Chapter Text
MARCH 2 2007 4:50PM - STANFORD TRACK HOUSE PARKING LOT, PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA.
Patrick was upset at her.
He always was when he came to visit.
She was infuriating. Competitive. Hypocritical. Too into tennis— not that Patrick really believed that anyone could be too into tennis. But he’d appreciate it if his girlfriend for once didn’t keep repeating what he already knew. What everyone knows. What he’d already fucking known for the entire year.
That Tashi was right.
She was right….he knew that.
He hated that he knew that.
But knowing it didn’t make her any less right nor him any less angry, so here he was.
Pacing.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Until her words filtered right back into his ears and he kicked a trashcan just to settle down.
Patrick was losing.
He needed a coach. He wasn’t winning any challengers. He was way in over his head. Too overconfident, too emotionally volatile, irresponsible. Narcissistic, riding off the coattails of his past successes. So sure that he could make it on talent and talent alone. Always sure he’d won before he really had, and of all fucking things, the highlight of her complaints, the one thing she won’t let go—
He should have gone to college.
He should have gone to college.
Patrick, contrary to popular belief, isn't as stupid as he lets on. At least he’d like to think that he isn’t, despite results proving otherwise. That’s the thing though, no amount of tennis could fix that part….the ‘otherwise.’
No amount of tennis was good enough to get him into Stanford.
His GPA had been too low, his personal statement too unremarkable, and in a tug of war between Tashi’s raw talent and Art’s smarts, Patrick was too in the in-between. He didn’t know what he wanted to do other than tennis. He didn’t have a backup plan, didn’t have any other areas of interest, and the Stanford review board could clearly see that.
He’d been waitlisted and nothing more. That was the end of it and as usual, like everyone else, they wanted nothing to do with him.
He had made it to other colleges. Patrick isn’t a complete idiot. He had applied, even though he told Art that he hadn’t at all. He’d applied to a lot actually; USC, UCLA, Princeton, University of Florida, Brown— any university that had as much as a tennis court, any university whose alumni recently won a Grand Slam. Backups because that was the right thing to do, because that was what Art said was the right thing, the responsible thing to do. He’d made it to some, never heard back from a lot, and when that summer ended the only thing he was left with was a single Ivy and a slew of state and community colleges.
No Stanford.
Everyone was going to Stanford.
Patrick had made it into Princeton actually.
It shocked him, even though it really shouldn’t have.
His father went to Princeton. His mother went to Princeton. His two older brothers went to Princeton. It was a given really. His father had practically written up his application by hand. Picture perfect, responsible, nothing like Patrick’s chaotic, pointless, overly honest ramble about tennis ‘being his dream’ that he’d submitted to the Stanford application portal. Then that summer happened. And it happened. And suddenly he and his parents weren’t exactly on speaking terms. He’d spent the last of the summer at the academy playing with Art and pretty much by then he’d already made up his mind what to do after. He’d gotten a car with what he had left on his personal card, funded his challengers with saved-up remnants of his allowance, sold some of his designer tennis clothes and paraphernalia expecting to make it back later when he succeeded. He was already practically broke by the time Art and Tashi had started college. But he was still living it up, still keeping up expectations. He had an apartment of his own, better than a dorm room at least.
So no, he couldn’t exactly afford college.
Couldn’t afford a coach.
Couldn’t afford any sort of discipline, didn’t have it.
Couldn’t help feeling excited when it seemed like he could actually do this. Could win, could prove to his father that he was wrong and Patrick wasn’t a waste of oxygen, wasn’t a waste of money, wasn’t a disgrace—
Didn’t want to be lectured about the real world when he was trying to have sex with the girl he loves.
But he’s making excuses really.
He’s grown up.
Maybe not outwardly, maybe just in his head.
She just doesn’t understand. Hasn’t seen it. Her and Art don’t see that he’s changed, that he’s different now, that he’s much more responsible, much more knowledgeable about how the real world works.
It isn’t her fault that she doesn’t understand, not if he hasn’t told her.
By the time Patrick has walked the final tight circuit around the parking lot he isn’t really angry anymore. It’s always been like that. His anger has always been quick to dissipate, and by the time it’s gone, the afternoon is slowly tipping into evening. He can see the lights at the Taube Tennis Center, the cars, the crowd. The little blobs of people lining up to get in, to go watch his girlfriend play. He still has time to make the game. Still has time to sit next to Art and sulk in those stupid little green plastic chairs. Still has time for the three of them to get pizzas at Monroe’s after. To talk, to laugh, to fight once more before he has to leave.
He can act like the grown-up that he is. Can pretend to cheer her on. Can pretend he isn’t insanely jealous of how much potential she fucking has, of how much potential they both have.
He sighs and turns just as easily as he came, hand running through his curls, sweat running down the back of his grey shirt.
He waits at the crosswalk.
Watches the hum of cars as they barrel through, a little over the speed limit.
Watches the red man turn green.
Hears the ding of his cell, probably Art wondering where the hell he’s at.
He looks down at his phone for one second.
One singular fucking second.
Just to check.
That’s all it takes really.
MARCH 2 2007 4:56PM - TAUBE TENNIS CENTER.
Tashi can’t fucking believe him.
No, she can. Because Patrick Zweig was nothing but un-fucking-believable. She isn’t sure what is more irritating, the fact that he’s so fucking stuck up that he can’t see how off course he is, or the fact that in some stupid, tiny, little, insignificant way... he’s right.
The ball swings, Tashi nearly misses it by a millisecond.
THWACK-
It flies forward, her feet chasing the return.
THWACK.
He’s stupid.
THWACK.
Restless.
THWACK.
Selfish.
THWACK.
Completely irresponsible!
And this is what he does, he gets in her head, fucks up her game.
THWACK!
And now she’s fucking up.
The ball flies into the net and Tashi curses, making a small circuit before adjusting again.
The crowd claps, polite.
Her opponent, some blonde Tashi can barely see through the rush of blood behind her eyes, has a bad hand. She’s playing weakly, she's moving too slow and yet Tashi feels like she can’t catch up.
It's a bad day.
She needs to double up.
The ball is served and she returns it immediately. Speed. Ferocity. Diligence. It’s really what Patrick needs in his game.
THWACK.
And if he just listened to her
THWACK—
Fuck, she almost missed that, can’t think about it right now.
She isn’t playing well enough.
THWACK.
Speed is fine and all but she’s disoriented.
THWACK.
Lost in her head.
THWACK.
Unbalanced.
THWACK!
Her opponent returns it, the ball flying faster than she expected. She can’t make it, shouldn’t attempt it. The ball is out of reach.
For a second instinct kicks in, she goes to hit it, reaches to go after it, reaches to win!—
But something far older than tennis kicks in.
Something instinctive and pre-language.
Her foot means to slide, to possibly rip her knee in half if it means going after the ball, but her focus breaks around it, her entire body shifting counteractively. Self-protective, fear-drenched.
The groan of metal, the aching of steel, a loud crash.
Screams erupt from the stands.
The truck crashes into the court with such force that it tears the chain-link fencing like paper.
The crowd cries, darting in every direction, away from the sliding wreckage. There’s nothing but adrenaline within her and she’s shaking, frozen on the spot. So terrified that she can't move.
There's smoke, a fire, someone crying out that someone had been hit. Her heart pounds between her eyes and she’s disoriented, shaky, hands and knees burning from sliding against court clay.
Art is suddenly by her side, eyes wide and panicked. Tugging at her, telling her to get up, to get away. She can’t, she’s in too much shock. He tells her she needs to get up, that they need to evacuate, yet it feels like his voice is coming out from under water. Her eyes are stuck on the smoking vehicle, on its bent body, on the steam pouring out in torrents, the sagging frame of the bleachers. She tries to catch her breath. She tries and tries and tries.
It barely comes.