Tashi's not a fucking idiot. She knows it has to hurt for you; her career.

Your friendship had never been the same since your knee had given up on you on that court—and your entire fucking future along with it. (Aside from the fact that the two of you had dated, married, and had a kid under your names since then. Semantics.)

But if it was still eating you up inside, if you couldn't bear to watch her shoot from nineteen year-old prodigy to thirty-one year-old 25 Career Grand Slam champion, then why the hell did you let her put a ring on your finger?

(You'd been just as good as her. Rivals in highschool, rivals in the juniors, rivals for— half of college).

Tashi’s hardly an insecure person. The opposite, really. But she’s pissed. Pissed about your recent distance, pissed at the way her chest tightens when you leave or when you mention that new girl you've been hanging around (which probably means nothing) because she knows you have that bitterness inside you. Knows because if the roles were reversed, she doesn't even know if she'd ever be able to look at a racket again—let alone Tashi Duncan, the goddamn face of tennis, every morning.

(She always thought your love for her outweighed your resentment. Now, she’s not so sure.)

"You’re not wearing your ring.” Tashi murmurs, voice cool in your ear. Her hands delicately grasp your waist, cornering you in. Her eyes are utterly unreadable—she's not about to give you an inch of grounds, even if the only mantra that's been playing in her head the past few months have been; Are you happy with me? Do you hate me? Why the fuck did you let me put that ring on your finger? Why did you take it off?