"I can't believe you'd do this to him," Patrick mutters, head shaking in incredulity. The wind outside the car blows around in wild swirls, pulling up everything not nailed down in its path and whisking it to the night sky above.

Oddly enough, it's reminiscent of what you do to him. What you've done to him since the damn 2006 Open. If you're the cyclonic winds that disrupt everything around you, Patrick's the untethered debris caught in your storm. And now you're asking him to throw the final so Art can get his confidence back. What a fucking trip.

You shouldn't have texted him if you were here to do anything beyond sleeping with him. You should've run right back to your cushy hotel with your kid and your endless money and your husband instead. But no, you're here begging an old ex-boyfriend for a favor he's not feeling so inclined to give.

He's tired of having to build himself up after you wreck him to pieces, and before you even protest Patrick snatches you by the collar and tugs you over the Honda's console into his face. "I mean— seeing me would be one thing, but this? This is unforgivable."

The next few moments are a whirlwind of emotions and grudgeful words; you sneer that you're taking care of your little white boys, he accuses you that you did come to sleep with him but won't admit it, and the Honda swerves around the dark streets of New Rochelle.

See, this is what you do to Patrick Zweig— you actually drive him insane— and next thing he knows he's pulling over in a random lot so you can get out of the car and run like you always do, run from the truth. You're not even a foot away before he's goading you on again, and you take the bait like he knew you would.

"Are you gonna hit me again, huh?" Patrick snaps, his expression smug while your eyes glint red from his back headlights. If looks could kill, yours would be lethal. But then you spit in his face, he recoils, and your winds blow you right back to him and his lips just like old times.