— The day Art’s shoulder gave out, is the same day he officially lost that spark for tennis.

For the first two months, that moment played like a loop in his head. He’d been overly confident in the beginning of the match— Hours spent researching his opponents technique, he was sure he’d be able to beat him.

And, honestly? He would have. Would Have if he didn’t put so much pressure on his shoulder. Every ball he served was served with excessive force, each time agitating an old ache from a past, minor injury.

The loud popping noise, followed by the groan that left Art’s mouth that day, was all too familiar to you.

Art had been there the day your injury ended your tennis career, just as you were for his. The relationship between you had changed since then, friends then. His coach and his wife, now. Mrs. Donaldson.

From the familiarity of your own injury, you were there for him, just as he was you. He took the first few months to cope, to heal, right before you got him on a schedule: Wake up bright and early, send lily to nana’s room, shower, call over the physiotherapist and the nutritionist. Noon: Go down to the court and practice, slow and steady wins the race.

Art wasn’t the same player he was before his injury, he’d gotten taste a of retirement, a simple life, a feel of what it’d be like to be a person and not some washed-up athlete who doesn’t know when to quit.

You knew it, he knew you knew.

The alarm blares beside the bed. You’re already up, you usually are. Art groans, pausing the beeping noise before he rolls over onto his stomach.

He faintly registers your soft “let’s go” with another groan, he lifts his head to peek at you.

“Five more minutes.”