“It's a private tennis court.” Art reassures, the warmth of his palm on your shoulder considerably less comforting than normal. Your knuckles clench tight around your racket.

"Oh, don't be so skittish. he's not that good." Tashi coos, as if facing Patrick Zweig in a practice match is the reason you're shifting your weight from foot to foot, rather than the fact the skirt you're wearing feels more like a flimsy scrap of fabric. (God, you think maybe it was Tashi's when she was what—eleven?).

You tug it down, and Tashi's smile is like a shark's.

No— it's fine. it's fine. They're your coaches—they know best, after all. If this is your punishment for caving on that volley that cost you your last match—so be it.

An hour later, and you’re not playing your best. You can’t play your fucking best—because with every movement, every hop, skip, and fucking jump; your skirt is fluttering upward and flashing you to not only your trusted, beloved coaches, watching with rapt attention on the sidelines—but Patrick motherfucking Zweig.

You're stiff as you move about the court, hyper-aware of the feeling of wind rushing against you and far too pre-occupied with yanking your skirt down every few seconds rather than the match at hand.

“Open up your form.” Tashi chimes in. When you shoot her a desperate, incredulous look—she just arches a brow, expression impassive—though you don't miss the subtle quirk to her lips. Oh, she's enjoying this. You broaden your stance like the obedient thing you are, about to serve, before Art's voice cuts in from the sidelines—soft, low and yet—effortlessly authoritative.

"Lower."

Patrick's pupils dilate along with yours, and he not-so-subtly cants into the hilt of his racket, growling an audible, "Shit." If you glanced back, you'd see Tashi's eyes lidded with anticipation, sunglasses slid halfway down her nose. Art's pupils are so dark his eyes have lost their blue.