BASELINE ✸ Art Donaldson

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Eight. Our Almost

        THE ENERGY HANGING IN THE AIR WAS NOTHING SHORT OF PALPABLE. The stands were filled to the brim in most of which, were there solely to see Tatum Nichols play.

Her opponent — Tatiana De La Cruz — was good. She was decent, average. But she wasn't Tatum.

And as for Tatum, she no longer cared to put on a show for the people that watched her play. She didn't have to. Not since she was seventeen.

Just put a racket in her hand and people will come. People will travel hundreds of thousands of miles because she's the best of the best. She's Tatum Nichols.

"Eyes on the prize," Aaron reminds her, moving his hands where they previously rested on her shoulders and handed her the infamous red lined racket she called hers. "You got this, Tum."

Tatum always hated that nickname — it was like a bad feeling she couldn't shake. But for whatever reason, right now, she didn't care.

"De La Cruz and Nichols, starting positions please." The Umpire says, from his chair in the center of the court, readying the match. "De La Cruz will start."

She holds tight onto the foam that sticks to the handle of her racket and watches as her worn white shoes find her starting position in the center of the court.

Her eyes meet Tatiana's brown ones from the other side of the court and for one split second, there's a mutual understanding.

But when she throws that ball up in the air and hits it with her racket, it's an entirely different story.

They're both in it to win it now.

Tatum's muscles tensed as she tracked the ball, her eyes never leaving its trajectory. She moved like a panther, graceful and powerful, her racket meeting the ball with a resounding crack as she sent it hurtling back over the net.

Tatiana was quick to respond, her movements fluid and effortless as she returned the shot with equal force. The ball flew back and forth between the two players, each stroke more intense than the last. Tatiana, however, hit it too hard -- into the net.

"Point. Nichols."

The crowd erupted into cheers with each breathtaking rally, their excitement fueling the energy on the court.

But amidst the chaos, Tatum remained focused. She blocked out the noise of the crowd, the pressure of the match, and focused solely on the task at hand. Win.

The plays flew by in a blur, the score remaining incomparable as Tatum kept racking the points in.

Each hit of the hall grew boring to her and during each break, she stayed put — just waiting for this to be over with.

Until finally, it was.

And when it was, she beamed at the audience — at the people who came to watch her play. She waved her free hand in the air, while her other clung onto the bag that was slung over her shoulder.

Aaron wraps his arm over her, holding him to him as he keeps that same prideful smile on his face. And it pings at Tatum's heart just a little bit.

And it makes her wonder how he'll react when she announces her retirement — what he'll say.

Because at this point, he's the only one who's still hanging onto that sliver of hope that she'll stay.

And so, the two walk out of that courtfield and into the building. Only one of them smiling.

Tatum can feel the energy of the earth around her shift as her shoes squeak against the freshly cleaned floors. She feels as though time has slowed entirely and now all that's left to focus on is the dirt staining her shoes — everything else is blurry.

Until is isn't.

Aaron quickly removes his arm from around her like he's just been stabbed and when she looks back up she sees Art and Tashi walking down the same hall as her and her brother. They're both looking directly at her.

Tashi appears as though she's trying to intimidate the girl — or, rather, Aaron.

And Art just looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here. There's an unfamiliar sadness in his eye and if Tatum looked close enough, she could see that he was tired. Just like her.

Tired of the sport and ready to move on with his life. Takes one to know one.

Tatum's eyes meet Art's and it's an entirely different feeling. The energy shifts in the world again and now, it just feels like sadness.

Tatum has just won her match — by a long shot — and yet, she feels more defeated than she ever has.

Aaron gives his sister a squeeze of the arm, as if trying to comfort her. As if he knows what all happened between the two of them.

Tashi and Art pass and behind them is the sound of the two metal heavy doors closing.

"I'm going to use the restroom." Aaron says, pulling Tatum out of her unfortunate trance. "I'll see you back at the hotel?"

Tatum nods. She has to go to the locker room and get changed anyway.

Aaron gives another one of those sympathetic smiles before heading into the bathroom and not even a second later, the sound of the squeaky door opening and closing echoes throughout the now empty hallway.

Almost startled, Tatum looks up. But she wishes she hadn't because now, Art is walking toward her in his blue-striped polo.

She didn't even know he would be here in this town in the-middle-of-nowhere Jersey until she saw Tashi in the hotel lobby. And now, ever since, saying she'd been able to sleep just fine would be a lie.

It's too late now, however, to turn around or to keep walking. Art already knows she sees him. They've made eye contact.

"Fuck," she mutters under her breath, already regretting the conversation they were about to have.

Tatum never did get over Art. He was her first love, after all, and you never really do move on from that. But Tatum wasn't one to dwell on the past — if she did, she'd never be able to get a single thing done.

And sure, it'd be a lie for her to say she didn't think about Art from time to time, but it was never something consistent.

Until she came here.

Since then, she hasn't been able to shake him from her mind.

"Hey." he says with a smile that quickly fades. "Um, I saw your match today. That was incredible--" 

"Don't pretend you saw my match." Tatum's response is simple and curt -- cold. She never cared for the small talk or the kiss-up and Art knew that. In fact, they'd often both make fun of those awkward conversation starters. So why he was doing it now like he was some pre-teen boy was beyond her. 

His lips part with his mouth caught agape and that small light ignited in his eyes dim. "I did, actually." he says, clearing his throat and stuffing his hands in the front pockets of his pants. Just like high school. "I just wanted to say you played really well, Tatum." 

Tatum. 

Tatum hadn't heard Art say a single word in years -- much less her name -- but she couldn't remember the last time he actually called her by her full name. 

He begins to walk away, quickly realizing Tatum is angry (and understandably so) and wants not a thing to do with him. 

But a swirl of conflicting emotions comes back to hit Tatum right in the face as she watches him go. "Good luck." 

She doesn't care if he turns to face her or not, she wouldn't blame him if he didn't. But he does. He does and he gives her the smallest of smiles, just looking back at her like she has a secret and he knows. 

And he walks out those doors and everything makes sense again.