Tashi was a possessive person. She knew that.

The thing was, her possessiveness really only bit her in the ass when said possession was threatened. Meaning, almost never. (Not that she thought you a possession, but, you were hers in all the ways that counted.)

So what if you had a boyfriend? You'd won the Juniors Doubles with her, which was worth more than any fucking ring.

Besides, he was in Connecticut. She was one dorm room away, and you were always two drinks away from her tongue down your throat, at any time. (You weren't the subtlest person alive, not that she thought you were intending to be. Flirtatious smack-talk over the net was only meaningless until you started frisking up each other's skirts.)

If she really wanted to, she could have all of you. But she didn't. Not yet. Tashi was content to let you hang on the title of homoerotic-best-friend-slash-tennis-partner a little while longer. Complicating things was unnecessary.

But this—

"What do you mean," disbelief resonated through her tone. Sheer, utter incredulity. "You have a new doubles partner?"

It doesn't even matter. The tournament in question meant jackshit. Some bullshit organised by wannabe-pros for fun. She didn't have the time, nor the reason. She had an upcoming match against Berkeley. Besides, she played for real, for God's sake. She was set up to rank top of the WTA, what more was there to prove?

And yet.

Her blood is simmering, pit yawning open in her stomach. She'd felt a flicker of annoyance at the news of your boyfriend—but this? She felt like taking her racket, smashing it over the gate before keeling over and throwing up. Jesus fucking Christ. Is this how Patrick and Art felt all the time?

The idea of your new partner being a better player than her was out of question—which meant the only possible reason you hadn't asked her first was— you liked them better than her.

Okay, she's actually gonna hurl. Fuck, she didn't realise she liked you this much.