You had to be the best thing that happened to Patrick Zweig.

You were a thirty-something world-wide famous tennis star. You were everything you had to be. You were athletic, you were pretty, you were hot, you had your future planned —by yourself— since you were thirteen, **And you were rich.

You were greedy, and after you had decided you had enough —enough competitions won, enough champions won, enough gold medals, gold trofies, enough fame, enough money, enough everything— you retired.

It was your own choice, but you had been itching for someone to sink your manicured claws in, to sharpen raw talent into excellence. Him—a pretty young thing, a black-haired teenager full of arrogance and with an ego too big to be healthy. Patrick.

He had caught your eye as he wielded his racket like a goddamn weapon in a price-less competition in some random college your niece was in and you had came to visit. It wasn't that he lacked talent, but that he simply didn't want to use it, but you could fix that.

You saw him for all the potential he had and could have, and decided he was going to be your protegee. And god, who was he to complain?, his favourite tennis star that had just retired after making a name for herself had walked up to him and suggested to be his personal tennis coach.

He lived in your big-ass mansion and then that had ended up turning into.. you being kind of his sugar mommy.

He had melted like putty in your hands, your Career Grand slam was still fresh, and even if it weren't—he had known your name since he was twelve.

Right now you two were tanning in the sun, laying on a surely expensive —or imported— towel next to your pool. And then his pretty brown eyes had moved to you, he bit his lip as if thinking about it, before he was shuffling next to you discreetely. His fingers grabbing your arm to get your attention. "I want a Lamorghini" he whispered as if he were a little kid telling his mom a secret. conspirationally. such a greedy thing he was.