BASELINE ✸ Art Donaldson

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Four. The Story of Us is Haunted

2005

          THE SUN WAS SETTING AND ART WAS HELPING TATUM PREPARE FOR HER MATCH TOMORROW. Usually, it was vice-versa, but Tatum was coerced into accepting Art's help.

"Fix your form." Art laughed, only half joking.

Tatum rolled his eyes at him, already frustrated with how she played at her match this morning. She just barely beat her opponent and was still beating herself up about it. Art saw that and was now trying to lighten her spirits while making her feel confident going into tomorrow's match.

Tatum rolled her shoulders back and readjusted her grip on the racket in between her hands. Art threw a ball her way and she hit it with ease, but with far too much power and not even relative to the right direction.

"That's okay," Art says, already knowing that his friend was likely in her own head about it once again. "That was just a practice round. Let's try again?"

Tatum clenches and unclenches her jaw before nodding subtly.

He offers an encouraging smile as she positions herself before throwing another bright green ball her way.

She misses it and when she does, she shuts down completely, throwing her racket hard onto the ground and running a tired hand down her face.

She's trapped in her own mind and can't get out of the constant cycle of overthinking and dread.

She feels the soft brush of Art's fingers against her own, slowly pulling them from her face and when she looks up at him he still has that stupid half-smile on his face.

He goes to pick up her black and red-lined racket from off the blue court and hands it to her.

"Get in position." He says once again.

Unsure of what it is he's doing, Tatum hesitantly locks back in and awaits finding out what he's trying to do here.

Art comes up behind the curve of Tatum's back and wraps his arms around hers, his hands resting firmly atop of Tatum's around the racket's handle.

His mouth is hovering over her ear and she can feel his jaw pressing against the side of her head.

"Relax," he whispers, and the warmth of his breath dances against the back of Tatum's neck and sends a chill down her spine. "Focus on where you want the ball to go."

It's hard for Tatum to focus on anything right now when Art is so close to her. He smells of sweat and cologne and when Tatum arches her back to swing her racket she can feel him swallow with his throat at the back of her head.

Her ass pushes back into him just the slightest and she can hear — feel his breath hitch.

She throws the ball into the air and her racket pounces off of it and there it goes—slamming into the opposing wall like a force.

And after a moment of shared tension, Art clears his throat. "Good job."

He takes a step back but Tatum has to wait to face him — she has to make sure the red from her cheeks is gone before looking him in the eye again.

And when she does, he has his hands on his hips and his lips parted ever so slightly. He's wearing a dark green hat, backwards, to go with the polo he has on — drenched with sweat and it smells just like his cologne. Him.

He has a look in his eye Tatum has only ever dreamed of seeing but he doesn't say anything. Neither of them do.

It's silent. But it's a good silence.

That feeling in Tatum's stomach only intensifies and by the looks of it, the anticipation is gnawing at Art as well.

Tatum's the one to give into it though.

She takes two steps forward and presses her lips against Art's, like it was natural — something they'd been doing for years now.

And Art kisses her back without hesitation, like he was starved and needed this for salvation.

Like Tatum was a drug he'd never had but needed to get high off of every single day.

And Tatum knew it too. She could feel it in the way his lips felt against hers — the way they fit perfectly together — like they were the only two pieces a puzzle needed.

Art's hands slowly moved from her and down her ass and —

"Are you gonna throw the ball?" Patrick's voice cuts her out of her thoughts — the memory.

Tatum suddenly remembers she's a 30-year-old woman and no longer living a teenage fantasy with Art Donaldson.

Instead, she was training Patrick Zweig how to beat him.

She tosses the yellow-felted ball and he hits it almost perfectly.

Tatum throws another ball his way. "Fix your form."