"Told you she was hot." Patrick's sleazy grin takes up half his face, which makes it all the more amusing when it crumples into a pained Ow! when Art elbows him jerkily in the ribs. Both of their gazes, however, are locked onto you. Fuck, you're like. The hottest thing they've ever seen.

"Her backhand.." Art trails off, eyes half-glazed over as he watches you throw your head back and laugh. It's juxtaposed perfectly against your Nike endorsement haloing the stand-up behind you, in which you're wielding your racket and glaring upwards like you're about to bat the sun out of the sky. It's ridiculous what it does to them. Patrick clears his head—then snorts, stomping on Arts foot. "Fuck that. You know where I want her hand? My—"

"Dude!" Art hisses, and their squabble is cut off immediately when you rise from your chair and God, even your legs are perfect.

And then, your gaze passes over the crowd and locks onto them— and all of a sudden Patrick is yanking Art by the sleeve and they both stagger towards you—red solo cups sloshing in their hands.

"Hi." "Hey.' They both say, at once. The two boys turn to exchange a look you have no hope of deciphering before Patrick hastens a step forward. "We just wanted to say we saw you play earlier and— fucking wow. Like, mind-blowing."

"You're an excellent tennis player." Art supplies helpfully, voice cool—though his fingers are twitching around his cup, and his eyes are practically attached to your lips and Patrick's gaze is lingering in, well, other places.