BASELINE ✸ Art Donaldson

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Three. The Feeling of Satisfaction

       TATUM'S MORNING WAS PLEASANT. She'd just gotten fresh out of the shower following her first match of the tournament. She won, obviously. There wasn't much competition to begin with when it came to Riley Santos.

But it still reminded Tatum of that one match in 2009 against a girl from Vanderbilt. Both were in their senior year and finishing off their collegiate tennis careers — each wanting to go out with a bang.

Tatum beat her. 6 - 1.

Her dad had died that morning and Art had left Tatum just the night before. Storming out of their shared apartment after a long hypothetical argument about marriage.

Both had been in a horrid state of mind but Tatum utilized hers, channeling her anger into each beat of the racket against the tennis ball.

And now, Tatum was hungover and simply set to beat someone like Riley.

The towel wrapped loosely around her build, the white of the fabric growing damp as she stepped out of the bathroom and into her hotel room, where the TV shouted words at her. She'd fallen asleep watching the Men's Day One last night and didn't care to turn the channel off this morning before leaving either.

"And as you've probably heard," the commentator says on the TV. "we had a very interesting last-minute wild card yesterday."

Tatum's looks over her shoulder as she drops the towel and goes to reach for a t-shirt from her newly set-up closet.

She blinks and suddenly, Art Donaldson's face appears on the screen.

"Art Donaldson, coached by wife Tashi Donaldson."

It's like a punch to the gut.

She blows out a harsh breath and within a matter of seconds, a remote is in her hand and she's just turned the TV off.

Fuck.

      AARON WAS OUT AT SOME COACHES' MIXER PARTY, leaving Tatum alone to herself.

Initially, she had planned to stay in her room and order room service, maybe put on a movie until she drifted off to sleep. But she was still thriving off of a high--the one that winning gave her.

Today was the first she felt like a champion--like she did as a teenager--in a desperately long time. And she wanted to feel like her old self.

So, there she stood in the golden-detailed elevator, her six-inch heels clicking against the polished floor, wearing a tiny black dress that hugged her curves just right.

She was going out to a bar, or perhaps a club—anywhere away from here, where she could be free, not some tennis icon.

The double steel doors opened, and to her surprise, there was a pair of eyes she recognized: Patrick's. He was sitting at the bar with a woman whose short black hair sat at her shoulders. But Patrick had a look on his face that Tatum recognized all too well. Utterly uninterested.

He'd given it to a lot of girls in college, especially. He'd lead them on for a night, play games with them, give flirty looks, but never did a thing with them.

Tatum gave him a simple smile, acknowledging him before walking toward the lobby's doors.

He says something Tatum can't quite make out to his date and within a matter of seconds, he's standing right in front of her with his hand brushing against her elbow; preventing her from going any further.