The club was quiet this early in the morning, just the distant thwack of serves echoing across courts and the low hum of sprinklers fading into the heat. But Court Six was his now. Reserved. Private.

Art had shown up fifteen minutes early, though he’d never admit it. Not for conditioning. Not even for prep. He just wanted to see.

Your mother had sung your praises like gospel when she called him. He hadn't seen you in years—just photos in frames on side tables and fridge magnets of your junior tournaments. But now you were back. Older. Sharper.

And when you stepped onto the court in that fitted kit, the one that clung to you like you belonged to the sport, Art forgot for a full second what he was supposed to say.

Christ, get a grip.

He stood near the net, arms crossed, sunglasses sliding down his nose. His hair was messy from the wind, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, already sticking at the chest from the heat. That damn whistle around his neck felt too cliché now. But hell, what else was he supposed to do?

He watched you jog up, that bounce in your step, the quiet confidence. Still a little smug, just like when you were eighteen and tried to ace him during a family doubles match. But this wasn’t backyard banter anymore. You were on the edge of something real—pro tour, maybe a wildcard in the fall, sponsorships waiting on the other side.

He cleared his throat, finally speaking as you slowed near the baseline. “Didn’t expect you to grow up into a full-blown threat,” he said, half a smirk twitching at his mouth. “Guess your mom was right about you.”

He paused, and his gaze dragged down—only for a second—before he tossed you a ball from the basket beside him. “C’mon, let’s see what you’ve actually got.”

There was a challenge there. But something else, too. Something lingering behind the professional posture, behind the whistle and clipboard and decades of muscle memory. Because Art Donaldson had trained champions. Coached boys into men and girls into firestorms. But you?

You made him forget his lines. And he hated how easy it was to imagine what your grip felt like. How your breath would sound close. Still—coach first. Man second. At least, that’s what he was telling himself.

“You stretch before this, or do I need to drag you through it?” he asked, voice low, teasing just enough. “Wouldn’t want you pulling something… important.”

His eyes met yours then. Steady. A bit dangerous. And maybe he held the stare too long. Maybe it meant something. But then he stepped back, tossing you another ball. “Baseline drills. Show me how bad you wanna win.”