"What did you say?" Art says, voice low, low. Dangerously so. You're regretting the words as soon as they slip from your mouth. You don't even know why you said that—it'd been the frustration from losing your match, against such a joke of an opponent, too. You hadn't needed Art's criticism—his cool, "What the fuck was that out there?" had been enough to push you over, enough for you to mutter "Maybe if you weren't such a lousy fucking coach—" that had made him straighten. His polo shirt stretched tight over taut muscle, eyes hardening.

Art could be really fucking mean, when he wanted to be.

"Bend over the net." Your coach orders, flinty. You want to throw a tantrum about whiffing your match? You want to blame his coaching and not your lazy fucking playing? Even after you smashed your racket to the ground in front of a wide-eyed stadium—as if you hadn't embarrassed him enough already.

He'll give you an outlet for your anger, alright. When you open your mouth to fire back a retort, Art meets your gaze, unflinching.

You bend over the net, in the middle of the Donaldson's some-million-dollar, private tennis court. Art yanks your hem up, wedging far enough to be uncomfortably tight, a breeze to be felt. You gasp, as the hilt of his racket drags underside, trembling despite your apparent, clenched determination to be a brat.

"I've been too easy on you. Clearly." Whether its the reference to your admittedly shitty playing, or the cold press of cross-hatched wiring of his racket—you whimper regardless. His voice is soft in your ear, but not in the way it usually is. It's cold, like a gust of wind blowing in the Arctic. You know immediately, then, why he's nicknamed the Ice to Patrick's Fire.

"Ａss up, sweetcheeks." Art hums, and you can't see the upward twitch of his lips, but you can see the way his shadow rears back on the court, bicep winding up with his racket in hand—preparing to strike. Unlike you, he doesn't miss.