TATUM NICHOLS WAS A LEGEND. Is a legend. After all, she was born to be. Her mother was an infamous, record-breaking Tennis player. Helen Theron and her 15 titles. With her 12x US Open-winning husband, Steve Nichols. They were a power duo, indefinitely. The future of tennis, they said. Which is why when news broke that they were having a child, there was only one thing it could mean. That a tennis legend was about to be born.
Tatum was handed a racket practically as soon as she could walk, and was breaking records ever since her 8th birthday.
And now, she was the one that held 18 titles by the age of 30.
But it wasn't at all what she wanted. Not in the slightest. Tatum didn't want to be some world-renowned tennis player. In fact, all she really wanted was to start a family and live the closest to normal life she could get.
One more season, she'd remind herself. Just one more.
"You excited for your challenger?" Aaron questions, sliding a plate across the table and right in front of Tatum.
Excited was far too much of an overstatement. Tatum was dreading it — she was tired of hitting felt balls with wire rackets. She no longer yearned for that feeling of when the ball hits against the racket and it'd vibrate every nerve in the palm of her hand and would tingle all the way down her arm. Now, she dreaded it.
Keeping her gaze low, narrowed on the overdone eggs on her green porcelain plate, she hummed. "It's for washed-up has-beens. What's there to be excited about?"
Aaron narrowed his gaze on his sister, giving her a sheepish smile as he sat down beside her. "You were in an accident, T. You have to start somewhere again."
That accident was the best thing to ever happen to me.
She bites her tongue.
The taste of the words is bitter because what cruel masochistic woman would be glad she was in a car accident?
Tatum Nichols was. She thought that, finally, just maybe, it was her ticket to retirement — to getting away from this sport and finally starting a life of her own.
"Besides," he nudged his sister's bicep. "You'll be at the US Open in no time."
Hopefully not.
Tatum finishes toying with her food and pulls out from the chair beneath the glass table. "I have to train."
Tatum dropped the plate in the hotel's sink, the food remaining attached.
She grabbed the black hair tie around her wrist and used it to pull back her fist full of hair and before she knew it, she was pressing the button to go down the elevator.
The walls were mahogany with golden lining and marble tile floors. It was the Ritz, after all. The hotspot for rich people — for rich tennis players.
The walk down to the Gym from the elevator wasn't long at all, but the gym was particularly tiny. It reeked of sweat and not at all like the freshened air throughout the entirety of the rest of the hotel.
But it was... doable.
"Hey, you're..." a voice called from behind her. "Tatum Nichols, right?"
She turned on the heel of her shoe to see a short-haired man in nothing but a gray tank top and shorts that barely met his knees.
Tatum nodded, plastering on that million-dollar smile.
He blows out of breath and his cheeks redden (but not from his workout). "Oh my God, you— you're a legend!"
Tatum crossed her arms over her torso and nodded at him, her smile softening. "Thank you."
"Are you here for the Challenger, too?" He asks, a starstruck grin apparent on his face.
Tatum nods once more, looking up at him with anticipation, awaiting him to actually state why he's speaking to her.
"Awesome!" He exclaims, but quickly realizes it was more so embarrassing than flattering. "Um, could I get a picture? My girlfriend and I are huge fans."
She nods, taking a step closer to him and resting her hand on his bicep as she makes her way into the frame of his camera.
His phone makes a clicking sound and Tatum backs away, giving him a wave as he walks off, shouting a thank you as he slips past the glass double doors.
Finally.
Tatum continued making her way down to where the actual equipment was; in the back corner.
And when her body met the padding of the bench press, she couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief.
Once in position, she allowed the music of her earbud to overtake her before as she locked in.
3, 2, 1.
TATUM'S WORKOUT WAS NOTHING IF NOT EXACTLY WHAT SHE NEEDED. The muscles in her arms almost ached and her heart was that constant state of thumping loud in her eardrums. The ice cold water in her hand wasn't enough to cool her and her entire body was on fire, just how she liked it.
With the bottom of her t-shirt, she wiped the small beads of sweat that fell loose from her ponytail and continued outside of the hotel and to the parking lot.
On the curb, she fumbled inside her green snakeskin purse for her keys and upon finding them, she reached for a cigarette and a lighter.
The way the paper felt in between her fingers reminded her of all her coaches over the years that would forbid her from using any. She'd keep a box of them in her nightstand drawer but never used one until the morning after the accident. When she took a sigh of relief and thought, finally. My career is over.
And the way the skin of her thumb struggled to flick the lighter on felt like a release she's needed her entire life.
And the third and final step: intoxicate your lungs with the filthy nicotine. Tatum's personal favorite.
"I thought you didn't smoke?" A familiar voice shouts from across the parking lot.
And when she follows it, she's met with one of the most familiar faces to her.
A smirk plays across her lips.
"Patrick Zweig." His name feels—oddly enough— right at the tip of her tongue. Like no time has passed and not a thing has changed. "Look at you."
He mimics her smile, only widens it, and once he finally meets her at the sidewalk, embraces her in a hug.
And it's nice. It's warm and familiar and just what Tatum missed most.
"You smell like shit," she pulls away, half-joking.
He chuckles, taking a cigarette from her open box. "Wow, you still know the way to my heart, don't you?"
Tatum grins through the smoke coming from past her lips before lighting the cigarette between his own.
"I haven't seen you, since, what.." he thinks back, tucking his free hand in his pocket before taking his first puff.
"Vegas." She finishes the thought for him.
His eye glimmers as the memory plays out in his head. " Vegas ."
They both share the same smile and if the two of them didn't know better—or, rather, didn't notice the wrinkles forming around their eyes and over their foreheads—they'd think they're still teenagers. Sharing that stupid smile.
"So what brings you into town?" Tatum cuts it, flicking her cigarette bud dull.
" Phil's Tiretown Challenger. " He says it like it's some embarrassment.
"No shit." It isn't a question, it's a wicked grin from Tatum.
He raises a brow at her. "Familiar?"
"My first match is tomorrow at 9."
He replicates the look on Tatum's face and comfortable silence hangs in between the two for a moment.
"Who's your coach?" He asks, breaking the silence.
Tatum spares him a knowing look, as if its obvious. "Who do you think?"
"Right." He chuckles, knowing. "So how is he?"
He's referencing Tatum's brother, Aaron, obviously.
Tatum nods indefinitely. "Well, you know about the divorce. He's... coping."
Patrick nods, but he gives Tatum a double look. "And how are you?"
Right.
now was the time their playful banter would come to a close and Patrick would begin asking her about the accident.
"I'm fine, Patrick." she watches as he squashes his cigarette bud with the bottom of his worn shoes. "Just ready to get back to the court."
Lie.
Patrick gives her an utterly dumbfounded look before ruffling the girl's blonde hair with a laugh following. "Who are you and what have you done with Tatum?"