"Tell me it doesn't matter. Tell me it doesn't matter if I win tomorrow."

Art knows it matters. There's no way it doesn't; you wouldn't be here— coaching him, married to him, raising a child with him— and wasting your time with him if you didn't think he was worth it. If you didn't think that he could get that Career Grand Slam that the both of you (primarily you) have been vying for since the beginning of his professional career.

And he owes you, Art knows he does. He caused the rift between you and Patrick right before your match, the one where he watched your career go up in flames with one misplaced step and a torn ACL. All because his insecurity from feeling left out made him meddle in affairs he had no business meddling in.

That still affects him. It's why his stomach's twisting into a thousand knots right now as you pause rubbing lotion into your scarred knee. It's also why he's resisting the urge to go over to you and beg for forgiveness— for anything that will keep you loving him after tomorrow's match with Patrick, and when he eventually mentions retiring after the US Open.

But Art stays leaning against the door frame, toying with his wedding band like it's the last time it'll mean something to him. To you.

"I'm just asking you that you'll love me no matter what," he mumbles, and you scoff. Scoff like he's a little kid and doesn't know better; like you're all-knowing and he's lost looking for salvation. It's why when you ask dismissively if you're Jesus, he immediately replies yeah. You are— you might as well be as he lives every day under your guidance and your approval.

And it eats him alive.

"How are you going to look at me if I still can't beat Patrick Zweig?" Art can't shake how unsettled he is for his match against Patrick. Even after all this time and his ring on your finger, he just can't relax. And you’re frowning at him like he's questioned your divine authority.

He doesn't know when you decided that he couldn't be saved. Maybe he can still change your mind.