BASELINE ✸ Art Donaldson

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thirteen. The Voice in the Back of My Head

      TATUM ONLY HAD TO GET THROUGH TWO MORE MATCHES. Only one until finals and then she was set.

Emma Hargreeves -- however, was good. Aaron had warned her yesterday before the big blowout about her but it wasn't until she was being beat by her that she actually believed it.

It'd been the second quarter and Tatum only had one point. Emma had 3.

Tatum could feel the intensity building with each stroke of the ball.

Emma's shots were precise and powerful. Barely beatable. But Tatum wasn't one to lose. Especially not in nowhere Jersey. She matched Emma shot for shot, rallying back with every ounce of strength and skill she possessed.

The crowd watched in awe as the two players engaged in a fierce battle of wills, each sound of the ball hitting the racket being a testament to their determination and resolve.

Tatum felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins as she pushed herself harder, driving herself to the limit in pursuit of victory. But then, her ball hits against the white fabric of the net and the umpire announces a score for Hargreeves.

"Fuck," she mutters her fingers tapping against her thigh as her mind races for a way to come back. Tatum hadn't done much of thinking when it came to the logistics of tennis — it was always just something that came to her. And when it wasn't, Aaron was there as an aid.

Tatum takes a seat in the fold-up chair on the opposite side of the court and pours half her bottle of water down her throat like she'd been deprived.

She wonders back on last night and what would've happened if she had just dropped it like he asked. Hell, Tatum was so desperate that she even looked up at the stands and searched for his familiar face.

But he isn't there, instead, Art is. He's looking right at her with the smallest of smiles and it brings of a storm of conflicting emotions to Tatum. She was now warring with herself whether or not she should be flattered or angry but she didn't have time to decide. Because the umpire blew the whistle and before they knew it, they were back in the game.

With renewed determination, Tatum returns her to the court with her eyes locked on her opponent.

"Eyes on the prize." She muttered, reminding herself that if she just won this and then the next match then she could finally let go and retire from this god-awful sport.

"Nichols, serve."

Tatum did, she tossed the ball up in the air and within a matter of seconds, it was flung to the other side of the court and right at Emma's racket.

Eyes on the prize. She says again, this time silently in her head. Eyes on the prize.

With unputrified anger she positioned herself and just a moment later, hit the ball coming at her. Except, it didn't feel right.

The ball didn't go far and a steering pain shot down her arm. And when she looked at it, it was entirely out of place.

"Fuck!" She gasped, now holding her pained shoulder and trying desperately to relieve it without embarrassing herself in front of this entire audience.

Hot tears slid down her face as her entire body locked with pain.

The crowd went silent — Tatum could hear a few gasps and murmurs but it was nothing like the sound of her own whimpers.

"Can we get a medic?" The umpire questions into the microphone, and it's almost like confirmation. Like this is definitely something that could potentially threaten Tatum's career.

And now, the only thought that was left lingering in her mind as she looked around — was that she was all alone.