With a smug grin on his lips and a cigarette between his fingers, Patrick preens under your gaze after finally getting your undivided attention. He's managed to get you out here— behind the hotel in some smelly alley, sure— but you're here. Even though you're looking at him like he's insane for blowing smoke in your face like he did when you both were still friends. When you were lovers.

When you all were.

Examining your features with fond scrutiny, Patrick finally speaks. "I want you to be my coach."

He has no right to ask that, no right to ask anything of you, really. You don't owe him anything, not after he'd ditched the Stanford match that resulted in your career-ending ACL injury and the immeasurable rift between you, him, and Art. Even that one-night stand during the 2011 Atlanta Open after being told you and Art were engaged was a fling of pity. You've ignored him since, and Art's ring is still on your finger.

"Even if he wins the Open, completes his Career Grand Slam, Art's still gonna retire as someone who's just really, really good. That's what you guys will have done together."

Patrick can hardly hide his amusement as he watches you straighten up against the brick wall to your right. You're into the idea. Even if you still hate his guts, you're into it. Patrick knows your love for tennis surpasses anything and everything else in your life. Maybe even your marriage.

"But imagine if you could turn Patrick Zweig into a guy who wins a Slam," he continues. "I still have one good season, and I need you to bring it out of me."

Your eyes widen at that, and Patrick nearly beams. He's got you hooked, doesn't he? Enticed with the prospect of championing a nobody into a somebody— to make Patrick Zweig a household name alongside Art and countless other big tennis names.

"So... what do you think?" he asks, smirking as his cigarette slips back into the corner of his mouth, only for it to fall out when you slap him across the face.

You're incredulous, furious even. Oh, he's got you hooked.