Archive of Our Own

Everyone always assumed Patrick Zweig would present as an alpha, including Patrick himself. He was a loud and crass kid, utterly unapologetic about any of it, picking fights and roughhousing for the sheer joy of it. Typical alpha behavior, the teachers muttered every time they gave Patrick another detention.

Art, of course, was going to be an omega. It added a pulsating undercurrent to Patrick and Art’s friendship, because everyone at school knew alphas and omegas could never be just friends but the thought of actually mating in the future was too awkward to ever voice. They knew each other too well.

They were best friends, that was all. Art followed Patrick around like a loyal puppy, and Patrick dragged Art out of his shell and into trouble. The perfect chaos duo, unleashing hell upon their tennis opponents and their boarding school teachers alike. And while something in Patrick preened at the idea of him and Art being together forever—bonded, a true mated pair—his mind always skittered away from the image of Art as his omega: docile, submissive, obedient. Just the thought of it was wrong, unbalanced, the swing of a racket through empty air with nothing slowing it down.

Neither of them had presented by their last junior’s US Open tournament, which wasn’t unusual. Eighteen was around the time most people presented, but it varied more than people thought.

Tashi, for example, had been an early bloomer. It became part of her brand as soon as she presented, with ad campaigns and teen magazines featuring images of the young alpha baring her teeth in a challenge no one should be stupid enough to accept.

The first time Patrick saw her in person, he was done for. She was everything an alpha should be. His teachers must have been high when they gossiped about his obvious alpha energy—he was a faded copy, a mere echo, a blurred reflection. He couldn’t be half the alpha Tashi was if he tried.

But he was going to try if it killed him. He knew he needed her approval, craved it like he’d craved nothing else. He’d worship at her feet if she’d let him, but she never would. Alphas postured, they met each other as equals and could only tolerate each other’s presence if there was a solid, unshakeable foundation of respect between them.

In that moment, Patrick was only sure of two things: he was going to be an alpha, and he needed Tashi like he needed to breathe. Which meant he needed to be the most alpha he’d ever been.

Of course the first thing he did was tell Art. His whole center of gravity had shifted inextricably, Tashi pulling him into her orbit. It didn’t even occur to him not to tell Art all about her.

Probably it should have bothered him to see Art light up upon seeing Tashi the same way he did, but instead it just felt right. Of course Art wanted Tashi too—who wouldn’t?

But Art wasn’t bold enough to go after her on his own. He teased and flirted well enough at the party that night, but it was Patrick who asked for her number and Patrick who gave her their room number in an act of desperation.

He didn’t really think she’d come. She’d spent all night smirking at them, keeping them at arm’s reach: two boys who hadn’t even presented yet, trying to act like they were man enough for her. He wasn’t ready for her to actually show up, to sit there on the stained hotel room carpet pulling embarrassing stories out of them and then take charge, inviting them to kiss her, to scent her neck, to start something with them that none of them would be able to take back again.

Her scent was heady and strong, almost spicy, and Patrick’s head reeled as he nosed at her neck. Art was on the other side of her, so close that Patrick should be able to scent him too, all their pheromones mixing into a single cocktail, but Art was unpresented and still smelled bland and clean, a variable missing from the equation. Patrick couldn’t help but whine, chasing that missing scent until there were lips on his, a tongue—two tongues—pressing into his mouth, and it was so close to everything Patrick had ever wanted.

When Tashi pulled away, leaving them both panting and hard, and offered her number to whichever one of them won the final, Patrick knew he had to do it. It was a gauntlet thrown by another alpha, and he had to take it.

It wasn’t really a betrayal of their friendship, Patrick told himself. Art could get Tashi without winning. He’d be the perfect omega, Tashi’s omega, and omegas didn’t need to win. Patrick could never make himself think of Art as his omega, but if Art was Tashi’s, and Patrick was Tashi’s too—something about that felt right.

So he did it. He won, beating Art in a merciless game. Art put up a good fight, taking the second set, but in the end there was nothing he could do. Patrick was just better.

He won the match and won Tashi’s attention, everything going exactly according to plan. What he didn’t expect was for Tashi to let him fuck her that night. He wasn’t an idiot, he wasn’t going to say no, but still he hesitated.

Tashi gave him a flat look. “I don’t have time for stupid posturing, I’m trying to get off. Since you’re not going to let me fuck you, I’m letting you fuck me. So are you going to do it or not?”

Patrick didn’t need to be asked a third time. But afterwards, after he’d gone back to his and Art’s hotel room, sneaking back in quietly to not wake Art up, he couldn’t sleep. Tashi’s words echoed in his head. She had been so sure he wouldn’t let her fuck him, and of course she was right. She was right about everything.

So why couldn’t he get the idea out of his head?

It haunted him throughout the whole off-season. He’d kept Tashi’s number, but she never called and she was off at Stanford anyway, with Art. Art would let Tashi fuck him, Patrick was sure. Thinking about it hurt and Patrick didn’t know why.

He talked to Art all the time, almost every day, and neither of them ever brought up Tashi. Patrick didn’t know if they ever saw each other at Stanford, if they were friends, if they might have gotten together somehow and never told Patrick. The only thing keeping Patrick from losing his mind was knowing that Art wouldn’t do that to him. Art wouldn’t leave him out like that.

Patrick finally cracked and texted Tashi right after his quarterfinals win in Dallas, his first pro Challenger tournament. His phone rang seconds later.

“You shouldn’t have let the second set get that close,” Tashi said as soon as he picked up.

A grin slid onto Patrick’s face. “You watched?”

“Of course I watched,” Tashi scoffed. “You call that tennis?”

“I won in two sets, what more do you want from me?”

“I want you to go out tomorrow and crush that idiot Peters into nothing.” The line crackled with the heat of Tashi’s words.

Patrick shivered. “And what if I do?”

“Then you can call me and find out. But first, go play some good fucking tennis for me.” Tashi hung up.

Patrick stared at the phone, not sure what just happened. But Tashi told him to play for her tomorrow, and that he could do. He smashed Mark Peters 6-2, 6-1 and called Tashi as soon as he was back at the hotel.

“Good job,” she told him and the approval hit him in the chest, ricocheting off his ribs and right into his heart. “Do it like that tomorrow. Win for me.”

He did, and this time when he called Tashi, she had new instructions for him. She told him to touch his dick, told him exactly how to stroke it, made him stop and start again and stop until he was teetering on the edge of a cliff that she finally, finally mercifully pushed him off of before hanging up.

It was better than almost any other time he could remember and the first thought that crossed his mind when the aftershock was over and his brain had caught up to itself was, Art would like it like this. He’d taught Art to jerk off but he should have taught him like this, like Tashi had.

Maybe that was why she was a better alpha than he could ever be.

Things settled into a rhythm after that. Patrick called Art between tournaments to hear about Art’s classes and the shitty college games that were beneath him, and then he called Tashi after his wins so she could wring better and better tennis—and orgasms—out of him. Sometimes she came, too, and that was even better that when it was just him.

He asked once, if it bothered her that they were both alphas.

“I’m an alpha,” she corrected him. “You haven’t even presented yet. Unless there’s some news you’d like to share?”

“Come on. Everyone knows what I’m going to be.” It hit him suddenly, why he was asking. What he really wanted to know. “If I told you I got my first rut, would this stop?”

 “You think I couldn’t handle you?”

“No, that’s not—” Patrick broke off. He was being needy and weird and he knew it, but he still had to ask. “Don’t you want to be with an omega instead?”

Tashi laughed. “What would I do with an omega? I don’t need a whiny lapdog. I need someone with fire to them. Someone who wins. Which is why I need you to stop getting so cocky on your down-the-line backhands that they go wide by a mile. Fix that for me tomorrow, okay?”

Patrick agreed and the conversation turned, but Patrick couldn’t stop thinking about it. How could Tashi not want an omega? That was what every alpha was biologically wired to want.

Wasn’t it why he wanted Art?

His brain kept running back and forth along the same tracks, bouncing off two sides of the same thought in a never-ending rally. Either Tashi was telling the truth, or she wasn’t. If she really didn’t want an omega, then she wouldn’t leave him for being an alpha. But if she really didn’t want an omega, then she wouldn’t want Art. She’d never want Art the way Patrick wanted Art.

Patrick kept trying to put the pieces into a shape that made sense. Him and Tashi, two alphas that were peers, that respected each other—that was good. But there was something missing. Him and Art, the traditional mated alpha-omega pair they were always meant to be—that was… less good, somehow. Tashi and Art, a better alpha-omega pair in every way—that was both the most right and the most painful to imagine.

None of it was making any sense. He needed to see Tashi, needed to look her in the eye and see for sure that she meant it when she said she didn’t want an omega. That she wanted him.

He had a few weeks between tournaments coming up, just long enough he could afford a break and not lose out on any real training or conditioning. He called Art first and then waited a whole week before bringing it up to Tashi that he wanted to visit. She was more excited than he expected her to be.

This was good. This was great. He’d come to Stanford, see Art, see Tashi, and figure it all out.

He went to find Art first, crashing his practice as a surprise. As soon as he saw him, it was like they’d never been apart at all, like the last few months never happened. He didn’t know how badly he’d missed Art until he was there, chasing after him across the tennis courts like the good old days.

He caught him faster than he expected, crashing into his back as Art twisted and laughed and turned around in Patrick’s arms to face him. Which was when the scent hit him—fresh and new, like cut grass. It was unmistakable. Art had presented, and he hadn’t told him.

Worse, he’d presented as a beta.

Patrick tore himself away and stared at Art in disbelief.

The corner of Art’s mouth quirked. “Come on. Let’s talk in the cafeteria.”

Patrick followed, still in mute shock, and waited patiently while Art bought him a churro. Art sat down next to him, just far enough away that Patrick had to lean in to catch his new intoxicating scent.

“It just happened,” Art said finally. “I didn’t know what to say.”

Patrick shrugged like he was unbothered. “It wasn’t a big deal to you?”

Art winced. “I know we both assumed I’d be… But honestly, this feels right.”

Patrick hated that Art was right. Art as a beta made more sense than Art as an omega. He was too sharp to be truly submissive, the way a good omega was supposed to be. For all his quiet shyness, he was a fire spark at heart. It was what made him such a talented tennis player.

No, Art could never be someone’s omega. Patrick cursed himself for ever thinking otherwise. He should’ve known who his best friend was.

“Does it bother you?” Art asked quietly.

Patrick plastered a cocky grin onto his face. “Bother me? Why? Of course it doesn’t.”

“So we’re good?”

Patrick gave in to instinct and draped an arm over Art’s shoulder, pulling his face in closer. “We’ll always be good, man.”

Art laughed, shoving him away good-naturedly, and they tussled for a few seconds like they were kids again. Patrick told some stories from the tour, Art complained about Stanford’s tennis coach, and Patrick shamelessly stole half of Art’s churro.

“So you’re still with Tashi, then?” Art asked, apropos of nothing.

“Tashi? Yeah.” Patrick couldn’t help but smile. “I like her, I really do.”

“And she’s okay with that? That you’re both…”

“Oh come on, you know two alphas can be together,” Patrick said with way more confidence than he felt. “I didn’t think you bought into that traditionalist crap my parents peddle.”

Art rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Look, if you’re happy together I’m happy for you. I just don’t want you to be hurt.”

He wasn’t meeting Patrick’s eyes anymore and that’s how Patrick knew. “Oh, you snake!” The idea that Art was actually jealous made Patrick’s chest lighten suddenly. “Honestly, I’m proud of you. I’d be doing the same thing.” He pressed on, his mouth running away with itself. “You know this just makes it hotter for me, right?”

It was truer than he’d realized. Art was a beta and he was still jealous. He still wanted Tashi for himself. So it was okay if Tashi didn’t want an omega because Art still had a chance—except he didn’t, because Tashi was Patrick’s, or rather Patrick was Tashi’s, and so why did Patrick care if Art had a chance at all?

The picture was sharpening and then blurring again the more Patrick thought about it. When he came back to Tashi’s dorm room, she took one look at him and laughed.

“Stop thinking so much,” she told him. “And get in my bed.”

Patrick obeyed like he always did. Tashi’s scent was everywhere in her room and in her bed and it hit him harder than it ever had before. Tashi was an alpha, Art was a beta, and Patrick was—Patrick wasn’t anything yet, but he would be. He would be.

“When were you going to tell me about Art?” he blurted out as Tashi moved on top of him. Maybe—maybe she’d fuck him this time if he riled her up. Maybe she’d make him take her knot just to shut him up.

“Are you not intimidated by him? You should be,” Tashi purred. “He’s smart, he’s good-looking, and he’s really fucking good at tennis.”

Art had always been very good. At tennis, but at everything else, too. If he were here, in Tashi’s bed, he’d be good at this too.

Patrick was barely following the thread of the conversation, his whole world narrowing to the heat of Tashi’s body at every place they touched. “Are we still playing for your number?” he asked Tashi, half out of his mind with arousal. “I thought I’d won.”

“That’s your problem. You always think you’ve won before the match is over.”

Patrick blinked. That tone wasn’t sexy. “Are we talking about tennis?”

Tashi looked at him like he was a very stupid amoeba. “We’re always talking about tennis.”

“Can we not?”

Suddenly, Tashi wasn’t on top of him anymore. The air on his skin felt too cold with her absence. She left the bed completely, pulling on a T-shirt and starting her pre-match warm-up stretches as Patrick just sat there, trying to catch his breath and make sense of where this went sideways.

“Tashi,” Patrick tried, but she shrugged him off.

“What? If you’re not interested in me fixing your game for you, don’t worry about it.”

The room felt both too hot and too cold now, and Patrick couldn’t focus his thoughts on anything that made sense. Without much input from his brain, his mouth kept snapping back at Tashi, escalating the argument further and further.

“I’m not going to your match,” he told her. “Not if you think you can just dismiss me. I’m not an obedient little omega that you can toy with.”

“Is that what you think I want?” Tashi looked at him with such contempt than he knew without a doubt that it wasn’t.

It was too late, though. He brought the argument here so he needed to double down. “Yeah. You’re too much of a possessive alpha. You want someone who belongs to you, a member of your fan club. A whiny omega.”

Tashi raised a single dangerous eyebrow. “You don’t belong to me?”

“I’m your peer,” Patrick spat, knowing that it wasn’t true but needing beyond reason for it to be true anyway. “Not your groupie, not your student, and not your fucking omega.”

His head was pounding. The room was so, so hot. He needed air to breathe. He grabbed a handful of clothes without thinking and left, slamming the door behind him.

Outside was better, but only just. Patrick was covered in a sheen of sweat and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath no matter what. Pulling the shirt on helped a little, steadied his racing heart for no reason he could tell.

He was just so angry. Somehow, despite the fight, he was still hard, too. Tashi had just left him like that, let him walk out, practically tossed him away like he was nothing to her. He didn’t know what to do so he just kept walking across campus, away from the dorms, away from everything.

His phone buzzed. It was Art, asking where he was. Tashi’s match was about to start.

He’d barely known where he was for the last hour. He texted Art back: Had a big fight. Not coming. Then he turned his phone off with a viciousness that wasn’t logical.

Now being outside felt wrong. It was too open, too vulnerable. He needed somewhere safe.

Half out of his mind, he stumbled into a library, found some hidden corner and dragged an armchair into it. There weren’t blankets, but there were pillows. He was cold again, so he pulled his knees up under his shirt—Tashi’s shirt, he realized now. His alpha wasn’t here, but her scent was all around him, and that was almost as good.

He burrowed there, lost to time, sense, and reality, for too long. It wasn’t until the lights started going out, a warning before the campus library closed for the night, that he realized how long it had been.

He still felt off-balance, but at least he could think now. Whatever it was, the wave had passed and he was clear-headed enough at least to pick himself up and go outside.

He turned his phone back on. Twenty-five missed calls. Five voicemails. Sixteen texts.

Oh god. He scanned through them in horror, slowly processing what he’d missed. Tashi’s injury. Of course it was her knee, it had always been weak. Even with surgery, her career was over. Tashi Duncan would never be the tennis star she deserved to be.

And Patrick had missed all of it.

His mind blanked. He could feel his skin go hot and cold again as he realized what he’d done. His alpha was hurt and he wasn’t there.

He ran.

He needed to see her. Needed to be there now, at least, even though he’d failed so spectacularly to be there when she needed him. He wasn’t even sure where he was going until he got there, pulled entirely on instinct into the Stanford athletics medical hall.

There, he could smell it. Tashi and Art both. He sprinted for the open doorway.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped out before he even saw them. “Tashi, I’m sorry, I’m so—”

His alpha snarled. “Out! Get out!”

The words hurt, worse than anything Patrick had ever experienced, but he had to keep trying. “Tashi, listen to me, I’m sorry—”

Tashi snapped her teeth at him in wordless fury. Behind her, Art got up and there was nothing of Patrick’s best friend left there, just pure instinct. A beta protecting his pack.

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” Art screamed.

A command from just his alpha, Patrick could fight. But both of them together, screaming at him, alpha and beta united together in their hatred of him—instincts took over. Patrick fled.

His heart was pounding again in his ears, nothing in his head but those two words over and over again: Get out. Get out. Get out. He ran blindly through the halls, feeling his too-sticky skin chafe against even the lightest touch of his clothes.

Everything was too hot. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. He knocked into someone and barely even registered it.

“Hey, watch it!”

A hand grabbed his wrist and he whined at the contact, both wanting and not wanting to pull away.

“Hey, man, are you okay? Oh—oh, shit.”

Patrick tried desperately to focus on what was happening around him. He squinted his eyes and a man’s face swam into view. He was wearing a uniform and Patrick’s gaze tracked down to the paramedic’s logo on his shirt.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to be okay, just breathe,” the man said. “We can get you to a safe room and take care of everything. You’ll be just fine. You’re just in a little shock, that’s all.”

The whole world blurred again. Patrick forced his mouth into the right words. “What’s… happening to me?”

“Oh, sweetie,” the paramedic said, far too gently. “You’ve gone into heat.”

Everything fell apart after.

Patrick was still on his parents’ insurance, so after his little trip to the hospital got billed through, his mom called.

“When are you coming home?” she asked.

Patrick groaned. His brand-new suppressants and scent blockers were messing with his sleep schedule and he was far too tired for this conversation. “I can’t, I’ve got Forest Hills next week.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got Forest Hills next week? You can’t be seriously trying to compete!”

“I’m an adult, I don’t need your permission,” Patrick snapped.

“You’re an omega!”

“Sure, but I’m not your omega.”

The conversation devolved from there—Patrick’s mom trying to exert her influence from two thousand miles away to make him come home and be someone’s obedient omega mate, and Patrick doing his best to make it clear he’d rather gouge his eyes out with a spoon. In the end, there was nothing his mom could do to make him change his mind, not even when she threatened to cut him off. Not even when she told him not to bother calling again, if he was going to keep embarrassing the family name like this.

He hung up and blocked her number. It hurt, but in a dull, distant kind of way, something Patrick could swallow and move on from.

The truth was, Patrick wasn’t anyone’s omega. His own secondary gender was useless to him. It all made sense to him now, but what good was that? It turned out he was the whiny, needy lapdog he’d accused Tashi of wanting, and she sure as hell didn’t want him. The irony was not lost on him.

He threw himself into tennis, the only thing he still had going for him. But it, too, left him. He scraped by a few wins here and there but every time he was on the brink of a real breakthrough, something that would get him some solid points for his ranking, he buckled. He resigned himself to entering every tournament he could drive to just to make enough prize money to make it to the next one.

That first year, he made it to the second round of the US Open qualifiers and was even one set up before crashing and burning. At least he still managed enough prize money to make it through the rest of the year, even if he had to spend some of it crashing on strangers’ couches.

The next few years settled into a similar depressing pattern. He managed a few quarterfinal appearances in Challengers events and flamed out of the first qualifying round of the US Open. His career highlight was probably his round-of-sixteen loss at the Memphis Open, even though the prize money was still less than his US Open qualifiers loss.

Any reasonable person would have given up and cut his losses. Tashi had been right all along: he wasn’t good enough to make it on tour. His parents were probably right too. Omegas belonged in the kitchen or the bedroom, not on the tennis court.

It wasn’t even that Patrick didn’t want to give up. That was the really pathetic part of it. He tried to, called his dad and packed his bags and everything. He spent all of January at home, acting the meek omega as best he could, but it turned out that the only thing he was worse at than playing pro tennis was being what his parents expected him to be.

He ran his mouth at dinner parties, sniping at all of the high-society guests with no concern to their status. After he got told off for scaring away all his suitors, he resorted to pettiness and scandalized everyone by propositioning an alpha right in the middle of Sunday brunch. He was out of control. He couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to.

When his mom finally snapped and locked him in his room, Patrick gave up on giving up. He slipped out the window, only jarring his ankle a little with the practiced landing from the second story, and drove straight towards the closest tournament he could still enter that very night.

He looked up Art and Tashi, of course. She was his coach now, and he was the bright young star on tour. Patrick spent far too many nights staring at his phone contacts, wondering what they’d say if he called.

He was never brave enough to try.

His career limped along. He made do with what he had. Whenever the loneliness got to him, he hooked up with whoever was around, no strings attached. His only rule was no alphas, but there were plenty of betas among the players and the occasional omega working the tournament.

He was in Lexington, prepping for the Fifth Third Bank Tennis Championships, when he caught a TV preview of the Atlanta Open, happening the same week. “Art Donaldson, a sure favorite this week, is here with long-time girlfriend and coach Tashi Duncan. Will Donaldson add another title to his meteoric rise this season?” the commentators gushed.

Atlanta was a whole six hours away, but this was still the closest Patrick had been to Tashi and Art in four years. He was on the road before he even bothered playing out the justification in his head—his first match wasn’t until Tuesday, anyway. He wouldn’t stay long, he’d be there and back in one day. It was insane, but he just needed to see them.

He found Art and Tashi practicing at one of the stadiums. Just seeing them put an extra bounce to his step and he sprawled out on one of the seats to watch the magic happen.

He was wearing Tashi’s shirt, which he’d still kept after all these years even though her scent on it was long gone. Art looked up and clocked it in an instant, smashing the next ball Tashi fed him over the net with new ferocity.

Good. It meant he still cared, which was all Patrick really wanted to know.

He wasn’t bold enough to test his welcome if he approached, though, so he quietly slinked away before the practice session ended. He’d accomplished what he’d come here for, so it was time to leave.

But Tashi and Art were a magnet whose pull he couldn’t resist. They were here. In this very city. How could he leave? He drove around aimlessly until he found a public tennis court and hit serve after serve until his shoulder ached, finally stopping long after the sun set and the court lights came on.

He’d have to stay the night, it was too late to drive back now. The stupidest thing about this was that he was still paying for a hotel back in Lexington and now he’d have to find one in Atlanta, too.

He was starving, too, a more immediate problem than his housing for the night. He stopped by a cheap diner and found himself back near the stadium again. The hotels here were almost certainly too expensive, but it couldn’t hurt to look.

He wandered the neighborhood, halfheartedly peering into hotel lobbies just for the fun of guessing how expensive a night would be. It was just coincidence, surely, that he happened to look in the right window at the right time, and—

There she was. Tashi. His alpha.

She looked at him with a hunger he couldn’t resist. He walked in on autopilot, damn the consequences.

This close to her, Patrick could see all the little details, the ways she’d changed and the ways she’d stayed the same. She looked good. Powerful. The alpha who had it all. But underneath it, he saw that her knuckles were a little too tight clutching her drink, one nail chipped. Her eyes were wild, raking all over his body with a dangerous glint.

There was something else different, too. A mating bite, low where her neck met her shoulder. Patrick tamped down on a whine. He wanted—he didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted the bite to be his, or for it to be on his neck, or both.

Tashi saw him looking and bared her teeth in a savage smile. “The wedding’s next month, but we just couldn’t wait.”

There was a strange energy in the air. Patrick couldn’t trust his knees to keep him standing so he sat down across from her, projecting cool nonchalance the whole way. “I missed you,” he said and leaned in.

That was a mistake. This close, her pheromones hit him even through his blocker-dulled senses and he suddenly realized what was so off here.

“You’re going into rut!”

Tashi hissed. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” Patrick was furious, all of a sudden. “Where’s Art?” Art’s mating bite was on Tashi’s neck and yet he was letting her go into rut alone?

“He doesn’t know,” Tashi said, and that sent Patrick reeling in a different way, offended on Art’s behalf now. He couldn’t imagine finding out his alpha rejected him even in rut.

“Fuck you.” Patrick moved to get up, to leave this fucked-up situation behind.

Tashi grabbed his hand before he could. “No, you don’t understand, I can’t.” Her voice broke on the last word, all her usual control slipping away from her. “He’s got to play tomorrow and he needs this win. We’re a month out from the US Open, if he loses his momentum now, he won’t recover in time. And I cannot let that happen.”

Under a certain, horrid kind of logic, it made sense. In rut, Tashi wouldn’t be as careful as she needed to be with a beta. Even an omega would be sore and tired after such a night. Even if Patrick knew it would only motivate Art to play better, that wasn’t the sort of risk Tashi was prepared to make. Art had to play tomorrow.

But Patrick didn’t. Patrick had one more day. And after all, Tashi had never been the risk-taker in their relationship.

Instead of saying something, he surged forward, stopping just short of her mouth. He felt her gasp just before she closed the distance, the taste of her a familiar relief. He moaned as she deepened the kiss, her teeth grazing his lips, catching them in a not-quite bite. He wished she’d do it harder, make him bleed so he could feel it tomorrow and know it wasn’t all a dream.

She pulled away too soon. Panting, staring at him in disbelief, she asked, “Are you sure?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Patrick had never been more sure of anything in his life. He went back in, mouthing at her jaw and trailing kisses down her neck until he could lick the bite at the base of it. Art’s bite. Art wasn’t here so Patrick was, in his place, fucking Art’s alpha. In a way, that made him Art’s too. Art’s proxy, at least, and maybe something more.

“Stop that.” Tashi’s hand grabbed his, pulling it away from his neck. “Listen to me.”

Patrick whined but obeyed. His neck throbbed where he’d dug his nails in so he could pretend he had Art’s bite, too.

Tashi snapped her fingers in front of his face. “I need you to focus, okay?”

Patrick nodded, his gaze sharpening on her.

“Do you even understand what you’re offering?” she asked. “I could hurt you.”

“I know. I don’t care.”

Tashi’s misplaced worry was like a warm blanket, settling him with more comfort than he deserved. If he’d really been the alpha she thought he was, spending her rut with him could actually be dangerous. The right thing to do was to correct her and explain that he was meant to be used like this, but something inside him cracked at the thought of sinking that far in her esteem. It was wrong of him, but he just couldn’t bear it if she looked at him as just another omega, good for fucking and nothing else.

Instead, he tried to reassure her in other ways. “I know what I’m doing. You think you’re the only alpha I’ve been with?”

It was a lie, but it riled her up just like he meant it to. This time, she kissed him with the bruising force he wanted from her, hard enough that he could pretend it meant he was hers.

They stopped needing words after that. Tashi pulled him to a new hotel room, not hers and Art’s but just hers alone, though Patrick could still smell Art there, on her clothes, on her underwear, an invisible presence in the room with them.

He took her in his mouth first, ignoring the twinge in his knee as he went down. He told himself it was pure calculation: he needed her to be too out of her mind to ask questions when she fucked him properly. In truth, he’d been dreaming of this since the night of his junior championship, when she’d let him put his mouth on her for a few glorious seconds before pulling away so they could get on with her plan of business.

She wasn’t pulling him away now, though. Now, Patrick had her right where he wanted, even if it was just for one night. Even if it was technically a lie.

It was almost as perfect as he’d imagined it. He only wished he didn’t have to guess at how to please her. Tashi had never taken him like this, with this much animalistic instinct. The fact that it was new was throwing him off—he wanted to anticipate her moves, to know without having to experiment what would make her dig her nails in sharper and gasp his name.

If he was her omega, if it was his bite on her neck, then he’d know all these things about her by now. Or if Art was here, he would know. He could tell Patrick what to do and how to do it.

And maybe Patrick could teach him something, too. Did Art know how ravenous Tashi looked when Patrick arched his back just so while riding her? Did he know how wild it drove her when he bucked beneath her, making her hold his wrists down with even more force? Did he ever let her lose control like this, like she needed to?

 Afterwards, Tashi slipped out of the bed without looking at him. “This was a mistake. Art can never know.”

Patrick shrugged like he didn’t care. “Yeah, I’ll make sure not to mention it at our next country club social.”

“I mean it. I don’t want you near him.”

“He and I don’t exactly play in the same circles anymore,” Patrick pointed out.

“And yet you’re here.”

A fair hit. Patrick inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Fine. I’ll stay away.”

It wasn’t a particularly hard promise to keep, though it chafed at him the whole drive back to Lexington anyway. But who was he to interfere with Art’s rising star? Art and Tashi were a whole different world away.

The only remnants of that night Patrick got to keep were the limp in his step that lasted the whole next day and the bruises that faded after a week. It didn’t matter—he won the Fifth Third Bank Tennis Championships anyway.

Patrick kept his promise for eight whole years, sticking to the Challengers-level circuit that was leagues beneath the likes of Art Donaldson. He did alright, too—managed a few finals and even a couple wins, though the money was still laughably small. The only thing he couldn’t get to click were his attempts to qualify at the US Open, which he wouldn’t give up on even knowing Art was there, too. Fortunately, Art usually spent the qualifying days getting lazy practice days in at the grandstands while Patrick lost focus and got his ass handed to him at some out-of-the-way court.

The point was, Patrick had been so good for eight years. Fucking Phil’s Tire Town Challenger was solidly Patrick’s territory, and it wasn’t his fault that Art decided to crash New Rochelle without warning.

For a half second, Patrick considered withdrawing, but he really, really needed the money. Between his declined card at the hotel and having to ration out scent blockers for game days, he wasn’t having a great month.

He’d tried batting his eyelashes at the hotel clerk, but the woman was irritatingly immune to his omega charms. No matter—Patrick had a tried-and-true solution and after swiping right enough times, he matched with a mousy beta who seemed eager enough over messages to be a promising lead.

He met her at a hotel bar, figuring he could plausibly pretend he’d been staying there instead of in his car if she asked, but she didn’t. In person, she was much more interested in unsubtly sniffing his omega scent and asking about the “bad boy” image he cultivated on dating apps to avoid attracting anyone who’d actually want to keep him.

It was flattering to be wanted, so Patrick didn’t mind much. At least, he didn’t until someone walked behind him and he caught a too-familiar scent he’d barely dared to dream of for eight years.

Tashi. She smelled like Art, too, and didn’t even look at Patrick as she headed towards the hotel elevator. Patrick wasn’t sure what possessed him, but he suddenly really needed to make her look at him. He barely had the presence to excuse himself to his date before striding after Tashi.

He was juggling ten different opening lines in his head when Tashi whirled on him first.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m playing the Challenger.”

“Yeah, I know that. But you’re not staying here, are you?” Tashi looked—scared, an expression that was so wrong on her that Patrick wasn’t even sure what to do with it. Then Tashi leaned in and her nose crinkled. “Are you on a fucking date?”

It didn’t even occur to Patrick to lie. “Not exactly. I just… need a place to sleep.”

“Wow.” Pure contempt washed over Tashi’s face. “Well, have fun stringing that poor omega along.”

Patrick’s jaw dropped. He hadn’t even considered the danger of Tashi figuring out what he was without his scent blockers on. He decided to take it as a gift that she assumed it was his date’s scent on him, not his. A stay of execution, even.

Grinning like a maniac, he said, “I will.”

For a second, it looked like Tashi was going to snarl in response, but then her mask slipped back and she just shook her head at him. “Whatever you do, just seal the deal fast and get out of here. Art can’t see you. He already thinks I did this to humiliate him.”

“Didn’t you?” Patrick asked. He’d been wondering the same thing—if he was the target, instead. If Tashi brought Art here to dangle in front of Patrick, the one thing he’d wanted and had and then lost.

The elevator dinged.

“Not this part,” Tashi said and stepped in. “Just stay the fuck away from us, okay? Art doesn’t need a distraction.”

The doors closed before Patrick could answer. Stay the fuck away, Tashi had said, but what Patrick heard was Art still cares enough to be distracted. Hell, Tashi clearly still cared enough to threaten him, to get angry over someone else’s scent on him.

So Patrick decided he was done being good, done following orders like a pet. If Art wanted him to stay away, he could say so himself rather than send his wife—his mate—to do the talking for him.

He went home with the beta, let her enjoy the fake thrill of fucking someone who seemed dangerous and off-limits but was just an omega after all, and all he could think of was how quickly he could track Art down at the tournament.

That turned out to be harder than he expected. He dispatched some snot-nosed kid in the first round easily enough, with enough time to track down the court where Art was playing. Art played—fine. He closed in on break points, getting games out of his opponent without too much trouble. But Patrick still found himself oddly disappointed at seeing Art’s game for the first time in years.

It was… soulless. Like Art was already half-dead, or half-retired, which was really the same thing. His lack of reaction at his eventual win threw Patrick off so much he got caught in the stands for too long and didn’t manage to make it through the crowd of eager fans waving tennis balls to be signed.

Art hadn’t even looked in his direction. Hadn’t even seen him. The only time he looked at the stands was to look at Tashi, which he did after each point he won, as if trying to prove something to her—and failing.

Patrick intended to try again the next day, but Edgar Ribera turned out to be a nightmare of an opponent, frustratingly quick and persistent enough to return just about everything Patrick threw at him. Patrick lost his cool along with the second set when he smashed an overhead too hard and nearly hit a ball boy.

Get it together, Tashi’s voice snapped at him in his head. Play some good fucking tennis.

Even half-remembered, her advice spurred him on just enough for him to scrape by a win in the third set, 7-5. An ugly victory, but it still counted. Ribera shook Patrick’s hand for way too long at the net afterward, sputtering something about the best match he’d ever played, and it all dragged on long enough that by the time Patrick could escape, Art had already beaten his opponent and disappeared.

Art’s quarterfinal match was before Patrick’s, which meant Patrick would have to leave early to warm up. He compensated by planning to show up first and catch Art before the match—a dick move, in retrospect, which Tashi rightfully would’ve slapped him for. Patrick was at least smart enough to wait for the chance to talk to Art alone, which meant he was stuck hovering like a stalker behind the bleachers while Tashi and Art walked over to the court.

“Romero’s a lefty,” Tashi was saying. “Watch for his backhand slice—he relies on it too much when returning serves.”

“I know,” Art said, no heat or emotion in his words at all. “You told me all of this this morning.”

“I’m just trying to remind you. I’m your coach, it’s my job to keep reminding you.”

“My memory’s not that bad.”

“Well, you didn’t remember about Graham’s drop shot yesterday!”

Silence. Patrick risked a peek around the bleachers to see Art’s kicked-puppy expression. Tashi’s mean streak had only ever pushed Patrick harder, but Art wasn’t like that.

“Never mind,” Tashi said, brushing Art’s hair back and lingering to cup his face. “Forget I said anything. You’re doing really well, you know that, right?”

Art shrugged her off. “Don’t lie to boost my confidence.”

“I’m not,” Tashi said. She sighed and gave Art a long look. “What do you need me to say?”

“Nothing,” Art said unconvincingly.

“Patrick got past Ribera yesterday, and that’s his toughest match-up on that side of the bracket. If he can keep his shit together, get back to volleying like he used to, he’ll make it to the final. Are you going to let him get there without you?”

Patrick’s heart pounded faster. Suddenly, the most important thing in the world was to prove Tashi right and make it to the final. The final, where he’d play Art again. His chest ached at the thought.

He was thirty-one, old enough to admit to himself now how badly he wanted Art. How badly he’d always wanted Art and Tashi both. Part of him blamed himself for being too stupid to realize it when he was younger and still had a shot, but the truth was, he’d had both of them once and he just hadn’t been enough of an alpha to keep them.

Finally knowing what he wanted didn’t help when what he wanted was so far out of reach, so he settled on something more attainable.

The idea hit him after he won his quarterfinal, taking Tashi’s advice to come out to the net more often and end points quickly with a volley. He really did play better when listening to Tashi. With his alpha behind him, he could do anything. And if the only way to be Tashi’s was to be her student, well, it was a hell of a consolation prize.  

So he pulled Tashi aside in an alley and asked her to be his coach. It didn’t really go as planned. On the bright side, her tone and fury betrayed her—no matter how many times she said she didn’t care about him, it was clear that she did. She pocketed his number even while insisting she wouldn’t call him. It was almost cute, the way she lied to herself.

Still, he had no guarantee that she would change his mind. And if he couldn’t get Tashi back in his life this way, then he was back to his first strategy: getting Art to talk.

The perfect opportunity came on Saturday, when the wind picked up enough that practice sessions were canceled. Perks of the country club venue included a brand-new sauna, and Patrick saw Art heading there as soon as the weather delay was announced.

Because he was still a coward, he paused to make sure his scent blocker patches were still adhered before stripping and following Art in.

They hadn’t spoken in years, so he went for a joke opening. “Can you do me a favor? Can you not, like, demolish me tomorrow?”

Art didn’t laugh.

Patrick kept trying. “Congrats on being a Phil’s Tire Town Challengers finalist.”

“You, too.”

The whole sauna smelled like Art, because of course it did. It probably didn’t even occur to the likes of Art Donaldson that this was a public facility and his scent would stay permeating it for hours after he left. Not that there were any other athletes who’d be using it, other than Patrick.

“Can we talk?” Patrick asked, as if they hadn’t already been talking.

“Can you put your dick away?”

Now that was funny, a joke Patrick hadn’t expected. They’d grown up together, in and out of locker rooms and showers and sharing beds in dorms and hotels. This was nothing Art hadn’t seen before. Besides—

“This is a sauna,” he pointed out.

Art didn’t react, so Patrick obliged, sitting down and carelessly throwing his towel over his lap. He’d picked a bench lower than Art so now he could enjoy the view looking up. Finally, he could let himself want what he wanted without tying himself up in knots over it.

Art looked like a god, somehow more of himself than Patrick had ever seen him. The healed mating bite on his neck stood out against his pale skin and made Patrick want to tear something apart.

He wanted to leave his own mark there, match Tashi’s bite and fix the cruel asymmetry of Art’s skin. He wanted to lick the bead of sweat running down the sharp edge of Art’s nose. He wanted to kneel at Art’s feet and just stay there forever. He was an animal, and at least he was the only one who knew how shameless he was.

Patrick tried to focus on their conversation instead. They bantered back and forth, almost like they used to, but there was something angry and savage behind Art’s eyes that Patrick didn’t like. So he figured he’d poke at it and see what happened.

“Come on, man, aren’t betas supposed to be even-keeled? Why are you so angry with me?”

“I’m not angry with you,” Art lied.

“Do you really find it so disturbing that Tashi could be into someone like me?”

Art gave him a flat look. “When we were teenagers?”

That threw Patrick for a second. He knew Tashi hadn’t wanted Art to know about Atlanta, but he’d assumed it had come up at some point in the last eight years. The whole point of this was to feel out what was wrong between them. If it wasn’t about Atlanta, then what was it all about?

Maybe Art just needed to hear that Tashi didn’t matter to Patrick. A ludicrous concept, because Patrick had never been more aware of how much he needed his alpha and his beta both, but it was worth a good lie to try to repair things.

“There’s no need,” he reassured Art. “Lots of people were into me and none of them married me. That wasn’t what I was for.”

“What were you for?”

You, Patrick wanted to say. You and Tashi and tennis. But he didn’t know if it was true, or if it was just what he wanted. Certainly nothing about the last twelve years proved that he’d been good enough for any of them.

Instead of answering, Patrick searched for a neutral topic of conversation. “Nice match against Larsen, by the way. Good on you for not letting him intimidate you.”

Art’s eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing, just trying to give you a compliment! I’ve seen him play and most guys fold as soon as they see that big, hulking alpha across the net.” Patrick played him once and spent the whole match wrestling with his own stupid hindbrain for wishing Tashi was there for him to hide behind. He won anyway, because the thing about big, hulking alphas was that they’re shit at running, and once Patrick could find the humor in sending Larsen stampeding from one side of the court to the other, he’d been back on top of his game.

“You think I’m afraid of playing alphas? Believe me, I’m not.” Art tilted his head back with an idle smile, revealing the long column of his throat. To an alpha, it would be an insult, leaving his neck so vulnerable with no concern at all.

 To Patrick, it was a temptation. Patrick swallowed hard and looked away, not wanting to betray himself. Then, like an idiot, he looked back so he could memorize the image and look back on it later: Art, with all that easy confidence, towering above where he belonged.

“It’s cute you think you can intimidate me,” Art went on, and Patrick had to laugh because if anyone was doing the intimidating here, it wasn’t him. “You still think you can talk to me like you’re my peer, just because when we were kids everyone thought you’d be my alpha. But you’re not. And I’m not some silly omega you can scare off.”

The laughter died in Patrick’s throat. Art had never looked this serious before, skewering Patrick with his words and not holding back.

And he wasn’t done. “The truth is, even if I was an omega, it wouldn’t make a difference. Tennis isn’t about biology, Patrick. It’s about winning. And I do, a lot.”

Something cold twisted in Patrick’s gut. “You’ve never beaten me.”

“So what? I haven’t beaten most of the guys who play at these things. This is a game about winning the points that matter.”

“I don’t matter?”

“Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the entire world.”

That cut a hole in him so deep he couldn’t help spilling the truth out. “We’re not talking about tennis.”

“What the fuck else do I have to talk to you about?”

Patrick was used to rejection, had come to terms with it years ago, but this was a new wound ripped open. Art didn’t love him or hate him. Art thought he didn’t matter. Art thought the only thread connecting them was tennis, and even then he thought he’d win tomorrow and close the book on their entire relationship.

Patrick refused to let that happen. If the only thing between them was tennis, then Patrick would dig his claws in and never let it go.

Patrick would make tomorrow’s match something Art could never, ever be indifferent towards. He was going to beat Art, and nothing was going to stop him.

Not even twelve hours later, Tashi was in his car, asking him to change his mind.

At first, Patrick thought he’d heard wrong. The idea of Tashi actually coming to him, asking him to throw the match just so Art could get a false sense of his confidence back—it was ludicrous.

“He needs this,” Tashi insisted.

Patrick imagined caving and playing tomorrow just as soullessly as Art had played all week. If that was all he was going to do, he might as well have stayed with his parents, locked up and dead on the inside.

“What about what I need?” he asked.

Tashi wouldn’t meet his eyes, but she didn’t answer, either.

Patrick knew, acutely, that losing to him tomorrow would break Art. A flash of remembered hurt hit him and some small part of him thought, good, he deserves that. But the truth was, winning would break Art too, just more slowly. And if he found out that Tashi and Patrick had conspired to secure the win, it would be the end of everything.

“I can’t believe you’d do this to him.” Anger flooded in, and he forgot reason enough to get right in Tashi’s face, baiting the alpha to do something about it. “Fucking me would be one thing, but this? This is unforgiveable.”

He expected Tashi to hit him, or better yet, bite him. To lash out like an alpha should and make him submit, submit, submit. Instead, Tashi inhaled sharply and stared directly at his neck, right at the scent blocker patch from earlier that day that he’d hastily slapped back on as soon as he’d gotten Tashi’s text.  

Which he could now feel slowly peeling away.

He clapped his hand over it hastily, but it was too late. Tashi looked at him like she was rapidly recalculating something in her mind, a look he recognized from when she used to tear apart his game for him.

“Tashi, I—”

“Since when are you an omega?” Tashi demanded. “When were you going to tell me?”

Patrick shrank back against his seat. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it fucking matters!”

Patrick swallowed a hysterical laugh. It figured that when he did matter to either Art or Tashi, it was in all the wrong ways.

“I’ll drive you back to the hotel,” he said.

“What? No.” Tashi grabbed his hand before he could reach the gear stick. “No, we’re talking about this.”

“What is there to talk about?”

“What do you mean, what is there to talk about? Is the fact that you’ve been hiding being an omega for all these years not enough?”

Patrick couldn’t stand it anymore. “Fine, let’s talk! Let’s talk about how everything about me is a lie! Turns out, yeah, I am that needy omega you’ve never wanted, only I’m not even good at being that, so what’s the point?”

Tashi’s eyes got very, very dark. “Who says I don’t want you?”

Patrick froze. Tashi leaned in closer and ripped the patch off his neck. Her scent spiked around him, fiery hot and hungry. Patrick didn’t want to think about what his scent was doing in response.

“Who says I don’t want you?” Tashi said again. Instead of letting him answer, she put her mouth on his neck, where the patch used to be, and licked, sending a long shudder of pleasure down Patrick’s entire body.

Patrick let an embarrassing moan escape him. Tashi kissed her way up his jaw, drawing it out with light scrapes from his teeth that made him whine for more. He didn’t get it—he never got what he wanted—but just this once, he was close. Her lips were on his, more forcefully than he was expecting, and he went pliant underneath her, inviting her in deeper and deeper, needing as much of her as she was willing to give.

For all of Tashi’s insistence that they talk, words were the last thing on Patrick’s mind. They kissed in the car for what could have been minutes or hours, Tashi half on top of him, pressing him into the seat. It wasn’t a very comfortable position, but they didn’t stop until Tashi’s elbow slammed into the horn, startling them both apart.

Patrick blinked up at Tashi, waiting for her to come to her senses. Which she did eventually, pulling back away from him and opening her passenger door to step out of the car. Patrick felt it like a gut-punch and was still evaluating whether or not he was too proud to chase after her and beg when the driver-side door opened, Tashi standing there with an eyebrow raised.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well what?”

Tashi rolled her eyes and pulled him out of the car. “You idiot,” she said affectionately and pinned him down with another fervent kiss.

Eventually they made it to the back seat, which was still cramped but at least allowed Tashi to push Patrick onto his back and press herself on top, every point of contact between them a firecracker spark. She fucked him like that, face to face, going far more gently about it than Patrick deserved.

Annoyed at being treated with kid gloves, Patrick dragged Tashi in for a harsh kiss, biting incessantly at her lower lip until she pulled away laughing.

“All right, all right,” she said, pressing her lips to the underside of his jaw. “You want more?”

Patrick nodded desperately, too breathless to speak.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get it.” Tashi ground down harder with her hips. “I take such good care of my little white boys.”

Embarrassingly, Patrick came first, right when Tashi finally made her way down his neck and dug her teeth in just below his collarbone. Tashi followed soon afterwards but stayed on top of him, letting Patrick curl around her. They stayed like that for a long time before Tashi spoke up.

“I want to be there when you tell Art.”

Patrick’s blood turned to ice. He never, ever wanted to tell Art, not if he could help it. Maybe Tashi could do it for him, after he was somewhere too far away to deal with the fallout.

Tashi must have sensed him tense, because she frowned at him. “You are going to tell him, right?”

“What if I don’t?”

“Patrick.”

“You could tell him for me,” Patrick tried.

“Coward,” Tashi spat, but she softened at Patrick’s flinch. “You can’t keep running from this. It makes me exhausted just watching the two of you.”

Patrick didn’t understand what she meant, but it didn’t really matter. He seized onto the sign that Tashi was weakening her stance, leaving wiggle room for negotiation.

“I’ll tell him, but after,” he promised. “I can’t play if he knows.”

Tashi’s eyebrow twitched in disbelief, but she didn’t call him out on it. “Fine. But you have to tell him, or I will.”

The image flashed before Patrick’s eyes: Tashi and Art in bed together, laughing over him. Can you believe it? Patrick Zweig’s just an omega after all.

“No,” Patrick gasped out. “No, I’ll tell him. But after the match.”

“Okay, okay,” Tashi murmured placatingly. She ran a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his forehead. “Shh, it’s okay. You can wait until after.”

Patrick was so pathetically grateful for that reprieve that he didn’t really think about the practicalities of telling Art until the next day, on the court.

Art wouldn’t look at him even though they both arrived together. Patrick tried to greet him but all he got was a curt nod in response. During the coin toss, Art studiously looked past Patrick, somewhere just the right of his ear. It was infuriating.

Patrick couldn’t stand it. His backhand went out of control and too wide on the first point, but one look at Tashi made him refocus his efforts and channel his anger into something more useful. A quick volley got him up on Art’s serve, and he made quick work of it, getting a break out of the very first game of the match.

It was a great feeling, being up a game before he even had to serve. It was crazy, but Patrick always preferred to start a match receiving rather than serving for that very reason. The first game set the tone for the rest of the match, and it was oh so easy to get into an opponent’s head just long enough to get the crucial first few points needed to steal their game right from underneath them.

Art must have forgotten that, when he’d won the coin toss and chosen to serve first. It put Patrick right where he wanted to be.

The rest of that set went easy, Patrick riding that wave of the very first game all the way to the end. Art held onto only two out of the four games he served.

But as much as Patrick wanted—needed—to win, he could see how badly this was destroying Art. By the last game of the first set, Art couldn’t even manage to return a single one of Patrick’s serves.

What was worse? Breaking Art like this, in front of everyone, or letting him waste away on his own?

While Patrick was busy debating the ethics involved, Art mercilessly took advantage of his lost focus. The second set began much less auspiciously for Patrick, as his thoughts swirled too heavily and Art landed three aces in a row.

Maybe it’s for the best. Tashi was right, he needs this.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, but Patrick’s distraction lost him the next game, too, and now Art had the advantage on him. Oddly enough, Art didn’t seem that happy with it, still playing like a shadow of himself.

This was the first—and probably last—time they’d played since juniors. Patrick just wanted a real match. He wanted to play some good fucking tennis, and Art was ruining it, just taking his game wins like they meant nothing to him.

Because Patrick meant nothing to him.

Well fuck you, too.

Art didn’t even celebrate winning the second set. Patrick wanted to smash something, so he did, destroying a racket he couldn’t afford to replace and getting a point penalty he couldn’t afford to take. Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck all of this.

He dug his nails into his skin under the collar of his shirt, where Tashi had bitten him last night. He got to be hers for just one night, and he’d made a promise he had to keep, no matter how impossible Art was going to make it. Pulling Art aside after the match wasn’t going to happen, not with all the victory ceremony circus and the press and the fans. And from the way Art was looking at him—or not bothering to look at him, rather—there was no way Patrick could convince him to talk later.

Patrick shoved that problem aside for now. He had a match to win.

The rallies got longer in the third set, though Art had to be feeling the heat and exhaustion just as badly as Patrick was by then. The spark wasn’t quite there, but there was the start of something. An echo of what playing Art used to be like.

Patrick pulled no punches, hitting at sharper angles, alternating short and long shots to make Art have to run to all corners of the court. Art, too, rose to meet him, hitting with more and more power.

Still, it wasn’t enough. Art looked like he wanted to crush him, sure, but that wasn’t making him play any better, just angrier. At 4-5, Patrick had a hell of a time holding onto his serve and keeping Art from getting a match point. When he finally did, holding Art off with a tricky slice serve he kept up his sleeve just for desperate times like this, he caught Tashi watching him and biting her lip.

She looked like whatever was going to happen to Art was going to break her, too.

Patrick had never seen her like that.

He needed to do something. Anything. He’d evened out the score, with Art up to serve, but if he didn’t get past Art’s ice shell it would all be for nothing.

Fuck it. He remembered tussling with Art in the cafeteria at Stanford, a lifetime ago. There was real fire in him then, thinking about Patrick and Tashi together. And besides, Patrick had made Tashi a promise. There was one more trump card he had to play.

Before he could think better of it, he peeled his scent blocker patch off and prepared to return Art’s serve.

Patrick clawed just one point off of Art that game, but that wasn’t what he was playing for anymore, anyway. Before the next game, the players were to switch sides. On the changeover, while Art was busy toweling off, Patrick walked over to the benches slowly and stripped off his shirt, every thread of it soaked in sweat and pheromones.

And then he tossed it just a little too far, as if aiming at his own chair but missing. By about six feet. And hitting Art instead.

Art whirled around, a thousand expressions flickering over his face as he caught the shirt on reflex. For the first time, he looked straight into Patrick’s eyes. Then his gaze dropped lower, to the mark Patrick was fingering. Patrick had no way of proving it was Tashi’s, but he figured Art would recognize her work. Just in case, he looked over to where Tashi was sitting in the stands and licked his upper lip.

Another thousand expressions passed over Art’s face, which eventually settled on anger. “Fuck off.”

Patrick just grinned at him, daring Art to do something about it. For a second, Art raised his hands like he might, but then his eyes caught on the shirt still clutched in his hands and he tossed it back at Patrick instead.

Patrick caught it with ease. “My bad.”

“Time,” the umpire called, and Patrick scrambled to put a new shirt on and get to the right side of the court to serve.

Art didn’t even bother trying to return it. Just stared at Patrick like he was trying to decipher him. He wouldn’t even move to position for the next point until the umpire prompted him, and once there he completely ignored the ball, giving Patrick another ace.

Maybe Patrick miscalculated.

He tried an underhand serve, an apology of sorts. He just needed the ball in play. Just one good rally to prove that they both still got it.

Art didn’t move. Patrick’s heart dropped to his gut. He’d ruined it all—fucked up Art beyond anyone’s help. Or maybe Art was just that disappointed and horrified to find out what his old friend had been all along. Hell, maybe Art was intentionally trying to lose out of pity for the poor omega.

Just before Patrick’s next serve, some fan in the crown yelled, “Come on, Art Donaldson!” It startled Art enough that he actually went for the ball this time, more on autopilot than anything else. But his return went wide, and they were officially in tie breaker territory.

And that, finally, was when something clicked inside Art. Patrick could see it even all the way across the net. He moved with purpose, no wasted movements, just got ready to serve.

When Art’s first serve nearly took Patrick’s head off, it was a relief. Art wasn’t coddling him, after all. This was something right out of their tennis academy shenanigans. And there, in the smile Art gave him after he ducked, was that spark Patrick had been looking for all week.

Patrick couldn’t help but smile, too. He did matter, after all. And when he returned Art’s next serve, they were right back in 2006, hitting the ball like they had nothing to lose, like they would be young and stupid and happy forever.

They played some good fucking tennis.

After the match, Patrick walked up to the net warily to shake Art’s hand. Tennis was one thing, but now that it was over, he wasn’t sure of his reception.

With no hesitation, Art pulled him into a tight hug. “You idiot,” he said, burying his nose into Patrick’s neck.

Patrick clung on just as tightly in response. He couldn’t muster up any words, but at least the hug could do the talking for him.

“You’ll stay, after?”

Patrick hesitated. Stay for what? He knew he’d irrevocably changed everything by coming clean to both Tashi and Art, but he wasn’t sure he really wanted to stick around to find out what his new reality was going to be.

“Come on, man, you have to stay.” Art slowly pulled away, out of the hug, but kept his hands on Patrick’s shoulders. “Please. Tashi’s going to kill me if I don’t make you stay.”

“Fine.” Patrick caved just like he’d always done when Art asked. “Don’t soak in the spotlight too long, though.”

Art rolled his eyes. Whatever else he was going to say got swept away by the officials trying valiantly to drag them back on schedule for the victory ceremony.

Patrick had to stick around for that part, of course, even though Art won. But unlike Art, he didn’t get mobbed by the press and fans afterward and therefore managed to slip back to the locker room for a quick shower, slapping on new scent blockers afterwards.

He kept his promise, waiting for Art and Tashi to finish up, but he hung to the back, out of sight. He didn’t really want to catch the attention of any wayward journalist. Annoyingly, that kid Ribera saw him anyway and cornered him for what amounted to a fifteen-minute monologue about Patrick’s “legendary” backhand and how unforgettable that final was. By the time Patrick extricated himself from it, Art and Tashi were both waiting nearby, watching the whole scene with poorly disguised amusement.

“I can have fans, too,” Patrick told them, the words coming out more defensively than he intended.

“Of course you can,” Tashi said.

“We’re not laughing at you,” Art added.

Patrick didn’t really believe him, but the impending conversation was making him too jittery to continue any kind of fun banter.

Art, too, seemed eager to get to business. “We really need to talk, somewhere private.”

“My mom still has Lily for the rest of the evening,” Tashi cut in. “Our rooms are free.”

Patrick hadn’t let himself think too much about Art and Tashi’s daughter. It stung a little, the reminder that there was a little girl walking around that was part Art and part Tashi and had no idea who Patrick even was. He ruthlessly shoved that part of him down and didn’t think at all about what it would be like to meet her.

“Great, then let’s do that,” Art continued cheerfully, and then suddenly paused. “Unless—of course, it’s just a hotel, but we haven’t exactly been—well, if you’d be more comfortable, we can do this where you’re staying, instead?”

Patrick barked out a laugh. “I’m pretty sure your fancy suite will be a lot more comfortable than my car.”

“Your—” Art stopped walking abruptly. “Are you saying you’ve been sleeping in your car?”

 Tashi grabbed his arm, sweeping him forward to keep walking. “You’ll like it even less when you hear what his other options were. But this conversation is going to have to wait until we’re away from prying ears.”

“But—” Art looked like someone had kicked his dog.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Tashi said firmly.

Patrick didn’t really know what there was to talk about. “It’s really not a big deal—”

“Shut up,” both Art and Tashi said in unison.

Patrick shut up.

“We’re all going to go to the hotel and have a very long conversation about a lot of things that are long overdue,” Tashi said in a tone that brooked no arguments. “But until then, both of you behave.”

 What else could Art and Patrick do? They made it out to the parking lot without any further incidents and Patrick meekly followed the Donaldsons’ fancy rental car in his beat-up Honda. Once at the hotel, Tashi led them through the hall to the room and then stood aside for Art to unlock it.

As soon as they all entered, Tashi whirled on Patrick and pinned him to the door. “None of this, anymore,” she said and peeled Patrick’s scent blocker off.

Patrick winced as it pulled on his skin. “It was just for the crowds!”

“Well we’re alone now, so you can stop hiding.” Once she got it off, Tashi stepped back, a vague look of satisfaction on her face.

Art stared at his wife. “You knew?” He looked over at Patrick. “You told her?”

“I figured it out last night,” Tashi said. “Come on, let’s get somewhere we can talk.”

The place Tashi apparently had in mind was their bedroom. Patrick had half a mind to ask why the perfectly serviceable living room full of couches wasn’t going to work, but pretty much nothing about this made any sense to him, so he didn’t bother.

The further they got into Art and Tashi’s hotel room, the more Patrick could smell their scent everywhere. It got even stronger in the bedroom—the perfect cocktail of Art’s freshness cut through with Tashi’s boldness. For a moment, Patrick’s head spun, his senses and instincts overwhelmed.

Art threw him a concerned look. “Are you sure this is okay? We can find somewhere more… neutral.”

Tashi hissed in response. “No. This is right.”

Patrick managed to get a hold of himself and avoided doing anything truly embarrassing, like diving onto the bed to roll around in that tantalizing scent. Tashi was right. He never wanted to leave this room. The only thing that would make it more perfect would be if his scent was everywhere, too.

It occurred to him that probably most omegas would be uncomfortable this far in someone else’s territory. Especially the well-marked bedroom of an alpha and beta pair of mates. Instead, he felt—safe. They weren’t strangers to be afraid of, they were family. They were pack.

Patrick shoved that thought away almost as quickly as it came.

“So,” he said, eager to move on. “You wanted to talk?”

“Where do we even start?” Tashi dropped down on the bed.

“I’ve got a suggestion,” Art said, a bit of bite to his words. “How about we start with how my best friend’s been lying to the both of us about being an alpha.”

Patrick flinched. “I haven’t lied to you. We haven’t spoken in twelve years.”

“Semantics,” Art said with a wave of his hand. “I mean, I’m impressed at the con, don’t get me wrong. But also, what the fuck, Patrick?”

“Does this really bother you more than your wife’s bite on me? You do realize we fucked last night? And that wasn’t even the first time. Remember Atlanta eight years ago? That was when Tashi spent her rut with me.”

Tashi pinched the bridge of her nose. “Patrick,” she scolded.

Art ignored her. He didn’t look anywhere near as angry as Patrick was expecting him to be. If anything, he just looked confused.

“I know about that,” he said.

“You know about Atlanta?”

“I saw the two of you there.”

“And you what, never said anything? You weren’t jealous?”

“Art, he’s distracting you from the point,” Tashi cut in. “And you’re letting him.”

Art flushed.

“I’m not distracting him!” Patrick lied. “I just thought the cheating would rank higher in the topics of conversation.”

“It really doesn’t,” Tashi said. “And stop evading the question. Why did you let us think you were an alpha all this time?”

Patrick grasped for a suitable answer. Tashi and Art wanted the truth, but the truth was too pathetic. But what other excuse could he give?

“I thought I was going to be an alpha, too,” he said finally. “I didn’t even know until I went into heat. And by then you’d gotten injured and everything had gone to hell, and it’s not like we were talking anyway.”

“And in Atlanta?”

Of course Tashi was shrewd enough to find the hole in his half-truth. Patrick looked away, wishing a hole would open up in the floor to swallow him. Anything would be better than having to stand there and admit his own failings to the people who mattered most in the world to him.

Art placed a hesitant hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Patrick tried not to lean into the touch too much, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded.

Tashi wasn’t willing to give him a reprieve. She fixed him with her most alpha look and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me in Atlanta?”

“And what would’ve happened if I had?” Patrick shot back. He shrugged Art’s hand off, going on full offensive now. “I know how you feel about whiny, needy omegas. And you needed to spend your rut with someone, and you wouldn’t have if you’d known!”

“Oh my god.” Tashi flopped backwards on the bed with a groan. “I thought we sorted this out last night. I don’t know why you keep thinking I don’t want you as an omega.”

“Because you said so!”

“When?”

“At Stanford!”

Tashi groaned again, louder. “Are you telling me that you’ve been wallowing in something I said when we were teenagers?”

“You thought I was an alpha when we were together, and you made it very clear you didn’t need or want an omega.”

“I didn’t need or want another omega, Patrick,” Tashi said, exhausted. “I wanted you, obviously, because I was with you at the time. And let’s be real, I didn’t ever think you were going to be an alpha. I didn’t see the omega coming, to be fair—I had you pegged as a beta—but I wasn’t with you because I was into alphas.”

Patrick paused, absorbing this. It was stupid, but he had to ask. “Really?”

“Really.” Tashi sighed. “I didn’t think I’d have to say this, but you being an omega has nothing to do with your personality. It’s just instincts and biology. Didn’t you grow up assuming Art was going to be an omega? Did you think he was, what, whiny and needy, too?”

“What? No!” Patrick’s brain struggled to keep up with the turn in the conversation. “Besides, he’s not an omega, is he? He’s better than that!”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously, where did you get these stupid misconceptions into your head?”

Art, who had been quietly and intently watching Patrick throughout all of this, chose this moment to speak up. “I think I know.”

Tashi and Patrick both turned to look at him in surprise.

“When was the last time you talked to your parents?” Art asked Patrick.

Patrick shrugged. “It’s been years.”

“Then why are you repeating their bullshit words?”

“Because they were right, weren’t they? I presented and then everything went to shit and I wasn’t good enough anymore! I tried being the right kind of omega and I couldn’t even do that, and then I tried playing tennis and you can see how far that got me. So maybe they were right after all!”

“Oh, Patrick.” Art’s face went all soft and pitying, and Patrick couldn’t look at it anymore.

Tashi, at least, looked furious. She sat up and leaned forward, a tiger ready to pounce. “Fuck that. You couldn’t make it big on your own, so that means you were destined to be a failure? I’ve never heard anything more idiotic. Your shitty tennis record has nothing to do with being an omega.”

“How else do you explain it? The highlight of my career was winning juniors before I presented!”

“You just haven’t had a good enough coach.” Tashi smirked. “We’re going to fix that.”

“Do you know how many people I have on my team?” Art joined in. “I have Tashi as my head coach but I also have an assistant coach, a hitting partner, a personal trainer, a dietician, and a mental coach. There’s no way I’d be here if I’d been doing this all alone.”

The truth of it sunk in, but it didn’t make Patrick feel any better. Art was just rubbing it in, how many people he’d had this whole time while Patrick had failed to keep the only two he’d ever wanted to have. If he couldn’t blame his failings on biology, what did he have left?

“Well it’s very nice that you can afford to pay all those people, but some of us aren’t multi-millionaires,” Patrick said, infusing as much venom in his words as possible. “What exactly was I supposed to do?”

“You could’ve called!” As soon as the words left his mouth, Art froze, just as shocked at his own outburst as everyone else.

Tashi recovered fastest. She narrowed her eyes at Art, studying him like something was finally coming together. “Go on.”

“You could’ve called,” Art repeated, more plaintively this time. “We would’ve helped you.”

“Oh, you would’ve coddled the poor struggling omega?” Patrick snapped.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. Why didn’t you call? You just completely disappeared and the only word we had of you were updates on your matches.”

“You told me to leave! You both made it pretty damn clear you didn’t want to hear from me.”

“I didn’t mean forever!” Art ran a weary hand over his face and sat down next to Tashi. “We meant everything to each other once. Was it really that easy to walk away?”

The pain in Art’s voice drained all of Patrick’s anger away in an instant. He was tired, too. They were all tired. And Patrick didn’t want to hurt his pack like this anymore.

“It was the worst thing I’d ever done,” Patrick said quietly and sat down on the other side of Tashi. “I thought it was what you wanted.”

Art reached over Tashi to grab Patrick’s hand. “Never,” he said, squeezing his hand with emphasis.

“Oh.” Patrick squeezed back after a moment. His thoughts were all over the place, too much information turning his whole world on its head all at once. Tashi had wanted him despite everything, and Art hadn’t wanted him to leave after all. Tashi was maybe offering to coach him, a rare change of mind for her. And somewhere between it all, Patrick was starting to feel a dangerous amount of hope that he could make this work, that he could have Art and Tashi in his life again in some capacity, even if not the way he wanted them.

“All right, that’s settled then,” Tashi said suddenly, her loud voice making both Patrick and Art jump a little. “Well, obviously not settled entirely—we’re going to have to come back to all that internalized bullshit—” Tashi waved a hand vaguely in Patrick’s direction “—but I think we’ve gotten all the important things out in the open, yes?”

Patrick looked over at Art for cues. He hadn’t even known any of this needed to be talked about in the first place, so he wouldn’t know if there was anything else that should be brought up.

Art looked about as lost, though, and Tashi chuckled.

“Stop worrying so much,” she said, brushing his hair back. “We’ll have time for more conversations later.” She pressed a light kiss to Art’s temple and Art practically melted at the touch.

Patrick suddenly felt very extraneous. “Great, then. Good talk. We’ll do this again later?” He pulled his hand out of Art’s grasp and shifted to get up.

Tashi’s hand whipped out to prevent him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Uh, giving you two space?”

Tashi pulled him in closer until he was sitting flush to her, and ran her hand through his hair, burying it deep in his curls. “How are you still such an idiot?”

Art glanced at Patrick. “You have to stay.” The effect of the words was somewhat dampened when Art’s next move was to nuzzle Tashi’s throat.

A slightly hysterical laugh came out of Patrick’s throat. “Stay and what? Watch?”

“Maybe some other time,” Tashi said. “I have a better idea.”

Art made an inquisitive noise. “She has the best ideas,” he half-whispered to Patrick.

“What idea?” Patrick wasn’t convinced, but he had to ask.

Tashi shifted, pulling Art away from her. With her other hand, the one still buried in Patrick’s hair, she guided his head forward, until mere inches separated his face from Art’s.

“You two made up, so now it’s time to kiss,” she said, looking very, very pleased with herself.

Patrick jerked back. Something like panic flitted across Art’s eyes. Was this Tashi’s idea of a sick joke?

“Boys,” Tashi scolded. “You’re both so skittish. Don’t tell me this isn’t what you’ve wanted for a long time.”

 Both Art and Patrick spoke up at once, stammering over each other with very little of their words making any kind of sense. Tashi raised a hand and they both instantly fell silent.

“All right, I see that I can’t rush this,” she said and turned to Art, cupping his face in her hands. “Babe. I know you love me, this doesn’t change anything. You can be honest, okay?”

Art’s eyes darted between Patrick and Tashi, but he didn’t say anything.

Tashi sighed heavily and turned to Patrick. This time, instead of the gentle way she’d touched Art, she placed a possessive hand on the nape of Patrick’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. Her gaze was all alpha intensity, burning a hole through all of Patrick’s layers.

“How long have you been in love with Art?” she asked.

“Forever.” The word felt like it was punched out of him.

Art actually gasped. “Patrick?”

Patrick tried to shrug like it didn’t matter. “How could I not?” Then, belatedly, he looked at his alpha. “I love you, too, Tashi.”

“I know,” Tashi said, a little too smugly. “I’m not the one you have to convince.”

Patrick didn’t really want to convince Art of anything, let alone how embarrassingly in love he’s been with his best friend his whole life. But Tashi asked, so he had to try.

“Maybe not forever, but long enough that I don’t remember when it started,” he told Art. “Maybe it was that semis win against the Baumann twins, when you set me up for that beautiful dropper. Or when you wore that awful tux to junior prom and spent all night dancing with fucking Laura Tosetti. Or that time I snuck vodka into our dorm and we didn’t know we were supposed to drink it with mixers and both ended up taking turns throwing up half the night. Or—”

Art surged forward across Tashi’s lap and captured Patrick’s mouth with his.

It was so much better than Patrick remembered. Art took control this time, having clearly had plenty of practice in the last thirteen years. Tashi’s hand was still on Patrick’s neck, just resting there with its reassuring weight. Patrick moaned and deepened the kiss, tangling his tongue with Art’s. Tashi’s scent spiked, a fresh wave of cloves mingling with Art’s own deepening scent, and it was all so perfect.

Patrick could so easily lose himself in all this, but he had the presence of mind to ask just one more question, just to be sure. He pulled away from Art—Art let out a petulant whine at that and started pressing kisses to Patrick’s jaw instead—and looked over at Tashi.

“You’re okay with this?” he asked.

Tashi smiled. “I’m more than okay with this.”

That was all the confirmation Patrick needed. There was still more to sort out, more conversations and negotiations—and fuck, what were they going to do about Art and Tashi’s daughter—but right now, all that mattered was they were all together and finally on the same page. As for what came next, well, mated triads were out of fashion these days, but not entirely unthinkable. And as Art moved down to nibble on Patrick’s neck and Tashi trailed a hand up Patrick’s leg, all the pieces of the puzzle Patrick had been trying to solve for thirteen years finally, finally clicked together.