i wanna kiss your 90s face @amijulesenough - Tumblr Blog

May 29

triple match point

★ summary: you and samira mohan were ‘fire and ice’ long before jack abbot came into the picture. but when ambition, obsession, and desire blur together one thing becomes painfully clear: tennis always wins

★ pairing: challengers!au! jack abbot x reader x samira mohan

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, internalized homophobia, situationship but make it a throuple, toxic relationships, manipulation, threesomes, p in v, oral, fingering, public sex, cream pie, dirty talk, tennis inaccuracies

★ word count: 13k words

★ notes: rewatched challengers & something crazy came over me. this feels out of my comfort zone for writing so i hope u all like it??? part two maybe??? ;) <3

In August, the Stanford courts smelled like sunscreen, wet concrete, and too much ambition. While the California sun beamed down on your skin, your eyes were locked onto the match happening a few feet away from you. Even as your own partner’s ball whizzed right past your head.

Everybody arrived here with rankings and reputations and old trophies clinging to them like bad perfume. Former junior champions. Olympic hopefuls. Rich girls with private coaches and devastating backhands.

Most of the team grew up inside tennis academies with recovery trainers, nutritionists, and parents' trust funds. You grew up learning how to rewrap your own blistered hands with pharmacy tape because proper grip supplies cost too much that month.

You spent high school waking up at four-thirty in the morning to practice before classes, then racing across town afterward to whatever job was currently paying you enough to keep competing. Waitressing at a sleazy diner in town. Cleaning locker rooms at a fitness center where rich women complained about Pilates while your knees throbbed beneath you. During summers, you coached little kids at the YMCA under brutal heat until your voice went raw from yelling instructions all day, only to stay afterward and practice serves alone until dark.

There were nights you fell asleep still smelling like tennis court asphalt and fryer grease. Nights you bled through your socks because your shoes were too worn down to support your feet anymore but you kept playing anyway because you didn’t know what else you were supposed to do. College scouts didn’t care if your body hurt.

Nobody cared how badly you wanted it until you started winning enough to force them to pay attention. And God, you wanted it.

You wanted it with a desperation ugly enough to scare you sometimes.

You clawed your way into national rankings one ugly match at a time until colleges started calling. Not because you were polished or even marketable. But because you won. Relentlessly. Meanly sometimes. You turned yourself into the kind of player people dreaded drawing in brackets. You were willing to destroy anyone and anything that got in between you and your dreams.

Then Stanford offered you a scholarship and suddenly you were here surrounded by girls who looked born for this life.

Girls like Samira Mohan.

She was a freshman, just like you. Her reputation preceded her, a full-ride scholarship with sponsorships already circling like sharks in the water. She could have gone pro almost immediately, but insisted on going to college. You thought this was to lessen the hype surrounding her, but instead, they treated her like the future of American tennis had descended graciously onto collegiate courts for fun.

On paper, you wanted so desperately to hate her.

But from the moment you first caught a glimpse of her, you knew that was easier said than done.

You expected someone with that much attention around her to be unbearable in an obvious way. Some polished media-trained nightmare with a smile that belonged on sponsorship campaigns and magazine covers. Instead, she barely seemed aware of herself at all. She was kind, genuinely kind in a way that was hard to be in competitive sports.

And the worst part? She was the most beautiful woman you had ever laid your eyes on.

She was a vision on the court, all elegant moves and precise shots. An absolute firecracker, who was currently screaming in Hindu under her breath at her partner. Her white tennis dress contrasting against her sweatlined skin, her curly hair in a messy braid down her back. She was golden, practically glistening against the court. The sight of her in person had the habit of taking your breath away, right before another ball was struck directly at your head.

You just barely ducked, nearly falling flat on your ass.

“What the fuck Trinity?” You barked, looking back at your partner who was already in position to serve another one directly at your head.

“Stop staring, you pathetic gay.” She yelled back, making your face blanch.

This was the other worst part, you may have, just maybe, had the tiniest of a schoolgirl crush on her. Your roommate and best friend Trinity would disagree with the tiny part, but that didn’t matter.

“Half gay,” You grumbled, in a weak attempt at a comeback.

“And fully pathetic, get in position! We only have the court for another hour.”

”Fuck you.” You cried out, hitting the ball back at her with expert precision.

“Yeah, she’s back.” She cheered playfully, the two of you continuing with your head-to-head match. It was endless practice and drills to start the year. Your head was not in the game, it was on the pretty girl a few feet away who hadn’t even glanced your way once.

By the second week of preseason, the Stanford courts had already become something ugly and sacred. Blister tape littered the benches. Empty electrolyte packets rolled across the concrete in the wind. Everyone walked around with ice-wrapped shoulders and knee braces were the new chic accessories. Nobody spoke much between drills anymore. Competition had worn through the friendliness fast. Every girl here wanted the same thing.

You especially.

Which was why Coach Al-Hashimi eventually made the mistake of putting you and Samira Mohan on opposite sides of the net.

Trinity physically recoiled when she saw the matchup sheet.

“Oh man, you're gonna stumble over your shoes if she stares at you too long?” She asked, walking alongside you as you grabbed your gear.

“Come on,” You whistled, adjusting the tape on your wrist, “When have you known me to stumble on the court?”

“That’s fair, but come on. Don’t make Stanford’s golden child cry, it’ll be bad publicity.” She laughed, plopping down on the bleachers.

You scoffed, “Please, if she cries then she shouldn’t be in this sport.”

Across the court, Samira laughed softly to herself as she’d overheard it. Which she probably had. Her racket rested against her shoulder while she tied her curls back into a cleaner ponytail, sunlight catching against the gold chain at her throat.

You took a few steps forward, spinning your racket around loosely in your hand.

Samira adjusted the brim of her visor and tucked a loose curl behind her ear with absent elegance, as she existed in an entirely different environment than the rest of you despite standing under the same brutal sun.

That was the thing people noticed first about her. Not even the beauty, though there was certainly enough of that to make half the men’s team act brain-damaged whenever she walked through the athletic center. It was the composure, it never slipped.

You had spent the last few weeks trying very hard not to care about her. Which mostly translates to thinking about her constantly.

Not in the pathetic way Trinity kept accusing you of, though she certainly enjoyed making your life miserable over it. It was more that Samira unsettled you. Players like her were not supposed to exist naturally. Nobody should have been that technically gifted while remaining genuinely kind at the same time. Every talented player you had ever met carried sharp edges somewhere underneath the surface.

But Samira smiled at everybody. Remembered names. Helped freshmen pick up tennis balls after practice without being asked. She thanked trainers. She apologized when serves clipped the net during warmups. She played with ruthless precision while somehow never seeming cruel about it.

She was the complete opposite of you, all sharp edges and bite. You’d made a girl cry during a junior's tournament in Texas after targeting her backhand for two straight sets until she unraveled publicly. You argued with judges and snapped more rackets than you could afford. It only got worse when you met Trinity, judges called the two of you the angriest doubles teams in the history of tennis.

At least they were talking about you.

Samira glanced toward you while bouncing a ball lightly against the concrete, her expression relaxed. Not a hint of tension to be seen on her shoulders. “You ready?”

You rolled your shoulder once before settling into position at the baseline. “Depends, you gonna uphold the title of Stanford’s golden child?”

She just laughed softly under her breath at that, not embarrassed or thrown off in the slightest. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

You refused to let it show that her words made your shoulders tighten. The game began, slowly at first. A warm-up between two peers clearly on the same level of technicality. But that didn’t last long, neither of you seemed particularly interested in easing into anything gently, and within minutes the pace escalated into something far more competitive than a preseason practice match.

You started pushing first, mostly out of instinct. Harder pace off the forehand swing. Sharper angles designed to test her movement, to coax a response out of her.

Samira redirected pace with surgical precision, using your own power against you instead of fighting it head-on. Watching her move across the court felt strangely hypnotic because there was absolutely no wasted motion anywhere in her game. Every recovery step landed perfectly balanced. Every swing flowed seamlessly into the next movement. Even the sound of her ball striking strings felt cleaner somehow, less violent than yours despite carrying just as much danger behind it.

The first real rally of the match came, and the bystanders grew and grew. Bleachers were full watching the match unfold in all of its glory.

The secret truth about tennis was that at a certain level, it stopped being a game built purely around mechanics and became something far more intimate than people realized. You learned another player’s habits through repetition. Their breathing patterns under pressure. The exact shape of their frustration. The milliseconds of hesitation before riskier shots. Great rallies felt less like combat and more like conversation conducted entirely through movement and anticipation.

And Samira spoke your language immediately. In a way that had your palms sweaty.

You slammed a forehand down the line hard enough to nearly strip paint from the baseline, the impact cracking sharply across the courts and drawing several startled reactions from nearby teammates. It was an objectively ridiculous shot, the kind designed specifically to end points outright. Samira somehow reached it anyway, sliding into a desperate recovery before redirecting the ball crosscourt with absurd control that landed inches inside the sideline.

“Oh, fuck off,” you snapped automatically before you could stop yourself.

Instead of looking offended, Samira burst into startled laughter, bright and genuine enough that it briefly threw off your concentration entirely.

“What?” you demanded, already resetting your stance.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re intense?,” she asked, still smiling as she moved back toward center court.

“Just about everyone I’ve ever met.” You smiled viciously.

The next rally lasted even longer. Twenty shots at least, maybe more, both of you pushing each other deeper into increasingly impossible angles until your lungs started burning beneath the heat and sweat dripped steadily down the side of your face. You could feel your pulse everywhere by that point, wrists and throat and chest all hammering violently beneath exertion.

All it took was one shot, a millisecond too late of a reaction for the ball to go whizzing past you. A chorus of boos and cheers erupted from behind you, your heart nearly stuttering out of your chest.

You bent slightly at the waist catching your breath, chest heaving hard while sweat rolled slowly down your spine beneath your shirt. Across the net Samira rested her hands against her knees for a moment before glancing back up at you, loose curls escaping and sticking damply against her golden skin beneath the sunlight.

When you caught her eyes, something dangerous split between your ribs. There was admiration sparkling there, a beaming smile that contrasted your furrowed brows and scowl.

“Wow,” she said honestly between breaths. “You’re the first actual opponent I’ve had since I got here.”

From that moment, a friendship was born.

At first, it was a practical matchup approved by your coaches. Nobody else on the team could push either of you properly anymore. Samira needed someone aggressive enough to force her out of her comfort zone, somebody willing to turn every practice set into controlled warfare. You needed somebody steady enough to withstand your worst moods, to turn you into a ‘civilized player’ they said.

It was five-thirty runs through campus while fog still hung low over Palo Alto and the world smelled faintly like wet grass. It was weight room sessions spent shoulder to shoulder beneath fluorescent lights, Trinity half-asleep beside you both while Samira quietly corrected your form with gentle hands against your spine. It was the endless hours on court until your bodies moved around each other instinctively, your games sharpening together like knives dragged repeatedly across the same stone. The first time you two played together officially, one commentator called you two ‘Fire and Ice’ after the two of you bulldozed through doubles nationals together.

For the next two years, the two of you were inseparable. A match made in tennis heaven, that’s what ESPN called the two of you after Stanford won nationals your sophomore year, the article accompanied by grainy action shots of you snarling at the net beside Samira looking composed enough to belong in an entirely different photograph. Beauty and brutality.

The analysts loved turning the two of you into mythology because it made good television, because people were fascinated by the impossible chemistry of watching someone as elegant as Samira Mohan somehow fitting together seamlessly with somebody as sharp-edged and openly vicious as you.

Behind the cameras and headlines, Samira knew you better than anybody alive.

She knew when your shoulder started bothering you again because your serve motion tightened slightly afterward. She knew the specific silence that meant you were angry versus the quieter one that meant you were hurt. She knew how to talk you down after losses without making you feel pitied, knew exactly when to push and when to leave you alone entirely.

Nobody had ever handled you gently before. Your whole life, people either tried to control your intensity or feared it outright. Coaches called you difficult. Opponents called you cruel. Even people who loved you sometimes treated your emotions like natural disasters to survive instead of something worthy of understanding.

Samira never asked you to become softer. She just learned how to hold the sharp edges without cutting herself open on them.

Falling in love with her was never part of the plan, but it came easier than winning a match.

You never told anyone, besides Trinity who called it that day on the court during Freshman year. You planned to die with the secret. As far as you knew, Samira didn’t even like women so it never crossed your mind as being an option, until the end of your Junior year.

The season had just ended badly. Samira lost a semifinal she should’ve won and spent the entire night furious and vibrating with restless energy. The two of you snuck your way onto the courts half-drunk from some terrible fraternity party neither of you even wanted to attend. The two of you were barely able to play an actual game, your vision too blurry your balance too off. Rackets and balls were neglected on the court, for some poor lackey to clean up tomorrow.

In a fit of giggles, and sweaty from the night air you two found yourselves in the locker rooms. She was still ranting about missed shots while peeling off sweaty party clothes in the showers afterward because neither of you were thinking clearly. The next thing the two of you knew, you were both naked in front of each other. Steam fills every inch of the tiny stalls, making the distance between you two feel even smaller.

Her mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, and her cheeks flushed from the drinks. You remembered the exact moment she stopped talking. The way her teeth bit down on her bottom lip. The exact moment she looked at you differently.

Her gaze traveled down your body when you stepped beneath the spray with your eyes closed, letting the hot water hit aching muscles. You could feel her looking before you opened your eyes again.

”I don’t even know why I’m so angry,” she’d laughed softly, water dripping down her shoulders. “It’s stupid.”

“Because you care too much.” You said, focusing on rinsing the rest of the shampoo out of your hair.

“Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with you.” She joked, but her laugh came out flat and unfocused. You could see the faraway look in her eyes, the way her fingers twitched at her sides.

“You okay Mira?” You asked softly, taking a tentative step closer.

She stared at you for a long second after that. Then the distance was closed, and her lips were on yours. It was startling and desperate.

You fell into her immediately, your hands finding her hips in the steamy room and pulling her body against yours. Her hands were cold against your jaw, while your mouths explored each other’s messily. You pressed her against the damp tile, kissing down her jaw and her neck while her hands tangled in your hair.

Her skin was soft and wet as your hands traveled down, gripping the supple flesh of her chest. She responded to you almost immediately, her legs parting for you as your hand slipped in between. Between the water gliding down her body and the arousal pooling, it was easy for your fingers to slip through her folds. You remember her lips parting, as she begged you for more. You remember the feeling of her warm cunt spasming around you with each expert thrust of your fingers.

A lot of it was a blur looking back, but you remember with startling clarity your heart beating so hard you thought you might throw up from it. You’d never forget the sound of your name on her lips as she came, how her skin tasted, and then the horrible realization of what happened after the water ran cold.

You couldn’t look her in the eyes afterward, not when your mouth tasted like her. Shame was deep in your stomach as you watched her towel dry her hair in the mirror, your eyes pleading for her to let you out of your misery.

You stood there pleading silently for her to say something different. Instead, Samira laughed once under her breath, thin and uncertain.

“It was just a mistake.” The words hit like physical pain.

“We’re a little drunk,” she added quickly. “That’s all.”

You weren’t sure who she was trying to convince. Maybe herself, but it didn’t work on you.

All you could do was nod because losing her entirely felt more terrifying than swallowing the heartbreak whole. Your friendship survived on unspoken things already. One more secret buried between the two of you hardly seemed impossible at the time. Nothing really changed in your friendship after that, but Samira never really touched you casually again, not outside the court anyways.

Everywhere else, she hesitated. Pulled herself back at the last second. Wrapped every dangerous feeling in sarcasm or competition before either of you could examine it too closely. But on the court, instinct took over. She reached for you constantly there.

Your wrist between points. The small of your back switching sides. Your hand crushed in hers after impossible rallies. Your bodies thrown into each other in celebration.

It became easy to pretend none of it meant anything because technically it belonged to the game.

During the NCAA quarterfinals, the two of you came back from a nearly impossible deficit after Samira saved a match point with a return so vicious the crowd audibly gasped. The stadium erupted in an ear-bursting cheer.

Before you even processed winning, Samira had already collided into you full force, laughing breathlessly while her arms wrapped around your shoulders hard enough to nearly knock you backward.

“Oh my god,” she shouted against your neck, adrenaline making her voice wild and bright. “Did you see that?”

You barely heard the crowd. Not with her legs tangled around your waist. Not with her heartbeat pounding against your chest. Not when she looked at you afterward glowing with triumph so beautiful it physically hurt to witness.

Somewhere between junior and senior year, the shape of your life stopped orbiting tennis and started orbiting Samira. It felt like trading one obsession for another.

It didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t a decision you made. It was slower than that, subtle reallocations of attention that felt reasonable in the moment. You missed a training session because she needed a ride to a sponsor event. You stayed after practice longer than you should have because she was frustrated and you knew just how to make her laugh. You started saying no to things that would have advanced your own ranking if they meant less time in her orbit.

You didn’t even realize until rankings came out, and Coach Al Hashimi sat you down. Her perfectly styled eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

”Don’t let love dim your potential, Y/n.” She had said, Samira’s picture looming behind her on the banner hanging against the fences. It felt like a punch to the gut, but still, you kept trailing behind her.

”You know,” Samira started, staring down at the US Open pamphlet in her hand. Her other hand occupied by her blackberry and lip gloss, “I used to have a poster of him in my room.”

JACK ABBOT FINAL US OPEN

The words were in a bold white font, underneath a photo of the rugged man. He was handsome, there was no doubt about that. You’d never had the privilege of seeing him play, but everyone who knew anything about Tennis knew about Jack Abbot. He was a legend. A legend who suffered a horrible knee injury last year, a legend who had already defied odds by being the oldest professional player to win a US Open. He was determined to finish his career on a high note.

“Really?” You laughed, sipping your overpriced drink. “That’s so embarrassing."

She knocked her shoulder with yours at the tease, “Oh please, you had a Katy Perry poster on your wall until last year.”

“Okay, it was a really good album-“ Your banter is cut off by the crowd erupting as Jack Abbot himself steps onto the court.

Jack rolled his shoulder once before stepping up to the baseline, testing the stiffness in his knee with the smallest shift of weight. The stadium lights bleached everything silver-white around him, sweat already glinting along the sharp line of his jaw despite the match barely beginning.

His entire body snapped through the shot with that old predatory force people wrote articles about in the early years of his career, the kind that made tennis commentators sound religious trying to describe it. The ball cracked into the service box so fast it almost looked unreal, skidding low and hard enough that his opponent barely got a racket on it.

Beside you, Samira made a small involuntary sound.

You wanted to tease her, make fun of her for fawning over a retiree, but you found yourself just as mesmerized. It was like watching a future version of yourself down there. He was ruthless and aggressive in each swing and pump of his arms. The vein in his neck protruded with each yell, spit flying from his mouth.

Every rally carried that same furious edge to it. Every point felt personal, when his opponent tried to pull him wide across the baseline, Jack chased the ball down with a grim sort of joy, shoes screeching across the hard court while the crowd gasped around him. His knee visibly buckled once during a slide, just for a heartbeat, and somehow he still turned the return into a winner down the line.

The stadium erupted and Samira grabbed your thigh so suddenly it made your breath catch.

Her fingers dug into the bare skin just above your knee without thought, gripping hard as the replay flashed across the giant screen overhead. Heat flooded through you instantly, not just from the contact, but from the fact she clearly hadn’t realized she’d done it. Her attention remained glued entirely to the court, body pitched forward in disbelief while her nails pressed crescents into your skin.

“Did you see that?” she demanded, half turning toward you now, eyes bright with adrenaline.

“Yes,” you laughed breathlessly, though it came out weaker than you intended because her hand was still there. “Jesus Christ.”

Every time he won a point, the two of you reacted before thinking. Leaning into each other, grabbing each other, knees knocking together in the cramped seats while adrenaline crackled so violently through your veins it almost stopped feeling separate from attraction.

You glanced down pointedly at her hand still gripping your thigh when her thumb began stroking small circles on the inside.

Her eyes widened slightly before she snatched it back almost violently, as the skin contact itself had burned her. A flush climbed immediately into her cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or adrenaline, you couldn’t tell.

“Sorry,” she muttered quickly.

Before you could answer, Jack fired a forehand winner so vicious the entire stadium seemed to inhale at once.

You and Samira reacted at the same time.

“Oh, fuck off,” you gasped.

“No way,” she breathed.

Then both of you dissolved into disbelieving laughter together, shoulders knocking hard enough to nearly spill your drinks while the crowd around you stood roaring to their feet.

Down on the court, Jack finally allowed himself the smallest flicker of satisfaction. He stood at the baseline breathing hard, chest rising beneath sweat-dark fabric while the stadium screamed around him. His curls clung damp against his forehead, racket hanging loose at his side as he stared across the net with an expression that bordered on feral.

You hadn’t felt that alive watching tennis in weeks, now it was as if something had been ignited deep in your chest. A desire to blow this afterparty and head straight to the court. But, Samira’s hand was gripping your forearm tightly, dragging you into the Jack Abbot retiree celebration party.

Everyone wanted a piece of him. And Samira looked absolutely gone.

“He’s shorter than I thought,” she murmured for probably the fourth time that night, staring openly across the terrace where Jack stood with a drink in hand speaking to two ESPN commentators.

You took another sip of your cocktail. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“You should just go talk to him,” you said finally, the words sour in your mouth.

Her head whipped toward you immediately. “You think?”

“I think if you stare any harder, security's gonna intervene.”

“Oh shut up.” But she laughed, biting briefly at her bottom lip before glancing back toward him again, “Do I look okay?”

You smile sadly at her, bringing your hand up to smooth down her stray hair that the wind blew out of place. “Beautiful.” You choked out, like the word didn’t hurt.

She just watched you for a moment, wringing her hands together.

“You gonna go now?” You laugh, chewing on the cocktail straw, aching to sneak off for a cigarette that Samira would smell and yell at you for later.

“I’m working myself up,” She was practically bouncing on her heels, “You know I can’t believe he’s not married,” she said, almost absently, eyes following Jack as someone from Adidas laughed too loudly at something he’d barely said.

You smirked without looking at her. “He is.”

She glanced at you. “What?”

“To tennis that is.”

That made her laugh under her breath, but it didn’t last long. Her expression shifted as she watched him again. “Well,” she said finally, quieter, “that’s just sad. I hope you don't end up like that.”

That made you look at her.

She was still watching the room, not you. Still following Jack with her eyes like he was the most interesting thing in it. A weird feeling in your gut simmered at this. Has she ever looked for you in a room like that? Or were you simply furniture? Her peer turned partner turned cheerleader.

And suddenly you were aware of it again, the slow erosion of yourself over the last year. Practices that became about her timing. Matches that became about her schedule. Decisions that always curved back toward Samira Mohan’s trajectory like gravity.

“Maybe tennis is my only true love,” you said, your eyes still hopelessly on her.

Samira finally looked at you, but it felt like she was looking through you, “You used to be mean on the court, you know? Like breaking rackets spitting in people's faces means. There used to be a fire there.”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “I’m still mean.”

She cocked her head, “Y/n, you haven’t played a solo in weeks. The papers are saying the fire in ‘Fire and Ice’ is dwindling. Your ranking is lower than it should be.”

You frowned, letting your shoulders fall. You saw the papers, it was impossible not to. Trinity had taped them to your door, alongside a note that said ‘get your shit together.’ There was no time for you to play, not while Samira had your calendar booked up.

In the silence, Samira speaks up again. “Have you ever considered coaching? I think it’s time to focus on the next step of your career, and I think that would be the best thing for you.”

”What?-“ Before you can answer, or even formulate a thought a hearty laugh breaks through the crowd.

Across the venue, Jack laughed at something someone said, the sound low and unbothered even surrounded by people trying too hard to matter to him. Camera flashes from somewhere caught him mid-turn, that familiar rough-edged charm slipping into place without effort.

Samira’s attention snapped back to him like a reflex. You noticed the exact moment she stopped thinking about you.

“I might go get some fresh air.” You said, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

“Go on,” she said suddenly, nudging your arm lightly. “I think I worked up the courage.”

You nodded once and slipped away to the edge of the crowd.

The air outside the main cluster was cooler, quieter, carrying the distant sound of the city below like something alive and indifferent. You found a corner near the cliffside, the sounds of the river lulling your beating heart as you pulled a cigarette from your bag, and lit it with hands that only shook a little.

The first inhale grounded you in a way nothing else had all night. You exhaled toward the skyline, watching smoke disappear into neon.

“So this is where the real party is.” A timber voice spoke up from behind you, making your shoulders tense.

Looking back, maybe this was the first crack in the glass. When Samira spent all night trying to get him to look at her, and he saw you first.

“Jack Abbot,” You breathed out, thumb still flicking the cigarette filter.

“Y/n Y/l/n.” He said, with a smug smile on his lips.

His name coming from your mouth made your stomach fall, brows furrowing at the man. He seemed to have noticed the confusion, taking a few steps closer to you.

“What?” The jilted teasing in his tone made your knees weak, “You don’t think I’d keep up with the up-and-coming tennis stars from my alumni?”

“Didn’t think my name would be on that list,” You scoffed, still wallowing in your own self-pity.

“Highest ranking score. What was it, top junior results? Higher than Mohan’s early numbers,” he said, like he was reading something off memory. “And now you’re what? Holding her water bottle at courtside and running drills like a shadow?” The cigarette paused halfway to your lips.

“That’s not true-“

“Come on,” he cut in, not unkindly. “You know what I’m saying.”

Silence stretched. Behind you, laughter erupted from the party again. Music pulsed faintly through the wind. You knew what he was saying, it was the same thing everyone close to you had been drilling into your head the past few weeks. Jack didn’t look away from you, his gaze heavy and startling.

“She’s my best friend,” you said finally, quieter.

A hum from him. “But?” he prompted.

Your eyes drifted back to the party. Samira was on the dance floor now. Laughing loudly. Surrounded by attention without ever seeming to need it. She looked like she belonged in the center of everything. Like she always had. Beautiful in motion. Confident in a way that made people forget how sharp she actually was.

”She’s just really good.”

Jack followed your gaze. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She is.”

There was a beat of silence before he spoke, quieter, almost like he wasn’t speaking to you anymore:

“But you could be better.”

He scoffs, “How many games do you let her win in practice? I bet she doesn't even realize you’re pulling your hits anymore, huh?”

“Don’t act as if you know me,” You snapped, “What you watch our film? See a game? Read our stats? Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you know anything about us.”

There was that stupid infuriating smirk still on his face, like he was looking into a mirror, “Okay, okay.” he says, his hands up in surrender. “Apologies for offending the lady, but you can’t deny that you’re selling yourself short.”

You rolled your eyes, going to flick the cigarette out before a hand captured your wrist.

“You mind?” He asked gently, to which you took too long to shake your head.

Jack’s fingers loosened only slightly around your wrist, rough warmth settling against your pulse as he guided your hand back toward him instead of away.

His gaze never left yours as he leaned down, his mouth wrapping around the cigarette between your fingers.

Heat flooded through your entire body so fast it almost made you dizzy.

The scrape of stubble against the inside of your wrist. The slow inhale hollowing his cheeks slightly. The deliberate eye contact while smoke curled between both of you in the humid night air.

It was obscene, and erotic. Jack pulled back after a second, exhaling smoke toward the river before finally releasing your wrist. His thumb brushed once against the inside, before dropping it as if it had never happened.

“C’mon,” he said easily. “Let’s go meet your best friend.”

Jack walked ahead of you through the crowd with effortless confidence, occasionally nodding at people who tried to stop him but never slowing down long enough to get trapped. You followed behind him in a daze, knees weak as a newborn fawn on ice.

It was as if the party bent to his will. Not because he was handsome, though he absolutely was. Not because he was famous or that this whole party was for him anyways. It was something stranger than that. Jack carried himself like a man completely at ease with being desired. Comfortable under attention, thriving even. The kind of confidence people spent their entire lives trying to fake.

”Samira Mohan,” Jack said as he approached the bar beside you, his voice smooth and warm with amusement. “This lovely lady was outside singing your praises.”

Your stomach twisted as Samira’s brows flew up her forehead. What kind of game was he playing?

“Was she?”

”All of them,” he said easily. “Most of which I already knew were true.” Then he reached for her hand.

You’ve known him for all of ten minutes and you already knew flirting was simply another language he spoke fluently. His fingers curled around hers with surprising gentleness before he dipped his head just enough to brush a kiss against her knuckles.

A blush bloomed immediately across her cheeks and down the elegant line of her throat, visible even beneath the warm amber lighting of the tiki torches. Through all the years you’ve known her, never once have you seen her so flustered, yet here she was tripping over her words.

“Your backhand tonight was insane,” she said quickly, words tumbling over each other now that she finally had his full attention. “That second set crosscourt return in the fifth game? Nobody hits that angle anymore because everybody’s obsessed with baseline power but your timing was-“

“Old school?” Jack offered.

“Surgical,” Samira corrected instantly.

Then, they were off. She and Jack fell easily into a discussion about court surfaces and younger players and racket tension like they’d known each other for years.

You stood beside them sipping melting ice from your drink feeling more and more like a third wheel in your own life.

Your jealousy curdled slowly. Not even entirely toward Jack, mostly toward the sport itself.

Because tennis always won in the end. It always got the deepest parts of Samira before anybody else could. You’d spent years quietly accepting second place to it, even making it second place in your own life to carve out space for the love you had for her.

Then, Jack’s eyes met yours. Samira was still deep into conversation about his pacing, and his footwork, before he cut her off.

“Fire and ice,” he mused, glancing between the two of you. His finger lifted from his whisky glass, twirling around. “That’s what they used to call you, right?”

Samira laughed softly under her breath. “God, that was stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Jack said. “People loved watching you two.”

His gaze settled on you again. Heavy enough to make your skin feel hot beneath your dress. “I related to the fire part personally. Hell, you know they called me a tennis cowboy for years. Never following the rules.”

You looked away first, unable to keep his gaze. Not while Samira looked like a kicked puppy the moment his gaze was no longer on her.

“Well,” Samira said brightly, trying to shake herself out of whatever strange current had settled between the three of you, “she’d make an incredible coach.”

Jack’s attention shifted lazily toward her. “Yeah?”

“She sees the game differently than anybody I know,” Samira said immediately. Proud. Certain. “She notices momentum before it shifts. Patterns before they happen. Half the reason my game improved at all was that she could always tell what I was doing wrong before my coaches could.”

”So, you giving up all of this,” he moved his hands around to gesture to the party raging on without him, “to be a coach?”

It occurred to you that Jack Abbot had seen in half an hour what you’ve spent the past few years blind to. Samira had decided your future for you, on her side of the court rather than the opposite. Just the person standing behind somebody else’s success rather than making your own.

You shrugged lightly, trying for indifference. “Maybe.”

Jack’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that.

Samira laughed awkwardly beside you, immediately jumping back in before the silence could settle too deeply. “She’s being dramatic. She still plays recreationally and honestly if she wanted to start competing again she probably could, she just would be much better at-“

”Do you want to coach?” Jack interrupted her gently.

You looked at him, caught briefly off guard by the intensity of his attention again. Around you, the party blurred warm and loud, people brushing past in expensive fabrics and perfume, but suddenly it felt strangely isolated there at the bar with him watching you like your answer actually mattered.

“I don’t know,” you finally admitted. “Maybe I am better suited for coaching than competing.”

Jack stared at you for a second like you’d said something genuinely absurd.

“No.” The certainty in his voice made your stomach flip. “You’re the most competitive player I’ve ever seen.”

You blinked. “That’s definitely not true.”

“It is.” His gaze dragged over your face slowly before settling heavily on your eyes again. “Players like you don’t just wake up one day and stop wanting it. Where did that fire go?”

Something hot curled low in your stomach.

Samira shifted beside you, suddenly very interested in finishing her drink.

”You just need that…” Jack tilted his head slightly, mouth curving into a knowing half-smile. “Fire back.”

Samira downs her drink in one swallow, the air suddenly much hotter than it was before.

“Doesn’t she?” Jack elbowed Samira lightly, brushing his body against the side of hers.

She set the empty glass down harder than necessary before forcing a quick smile back onto her face. “Okay,” she laughed thinly, “now you’re just feeding her ego.”

”Aww,” Jack pouted playfully, looking down at her. “Are you jealous?”

The question landed with a sharp little crack between all three of you. Samira froze for half a second, then laughed too quickly. “Please. She’s had an ego since she was sixteen.”

“S’ a part of the game,” you muttered, trying desperately to diffuse the strange electric tension coiling tighter and tighter around the conversation.

But Jack only grinned wider, like this dynamic was the most interesting match he had ever seen.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “most players would kill for somebody who believes in them the way Y/n believes in you.”

”Well,” Samira said suddenly, buoyed again by alcohol and adrenaline and the fact that Jack Abbot was still standing here talking to her like she mattered, “if you’re not sick of us yet, we could do a nightcap somewhere quieter?”

You nearly choked on your own spit. Samira looked equally surprised at herself for approximately half a second before stubbornness took over. Her chin lifted slightly. “What? We’re fun.”

Jack barked out a laugh. “Jesus,” he said, rubbing one hand over his jaw dramatically. “You girls even old enough to drink?”

Samira rolled her eyes instantly. “We’re twenty-three.”

“Mm.” His gaze slid toward you lazily. “What do two young tennis players want with this broken old man?”

“To seduce you, obviously.” Samira teased, letting her perfectly manicured nails hover above his forearm. It didn’t feel like a joke the way his eyes glittered. He pulled his hotel keycard out of his pocket within seconds, guiding both of you away from the lights and noise.

Her fingers curled around his bicep while she talked animatedly about some disastrous junior tournament in Florida, head tipping toward him every time he laughed. Jack listened with easy patience, occasionally teasing her just enough to keep her flushed and smiling.

Meanwhile, you walked half a step behind them feeling strangely untethered.

The jealousy inside you has become complicated now. Twisted together with attraction and longing and something lonelier. Because Samira looked so happy beside him. Glowing from his attention. And Jack, infuriatingly, seemed equally comfortable with her hanging off his arm while still somehow tracking your every movement at the same time. His gaze had a way of making you feel seen in a way you weren’t sure if you had been before.

The US Open spared no cent when it came to his accommodations. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire glittering city. Low modern furniture. Expensive dark wood. A terrace stretching out beyond the glass with the skyline spilling endlessly behind it. Somewhere inside the suite jazz played softly through hidden speakers.

Jack loosened the collar of his shirt as he stepped inside, immediately more relaxed here than he’d been all night.

“One drink,” He mused, grabbing a bottle of champagne that had been sitting on ice, “Then it’s off to bed for you two.”

The bottle was popped with a loud cheer, bubbles were poured into overpriced glasses.

“Cheers, to the legend Jack Abbot himself.” Samira cheers, clanking all of your glasses together.

Conversation stretched deep into the night after that, sprawling loose and intimate in the strange way conversations only become after midnight. Shoes abandoned by the couch. The city glittered outside the windows. Samira was twirling her now frizzy curls between her fingers while you were arguing with Jack about whether modern players lacked aggression.

”They’re too fucking soft nowadays.”

“You think everybody’s soft,” she accused.

“Everybody is soft.” You argued back, your bare feet pressing against her thighs from where you two were lounging on the couch.

“You cried during your Australian Open press conference in 2006.” She pointed, making you groan. Your empty glass being filled up again by Jack who sat perched on the velvet armchair, right across from you two.

“It was an angry cry though, those judges didn’t know their heads from their mouths.” You gulped down another drink, the bubbles going straight to your head.

“If you can’t handle the heat, stay out of the kitchen, that’s what I said after my opponent in 2008 said I was, ‘A disgrace to the sport of tennis itself’ for forcing his hand for five rallies.” Jack chimed in, his hands lazily on his knees while he leaned back.

“What an old saying.” Samira snorted, her hand falling on your bare ankle absentmindedly.

“Can I ask a question?” He asked suddenly, “It might be personal but..”

You both just hummed, nodding for him to ask.

“Are you two together?”

Samira’s hand is gone from your ankle like it was never there at all, pulled back so fast it’s almost violent in its restraint. The absence of it is louder than the touch was. She shifts in her seat, reaches for her drink too quickly, and you can see it in the small, betraying details of her body that she’s recalibrating in real time, trying to put herself back into something legible.

“No,” she says immediately, too quickly.

You feel the gap she leaves beside you widen, even though she hasn’t physically moved away. It’s just suddenly obvious that whatever space she occupied a second ago was more intimate than she’s willing to admit in front of him.

You smile anyway, because that’s what you do. It’s what you’ve been doing for so long it comes out easy, practiced. “Just best friends,” you add lightly, tilting your glass slightly in your hand as if the question barely touched you. “The best of friends.”

There’s a faint curl at the edge of his mouth, not quite amusement but not far from it either. “Right,” he says slowly, like he’s accepting the answer without believing it.

Samira adjusts her hair behind her ear, her nervous tick. “Why?” she asks, but her tone is careful now, guarded in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.

Jack’s attention shifts to her briefly, then back to you, like he’s refusing to let either of you escape the frame of his observation. “Just curious,” he says, “It changes how people move around each other on the court. That’s all.”

He doesn’t let the silence last for long, “Tennis is probably the most erotic sport there is,” he says. “You spend hours watching someone’s body under pressure. You learn their timing. Their breathing. The exact moment they break rhythm.”

He tilts his glass slightly, watching the liquid shift. “There’s no distance in it. Not really. Not when you’re paying attention. It’s intimate.”

The tension in the room is so thick it makes it hard to breathe, so you swing your legs to the side of the couch, sitting upright.

“We’re out of champagne.” You smiled, shifting the topic almost as soon as it came.

It took a while, but the conversation drifted after that into softer territory, though the tension never loosened. If anything, it deepened with the hour, settling low and heavy into the suite like another entity in the room.

Jack had migrated from the armchair to between you two on the couch at some point, abandoning the performative distance between all of you. The cushions dipped beneath his weight as he stretched one leg out carefully, wincing faintly at the stiffness in his knee before hiding it behind another sip of whiskey.

The city glowed silver through the windows behind him. The suite lighting turned everything honey-soft. Samira’s bare knees brushing his every few seconds unconsciously, and every time it happened Jack’s eyes flicked downward briefly before returning to your faces.

”So, you’re telling me after all these years nothing has happened between you two?” He asked, Samira practically shoved against his side while his arm was slung across the couch, directly behind your head.

“This again?” Samira groans, shoving him gently.

You shift on the couch, drawing your legs in slightly, suddenly hyperaware of how close all of you have ended up without anyone actively deciding it. “It was one time,” you say, more casually than you feel, like you’re tossing it into the air just to make it lighter than it is. “Sophomore year. We were drunk. It didn’t… it wasn’t anything.”

You have Jack’s full attention again, his eyes sparkling at getting confirmation of something he could have easily guessed.

Samira’s head snaps toward you immediately. “Can you not,” she mutters, half-laughing, half-warning, but there’s no real heat in it. Only panic trying to disguise itself as annoyance.

”No, can we, please?” Jack pleads, looking like the cat that caught the canary.

“We don’t talk about it,” You shrugged, ignoring her pointed glares. “Didn’t mean anything.”

Jack dragged his thumb slowly along the rim of his whiskey glass. “So what’s the angle here?”

Samira blinked. “Angle?”

“Mhm.” He gestured lazily between the two of you. “Two gorgeous Stanford tennis players get a newly retired athlete alone in his hotel suite after midnight. They clearly have some unresolved sexual tension.”

”I think we just, admire you.” She whispered, his face gradually inching closer and closer to hers.

Your eyes are glued on them, watching their bodies gravitate towards each other.

His hand lifted absently, fingers brushing along the back of the pillows behind Samira’s shoulders. Not touching her exactly. Hovering close enough to make her breath hitch anyway.

“You two act like you’re in the middle of a match neither of you wants to win.” He said, “You two just bounce off of each other, when it would be so much easier to just let someone win.”

Samira laughed softly under her breath, though it sounded nervous now. “You think everything’s tennis.”

“Everything is tennis.”

He leans forward slowly giving Samira all the time in the world to pull away.

“So what is it, Samira?” He asks, his breath hot against her lips, “Who wins?”

She wastes no time in pulling him closer, their lips slotting together messily. Time moves slowly, watching as his large hand cradles her face in his hands. The sound of their tongues pressing against each others makes your legs squeeze together, the temperature in the room rising.

He suddenly pulls away from her, both of them immediately meeting your gaze. He says nothing, simply turns his head and presses his lips to yours with the same urgency.

You can taste her lip gloss on his lips, and it makes your head spin. The rough stubble of his cheeks brushing against your palms makes you groan into the kiss. As soon as your mouth parts he takes that as an opportunity to glide his tongue into your mouth, caressing against yours. It’s hot and desperate, and it’s over way too fast.

When he pulls back your lips are swollen, and your heart is nearly beating out of your chest. The first thing you see when you open your eyes are Samira’s on yours. Her own lips red, her hands perched on Jack’s legs to pull her closer to you.

Jack leans back slowly, looking down at the two of you like he was watching a ball bounce across the court.

“Come on,” He whispered, nudging his head to the empty space across his lap. The only space separating the two of you. “I know you both want it.”

Her pupils are blown, lust written all over her face as she looks at you. It’s unspoken as the two of you are pulled together. You don’t know who leans in first, you just know your lips are on hers.

You’ve kissed Samira Mohan before, but it didn’t matter because each time it felt like getting your first breath of fresh air in weeks.

Her hands grab your face, while yours steady themselves on Jack’s legs. He’s just watching, both of his hands cradling your heads as you kissed each other like you were starved. It was years of tension, of longing all rolled into this one kiss and he was getting to spectate it.

When you pulled away, her spit was still attached to your lip. Jack groaned softly at this, the tent in his pants evident as he shifted.

“Should we take this to the bed ladies?”

It’s a messy tangle of limbs, and clothes being shed as the three of you stumble over to the bed. Samira falls into it first, her dress still dangling off her ankles. Jack’s lips are still on your neck, his hands unzipping your own dress to let it fall in the pile of clothing. When he pulls away to unbutton his shirt you take the chance to grab Samira’s legs helping her pull the dress off of her slowly.

She looks ethereal like this, laying back with her eyes wide. Her nipples erect, and poking out high just waiting for you to put your mouth on them again. You crawl over her, settling your legs on either side of her hips.

“This okay?” You ask, your voice hoarse. Thick with anticipation.

She nods so fast you’re surprised it doesn’t give her whiplash.

You lean down, dragging your lips down from her neck to her chest. Pulling each of her nipples into your mouth, tongue flicking the small buds before you pulled off of them with a wet pop. You traced a line down her stomach with your tongue, stopping right above her underwear.

You press a kiss over the warmth of the fabric. “Can I taste you?” You practically begged.

She lifted her hips up, urging you to pull the fabric down. There’s no time wasted in you doing this. As soon as she’s bare in front of you, you almost feel like you’re dreaming.

”Fucking gorgeous.” You whispered, running your fingers through the dark hair perched on her mound. With one swipe of your tongue against her glistening cunt, you were gone, pressing your face even further into her.

“Holy fuck,” She cried out, her hips bucking against you.

Neither of you even noticed that Jack had crawled back on the bed, watching the two of you patiently while you were lost in your own world. Samira tilts her head back, a smirk on her lips.

“Aren’t you gonna join us?”

He whistles, “Well baby, I was just enjoying the show.” He leans up off the bed, walking behind where you were still on top of her.

You lean your head up to speak, but you’re pushed back down by Jack’s hand wrapping itself in your hair.

“I didn’t say you could stop,” He ordered, pressing his boxer-clad cock against the curve of your ass, “You keep making our girl feel good, and I’ll make you feel good.”

Your underwear are discarded, with Jack’s fingers finding your clit with expert precision. His callused fingers slip inside of you with little resistance, as he works you open for him. It didn’t take long for your arousal to drip down his hands, between the taste of Samira on your tongue and her breathy moans you were aching for it.

“Think you’re ready for me?” He asks, and you’re nodding into Samira’s cunt, your moans only causing vibrations to run through her. With her legs shaking around your head, Jack’s cock slips against your entrance.

The stretch of him takes your breath away, your hands gripping Samira’s legs tighter as he slowly inched himself inside of you. He was huge, that was no surprise you’ve seen the pictures of him in his tight shorts, but now you could feel him in your stomach.

“Fuckkkk.” He grunted out behind you, his hips meeting yours with a soft pop. “So tight f’me.”

“Right there,” Samira cried, when your fingers slipped inside of her, your tongue still sloppily licking her cunt, “Fuck, Jack make her feel good.”

“Yeah?” He asked, amused at watching the two girls so focused on each other’s pleasure. He bucked his hips up into you once, then once more until he slowly found his rhythm.

The moans bouncing off of the walls were enough to make a porn star blush, between Jack’s grunts and Samira’s wailing moans you wouldn’t have been surprised if you got a noise complaint.

She came into your mouth with a cry of your name, pushing your head away gently. She crawled over to you, pulling your lips onto hers to taste her own release.

All while Jack was holding your hips with an iron grip, fucking into you so deep you could hardly feel your toes.

“Oh, my god.” You cried into Samira’s mouth, “I’m gonna come.”

Her eyes flickered up to Jack’s, while she still lazily kissed your open mouth, “Mhm, come on Jack’s cock baby.”

“God, yes.”

Samira drank up your moans, swallowing them down as Jack slowed down his thrusts, watching your cunt cream around him. He slipped out of you with caution, making you cry out at the emptiness.

Your arms were shaking when you pushed Samira back down on her side, watching Jack stalk behind her like prey. His cock is slick with your release and hanging heavy between his legs.

“Your turn, baby.” Jack hummed, crawling behind her and lining himself up with her entrance. You lie next to her, letting her body rest on top of yours.

”Holy-“ She cut herself off by biting down on your shoulder, muffling her screams. You watched Jack’s cock stutter as he pushed further and further inside of her. ”S’big.”

“Both of you taking m’cock so fucking good,” Jack moaned, his hand heavy on her hip as he began to fuck into her from behind, “M’ so lucky.”

Samira’s jaw was lax, Jack kissing into her mouth messily as you watched him fuck your juices into her.

“He feels good doesn’t he?” You moan, reaching forward to start biting and sucking whatever flesh of hers you could grab while Jack fucked her brains out the same way he just did you. Your hands are pulling at her tits, circling her clit in a frantic motion.

She lets out a gargled moan as response, kissing you back lazily.

“Yeahhh, he does.” You cooed, “That big cock splitting you apart, baby?”

”It’s so good, gonna make me cum, gonna make me cum, oh yes.” She sobbed, falling apart sandwiched between the two of you.

“M’ right behind you.” Jack warned, his thrusts only getting faster as his balls tightened. You pressed your mouth against Samira’s and that’s all it took for him to still, cumming deep inside of her with a desperate shout.

The silence that followed was soft, not harsh or uncomfortable. It was heavy breathing and the post-orgasm daze of realizing what had just happened.

Samira broke the silence with an uncontrollable giggle, her head lolling against your bare chest.

“You didn’t cum twice.” She pouts, suddenly staring at your body like her hunger had yet to be satisfied.

“I’m not sure what to do.” She breathed out, suddenly nervous despite the events that had unfolded over the past hour.

“I‘ll walk you through it,” Jack whispered, his head nuzzling into the crook of her neck. Guiding Samira’s hand between your still open legs. You were still sensitive when her fingertips found your clit, flinching at the sensation. She kept making sure you were okay between each stroke.

“Now you can slip your fingers inside…” Jack guided, to which Samira nodded.

“Just one or…”

“She can take two, can’t she?”

“Yes,” You cried, feeling her second finger slide inside next to her other. Her fingers weren’t as big as Jack’s, but the softness in which she moved had you wanting to cry out in pleasure.

With instruction, she learned how to thrust her fingers just right. Her thumb hits your clit with each roll of her hand. The sound was absurd as she pulled you closer and closer to your last orgasm of the night.

“You hear that, just how wet you make her?” He whispered to her, making her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head. His softening cock was still deep inside of her, plugging her with his cum that threatened to leak out the sides. Meanwhile her fingers were making a mess of your cunt, the lewd wet sounds making both of them mewl into each other as they watched you writhe and come apart on her fingers.

“See that?” he asked, watching your hips grind into her hand. “She’s gonna cum.”

“Mira,” You cried out, trying to pull her as close as possible, your lips brushing as you came around her with a shout.

Her eyes stayed locked on you while you came, drinking in each twitch of your body.

When she slipped her fingers out of you, she stared at the slick digits like Eve staring at the apple in the garden.

“Taste her.” He whispered, but it sounded more like an order.

She slid her fingers into her mouth, sucking around the digits moaning at the taste of your release against your fingers.

“Fuck.” You breathed out, watching her cheeks hollow.

“Fuck is right.” Jack said, in awe at the two of you.

All of your bones were heavy with exhaustion, bodies still floating in bliss. You remember cleaning up, and Samira pulling you into her chest. The next thing you remember was waking up to the bright light peering through the curtains.

The bright intrusion made you groan, trying to roll over only to be blocked by a hard block of muscle. That’s when the memories of last night rushed through you. It wasn’t a dream, it was real and the ache between your legs and the two warm bodies lying next to you were proof of that.

New York was still dark beyond the massive hotel windows, the city painted in soft blue-gray light while rain tapped quietly against the glass high above Manhattan. The suite smelled faintly like champagne and expensive linen and something warmer underneath it all musk, sweat, and sleep.

For a long moment, you didn’t move too busy watching her.

Samira slept on her side facing you, curls spilled messily across silk pillowcases, mouth slightly parted beneath the dim morning light. Without all her sharpness awake inside her, she looked younger somehow. Softer. Like the version of her all those years ago you first fell in love with.

You reached out carefully, brushing a loose curl back from her face with your fingertips. Her eyes fluttered open almost immediately.

For one disorienting second she just stared at you sleepily, lashes heavy and lips still swollen from sleep and kissing and all the champagne from the night before

“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough.

“Hi.”

Behind her, Jack groaned softly into the pillows before tightening his arm instinctively around Samira’s waist. His eyes blinked open slower than hers had, still foggy with sleep while he looked between both of you lazily.

”Oh, so it wasn’t a wet dream.” He mumbled, breaking a bit of the awkward tension.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Samira asks, grabbing your wrist from underneath the blanket, holding it gently in her hand.

“I’m good,” You smiled, and maybe for the first time in a while you really meant it.

“Good,” She beamed, “Then I have a question.”

“Oh, god.” You started to sigh, then squealed when she wrapped her still bare legs around yours pulling herself on top of you to straddle your hips. The blanket sat low on her waist, her curves on display while her tits bounced in your face,

“Will you coach for me?” She asks, her hair falling around her head like a halo.

How could you say no? When she looked like that, and the taste of her was still faint on your mouth. Her bare skin pressed against yours felt like heaven, and in that moment you would have done anything for her.

“Yes, god yeah.” You laughed at her immediate squeal, leaning up to press your lips to hers gently.

Jack just laid there, his arms behind his back staring over at you two. “Ready to play some tennis, girls?”

Your relationship was never defined, everyone knew you and Samira came as a pair. It had been unspoken since your undergrad days, but now Jack Abbot was also there.

Jack accepted Stanford’s offer not long after that night. Officially, it was temporary. Guest coaching. Mentorship. Media appearances as an alumni. The university parading around the fact that they had Jack Abbot wandering their courts now, older and limping slightly but still magnetic enough to draw attention.

Unofficially, he was there for Samira. Everyone knew it. The rumor mill started almost immediately.

It became one of those things nobody directly addressed but everyone understood instinctively. Samira Mohan arrived with you attached at her side like gravity itself demanded it, and somewhere along the way Jack had slipped seamlessly into the orbit too.

It was late-night practices under empty stadium lights. Jack fed impossible balls across the court while Samira laughed breathlessly after missing them by inches. You correcting her aggression while he corrected her footwork. The three of you collapsing onto benches afterward sweaty and exhausted, sharing water bottles and protein bars and tension so thick it practically sat beside you. It was stolen kisses and the nights the three of you never talked about during the day.

It wasn’t what any of you had planned, but it was something sacred between the three of you. At least you thought it was.

At first, it was small things. She’d look to him first after matches now, searching his face for approval before yours. During practices, she listened more sharply when he spoke, more immediate in her adjustments, more eager to impress him in ways she never tried with you anymore because your approval had become assumed.

He challenged her constantly, pushed her harder than anyone else ever had. He understood the uglier side of her ambition. Where you soothed her spirals, Jack sharpened them into fuel. Where you protected her confidence, he provoked it deliberately just to watch her fight her way back.

Jack would pull her aside afterward for “extra work,” and suddenly two hours had passed without either of them answering texts. You’d find them still on court long after dark, standing too close near the baseline while discussing strategy, Samira flushed with her hair a little out of place. Sometimes she’d forget you were supposed to be there at all.

Suddenly you weren’t the only one who understood her game, and it made you green with envy. How were you on the outside of something that you all had started together?

“Late for your own practice.” You said, your voice short and clipped. Nothing but the harsh sound of your racket slamming the ball into the wall echoes from the training room you booked weeks ago. You had spent the last hour and a half, stewing in your own anger.

Her hair is a mess, eyeliner still smudged underneath her eyes. She looks the least put together you’ve ever seen her at practice, but she’s still vibrating with energy.

“I’m sorry,” Her voice was dry, water bottle swinging in her hand, “It was a long night. Jack and I were watching some of his old games.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” You whistled, another ball cracking against the wall with so much force it made her flinch at the sound.

“Okay,” She breathes out, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you upset with me?”

“Why would I be upset Samira?” You laugh cruelly, “Is it the part where you decided my future for me, or the part where you know how I feel about you but you continue to exploit it?”

“I’m not exploiting you,” She gawked, “Where is this coming from?”

The bitterness that rose in your throat tasted humiliating. “You asked me to coach you,” you said. “You asked me to put my career on hold because you said nobody understood your game the way I do. You said you needed me.”

“I do need you-“

“But not the way I needed you to.” The words exploded out of your chest, making your hands shake. “Not the way you need, him.”

Her eyes widened, nearly stumbling over her own feet as if the words you said made the ground shake beneath her feet.

“You know what the worst part is?” you laughed bitterly. “I would’ve done it anyway. That’s what’s so pathetic.”

“Y/n-”

“No, seriously.” You turned toward her sharply. “You asked me right after that night in New York. That was fucked.”

Neither of you ever talked about it directly anymore. Not Jack’s hands on both of you. Not the unbearable intimacy of waking up tangled together afterward and pretending it hadn’t changed everything. It just lived underneath every conversation, every fleeting glance. You let it happen, again.

“You asked me after we slept together because you knew I was too in love with you to say no,” you said quietly. “And I said yes so fast I didn’t even stop to think what it would cost me. Because I love you, Samira.”

She looked like you had slapped her, “You think I planned that?” she asked, voice cracking now. “You think I manipulated you into all of this?”

”I think you always knew you’d never choose tennis over me, but I think you loved that I’d choose you over tennis. Fuck, I would have chosen you over everything.” Your voice cracked, tears welling in your lash line.

Samira wiped angrily at her eyes before looking back at you. “That’s not true, Y/n. I need you on my team, so I’m confused. I’m confused and scared, but what I do know is that I need you. I need us, together.”

“There’s no us Samira,” You scoff, feeling your knuckles ache from just how hard you were gripping your racket. “There never has been, not really.”

“Y/n..”

“No,” You threw your hands up, stopping her from walking closer, “I need some space, okay?”

She sniffles, but spins on her feet anyway leaving you alone.

The moment the door closes behind her, you let out a blood-curdling yell. The racket slams on the ground with such force that you can feel the ache in your shoulder before you see the plastic splinter across the concrete. You lose track of how long you’re slamming it into the ground, but when you hear the door open the racket is nothing but the handle.

Like a bad omen, Jack Abbot is walking into the room.

“Oh fucking great,” You scoff, trying to blink away the angry tears from your eyes, “Just the fucking person I wanted to see.”

“You done?” he asked quietly.

“Fuck you.”

He shut the door behind him anyway, walking into the now plastic mess scattered on the court.

Your shoulder was throbbing now, the familiar burn shooting down your arm from overtraining and rage and three straight days of sleeping badly. You wiped angrily at your face before bending to grab your bag, already wanting him gone.

”Your shoulder’s swelling again,” he said.

“I don’t care.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, walking closer. “That’s kinda the problem.”

You should’ve told him to leave, should’ve beaten him over the head with your spare racket. Instead, you sat heavily on the bench while he crouched in front of you, pulling athletic tape and scissors from your bag with ease.

The room felt unbearably quiet now. Just the soft tear of tape and your heavy, labored breath.

Jack’s fingers brushed carefully against your skin while he rolled your shoulder experimentally, making you flinch.

“Tight,” he murmured.

“No shit.”

His hands steadied your arm anyway, surprisingly gentle despite everything else about him. The touch should’ve annoyed you more than it did. Instead, it made something inside your chest ache.

“When’s the last time you did something for yourself?” He asks, setting down the scissors and tape with a clank.

You let out a shaky breath, shrugging, “My whole fucking college life has just been her.”

“Maybe,” He whispered, his hand grabbing your thigh gently. “You need to start being selfish again.”

You looked down at his hand on your bare thigh, your stomach twisting in knots. It was this again, the weird tension between the three of you. The wanting each of them in different ways that made it all so complicated.

“She loves you.” The words escaped before you could stop them.

Jack’s expression barely changed. But his hand tightened slightly against your leg.

“She loves you,” you repeated more quietly. “And you love her.”

He nods, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I do.”

Something bitter twisted through your chest. “She’ll always love tennis more,” You pinch the bridge of your nose harshly, trying to warn him against the heartbreak that’s settling deep within your ribs.

“So will I, which is why I think it’ll work.” His confession leaves you stunned, your fingernails still digging harshly into your palms.

A harsh cry escapes your throat, amusement laced with sadness at the absurdity that is your life.

“She loves you, you know? But you’re competition. You always have been. It’s probably why she loved you in the first place,” He hums, like it’s a fact that was glaringly obvious. “She’s not like you, she’s not insults and penalties on the court. She’s keeping you close, she wants you in her corner because if you're not? You’re her biggest competition and she fucking knows it.”

”You’ve been stroking my ego since we met,” You mumbled, “Doesn’t make any sense. I’m always second to her. In every fucking aspect.”

His thumb rubs a soft circle against your leg, goosebumps rising on your skin.

“What’s your angle?” You asked finally, looking up at the man. “New York, your hand on my leg, what the fuck is all of this?”

“My angle?” He laughs, and it’s different from how you’ve heard him laugh before. It was deeper, more real. ”I just wanna watch some good fucking tennis.”

You ripped your leg out of his grasp, grabbing your bag so harshly you couldn’t even think about the pain that was still radiating down your shoulder.

“I’ll show you good fucking tennis.”

“I know you will!” His voice echoed through the hallway.

In hindsight, you shouldn’t have called your friends and drank half a bottle of vodka to dull the pain that was pressing against your ribcage. It just felt like the only logical thing to do. You were a month away from graduation, your future suddenly blurry around the edges after years of precision. Tennis had always been the one thing in your life that made sense. Work hard enough and you get results. Fight hard enough and eventually somebody would recognize it. You earned your spot here, and you let love ruin all of that.

Samira had never played by those rules inside your heart and now Jack had walked into both of your lives like a lit match tossed into dry grass.

By the end of the night, Trinity had taken your phone away twice to stop you from texting them things you’d regret. You vaguely remembered crying in the bathroom while one of the girls from track held your hair back even though you hadn’t actually thrown up.

When you woke up your mouth tasted like vodka and regret. You groaned quietly and rolled over, fumbling blindly for your phone on the nightstand.

Three missed calls from Samira <3

You stared at her name for a long moment before finally pressing call back.

It rang twice before voicemail picked up. The sound of her recorded greeting nearly shattered whatever fragile resolve you’d managed to piece together overnight.

Hey,” You breathed out, the sound of your own voice making you cringe, “I’m sorry about last night. I just, Samira, I really love you. Jack coming into our lives has just made everything so fucking complicated. I’ll support you every step of the way, you know that. If you love him, go for it. I’ll step aside. I’ll be okay, you know? But you’re right, we n-need each other. We’re a team. Just, listen, I'm sorry again. I’ll bring you your favorite coffee before practice, okay?”

As soon as you hang up the phone, a loud banging against your door makes you jump.

“Y/n!” You hear Trinity’s voice on the other side, banging even harder than before.

“Jesus, who’s on fire?” You yelped, rushing to swing the door open. She doesn’t even greet you, simply pushes her way into your room shoving her phone in your face.

“Did you fucking see?” She’s furious, her face is red and her chest is rising meaning she probably ran all the way here.

“What-“

You finally read the words on the news article, your breath catching in your throat.

“RETIRED TENNIS LEGEND JACK ABBOT TO COACH RISING STAR SAMIRA MOHAN THROUGH HER PROFESSIONAL DEBUT”

Below is a picture of a press conference, no doubt happening this morning. He’s standing next to her holding a contract, both of their smiles wide. You read it again, and again, snatching the phone from her hand in disbelief. You read it so many times that the words blur together and stop making sense in your brain.

“Are you fucking serious?” Your voice doesn’t waver; instead, it's a loud bark.

“It came out just a few minutes ago,” She whispered, “It seems like this has been in the works for a while.”

One argument, one disagreement and she throws away years of hard work, years of love between the two of you.

You look at Trinity with a hardened look of absolute, feeling the fire rise up in your chest, “I’m gonna beat Samira Mohan, even if it fucking kills me.”

#HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT #this is so fucking good what the fuck what the fuck #samira mohan #jack abbot #fic recs #faves !

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