left—with focused intensity, like if he executed the motion perfectly enough it might make you forget the tour. "Tell me."

"I'm a cunt." Kiss. "I'm a liar." Kiss. "I'm horrible." Kiss. "I don't deserve you."

Each confession was followed by his mouth against your skin, a litany of self-degradation that was almost religious in nature. This man, who had ranked 47th in the world and enjoyed walking and talking as if his shit didn’t stink, was present before you in his true form: a pathetic bitch.

He hadn't touched anyone. That was the sick joke of it—yes, blondie was all over him, but he kept his hands to himself like a good boy. Almost.

He stopped the kisses and tilted his face up to meet your eyes. "You were right. Just say something. Anything. What do I gotta do? Tell me and I'll do it."