TATUM WALKED INTO THE FINAL MATCH OF Phil's Tiretown Challenger -- this damned challenger that somehow has changed her life entirely -- with a distant memory as of a week ago, Patrick Zweig, at her side.

The stands were filled to the brim -- none there for Patrick -- but almost all cheering and hooting as Tatum walked out.

It was an exciting entrance, sure, but Tatum was only focused on Patrick and the shared goal they had: that he'd win today.

It was interesting, really, being Patrick's coach. He was already a stellar tennis player - he didn't need to be taught much. It was all a power play to get his name back on the map. Each Tennis magazine and news outlet: Tatum Nichols to coach washed-up Patrick Zweig for a season.

They were brutal, honestly, but neither Patrick or Tatum had anything left to lose.

"Any words of wisdom, coach?" Patrick asks with a boyish smirk, setting his bag down on the court beside him.

She grins, her eyes glimmering with intensity as she looks up at him and pats the side of his arm. "Eyes on the prize."

He laughs, giving her a playful eye roll. "Wow, thank you."

The elephant in the room was whether he was going to actually throw the match like Tashi requested or not. Hopefully not.

But neither of them bothered to mention anything.

Nor did they have time to, because in mere moments the crowd picks up again and in comes Tashi and Art.

Art's eyes are down as he walks beside his still wife. He looks as though they've just gotten in a fight and it now pains him to walk beside her with his wedding ring still on.

But despite Patrick clearing his throat and trying to say some stupidly coy joke about the two, Tatum is entirely fixated on the way Art's blue eyes light up at the sight of her, even yards away from across the court.

They share a smile like they have a secret (which they do) and they don't care who might find out (they don't).

"Why were you so angry when I said I was sleeping with Tashi but you've been sleeping with Art?" Patrick scoffs, sending a warm heat up Tatum's face like she's back in high school. "I didn't think infidelity was on your radar, Tum."

He's smiling -- grinning -- as he says it but Tatum only rolls her eyes.

She turns to face him and quickly, when she does, she's almost... blushing. "Why would you say that?"

Patrick's laugh booms even louder than before. "Why are you blushing--"

Tatum smacks his arm, nearly shoving him back with strong force, even in a tiny body. "Fuck off!"

His laughs begin to dim, but they're still much apparent.

The blonde's face turns from flustered to stern quick as she wags a finger in Patrick's face. "Eyes on the prize."

The meaning is entirely different the second time she says it -- and they both know it too -- and somehow even after all these years, they're able to conversate with only their eyes. And when they do, they both understand what the prize in question is.

"Eyes on the prize." He repeats to himself as she gives him one final pat before going to take her seat in the bleachers.

However, unfortunately for her, in just a few minutes she'd be joined by none other than Tashi with her entourage following behind.

Neither of them say anything but they both know they want to. It's like a desire that is eating away at the both of them but is clear.

Tashi wants to subtly belittle Tatum some more like she always did over the years, but luckily for Tatum, she was finally ten points ahead of Tashi.

Tatum knew more than Tashi would ever suspect. And that was enough to terrify the dark-haired woman if she ever found out.

The intensifying silence continues for five long minutes until finally after a coin toss, the umpire announces that Art is to serve.

He does, and when he does -- when his racket hits that ball and shoots it down the court -- for once in the hundreds of matches Tatum had seen, she had no clue who was going to win.

Patrick hits it back and he uses so much force and pent up anger that you can hear the swooshing sound of the felt ball flying through the air back at Art and then right into the net.

"Fuck!" He yells out, already letting the anticipation get the best in him.

The crowd shares a synchronized noise of disappointment already, some already cooing and others yelling words of encouragement. But for Art.

Another point is scored by Patrick within a matter of seconds and it isn't long before Tashi gets this worried look on her face and begins to readjust her position in her seat. Good.

Patrick looks back at the two women — mostly to Tashi — prompting Art to as well.

Art never wanted to feel left out, especially not now when Patrick was trying to tell his ex-wife something in code.

His blue eyes linger on Tatum for a brief moment longer until he settles back into position and Tashi stands up, walking past where Tatum sits and doesn't stop until she's outside of the gates. 

It isn't long before Art gets his point, though, and when does, the first set comes to a close. 

Tatum watches as Patrick takes his red-lined black shirt off over his head and drapes it carelessly over the side of his chair before reaching into his bag for a banana, first setting his racket down. 

The boys take their seats on either side of the umpire's big chair and silently get what they need to give them a boost. 

And as for Patrick, his is taking a big bite out of his banana and looking over to Art, smirking like he's trying to taunt him with something he'll never have. 

Upon finishing it, both him and Art put their shirts back on and the Umpire announces the second set. 

"Donaldson to serve." He says, the crowd erupting into more cheers as they both prepare for the next serve. 

Tashi returns and Tatum has to go back to sitting up straight in that stiffened position -- afraid of a hypothetical or real knife to be jammed into her thigh. 

As for this set, Art leads with 3 points until Patrick finally gets his first. As if they're both hungry for a win but for different reasons. 

Tatum counts as the ball flies back and forth 8 times before ultimately it hits Patrick's side and he doesn't hit back. 

"Out!" He yells, a prideful grin on his face. 

But the umpire disagrees. "Thirty, love." 

Patrick's face contorts to anger and disbelief, the veins in his neck almost popping out as he walks toward the Umpire's chair, staring at him with wide eyes. "That was out! That was way out!" 

The umpire takes his sunglasses off to get a better look at him. "The ball was called in."

"Are you blind?" Patrick turns to face one of the linesmen. 

Shit. Had Patrick been facing the other way, Tatum would motion for him to cut it out -- even if he was some thirty-something-year-old man who did need treated like a toddler at times. 

"Zweig!" The umpire warns. 

"Are you here to do your job or are you just excited that Art Donaldson's over there?" 

"I'm going to give you a code violation if you don't stop this." 

Patrick doesn't stop, though. 

Tatum face palms, hiding her face with her hands angrily as she listens to Patrick yell out to Art. 

"This lady wants your autograph!" He waves toward the woman in the bright yellow shirt who he'd already spent the last two minutes yelling at. 

The crowd gasps and makes a classic oooing sound, only adding fuel to the fire in which Tatum's entire body is overwhelmed with rage. And it doesn't help when she can see out of the corner of her eye that Tashi has this stupid smirk on her face.  

"Code violation. Unsportsmanlike conduct." The umpire announces into his microphone. "Point penalty, Zweig." 

Patrick looks up to Tatum like she's his mother and there's something she can do about it. He has this annoyed, dumbfounded smile on his face as he wipes the tip of his nose in an angry manner as he walks to the corner of where the court ends. 

"Is this how you want to get your points?" He yells out to Art once again. 

Art throws his hands in the air. "Ready to serve, Patrick!" 

He scoffs, finally positioning himself. "Yeah, I bet." 

"Forty, love." 

At this rate, Tatum was almost positive Patrick wasn't going to win this. And if he didn't, it would be at the cost of Tatum's name and reputation. But what angered her far more than that, was that it would mean Tashi would win. 

And that angered her more than anything else in the world. It made her blood feel like fire and only gave her the urge to rip her skin off to spare herself of the pain. 

So instead of watching and letting her, she took a page out of Tashi's playbook and she steps out, away from the court and the chaos. 

She can feel all one-hundred-and-one eyes on her but she doesn't care, just needs to get out of there. Despite the 6 separate staff members that ask her if they can help her with anything. 

Tatum's anxiety reaches a crescendo as she steps away from the match, her mind racing and palms sweating. She moves briskly, trying to escape the suffocating atmosphere that is the tournament grounds. 

Her heartbeat quickens with a mix of disappointment, frustration, and fear.

Hell, Patrick's erratic behavior on the court has not only jeopardized his chances of winning. And though it was ironic, despite Tatum's now hatred for this sport, she was now in a life of retirement in which whatever happened today would dictate the final chapter of her career. 

If Patrick loses, it will have all been for nothing. 

But if he wins -- oh, if he wins, it'll be glory days for the rest of Tatum's life when she looks back on her career but at what cost? If Patrick Zweig wins today's match like he's beaten Art all the times before, then Art walks away from his entire career with a loss. 

The sound of her own breathing becomes a muffled backdrop to her racing thoughts. She leans against a wall, trying to steady herself, feeling the beginnings of a panic attack tightening her chest. Images of Tashi's smug face and Art's disappointed gaze replay in her mind like a tormenting loop.

She knows she should go back, should rally behind Patrick, but the fear of witnessing his potential defeat paralyzes her. It's dramatic, sure. 

But Tatum was regretting coming to this stupid challenger regardless in this stupid town in nowhere New York. 

If only she stayed-- 

"Excuse me?" A woman's voice echoes in the openness of the air but Tatum isn't sure whether or not it's another figment of the voice in the back of her head or not. 

Slowly, she turns her head and removes her hand from where it previously rested on her chest - right over her beating heart. 

A short-haired woman stands with a young girl beside her. She couldn't have been any older than seven or eight and had a red visor on her head like she herself was a tennis player. 

She has rosy cheeks and a big smile and appears flustered as her mother pushes her closer to Tatum. 

"We're sorry for bothering you, but my daughter and I are huge fans." The older woman grins from ear-to-ear, her hand clutched tightly in her hand and the camera app already opened. "Could we get a picture?" 

Tatum quickly changes her expression from fear to genuinity. She gives that million-dollar smile and motions for the eager girl to come stand beside her. She kneels down just the slightest to get closer to the girl's level as her mother begins snapping a few pictures. 

"Can you say eyes on the prize?" Her mother asks the both of them -- as if something to say in replacement of cheese. 

They both do, but it means more for Tatum to say. 

The woman's smile grows as she takes her daughter's hand and thanks her for meeting them and the picture, but Tatum can't help the feeling of calmness swarm her. 

Eyes on the prize.