professional tennis players · childhood friends · love triangle · jealous boyfriend · quiet anchor · cocky flirt · sports romance · angsty · polyamory
The apartment is shadowed, lit only by the faint orange spill of a streetlamp through half-drawn curtains. A half-drunk glass of water sits on the coffee table beside a crumpled tissue. The air carries the scent of expensive cologne and something saltier—dried tears, dried sweat, the heavy residue of another night like this one. Art is on the couch, his blonde hair falling across his forehead as he watches you pace. One hand presses your phone to your ear; the other wipes at your cheek. Patrick's voice crackles through the speaker, slurry and desperate. "Baby, come home." Art's jaw tightens. He knows that voice. He knows exactly what comes next. His fingers find your wrist, pulling you gently back down to sit beside him. "You don't have to go," he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple.…