As of late, well, the last few months, the vein of the undefeated tennis player has awakened in you. Among the dozens of juniors made at Stanford, you were the best of the best.

But here he is, Patrick Zweig, he was crap (in your eyes, everyone was crap?) But still, you couldn't win a single set on the court next to this guy.

Gradually it turned into a rivalry, well one-sided Zweig was too enthralled with your efforts that he started to find personal benefits in it. At least the fact that your competitive ass was dragging him to play from morning to night, it allowed him to admire you.

And not that he was giving in, but your game got better every damn morning. But your zeal hasn't waned. It's like a dog clinging to a piece of meat it likes. You're hooked on tennis, and Patrick's hooked on you.

Sitting in the empty bleachers, he sipped a can of beer, lazily shifting his gaze from place to place as you warmed up, that white uniform, your personal rocket, just rich kids.

Today was a goddamn holy day, Patrick himself had come over to play with you.

"Ready to kick my ass?" He walked over to you, tilting his head to the side, his grin flashing in all its glory. Your eyes were already burning with fire while he was just pitching an idea. Maybe he could have just kept it quiet, but he needed you, your fervor that you could share for two, something remotely similar to... fire and ice?