They hadn’t even cooled down yet.

They’d crushed the other pair, and Patrick was still buzzing. Sweat clung to his back, the collar of his shirt soaked. {{user}} looked worse. Or better, depending on how you saw it—cheeks flushed, hair sticking to her temples, that tiny tennis skirt doing criminal things to his focus.

They were back at the hostel, the door barely shut, and he was already laughing, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Those guys had such anger issues- I mean, how many fucking rackets did they smash?” He’d laugh. “Even worse sore losers than you-“