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The thing about Art is Tashi knows he has it in him, to be fucking mean. He can be ruthless to get what he wants, when he really fucking wants it. He was mean, clever and deliberate, when what he wanted was her. Riling her up like that, all those years ago. Needling Patrick. Tashi’s not fucking stupid. She’d seen what he was doing; she kind of liked it. It was hot, seeing Art be mean on her behalf, seeing him want it and try to get it.
Trying to make her jealous was cute, she’d thought, until she’d realized, hot-eyed and trying to shake off Patrick’s parting shots, that it had worked. Just a little, it had worked, more than she’d realized. Art had gotten in her head.
She’s almost forgiven him for it; Art may have nudged Patrick to want to ask for more than Tashi had to give, and Art may have gotten it into Tashi’s head that Patrick wasn’t satisfied with just her, as she was, but Art hadn’t meant it to go down like it had.
And he hadn’t, ultimately, been the one to fuck up.
He’d just set up the play. He couldn’t have known she’d lose everything.
And he’d given her all he had in return.
Except the side of Art, the vicious playful one, vanished along with Patrick. Art turned into a machine that played perfect, icy, careful tennis, and that did everything Tashi asked. Art was so fucking good for her, and that had been what Tashi thought she needed in order to not crumple entirely.
Tashi’s not a fucking goddess, even though she doesn’t mind being worshipped. She’s just as messy and fucked up as anyone. She still doesn’t know if it was the right move, burying herself in Art after she’d lost what felt like herself, everything that mattered.
Maybe things would have been different, if she’d pushed him away all those years ago and tried to cobble herself back together alone. Maybe she’d have lost herself entirely. Maybe she’d have found her way back to Patrick, or to a painkiller addiction, or who fucking knows, some shady backalley surgeon promising her miracles.
One thing Tashi has learned out of the fucked up tangled mess that is her life, is that overthinking past mistakes is a pointless waste of time.
Learn from it, move on.
The one real thing she wants, has wanted, that anyone can give her, has been to see Art play like this again. Angry, playful, sharp-edged, vicious. That hunger and fire still is burning in there, in her ice cold careful boy, that joyful fire that she’d seen all those years ago.
It’s hot, in a way she’d missed for years. Good fucking tennis. Her good fucking tennis.
All these years later, she still surprises herself sometimes with her own emotions. A fucking adult and here she still is, standing and screaming, shocked to watch her husband play tennis with her boyfriend, shocked that she finds herself thinking, I want to see that. I want that.
Young Tashi had been sure she wanted all the attention of whatever boy she had. Young Tashi hadn’t known that much about herself, and here she is now, still learning. She liked watching them kiss, and she likes this. She likes seeing Art play vicious and joyful, the way he never played with her, fucked her. She likes seeing Patrick overwhelmed, bright-eyed and happy.
They both look so happy suddenly, and her heart is pounding, because it feels good, it feels so good to see and she hadn’t known how much she’d missed it until she was seeing it now. The two of them together play such good tennis.
When Art wins, he slams his racket down and it fucking breaks, and she’s still standing there, a yell still sore in her throat from where it had ripped out of her. When he slams into her he’s filthy, dripping sweat, and his kiss is savage. His hands cup her face and she tips into it. God, it’s so fucking good. The press will eat them alive, but Tashi will care about that later, after - Jesus, he’s so sharp right now, mean and knife-edged, teeth and tongue.
And she thinks, somehow…. Somehow, without a word spoken, he knows, now. He must know, about Patrick.
“You bitch,” he says softly between them, and her cunt clenches because oh. He’s still so soft, somehow, even tender, his forehead pressed to hers, ruining her make-up, her hair, her dress. “How could you.”
“That was so good,” she says raggedly. “You did, fuck, that was so good.”
“Thanks,” he laughs, and kisses her again lingeringly. It hurts, because he’d bitten her, bruised her mouth with that first kiss. It feels so good.
She’s still a little dazed when he pulls back. He never kisses her like that.
“Invite him up,” Art says, and Tashi blinks, reeling as he pulls back, turns away.
“What?”
“You started this. You knew what you were doing.” Does she? But God. Ruthless, the look he shoots her over his shoulder. Brief, hot. Glimmering. “Invite. Him. Up.”
Then he’s gone, and she’s got her own press to run. She doesn’t take fucking orders, but. Well.
She does.
She makes it happen, because that’s what she does. Gets the room free, settles the media. Quick decisive moves, five minutes, and no one questions it, because she’s Tashi fucking Duncan.
Meanwhile, that dumpster fire Patrick is still standing there. He’s barely moved since he left the court. He’s still tapping his racket lightly against his thigh, breathing hard. He needs a cooldown, a shower. He needs a coach.
He barely sees Tashi when she walks up; when Patrick finally looks over, he looks glossy, dazed in a way that she feels. She’s not even sure he registers it, at first, when she folds her hotel keycard into his hand.
“Good game,” she says.
“He loved it,” Patrick says, that puppydog look on his face he never got for her. Yearning. He shakes himself, sweat flying, and Tashi has to go, but she’s still shocky herself, absorbing this new idea, this possibility. The idea that she likes this thing, maybe always has. Maybe this is one of the things she’s been missing, not just her own body, her own dreams. The two of them together, with her. “He loved it.”
“You loved it,” she says, and Patrick refocuses on her abruptly. He’s still breathing hard, his body tense with use, muscles hard and wet with sweat. He looks good.
“Get showered,” she says, and he tilts his head, just a little, brow furrowing. “You stink. Then come up.”
“What?”
Dumbass. She tilts her head at Patrick’s hand, still thoughtlessly folded around the plastic card.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
She stares at him. He stares back, eyes going progressively wider. She can’t just stand here talking; people will notice eventually.
“He’s going to murder me.”
“He invited you.”
“Yeah, to my own murder,” Patrick mutters, but he’s turning red under the flush of exertion. He looks overwhelmed again. It’s cute. She’d forgotten that’s half of why she’d liked him, wanted him, all those years ago. How cute he could be, they both could be. “What are we doing, Tashi?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, and smooths her dress. It’s still damp with Art’s sweaty hands, where they’d gripped her hips, and she watches Patrick’s eyes register that. “I want to find out.”
“Fuck,” Patrick says, and then they’ve all left the court, moving in different directions.
But for once, they come back together at the same place.
Patrick must have showered at the speed of sound, or hopped a few fences, because he’s outside the door before Tashi even gets there. He’s got his forehead braced against his arm, leaning against it and deep breathing.
“Don’t be a pussy,” she says, annoyed she doesn’t have time to get herself settled, get a read on the room and on Art, before Patrick had gotten there, but it is what it is.
When she pushes open the door, Patrick trailing her, following her through the suite, they find Art lounging shirtless in the bed. Freshly washed, legs crossed, waiting.
Like a predator, Tashi thinks, and she should be feeling nervous, probably. Cheated on her husband with his best friend, then forcing him to play for their marriage. Jesus, she should be a wreck, but she’s just. Really fucking hot for it, god, Art looks good. She wants to climb on top of him.
“What do you want, Art?” Patrick asks behind her, nervy in a way he so seldom is. All his confidence and swagger on pause.
“I want to watch you fuck my wife, Patrick,” Art shoots back, casual and easy and vicious. Tashi can feel his words hit the room, hit Patrick. “I feel like I’ve earned that much, don’t you think?”
“Don’t you think you should ask your wife?” Tashi asks, but she’s been dripping wet since the court, warm and soft and swollen with want, and she’s already taking off her dress.
“We’re not - Jesus, Tashi, we’re not even going to talk about it?” Patrick says, voice high. He hasn’t come into the room properly yet, clutching at the door frame.
She doesn’t have time for his bullshit, not when she’s still riding the wave of that game, and she hasn’t even gotten fucked yet. She crawls onto the bed, onto Art, who lights up for her like always.
That awe in his eyes is still there, that adoration. But it’s different, somehow, and at first she thinks it’s because he’s angry. That he’s biting at her like she’s a peach, messy and wet, his hands finding her ass, his eyes looking over her shoulder and fingers digging in. She thinks this feels different than ever before because he’s angry.
Or maybe it’s just that it’s because they’re not alone.
“Coming?” Art says after pulling away from her open mouth, and the bed dips.
“Art, man, what are we doing?” Patrick says. “I’m - fuck, do you want me to apologize? Because I won’t.”
“Of course you won’t,” Art says, nuzzling Tashi’s neck, and she tips her head back for him. “When have you ever? No, I don’t want you to apologize.”
Tashi can feel Patrick along her back, not touching her yet. The absence of his hands is almost as scorching as Art’s gaze, locked onto something she can’t see.
“What do you want,” Patrick says, soft, softer than she thought he could be, and Tashi hears a waver in it that she wonders if Art can hear. She wonders if Art has any idea what a knife he is, to Patrick. To her. How easily he cuts them.
Art lightly pushes Tashi back into Patrick’s arms.
“I told you,” Art says pleasantly, enunciating like he’s on broadcast tv. “I want to watch. You fuck,” he pauses, and smiles, just a little. That crooked smile. “My wife.”
“And what will you be doing?” Patrick asks, eyes narrowing as his hands find Tashi’s hips.
“Giving pointers, obviously,” Art says, and slides his eyes over to Tashi when Tashi laughs. His smile back at her is shockingly sweet, just for a moment, before it sharpens again. “Maybe taking notes.”
“Jesus, Donaldson,” Patrick says, burying his face in Tashi’s shoulder. He’s shaking, just a little. His hands keep flexing on her skin, digging in and relaxing, and she’s swaying with him.
“He’s good,” Tashi tells Art, and then licks her lips. “Usually. Maybe he’s got performance anxiety.”
“Maybe he just needs a warm up,” Art says, and leans in to tip up Patrick’s chin. Patrick’s eyes are blown wide.
“Aren’t you mad at me?” Patrick whispers.
“Patrick, I want to fucking murder you,” Art whispers back, and then kisses him.
This time she’s not behind them, she’s between them, and she knows both of their bodies almost as well as her own. Older, heavier, hotter, harder. Patrick is wrapped around her back and she’s got her legs open around Art, grinding against his abs, and she’s too close to see it but she can hear it. Wet, raw sounds. She remembers that kiss, all those years ago. How they’d gotten lost in each other so immediately, how arousing and annoying it’d been.
Now it’s just hot, and so good to hear the tiny noises Patrick is making behind her, to feel Art’s hips rocking up under her.
“Art, Art,” Patrick says, leaning after him when Art leans back, stretching. His abs are wet where Tashi had rubbed against him.
“Go on,” Art says, and leans back again. Propped against the pillows. He should look ridiculous, dick hard and leaking, his arms crossed like he’s a teenager with a tantrum, but he doesn’t. Tashi knows that look, has seen it on her own face. Cool challenge, disdain. The man who won six Grand Slams. He looks regal, imperious. It’s really fucking hot. “I’m waiting.”
“You’re waiting,” Patrick says, and then seems to shake himself all over. “Tashi, are we really doing this?” Murmured in her ear, nuzzling behind it. His scruff makes her shiver.
He can be such a sleazeball, such a manwhore, but he’s sweet, too. Shockingly caring, thoughtful. Looking out for her.
“I don’t know, Patrick, are we?” she asks, and rocks her hips back into him. He’s as hard as Art is, and he groans loud, vibrating into her throat, and then finally his hands are really on her.
Sex with Patrick takes her out of her head; it’s hot and messy. She’s not in control, not the way she usually is with Art. She doesn’t want that as much, with Patrick - to make him beg, to be worshipped. Patrick just plays her body, roughs it up. Big hands making her feel small, rough hair scraping her skin, reddening her chest as he mouths frantically at her tits. He’s in a rush now, they’re always in a rush these days. Cheating on your husband will do that, she thinks, but the normal grimy feeling of guilt and misery doesn’t flood in. It’s different, now.
“Slow down,” Art says, like he’s reading her mind. He’s idly pulling at his dick, eyes hooded, locked on them. Tashi feels her back arch and watches Art’s eyes follow her. “Take your time with her. She’s not a back-alley fuck, Zwieg.”
Mean, Tashi thinks, and her nipples harden. Patrick moans and mouths at them. He notices, he notices fucking everything, but Patrick never did take direction well, and he’s desperate. They both are, she notices suddenly. She doesn’t beg, but her body feels like it is, hips trying to get to Patrick’s dick, tantalizingly close but not where she wants it, not yet.
She wonders if Art notices, how much she wants it, how wet she is, and when she looks over she can see he’s flushed and red, biting his lip. His dick is wet, shiny, and he’s clenching the comforter. He doesn’t notice her looking at first, still staring at Patrick, where Patrick is rutting at the bedsheets and rubbing at her clit. When he does notice, he shivers all over.
“What are you making her wait for,” he rasps, and Tashi can feel Patrick breathe out hard, then laugh.
“Patience, padawan,” he says, and there’s that swagger in his voice again, like he’s found his footing. “Don’t you know waiting makes the play better?”
“Art is a gentleman,” Tashi says in between breaths, and rolls her hips against Patrick’s deft thumb, eyes fluttering closed even as she wraps her leg around his waist and tries to urge him closer. “He always gives me what I want, when I want it.”
“Does he know what you want?” Patrick asks, cocky, and then his movements stutter because Art is moving, sliding down the bed next to them. Like he wants to get a better look.
“Pretty sure right now she wants your dick, Patrick,” Art says, and then reaches over, rubbing two fingers through the wetness between Tashi’s legs. So casual and possessive, like he’s testing the temperature of a bath, and it feels so good and so sudden and so surprising Tashi hears herself make a desperate sound, and feels herself clench, and come, just a little, on her husband’s fingers.
“Fuck,” Patrick says, and Art, right after him, reverently, says it too.
“Fuck her,” Art says, suddenly urgent, and pulls at Patrick’s hip with his wet hand. “Do it.”
“Okay,” Patrick says hoarsely, and finally slides his dick over her, into her. She’s so wet he barely has to nudge to slip in, a hot stretch that has her eyes slipping shut and her back arching. She can feel Art’s hand slip under her, holding her up, and she comes like that on his best friend’s dick, so easy she should be embarrassed.
“Tashi, Tashi,” Art says, and kisses her through it as Patrick’s hips keep going. “Is it good, is this what you wanted? Like this?”
Maybe this is what she’s wanted, this whole time. How did she not know that? Sex with Patrick had always felt good. This feels like - like -
“You look so good together,” Art says, tenderly, between kisses. Tashi can barely breathe, keeps having to toss her head. Patrick’s swagger isn’t all for show; his dick is thick and curved, heavy and hitting just right. She can’t think. “I can’t believe you fuckers have been doing this without me. Keep going. You’re doing great, Patrick.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick laughs roughly, and then grabs his own dick and freezes, shuddering and wide-eyed, when Art looks up through his lashes and says, “Sure.”
“Art, you can’t just - Jesus, you can’t--fuck, give me a moment,” Patrick says, squeezing the base of his cock and closing his yes. “Tashi, stop laughing.”
“You broke him,” Tashi says. She feels so happy, loose and floaty with it. How long has it been since she’s had sex that made her feel happy? Years. “You really want that, baby?”
“Looks like fun,” Art says, mock lightly, and slides his hand down her sweaty stomach to toy with the wet curls between her legs again. She bucks up into his hand and he kisses her again, humming pleased into her mouth. “Why not?”
“You can’t just say that,” Patrick says, and his voice is rougher than she’d expected. “Don’t - I know I, I know I fucked up, but you can’t just. Do you even know - don’t fucking tease me, Art.”
“I actually wanted to fuck you,” Art says, ignoring him and continuing to toy with Tashi’s clit, just smiling and watching her move into his hand. She always feels good, post-orgasm, wanting more. She’s enjoying the attention, enjoying Art knowing that. “It’s only fair, if I won, isn’t it?”
“It’s not a fucking game,” Patrick shouts, and slams his head down on the bed, and Tashi and Art blink at each other, then look over. “You know - Tashi wanted me to throw the match to you, you know that, right? That’s why she slept with me, Art! I fucking love you and it’s not a game to me!”
Art freezes. Tashi freezes too, panic suddenly hitting her.
“You asked him that?” Art says, his eyes wide and unreadable.
She stares at him, then nods carefully.
“Oh,” he says, and then shivers all over. “Oh.”
She thinks, maybe he’s mad. He must be mad, he must be furious. Patrick had thought he’d be, that this would be the final, worst betrayal, but instead Art is slowly lighting up, like the sun rising and sparkling all over him.
He darts in and kisses her, sharp and sweet. “Hold that thought,” he says, and then stands.
Patrick had stormed out of the room at some point while Tashi had desperately clung to her husband, and when Tashi sits up she sees him struggling into his shirt moments before Art hits him, crowding him against a wall. It reminds her of him coming off the court, glowing with victory and fury, and slamming her into a kiss.
It’s hot. They’re hot together, her boys.
“What do you want,” Patrick is snarling, but he’s kissing Art back like he can’t help it, and Art is laughing, laughing like he’s drunk, a teenager drunk on cheap beer in a cheaper hotel bedroom, a long time ago. “Did you even hear me?”
“She wanted it, she wanted me to win,” Art says, giddy and rambling, nuzzling in and biting at Patrick’s mouth, his jawline, his neck. “She wanted me to win. I’m going to win, I’m going to win it all, the US Open, and then you can do it, okay, you be her player.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Patrick says, grabbing his face suddenly. “Stop talking, just. What - did you even hear me?”
“Yeah,” Art says, and Tashi can’t see his face but she knows he’s got that big goofy smile on, the one she hasn’t seen in what feels like a decade. “This has been a really good day for me so far. Winning at life.”
“You asshole,” Patrick breathes, and then they’re suddenly kissing again and stumbling backwards towards the bed. “You asshole, Jesus, I can’t - you made me wait so long, you. You won’t even say it?”
“Don’t be such a sore loser, Patrick,” Art says, and then laughs when Patrick heaves him onto the bed.
“Unbelievable,” he says, crawling up after Art. “What now, huh? What’s your plan?”
Art almost succeeds at playing it cool, stretching and attempting a thoughtful look, but he’s still so, so hard, and smiling so widely his cheeks have to hurt. If anyone had told Tashi, years ago, that she’d feel so good watching her husband smile like that at someone else, she’d have told them they had a head injury.
But she knows now. If Tashi wants that attention back on her, she can get it. It’s much, much harder to get this: Art’s bright playful grin, the light of challenge in his eyes.
They’ve all been so unhappy, for so fucking long. If this is how to be happy, she’ll try it. She’d try anything.
“I told you,” Art says, leaning back on his elbows. “Win the US Open. Retire. Get fucked. Maybe fuck you a few times. You and Tashi will have to work out your own thing, I don’t-- oh, we’re doing this now, okay,” he manages between kisses, breathless because Patrick has flung himself on top of Art, and he’s fucking heavy.
“I missed you, I fucking missed you,” Patrick says, and he’s frantic in a way that Tashi knows, desperate hands in the backseat, but he’s smiling and there’s nothing grimy or miserable about it, in the bright afternoon light. “Art, you douchebag, you have no fucking idea.”
“No idea?” Art says incredulously, and then turns to look at Tashi. “Honey, he thinks I have no idea.”
“No, I know - I do know, you’ve been so - I hated seeing you like that,” Patrick rambles, kissing all over Art’s face while Art laughs, and it’s cute, but they’re both hard and rutting at each other like teenagers, and gasping into each other’s mouths, and barely seem to notice they’re both about to come.
“Patrick, I know you don’t know Art’s dick the way I do, but he’s about to come all over you,” Tashi says, leaning in to kiss Art’s cheek. He flushes, and glares, but doesn’t stop pushing his hips up against Patrick. “You want that now, or do you want to fuck him? He likes it, you know.”
“Tashi,” Art whines, flushing and pressing his face against her shoulder. “Don’t give him free advice, come on.”
“It’s only fair, she’s got the advantage,” and if Patrick sounds a little mean, a little bitter, that probably is fair. Art was Patrick’s, once, but Tashi got there first, and Patrick’s always been possessive, needy. They’re such a fucking mess, but maybe if they lean into it, instead of trying to pretend it away, shit won’t get so fucking miserable this time around.
She offers it like a gift. “Art only asked for it when he was thinking of you,” she says, and ignores Art’s denials. Maybe he hadn’t known, but she’d always wondered, and now she does know. “He wants your dick so bad.”
“Oh, does he?” Patrick says, pleased again, even as Art goes red and flustered, grumbling under him. “Guess that makes two of you. Ow!”
Tashi soothes the nipple she’d just twisted with a kiss, then smirks up at him. “Or do you want him to fuck you? You want to be his first?”
That gets Patrick, just like she’d known it would.
“You want him to be your first,” she guesses. She knows Patrick’s been with men, but she has a feeling it’s all been basic bullshit, blowjobs and handies in back alleys. And Patrick swallows, and Art almost seizes under him, leaning up and grabbing him by the back of the head.
“Yeah?” he says, and he flips them easily, tossing Patrick onto his back like he’s Tashi’s size and straddling him. Patrick stares up at him, eyes blown dark. “Yeah, you want it? Patrick, you want me to fuck you?”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” Patrick says, chin tilting up, and Art’s smile impossibly widens.
Tashi watches, playing idly with her own nipple, as her husband mauls her ex-boyfriend. No longer ex, she guesses. Their boyfriend. Their fuck-up, their mutual mistake, in more ways than one.
It’s starting not to shock her anymore, how much she enjoys watching them together. She gets why Art liked it; she likes seeing how Patrick is different, flustered more, moaning under Art’s hands, than he is under hers. How Art is teasing him, in a way he seldom does with her, how cocky he’s gotten, smirking and leaning in. Patrick has gone red and is shaking his head, like he can deny it.
“Oh god, you do, you do want it, look at you,” Art says wonderingly, then he gets that look again, the smug, cocky one. “You want me to take care of you? I’ll show you how I'm good for Tashi, you want that too? You want me to be good for you, baby? Like you're my girlfriend?" Patrick makes a sound, and Art almost gasps out the next words. "Like you're my wife.”
And maybe if they both weren’t so keyed up, if they weren’t all already on the edge after the game, after the years pent up, they’d have drawn it out more, but Tashi’s not surprised when Patrick jerks and comes with a gasp, eyes huge and shocked. It’s fucking hot, Art acting like he’s the hotshot star he actually is. Tashi likes him flushing and needy, likes him being good for her, but she likes seeing this. She really likes it.
Patrick seems, for once, to be on the same page, his dick still twitching weakly.
“Like that,” Art whispers, darkly pleased but looking a little shocked himself. He goes from teasingly rocking his dick into Patrick’s, to swearing and grinding into the mess Patrick has made. “God, I want-- Patrick. Fuck. Let me, let me--” And kisses Patrick as he comes, panting and moaning, with Patrick clinging to him so tightly it’s leaving marks on Art’s skin.
“Fuck,” Patrick says, staring up at the ceiling. He’s still clinging on with one hand, but the other has started lightly, hesitantly petting Art’s hair. He looks like someone’s stuck a cattle prod up his ass, like he’s seen a confusing and orgasmic god. Art is his usual post-coital octopus self, which it looks like Patrick doesn’t mind.
No, he doesn’t seem to mind at all.
Another net win.
"I still do want you to fuck me, though," Art confesses into Patrick's throat, so soft Tashi can barely hear him. Honest for once, the way he gets sometimes, when Tashi's really pushed him to the limit in training, or in bed.
"Baby, I will wreck you," Patrick promises, still looking shell-shocked, but smirk starting to revive.
Tashi stretches and thinks that after lunch, they’ll all be ready for another round. Art is on a strict diet, after all, and Patrick should be, though she fucking doubts his diet consists of anything but scrounged freebies and cigarettes.
That’ll have to change. A lot of things will. There'll be a lot of surprises, probably bad ones in there, because that’s fucking life. But good ones too.
She’s looking forward to it.