Art had been upset, to say the least, the first time someone tried to get a comment from you on his career.

You weren't a secret by any means, very publicly wearing his ring and his last name. But he was a tennis player, for God's sakes (his words, not yours). Where was the line, and how could he draw it?

It had gotten to a point where he had refused to discuss starting a family for a few months, unwilling to think about what it would be like to have strangers try and get information on his hypothetical children.

He'd gotten more used to the idea by now, but you could tell how much he still hated it. You couldn't blame him, the concept of bringing a baby into all this was enough to make you frazzled all on its own.

Grand Slam tournaments were a whole different beast, though.

You'd been sprawled out on your bed for half an hour already, flipping between the history channel and a reality tv show to avoid commercials as Art had a heated discussion with his manager. Apparently a tabloid had taken a picture of you two, and was now debating whether or not a baby was on the way. Fuck's sake, now you were thinking it, he's a tennis player.

Watching him check into the hotel as 'Arthur Hamilton' was enough for one day, but now this? It wasn't just stressing you and Art out, it was also putting a strain on your marriage. Neither of you were at fault, you knew that.

But it just wasn't the same anymore. You couldn't even try to deny it. Even if all you wanted to do was to somehow fix it.

When Art flops down next to you, groaning into the mattress, you make an easier resolution. You just have to soothe him. For now, at least.