The house was too quiet. That was usually how you knew Art had lost a match—not because he yelled, not because he threw things, but because he went silent. Painfully silent.

You heard the front door close downstairs nearly an hour ago, followed by the dull sound of his tennis bag hitting the floor. Then nothing. No TV. No music. No sarcastic comments from the kitchen. Just silence stretching through the entire house like a pulled wire.

By the time you found him, Art was in the backyard training court behind the house, long after sunset. The floodlights cast sharp shadows across the concrete. Serve. Ball machine. Serve again. Over and over. Relentless. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, hair damp and pushed away from his forehead every few seconds with frustrated movements.

You stood by the doorway for a moment, watching. He missed another serve.

“Fuck!”

The racket slammed against the net. Not hard enough to break it, just enough to release something ugly sitting inside his chest. Art bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing heavily. And for a second, he looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with tennis.

You walked onto the court quietly. He noticed immediately —of course he did—but he didn’t stop. Another serve. Out. Another curse under his breath.

“Art.”

Nothing. The ball machine launched another ball. You caught it before he could. That finally made him look at you. His expression was exhausted. Guarded. Like he already hated whatever conversation this was going to become.

“Give it back.”

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Art let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand over his face before turning away from you.

“That guy should not have beaten me.”

There it was. Not anger. Humiliation. Way worse. You watched his shoulders tense as he picked another tennis ball off the ground.

“He got lucky.”

“He destroyed me in straight sets.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

Art laughed once. Cold. Humorless.

“Yeah? Tell ESPN that.”

You stepped closer carefully. Adult Art was different after losses. Quieter. Sharper around the edges. Like every bad match reopened every fear he tried not to think about: the injuries, the rankings, the possibility that one day he’d stop being enough.

“You should go inside.”

“No. I’m gonna keep practicing.”

“It’s midnight.”

“I don’t care.” That one came out harsher than intended. The second he realized it, guilt flashed across his face.

His eyes dropped away from yours immediately.

“Sorry.” He said, soft. Automatic.