Chapter Text
Derek Hale was too young to be this exhausted. He felt as though he’d been running full tilt since he was a child and just when he finally had the opportunity to get out, to be normal, to take it slow, he got sucked right back in.
“This would be your parking spot, of course,” the head of the Circle Arms Club said, gesturing toward a reserved space in the car park with a sign at the head that declared it belonged to the country club’s Tennis Pro.
Tennis Pro, Derek thought derisively. Because that’s what he was. A professional tennis player. Not for much longer. No, he’d fallen to 119th in the world. No matter what, this would be his last tournament.
He looked around, surveying the grounds. They were perfectly nice. He would be fine, he figured, teaching posh brats and handsy widows alike. It would be peaceful.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
“Looks great, really,” Derek said.
“Wonderful. We can’t wait for you to start.” And then, realizing that Derek’s work at the club was reliant upon him losing the tournament, “That is to say—”
“Yeah,” Derek said, giving him an escape.
He wanted to run, to get in the car and never look back at these manicured lawns and overly inquisitive women who had no understanding of personal boundaries. At least one of them had been so bold as to grope him, but the lot of them, they leered.
Derek dredged up a self-deprecating smile. They were so much easier to come by now than when he had been ranked 11th in the world. Fancy that. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
Then he was free, hair rustling in the wind as he drove home. Not his little flat in Brighton, that was more of a flophouse than anything. He hadn’t even had the chance to finish decorating it, too busy training for a sport he was no longer fit for. He pulled up to his parents’ house in Crawley, soothed by the raucously overgrown garden and cluttered kitchen.
“Mum? Dad?” Derek called as he let himself in to the drafty house. The only response he got was the murmur of voices from the first storey. “Cora, you home?”
The closer he got to his younger sister’s room, the louder the voices became until the blur of noise sorted itself into a distinct pattern of grunts and moans.
Warily pushing the door open, Derek found Cora stood in front of a punching bag, practicing her boxing as the tabletop telly blared some grainy porn.
“Is that a VHS? Jesus, Cora, why don’t you stream your porn like a normal person?”
“The reception’s shit,” Cora said, not bothering to look at him as she threw another uppercut at the bag. “Now get out. I’ll be damned if neither one of us wins a match this year.”
Sighing, Derek went back downstairs, only to be intercepted by his mother. Talia Hale was an imposing figure, not in stature but in her presence. At times it made her overbearing, but mostly she used her powers for good, too empathetic by half. She herded him toward the dining room, forcing him to set the table as she brought in the heaping piles of food she’d made for dinner. She laid in wait until dinner was underway before starting in on her concerns.
“You’re looking rather gaunt, Derek. Here, have another helping.”
“Mum, stop, I’m fine.”
“You most certainly are not. Now tell me, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Derek said, staring hard at his plate. He pushed his peas around, idly spelling Q U I T. “I’m just focused on the match coming up.”
“Oh, not this again,” Derek’s father said.
“What’s that?” Talia said.
“He doesn’t want us to come watch him play. He thinks if we’re there he won’t win.”
“It’s not that, it’s just… Well, I haven’t ever won when any of you lot are at one of my matches during the tournament. That’s true.”
“Oh, Derek. It shouldn’t matter if we’re there or not,” his mother said. “I believe you to be a truly great tennis player, you’ve just always been afraid to admit it to yourself.”
“I’m not afraid,” Derek said, thinking about how tired he’s been. “I’m old.”
“Don’t be absurd, 31 isn’t old.”
“It is in tennis years. I might as well be your age. And I’m tired of hotels and I’m tired of airports, and long-distance love affairs that never go anywhere.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. The traveling allowed him long-distance love affairs that never went anywhere, that were never serious; short flings with other players and adoring fans he could forget about in the morning. It had been easier that way, ever since his ill-fated affair with international superstar Kate Argent when he’d been a fresh-faced and eager young player, just into his first major tourney.
Even so, he was tired of meaningless. He wanted a connection. He wanted something real.
“And losing,” Cora said. “Don’t forget that.”
“Yeah, and losing, thanks Cora.”
Cora smirked. Finally, his father spoke. “Derek, remember how I always told you that tennis was a gentleman’s game?” He paused, waiting for Derek’s nod of acknowledgement. “Total bollocks. Everything I ever told you - total bollocks.”
“Dad—”
“No, son. It’s true. Everything,” he said, waving around to encompass the house, their lives, everything, “is senseless. Tennis, sports. Life it isn’t about being a gentleman. Or a lady or whatever. Cora, this is for you, too. Life is about trying. It’s putting in your best effort. You go into the world and you recognize that it doesn’t give one whit of care about you. It owes you nothing. So you go out and you try your damndest and you do it again and again and again. You are in charge of what happens.”
Derek took a second to digest all of this. “You’re still not getting your tickets.”
* * *
Derek strode into the hotel, glad the tournament, at least, was on his home turf. He couldn’t imagine the weariness he would feel if this were the US or Australian Open. Making his way to the check-in desk, he flashed the receptionist a smile as he collected his room assignment.
“Room 1221, sir. Top floor. One of the suites.”
Puzzled, Derek took the key card. That didn’t seem right.
“I’m sorry, I think you—” he said, but the woman had already turned to help someone else. Sighing, Derek hefted his bags and strode toward the lift.
He had never rated a suite before, not even when he was one of the top ranked players in the world. It made no sense he would be afforded that now. He wasn’t even one of the best English players in this tournament.
Yet when Derek exited the lift, his key worked, no problem. The room was awe-inspiring—an open floor plan that had two separate bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and oh, the bathroom. The door had been left open, steam billowing out as one of the hottest people Derek had ever seen in his life luxuriated in the shower. Derek couldn’t take his eyes off of those perfect abs, toned arms, and the way his full lips were faintly tilted up, as if he were enjoying Derek’s lechery.
Shit.
Derek laughed, a nervous chuckle as he was caught blatantly ogling the hottest man he had ever seen.
“Fuck,” Derek said.
“You need something?” And oh, that voice was unfair. Smooth as honey and laughing, but more in delight at being appreciated than mocking Derek. He just seemed so amused.
“No. I mean, I, uh, I think the front desk messed up?” Derek cursed the way he stuttered and stumbled over his words. He was more choked up than he’d been as a teenager for Christ sake. Trying to save himself, he said, “I was expecting something with less of a view.”
The guy smirked and fuck he was barely more than a kid. Derek was going straight to hell, but he didn’t try and stop his eyes from flitting all over the guy. He was lithe, his brown hair wet and mussed, streaming water down to his happy trail and shit, avert your eyes, Derek thought, only to catch on those long, sinuous fingers as they pulled a towel from the back of the bathroom door and wrapped them around his lean hips.
Derek wanted to bite them.
Dammit.
“The front desk gave me a key for 1221,” Derek said, anything to keep himself from staring any longer.
“Yeah, my 1221, apparently.”
“Yeah, your 1221. I didn’t think I rated a suite anymore.”
“You’re Derek Hale, right?”
“You know who I am?” He hated the way his voice came out all surprised and pleased. This American child did not need any advantage over him. Shit, they’d probably be playing each other during the tournament. Derek needed to get out, now.
“Of course, man. I was obsessed with you when I was younger. I mean, uh, the way you crushed Greenberg in the final round of the Australian Open. That was a thing of beauty.”
“Oh, thanks,” Derek said, feeling the flush suffuse his skin. He needed to get it together. “Stilinski, right? You’ve been making quite a name for yourself.”
“Stiles.”
“Your parents named you Stiles Stilinski?”
“Ha! No, but my first name is a pain and it’s easier for fans, I guess. I don’t know, I didn’t have much of a say in my branding. My agent told me it’d be a better sell and… it’s a long story. But yeah, man, call me Stiles.”
“Stiles, right,” Derek nodded his head, smiling inanely. “Well, I guess I better get out of your hair. Good body.”
“What was that?” God, Stiles’ smirk was downright sinful. Derek could have dropped to his knees right then.
“Goodbye,” Derek corrected. Jesus, he needed to get a grip. “I should go sort this out with the front desk.” (Thank them. Profusely. Biggest tip ever, just like Stiles’— STOP IT, HALE. Keep it together.)
Before Stiles could say anything else, Derek slipped out of the front door, not feeling safe until the lock clicked into place behind him.
Twenty minutes later found Derek letting himself into his actual room. He looked around the cramped, minimalistic space – nothing more than a double bed and simple bathroom. Yup, Derek thought, this feels right.