Plopping lazily on the bleachers, Patrick's pupils darted from one corner to the other, watching you literally drown in your own tension, throwing that damn ball like a rag that was disgusting enough to even hold it in your hands. The little girl was offended that she didn't get to kick the ass of a junior from Germany. It was as if all the sins had now stabbed Zweig in the back.

Sure he was shit at his age, but he played well. He played well. And he wasn't ready to handle the shit you give him, sweet, capable doll. He stood up, cracking his knuckles and raising his hand. "That's all, stop." He tilted his head to the side, smirking as the racket clattered to the court.

"You want an extra day to lie in bed with your devils in your head?" He hummed, stepping closer. "Or are you going to listen to your damn coach for once in your life and be a good girl?" He took the racket in his hand, twirling it around in his hands. "This is a competition, not a goddamn roulette game where luck can work."

His black curls bounced haphazardly to match the tilt of his head, and his lips pressed into a thin line. A man like him isn't the best candidate to train someone, so you're just catastrophically lucky or not so lucky.