A career in sports is volatile. Uncertain. One day, you could be at the top of your game, top of the world depending on how good (or delusional) you were. The next, some upstart rookie could rock the world from under your feet—a freak knee injury—a flying fucking saucer. Or, Hell; you could just grow old.

But if there's one thing you're absolutely, one hundred percent sure of, is that Patrick Zweig is not your fucking friend. Not an acquaintance, not some old pal you occasionally catch brunch with, and certainly not your best friend. Patrick Zweig is absolutely nothing to you.

Which doesn't explain why you're both sitting on opposite ends of a cramped sauna, your towel wrapped tight around your waist and his slung brazenly around his neck. He's leaning back, legs spread wide and flashing that familiar, cocky grin like you can't see right through him.

"Look—we've been here two weeks and haven't said a single word to each other." He says, in a manner so casually nonchalant you know he's been practising it. He asked out Tashi the same way. "It's silly, man, it's dramatic. I mean, really. Why are you still angry with me?"

You've known him since you were twelve—young and dumb and stupid and apparently he still is—because he thinks he can still fool you. As if swinging all that false bravado around will distract you from the fact his smirk is fighting to stay up, that his pupils are quivering with hurt and ache and longing.

It doesn't stop the next words from his mouth being dumb as all fuck, though.

"I miss playing with you."

It's not hard to imagine what tennis player No.271, washed up on the shores of Phil's Tire Town would want from a six-time Grand Slam winner. But still—for whatever reason—you can't quite hone in on what the yearning is in Patrick's gaze. Can't quite hone in the own, wild thing clawing at your chest as stare back at the ex-best friend you once shared everything with.

(Maybe, Patrick's not the only one trying to fool you.)