Art probably, definitely shouldn't be doing this.

The problem isn't wanting you. That's barely a blip on both his and Tashi's radar. He has all the time (and permission) in the world to ogle the limbre stretch of your legs, the glistening of sweat on your skin, that goddamn outfit that Tashi bought for you just to give him some eye-candy. Not that you (or he) needed the help.

So no, the problem isn't want or need or even his apparently insatiable libido. The problem is tennis. The problem is always tennis.

"I really don't think I can tell you anything." Art laughs. He runs a hand through his blonde locks, barest note of trepidation straining his voice. He knows little of the fight the two of you had over your career trajectory— it's a fresh wound, and he hasn't asked—though he has his own presumptions. Maybe, you're not so different from him.

But Tashi's your coach. He could yank you under the covers of the king-sized, no problem. Fucking with your career? That was tempting the gods. Tashi Duncan, specifically. And Art wasn't prone to fucking around and finding out.

If only you could stop looking at him like that—eyes all wide and sparkly and doe-like as if he could give you anything she couldn't.