𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄, 𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘. - 𝐀.𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐒𝐎𝐍

STANCE, SERVE, RALLY - Seven.

" 'M waiting, Flores." Art reminded, Alaska staring down at the lazy ball that had deflected off of her shoe at minimal speed.

"Keep waiting." She slowly leant down to pick up the stray ball, her grip tightening securely as the neon fuzz tickled beneath the pads of her fingers.

Art crossed his arms in response; his stance similar to one of a sleep-deprived father witnessing his child have an earth-shattering tantrum in the middle of a grocery store - helpless, all he could do was watch and wait it out.

He huffed, his lips in a thin line - a gentle frown.

"Don't look at me like that, Art."

"Like what?" He tilted his head sideways - innocently, - like a mutt would to a high sound frequency, or the endearing tone of their owner.

"Don't fuckin' play with me, Donaldson." Her tone shifted, turning running sharp like tilting the blade of a knife.

He raised his hands in surrender, still holding his racket.

"I like your accent," He complimented sweetly, hands still slightly raised in defence, "It comes out proper when you're angry."

Alaska growled out of annoyance, her loss to Tashi working her up more than it should've.

This was the timeframe in her upcoming career where she should be getting better. Winning all her matches - whether they were practices or not.

Alaska Flores was one of the sorest losers in the tennis field.

Because she was never taught to accept falling beneath any other ranking except first.

It also angered her that Art was so fucking sweet.

So soft.

How he'd always let her win, if that's what she wanted - a subdued gaze glassing his eyes whenever he saw her play on the court.

'God,' he thought - 'I could treat her so good.'

If she'd let him, obviously.

Alaska hadn't known art well at all, their only close and rather intimate encounter obviously being the hotel incident - yet, he was easy to read - an open book.

Because Art wanted Alaska to read him - to tear him apart in her head - for her to perceive him, shape him like a malleable putty in the palm of her hand.

It's a shame they can only stay as acquaintances. For the sake of Alaska's sanity, and most importantly, her career.

She'd always wondered what it would be like to have a regular life that didn't conform around sport - a regular boyfriend.

"-Can we just finish this, please?" She gestured to the ball in her hand, which she was debating on whether she should lob it at his head impulsively,

"- I'm hungry."

It was almost twelve in the afternoon, and Alaska hadn't eaten nearly as many calories as her dietician instructed.

For a teenage girl whose life was dedicated to tennis, you can only imagine how high-maintenance her body would be.

So much so, that her parents had to hire their daughter a personal professional chiropractor, masseuse, and dietician to ensure their prodigy child would be at her peak performance, never out of shape.

But, she'd forgotten to take her nutrient protein smoothie her mother had blended personally for her using organic, very much overpriced ingredients from the farm store down the road.