Chapter Text
There are threads that cannot be seen, yet they hold together footsteps, choices and breaths.
They have neither beginning nor end, they move through the years like hidden veins, like silent currents beneath the calm surface of a sea.
Sometimes it takes time to notice them. Other times a single glance, a fleeting encounter or a detail that leaves a sweet, indelible mark in memory is enough.
In either case, those threads have the extraordinary power to bind two souls that, no matter how far they may try to drift apart, will always find their way back to each other.
So it was for them.
Jannik Sinner and Carlos Alcaraz discovered that thread in 2019, on a dazzling Spanish afternoon.
The Challenger in Alicante had none of the blinding lights of the great arenas, nor the clamor of cameras and crowds.
There were only small wooden bleachers, a few curious locals, some distracted journalists taking notes between sips of coffee and light conversation. Yet, for those stepping onto the court, it was the center of the world.
The wind carried the salty scent of the nearby sea, mingling with the red clay dust that clung to skin, clothes, and shoes. The heat was dry, gently burning the back of the neck, while the steady rhythm of rackets and tennis balls created a sound almost hypnotic in its repetition. The air smelled of sun and salt, and though only a few dozen spectators sat in the stands, most of them barely paying attention, for the two boys on court time itself seemed to have stopped.
They were not yet champions or idols, only two young players, still unformed in body but already steady and knowing in the eyes, two names lost in the vast atlas of the sport’s possible futures.
Jannik was seventeen, already tall, narrow-shouldered, his gaze quiet and mature.
He carried within him the echo of the Dolomites: a glacial calm, a silent endurance and a precision that seemed innate. It was like his homeland had shaped him entirely.
Anyone seeing him for the first time could have guessed where he came from. His strokes were built with the patience of someone who could read every point, every movement, every surge of an opponent’s energy.
And the opponent that day was not an ordinary one.
Carlos, just fifteen, seemed the very sun of Murcia made flesh, small, agile, and explosive, his energy flowing through every motion as if his body could never truly rest yet always found its balance.
His forehand was fierce and quick, his two-handed backhand smooth as music. His serve had power, but what made him remarkable was the way he moved.
He didn’t simply play. He seemed to dance, each step already preparing for the next stroke, a choreography of instinct and precision that anyone watching closely would have recognized as pure harmony.
When they met for the first time, neither could have guessed what the years ahead would hold, but from the very first rallies, something silent and electric passed between them.
A tension, a connection that neither could name but both could feel.
The match began under a still-mild sun.
Carlos started with boldness, serving fast and clean, his forehands pushing Jannik farther back, his feet gliding lightly across the court. Jannik, composed and unhurried, responded with deep, intelligent shots, mixing variations that forced Carlos to adjust.
Each point unfolded like a small exercise in strategy, though Carlos’s unpredictability demanded that Jannik adapt with growing speed and precision.
The first set ended 6–2 for Carlos, but Jannik felt no discouragement. He knew that every match was a lesson, every point a step forward, every struggle a necessary part of what he was becoming.
The rallies stretched longer, the balls thudding against the clay, the air shimmering with heat and concentration. Sweat slid down their faces and pooled at their wrists.
The score shifted back and forth, every game won feeling both like a triumph and a challenge returned.
It wasn’t simply tennis. It was intelligence, endurance, will. The few people in the stands clapped politely, unaware of the growing intensity between two boys who had, without meaning to, found in each other something rare and unsettling.
In the end, Carlos won, but not easily. Jannik had made him run, had forced him to think, had tested him more than he expected.
As Jannik shook his head and stepped forward for the handshake, a strange shiver went through him. This boy was not like the others.
When Carlos’s hand met his, Jannik spoke almost without realizing it. “I hope we’ll play again in the future.”
The words came lightly, but they carried a weight he couldn’t yet explain. Something in that boy —the energy, the passion, the sheer force of being alive— had struck him deeply.
Carlos was good and that brilliance fascinated him as much as it unsettled him. Jannik knew, even then, that this would not be the last time their paths would cross.
Carlos smiled without answering, and that smile felt already like a promise.
-
The years passed and with them the lightness of adolescence dissolved into the weight of expectation.
Two young men, still at the beginning of their careers, were already carrying the future of their sport on their shoulders.
Every tournament, every match, felt like another step toward a destiny written not by them, but by others.
By journalists, by fans, even by legends like Federer and Nadal, who watched them with curious eyes, measuring how much space was left for themselves in the story of tennis before handing the crown to these two new heirs.
Jannik felt that pressure like a silent stone pressing on his chest. Each time he walked onto the court, he could almost hear the commentators’ voices following him, lingering in his ears until some louder sound drowned them out.
In his mind there was only the dull thud of tennis balls during practice, the burn of breath in his lungs, the sleepless nights spent wondering whether he was truly ready to become what the world now expected him to be.
After his Wimbledon victory in 2025, he sat on the edge of his hotel bed for a long time, the trophy beside him.
He did not look at it with pure joy, but with a mixture of pride and unease.
He was the youngest Italian to win it, the new world number one, and that shining cup at his side seemed to contain all the miles, the flights, the changed rackets, the sore muscles and sleepless nights that had led him there. But his thoughts circled around a single question.
If I’ve reached this point, tomorrow they will want more. Will I be capable of giving it?
Carlos experienced everything differently, and yet in a way that mirrored him.
His explosive tennis and contagious smile had made him a darling of the crowds. Many admired him, though some dismissed him as cocky or overconfident. More than once, he had read comments describing him as ‘the one who never worries about anything’.
They didn’t know how wrong they were. Because when the lights went out and the phone stopped buzzing, silence became a mirror, showing him every one of his doubts.
He often thought of the words of Juan Carlos Ferrero, his coach, mentor and perhaps the most grounding presence in his life. “You have the fire, but you must learn to rule it.”
In those solitary hours, watching his own matches on a screen, Carlos wondered if that fire inside him would be enough to bear the weight of comparison. With Djokovic, with Nadal, with the lingering shadows of giants.
His 2024 Roland Garros victory had been sweet, the kind that left heat beneath the skin, earned through exhaustion and grit under the Paris sun. But even in triumph there was poison.
And now? How long will it last? How many times will I have to prove that I deserve it?
Their careers unfolded in parallel, every semifinal or final a kind of silent call between them.
It was never just another match. It was a reminder that the other existed, alive, constant, a witness to each step forward.
Every time they met, Jannik felt that strange mix of pride and tension. He knew he had to give everything, not only for himself, but because Carlos was there, watching, testing him, always the measure of what excellence meant.
Sometimes it burned to admit how much he wanted his opponent to be the Spaniard, how he almost longed for the challenge of facing him again, as if only through him he could truly understand his own limits. There were moments when he wanted to grab him by the shoulders, drag him into a locker room and say, Tell me how you do it, though deep down he knew that request wasn’t only about tennis.
Carlos, in his own way, felt the same.
The mere presence of Jannik seemed to ignite and sting all at once. He watched him closely, studied the way he breathed during crucial points, how he handled the tension, how his rhythm never broke. He told himself it was only analysis, only strategy, but then his eyes would linger longer than needed.
He noticed the small lines that appeared between Jannik’s brows when he focused, the flick of his tongue when he thought, the way his hair always took the shape of the cap he wore under the sun. He observed in silence, though even silence, in those moments, seemed to hold weight.
After a grueling semifinal in Miami that stretched into a third set, they found themselves in the same corridor, both drained and soaked in sweat.
The white walls still seemed to vibrate with the echoes of the crowd that had cheered their match, another proof of how deeply their names were beginning to entwine within the sport’s history.
Carlos gave a soft laugh and patted Jannik’s shoulder. It was a simple gesture, something players often did, but between them it felt different, heavier.
“You’ve got a backhand made of ice,” he said, smiling. “You never miss.”
Jannik met his gaze, sweat glistening on his temples, his breath still uneven. “You never stop fighting, even when you should. It’s exhausting.”
It was true. Carlos never stopped. He couldn’t let go even when the match was slipping away. He kept fighting to the very end and Jannik wasn’t used to that.
It unnerved him, it frustrated him, God, how it frustrated him.
For a moment neither spoke, the hum of the air conditioning filling the silence. Then Carlos added softly, a half-smile curving his lips, “Maybe that’s why it’s always fun.”
He wasn’t sure whether it was a provocation or a confession.
Jannik didn’t answer right away. His mouth curved in a faint, reluctant smile, the kind that doesn’t melt the ice, but cracks it. And though he would never have said it aloud, he knew Carlos was right.
With him, every match felt different. Sharper, more alive, more real.
The exchange was brief but heavy with meaning. Both knew that throughout the match, and in every one before it, they had watched each other, studied, memorized gestures, habits, the smallest movements.
The words were light, almost playful, but the message beneath was unmistakable.
I see you. I know you. I respect you.
Of course, Miami wasn’t the only time.
In Monte Carlo, the draw crossed their paths again.
Quarterfinals, a packed stadium, the lights painting them as heirs forced to meet too soon. After a thrilling comeback that would be remembered for years, Carlos emerged the winner.
When they crossed paths in the locker room, Jannik slung his bag over his shoulder and walked past him, but not without saying,
“You ran like the court belonged to you.”
Carlos replied almost instinctively, “And you made it feel smaller. I don’t know how you do that.”
There was no anger between them, no envy, only a quiet recognition of what they had both revealed to each other.
It wasn’t just about clay and lines and games. It went beyond that, though neither dared to name it.
Sometimes words weren’t even necessary.
At Wimbledon, sitting at nearby tables in the players’ lounge, they would occasionally lift their eyes at the same moment, finding each other’s gaze and holding it just long enough to say you again without speaking.
At airports, accustomed to endless waiting, they would discover they shared the same flight, the same gate, and exchange a silent, amused look that seemed to acknowledge the strange inevitability of their constant nearness.
Even their coaches had noticed. Once, after a practice session in New York, Vagnozzi, Jannik’s coach, sighed as he looked at the draw.
“You already know who’s next, don’t you?”
Jannik smiled faintly. “I don’t even need to check. He’s always there.”
It was true. Always there, always one step away.
Two parallel lines drawn by fate, destined to meet, to bend and to find each other again.
-
When they weren’t together, Jannik and Carlos remained connected all the same.
They never admitted it, neither to themselves nor aloud, but both knew it.
Jannik, methodical to the point of obsession, often found himself watching Carlos’s matches in streaming, even when he shouldn’t have, even when there were a hundred better things to do.
With his hood pulled over his head and his headphones slipping down over tired eyes, he studied every stroke. The whip of Carlos’s forehand, the way he shouted after an important point, the bright, conspiratorial smile he threw at the crowd as if he were sharing a secret, drawing strength from their applause.
It wasn’t mere technical curiosity, it was as if, by reliving that energy, he could fill a void he didn’t know how to name. Sometimes he noted things mentally. His serve is stronger today, more confidence in that cross-court backhand.
Other times he stayed silent, letting the commentators’ voices nail him in place, because even when Carlos played and he didn’t, Jannik’s own name inevitably slipped into the broadcast, his presence ghosting along the sidelines of the Spaniard’s victories.
Carlos, in turn, approached it differently. He watched Jannik’s matches with a mixture of admiration and unease. There was always that coolness about him, that maddening composure in the heat of battle, that made him seem not entirely human, not of the same world.
Carlos, all fire and instinct, couldn’t fathom it.
Sometimes he’d joke with friends who loved to tease him by putting on Jannik’s highlights. “He never sweats. It’s like he’s carved out of ice,” he’d laugh, exhaling sharply.
Beneath the laughter lay a spark of reverence, something dangerously close to affection.
Their connection online was quieter, almost invisible.
They followed each other, but rarely interacted. An occasional like, a photo from a shared tournament, a fleeting story view. Somehow, that was enough.
Jannik would scroll through Carlos’s photos: sun-drenched beaches, friends, laughter, women, that effortless charm.
Something in him tightened, a sensation he didn’t dare name. How does he always find the time to live? he’d think, glancing at his own suitcase, already packed for the next tournament.
Carlos, meanwhile, would pause when Jannik appeared on his feed. His posts were sparse, almost austere. Training sessions, airport gates, hotel rooms washed in late light. Most of his images came from sponsors or stray paparazzi shots. There was a mystery to him, a self-contained world no one was allowed to enter.
Once, during dinner at home, his mother smiled when she caught him scrolling.
“That’s Jannik, isn’t it? You’re always looking at him.”
Carlos had laughed and shrugged, saying nothing, but the warmth that rose to his face betrayed him.
Others noticed too. Coaches, friends, even journalists amused by how their names seemed to come in pairs.
During one dinner among players, a friend had chuckled. “You do realize your career and his are practically one story now? No sports channel can mention you without mentioning him.”
Carlos had deflected with an easy joke, pretending to take it lightly. But inside, he’d felt the truth of it settling, undeniable and deep.
Jannik, on his side, had learned to ignore the gossip about Carlos’s private life. Wild stories born of nothing, little sparks that burned fast and false.
Still, every time a photo surfaced of him on a beach, laughing beside someone, a bitter shiver ran through him. He told himself it was irritation, not jealousy.
Maybe it was just the knowledge that while he was chained to his discipline, Carlos somehow lived two lives, the athlete and the boy still free.
One night, on a flight to New York, Jannik leafed through the complimentary sports magazine tucked in the seat pocket.
On the cover, Carlos. Again. Smiling, impossibly alive, the headline blazing
“The Golden Boy of World Tennis: Carlos Alcaraz, Talent and Charm.”
Jannik stared for a long moment. He couldn’t explain the rush of heat in his chest.
Golden boy.
The phrase unsettled him. Not the praise itself, but the way it painted Carlos as something untouchable, a creature of light.
He flipped a few pages without focus, then shut the magazine sharply, closing his eyes to the hum of the engines and the darkness beyond the window. Thr image of that smile lingered long after.
Sometimes, someone from his team would tease him. “So, did you see where Alcaraz was last week? Ibiza, I think. You’re always at home training.”
Jannik would smile faintly, shake his head, pretend not to care. But inside, a thought burned, one he never allowed to take form.
Carlos wasn’t immune either.
One evening after training, he was idly scrolling through Instagram when a picture stopped him. Jannik, laughing at the beach, beside a girl.
Nothing special. He knew her, a fellow player, tall, blonde, cool. Exactly the kind of person he’d expect Jannik to be with.
His manager, sitting next to him, caught the expression and chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, it’s just a photo.”
Carlos looked up and laughed, too quickly.“Jealous? Come on, it’s just Sinner!”
But a sharp pang twisted in his stomach. It wasn’t jealousy, not really, he told himself. It was… attention, too much attention. The kind that made it impossible to look away.
He never admitted it, not even in the privacy of his thoughts, but from that moment on, whenever Jannik’s name appeared, he always stopped, even if only for a heartbeat.
-
2025 was nothing like the years that had come before and they both knew it.
It was in the air everywhere. There was no longer the freshness of surprise, no longer the innocence of first triumphs.
It was the year when tennis, the media, even the fans, had decided that the Big Three belonged to the past, and that the present, and, to some extent, the future, carried only two names.
Always the same.
Sinner and Alcaraz.
It didn’t matter where they played or against whom, their careers ran in parallel, yet every path seemed to bend toward the same intersection.
A billboard in New York for the same sponsor, an interview in London, a commentator in Australia. Everywhere, the association was inevitable.
By that point, even they had stopped resisting it. They knew they could not change a thing.
Carlos realized it one evening in Murcia. He had returned home for a few days, surrounded by lifelong friends who knew him better than anyone, who had seen him grow into the champion who now moved across the court as if the world were made just for him.
They laughed, spoke loudly, teased him about the latest magazine photos. “Always surrounded by girls, huh, Carlitos?”
He laughed, raised his hands, took a sip of wine. But as soon as someone mentioned the word season, his thoughts drifted immediately to Jannik.
Not Djokovic, not Medvedev, not Zverev, no.
Him, always him.
That night, while his friends slept on sofas exhausted from wine and cigars and the house was draped in silence, Carlos remained awake with his phone in hand.
He scrolled through the notifications.
“Sinner in the final at Rotterdam.”
And the sensation washed over him, the one he had come to know all too well. A mixture of pride and irritation, of challenge and attraction.
It was as if part of his own life had been written by someone else who loved seeing him and Jannik together at the net, as if he could not exist without the other half.
Jannik endured the same sentence in Monte Carlo, at home. Morning light barely revealed the sea beyond the training courts.
His coach’s voice cut through the air. “Faster, Jan! You have to be ready. When Alcaraz is on the other side, he won’t spare you!”
Jannik lowered his gaze, clenched his jaw, and pushed harder. He gave no answer, no grimace. Inside, something churned. Always that name.
Later, sitting alone in the locker room, his hands still trembling from exertion, he looked into the mirror and realized it wasn’t pure anger. There was something different.
The other was not just an opponent. He was measure and mirror, limit and engine. His greatest obstacle, and the reason he pushed himself further.
And for all its torment, he already knew. Without Carlos, nothing would have had the same meaning.
Meanwhile, 2025 raced forward.
Wins piled up, titles accumulated and, with them, expectations.
They had grown. No longer boys, but men, conscious of the weight upon their shoulders. They were no longer merely tennis players, they were symbols, chosen heirs.
Every gesture, every word, every smile captured by cameras carried the mark of responsibility. They knew that whatever they did, whatever they said, would be watched, heard, imitated, printed in the papers. They bore the weight of being both the present and the future of a sport.
As time passed, it became increasingly clear that neither of them could bear that weight alone.
They had surrendered to destiny, they would carry it together.
Neither knew that the coming summer would confront them with a crossroads from which there was no turning back.
New York, The US Open.
There, the invisible thread that had bound them together for years would be stretched to the breaking point.
Or it would transform into something even greater.
-
JFK Airport buzzed with voices and rolling suitcases.
It was late August, the sticky heat of a New York summer enveloping everyone in suffocating warmth, mingled with the scents of coffee and the endless line of taxis.
Jannik arrived with his team in silence, as always. Backpack slung over his shoulder, a lightweight hoodie, cap pulled low over his pale eyes.
He didn’t like drawing attention, far from it, yet he couldn’t avoid it entirely.
Photographers spotted him immediately, quick flashes, shouted questions he ignored with the faintest polite smile, a few hurried photos with fans, a handful of autographed tennis balls, never lingering too long, never speaking more than necessary. He retreated behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, searching through the noise for a small island of calm.
New York, again. Another Slam, another weight to carry.
As he navigated through the crowd, he thought of how much had changed in just a few years.
He was no longer the shy boy who amazed with his precise strokes. He was a man now, a favorite, a name that made draws tremble and crowds hold their breath, a player who had won over everyone with his quiet, measured charm.
Inside, he still felt the same anxious flutter he had felt at seventeen.
A few miles away, that same afternoon, Carlos landed with an entirely different energy. His sports jacket open, an easy, wide smile, exchanging jokes with his travel companions. The press adored him, and he knew how to return the attention.
He greeted fans, paused to chat, signed autographs with personal notes, laughter bursting from him, cutting through the general hum like a bell. Beneath that carefree exterior, his heart raced.
New York welcomed them both, yet neither was truly alone.
Because even in the largest city in the world, each could already sense the other breathing somewhere, poised to meet him, to intersect with his destiny.
-
The New York sun fell straight onto Flushing Meadows and the blue courts seemed to shimmer under its heat.
It was the first day of official practice for the US Open, and the air hummed with the precision of a massive machine already in motion.
Ball kids sprinting across the courts, preparing to give their best in the matches ahead, coaches speaking loudly, cameras moving silently like predators, journalists scouting and scribbling notes, fans observing from a distance, hoping to witness a glimpse of magic.
Jannik arrived early, carrying the quiet intensity of someone who wished to hide within the dawn. His orange cap blended with his hair, shadowing his pale eyes, the Gucci bag slung over his shoulders, he settled on the edge of a bench for a few moments.
He breathed deeply the scent of the court resin, a smell that carried the memory of old battles and the promise of new ones.
Then he rose and began hitting with an almost obsessive rhythm, forehand after forehand, backhand after backhand, as if each stroke could push away the thoughts crowding his mind.
“Deeper, Jan!” his coach shouted.
He nodded without looking. He already knew what it meant, already felt the weight of what he was preparing for, even without certainty, as always.
Across the complex, almost at the same hour, Carlos made his entrance.
There was no hurry in his movements, quite the opposite. He greeted everyone, offered a smile to a camera, took the time to shake hands and listen to a joke or two. But the moment the ball began to bounce on his side of the court, his joy transformed into fierce concentration.
“Más rápido, Carlos!” his coach urged in Spanish.
The boy’s arm cut through the air like a taut bowstring ready to release. He knew he would have to keep going, for reasons that were all too clear.
During a break, Jannik took a sip of water and set the bottle down. A young ball kid, with the excitement of someone witnessing something extraordinary and the shyness of someone afraid to overstep, asked timidly, “Do you think you’ll face Alcaraz?”, the boy asked innocently, and Jannik tensed for a moment.
“Let’s see what destiny says,” he joked briefly, aware that it was not hardly improbable, and far from unusual. In fact, quite the opposite.
At the same moment, Carlos was receiving a compliment from a journalist who had edged closer to the court for a fleeting interview destined for a local paper later.
“Did you see that Sinner is already on the court? You’re training almost at the same time.”
Carlos wiped the sweat from his forehead, a wide but controlled smile on his face. “Yes… always like this, isn’t it?” he replied, his tone swinging between resignation and a restrained amusement.
In the afternoon, coincidences multiplied.
Jannik finished his practice and, walking down one of the corridors leading to the locker rooms, caught a laugh out of the corner of his ear.
He didn’t need to turn to know whose it was.
It was Carlos, just arriving for a stretching session with his team.
Their eyes met briefly, a flash lasting no more than a second. No words were spoken.
But that instant alone reminded them both that, even in a city so vast, destiny kept them close.
-
The draw room was bathed in a cold, almost impersonal light, as if to emphasize the mathematical, inevitable nature of the ritual about to unfold.
Beneath that sterile illumination, human emotions simmered. Glances exchanged, breaths held, hearts quietly racing.
Seated at a distance, in opposite corners of the room, Jannik and Carlos watched in silence, accompanied by their teams.
The USTA official took the microphone, carrying the solemnity of one who holds destiny in his hands.
“Number one seed, Carlos Alcaraz.”
The name was placed at the top of the draw, in the white box that now bore a tangible weight.
Carlos lowered his gaze just slightly, a brief, knowing smile crossing his face, the kind of smile that acknowledged the inevitability of it all.
Then, as if in a mirrored ritual, “Number two seed, Jannik Sinner.”
His name slid down into the opposite half, like two poles that repel and attract at the same time.
Jannik drew a deep, almost imperceptible breath, and for a fleeting moment, the sensation of déjà vu washed over him.
How many times had this happened before? How many times had fate, blind to the rest of the world, ended up drawing this perfect symmetry?
It was mathematical, calculated, of course. They were the world’s number one and two, vying for the same titles, ranking closely together, but it was incredible, almost miraculous, that it was precisely these two, among so many, to share these spots, and above all, these feelings, to carry this destiny.
No one else on the circuit could take the place of either one. It was them and them alone.
The flashes of photographers, poised to publish the news across the top sports pages, filled the room.
For the two of them, in that moment, the noise was distant, muffled.
Only the invisible lines connecting those two opposing boxes existed, the trajectory that, day after day, victory after victory, could once again bring them face to face.
The draw continued. Djokovic appeared in the top half, Medvedev in the bottom, the possible semifinals taking shape as journalists scribbled eagerly.
But for them, those details were mere background. It was as if the entire draw, with its names and countless uncertainties, was only the inevitable prelude to that final line.
Final.
Everyone, from colleagues to journalists to coaches, knew exactly for whom that final was meant.
When the last name was drawn and the official’s voice fell silent, Jannik and Carlos lifted their eyes at the same instant.
They did not search for each other, they did not need to. They already knew.
New York, once again, was preparing its stage for them.
That the city that never sleeps was waiting for a night in which destiny would take its next turn, bringing them once more face to face.
It was no longer just tennis. It was a story, one that someone higher than them had been writing for a long time.
And it was a beautiful story.
-
New York throbbed with a life it had never known before.
The September air, humid and sharp, mingled with the constant hum of a city that never sleeps, yet in those days seemed to breathe in rhythm with the bouncing tennis balls.
It was not just a tournament, it was not merely a Slam.
It was the very epicenter of the sporting world, the point where everything converged and everyone knew it.
The eyes of the planet were no longer on Broadway, nor on Wall Street.
Attention, both in America and around the globe, had shifted. It was fixed on the courts of Flushing Meadows.
The world number one ranking hung by a slender thread, like a trapeze artist suspended in the void.
One match could tip it to either side, one service barely long, one drop shot dying on the net, one fleeting moment.
If Jannik were to win the tournament, he would solidify his supremacy, anointing himself as the new king of tennis.
If Carlos reached the final, he would unseat him, reclaiming the throne with his own hands.
There was no need for commentators to point it out, it was written everywhere.
Gigantic portraits of the two men loomed over Times Square, colossal faces watching the crowds from the towering screens. Newspaper headlines screamed
“Battle for the Throne,” “Rivalry of the New Era.”
Every interview, every question, every glance carried an unspoken weight. There was no escape.
Jannik experienced the city as a stranger, almost defensive.
The skyscrapers felt like towers of concrete ready to collapse upon him, the traffic roared as a constant, relentless noise.
He walked the streets with his head down, hood drawn over his hair, sometimes with sunglasses, always phone in hand to avoid too much interaction, seeking invisibility in a metropolis that demanded he be a star.
He retreated into routine like a bunker. Early wake-ups, runs, practice, stretching, carefully measured meals. Every gesture carried the precision of a ritual.
Only this could calm the racing of his heart, which accelerated every time a journalist mentioned Carlos, every time a commentator spoke the name that had haunted him for years, along with the weight of the title he was meant to defend with claws and teeth, a weight he had never despised so intensely before.
It was inevitable. Even within his own team, even among those who knew him better than anyone else, there was always a shadow beside him.
“Do you realize, Jan?” Vagno said one evening, after a long practice in the quiet of New York night. “This tournament isn’t just a title, it’s number one. And you know exactly who will be there, contesting it.”
The coach’s voice was calm, yet each word fell heavy, like a stone.
Jannik lowered his gaze, pressed his lips together. His hands were red from hours on the court, but still, the real burn was inside.
It took him a few seconds to reply.
“I know.” He whispered, barely, almost speaking to himself.
Of course I know, he repeated inwardly.
Carlos experienced the other side of the same coin.
He seemed at ease in the city’s frenzy, as if chaos itself were his natural habitat.
He laughed with fans, shook hands, posed with a bright smile for impromptu photos. Journalists chased him and he responded in Spanish or English, effortlessly switching between the two as though it were a game. The crowd adored him and he seemed to reciprocate.
But behind that luminous surface, the nights were another matter.
In the hotel overlooking Central Park, he often stood by the window, the city beneath him a sea of infinite lights.
In that silence, between the passing taxis and distant horns, his thoughts always returned to the same place.
Once again, two young men unknowingly shared the same thoughts and emotions, the same feeling that, no matter how this Slam would end, something would change, forever.
-
The first rounds slipped by as expected, yet they left their marks.
Jannik faced his debut on the New York hard courts with his usual composed façade.
Controlled movements, impassive gaze, the precision of a Swiss watch.
The score unfolded linearly, game after game, but inside it was never truly linear. Every serve, every long rally was accompanied by a hidden thought.
The stakes at this tournament were far too high. His face remained still, his heart hammered in his chest as if it wanted to escape.
Carlos, on the other hand, entered the court with his contagious energy. The early rounds were a perfect stage for his sudden shots, the accelerations that drew spontaneous applause. Every time he executed a tweener or a perfectly placed drop shot, the crowd erupted in ovations, and he responded with that open smile that was only for his fans.
Every victory of one was immediately compared to the other. Newspapers placed them side by side, like they could not exist separately.
“Parallel Tracks,” The New York Times wrote. “Destined to Meet,” headlined L’Equipe.
One evening, during dinner, Carlos’s brother showed him his phone with one of those graphics. Two faces side by side, two ranking numbers blinking.
Carlos wondered if he would ever find a moment of respite from this constant presence in his life.
Even at the Sinner household, the topic was unavoidable. A phone call with his parents, after a second-round victory, quickly veered in that direction.
“Good work, honey!,” his mother said with pride. “Everyone is already talking about that possible final… with Carlos.”
Jannik ran a hand through his sweaty hair, as if buying time. “I know, mamma. You don’t need to remind me every day.”
The words came out harsher than intended and he immediately regretted it, but the truth remained. There was no escaping it.
At night, alone in their hotel rooms, thoughts became even more merciless.
Jannik stared at the ceiling, illuminated in patches by passing car headlights, questioning whether it was fair that an entire career seemed to condense into that single name, that one rivalry.
Carlos scrolled through the other results on his phone, always ending up reading about Sinner, He didn’t want to, yet he did. Statistics, videos, interviews. Everything.
And every time he saw the serious, controlled face of the Italian, a knot formed in his stomach. A mixture of anxiety over being constantly measured against and something else he couldn’t name.
It was as if their race through the Slam, and through the sport in general, was never individual.
They were not just two players against the draw, they were two halves of the same story, forced to walk side by side, no matter the outcome.
And in their rare free moments, almost as if to underline how impossible it had become to escape this story, they inevitably found themselves observing each other’s lives, like the portion of life already shared wasn’t enough, like the world, through social media, teams, the sly hand of fate, found ways to make them look again, to follow each other from afar.
One evening, Jannik absentmindedly scrolled through sports headlines on his hotel tablet. He stopped at a story fate placed in front of him unwillingly, making his breath hitch.
“Carlos Alcaraz and Emma Raducanu together in mixed doubles: synergy on the court, smiles off it.”
The news was old, yet it detailed alleged off-court meetings, and once the mixed doubles had ended, images showed Carlos laughing with the British player, his hand lightly on her shoulder, his gaze bright and open.
Jannik snapped the screen shut, his heart pounding, a strange knot twisting in his stomach. It wasn’t hatred, nor full-blown envy. It was something subtler, sharper. Annoyance, discomfort, a shiver that made him shudder.
It’s nothing, he told himself. Just gossip, nonsense.
The thought lingered in his mind. Every smile from Carlos was like a small, invisible arrow. Jannik caught himself analyzing his own reaction, frustrated.
In the days that followed, the subtle burn did not fade.
Every photo of Carlos with friends, every Instagram story, every post shared by fans seemed to amplify the feeling he refused to admit. Even in the quietest moments like sipping coffee before practice or scrolling through messages from fans, thoughts of Carlos kept company with him, inexplicably.
But he hid them, pouring all his energy and focus into training, trying as much as possible to suppress the sensation.
Carlos, for his part, was not immune.
One afternoon, lying on a physiotherapist’s table while his legs were massaged, he absentmindedly scrolled through social media and stumbled, without looking for it, upon an article about Jannik and a rumored new girlfriend, a tall blonde named Laila, appearing in some snapshots from Monte Carlo.
The physiotherapist, noticing him staring at his phone longer than usual, with an expression uncharacteristic of Carlos, approached and asked, “Everything okay, Carlitos?”
Carlos shrugged, trying to mask the hint of irritation. Yet inside, something burned. It wasn’t simple curiosity or mischief, it was a subtle spark, sneaking into his thoughts, making his heart stir without a sound.
Why do I care? It’s none of my business.
In the following days, both continued the same silent dance.
Observing the other from afar, following social media, listening to interviews, even when irrelevant, just to see, to know, to understand.
Every smile, every gesture, every joke Carlos made to a teammate, or Jannik to another player, became a tiny personal event, an internal landmark, escalating that emotional tension.
Small confirmations arrived throughout those days, minute details that could seem invisible, quiet, inner.
Tiny sparks. An article read, a shared post, a photo glimpsed that seemed deliberately meant to provoke a reaction in the other. No words spoken, no confrontations, yet they struck the heart with the precision of a dart.
And that awareness, which neither of them wanted to admit, made them more fragile, more human, more intimately close than they would ever dare to say aloud.
-
The lights of Arthur Ashe Stadium and the main courts of Flushing Meadows were so intense they seemed almost tangible. Not mere spotlights, but beacons that probed the thoughts of anyone beneath them.
In those hours when the tournament tightened its grip and spared few regrets for the fallen, the porosity of the hard court returned every thump of the ball, every breath, every step. The crowd was a single, pounding heart, and when that heartbeat paused for a suspended point, everything became unbearably sharp, piercingly alive.
The semifinals had arrived and now there was no escape, the reckoning was close.
Jannik’s match was no stroll in the park. Against Félix Auger-Aliassime, he faced a test of identity. Not just technical, but mental. The match assumed shifting shapes: sudden bursts of power, defensive counters, jagged changes of rhythm.
The scoreboard would later tell the numbers —6-1, 3-6, 6-3, 6-4— but the score was only the surface of a fatigue that had burrowed under his skin.
In that match, Sinner had to literally dig inside himself, resist the break points piling up against him and respond with a calm that wore the face of discipline, repetition, and pain endured with sheer will.
By the third set, the hard court seemed to tremble under his swift steps, the stands were spectators holding their breath.
Vagno approached his player, voice low yet sharp. “Jan, don’t think about the draw. Focus on the single point, as you always do. Breathe and push.”
Jannik wiped his brow with a towel, feeling the burn in his abdominal muscles, he had already left the court briefly for treatment, then returned with narrowed eyes, strikes measured like sparks against the blue dust.
Every forehand was a promise of control, every backhand, a message to his body that surrender was not an option. In the fourth set there was a seemingly endless game, eleven minutes, where saving a point became a battle of will. The crowd around sighed, reporters whispered statistics. Jannik carried himself through the game as great players do when they cannot afford to falter.
By the end of the evening, after more than three hours, he closed the match and added another notch to his personal history. His three-hundredth career win, a number heavy as stone but incapable of quieting the anxiety.
When it was over, a layer of tension slipped from his body.
But the mind would not settle, the first thought to cross his mind was not self-congratulation, but fear, nestled immediately after the joy.
What if he wins on the other side?
The stakes were no longer just the title of this tournament, but something greater: the position in contemporary tennis.
That question lingered insistently as he gripped his racquet like an anchor.
On the opposite side of the draw, the next day, Arthur Ashe roared differently.
Novak Djokovic was a wall of experience and court-reading, the master of the sport, the strongest of all time, and the crowd wanted him, cheered for him, backed him, and Carlos had to weave his match through the tension of a crowd that could rise or fall in an instant.
The first set slipped away and Alcaraz had to absorb applause and jeers alike, digest the pressure and find the gaps.
Ferrero in the box stared at him intently, clenching his fists as if to imprint strength into the boy’s eyes. The coach whispered a brutal, almost ritualistic question. “You know who you are, right?”
Alcaraz felt it echoing in his chest, took a second, and answered himself before Ferrero. Without a word, he gripped his racquet tighter on the next serve.
He returned to the court with the ferocity of twenty years and the clarity of someone who knows that certain matches are won with both body and mind, and something shifted.
The match became as much about physicality as talent, Alcaraz unleashed a power that broke through Djokovic’s fatigue, turning the match into a sequence of accelerations, controlled tiebreaks, and finally, clean closures.
The scoreboard would record 6-4, 7-6(4), 6-2 in favor of the Spaniard, a gentle slap that reversed the court’s momentum and opened the path to the final.
The locker room was a microcosm of tension and sweat, neon lights flickering across floors damp with water and adrenaline.
Racquets leaned against walls, towels abandoned, half-empty bottles of water scattered. The smell of talcum powder and rubber grips saturated the air, mingling with the scent of industrial cleaners.
Carlos leaned against the doorframe, bag still on his shoulder, towel around his neck, a half-smile betraying both euphoria and exhaustion.
In front of him was Jannik, mopping his wet hair, wearing only shorts, the kind one wears just to have something on.
He hadn’t expected to see him there, hadn’t imagined the first person he’d encounter after reaching the US Open final would be him, but it hardly seemed strange. He knew Jannik would be in the same spaces for a while.
Probably just finished a practice, one of those that now prepared him for their next inevitable clash.
The adrenaline of victory over one of the greatest players of all time made him speak before thought could intervene.
“It was nice to see you struggle a bit,” he said suddenly, and noticed Jannik flinch slightly, unsure whether it was the voice or the words. “For a moment, I thought I wouldn’t find you across the net on Sunday,” he continued, brazen.
Jannik glanced at him sideways. A dry smile lit his face for an instant, all the fatigue condensed into that single gesture. “You hoped for a little while, I know,” he replied.
Carlos chuckled, taking a step closer. His voice dropped, almost confessional, yet still teasing and unmistakably ironic. “It’s always a pleasure watching you.”
A barely perceptible shiver crossed Jannik’s face, immediately masked by a faint smile.
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a threat, but on Sunday I won’t be there to entertain you.”
Carlos paused a step away from his bench, breath still warm from the match.“You’re right”, he smiled. “Sunday leaves room for only one of us. And you know it, the winner takes it all.”
For a few suspended seconds they stood like that, gazes locked.
In that silence, there was more than a promise of battle. There was mutual recognition, the urge to surpass, and something neither would ever voice aloud.
The distant clang of a locker reminded them of reality. Carlos straightened, offering an ironic smile that tried to veil the intensity of the moment.
“Rest, Jan. You’ll need every ounce of strength,” he said, passing toward the showers.
Jannik, now free of watchful eyes, allowed himself a provocatively casual reply.
“Don’t worry, I always have enough strength for you.”
In that instant, the coil tightened. The outcome of the two semifinals was not mere sports reporting, it was the collar restraining a world title.
That weekend would not only crown the finalists, but hand them the chance to exchange the crown of number one. The winner on Sunday would not merely lift a trophy, but could rewrite the rankings and the balance of the year.
The victor would take it all.
-
The lights in the press room were pitiless, cutting through the air with a harsh intensity that left no corner in shadow.
Journalists crowded around, their voices a persistent tide, and Carlos knew exactly what question was coming, one he had heard so many times it had begun to echo inside his mind before it was even spoken.
“Tomorrow it’s Sinner again. Aren’t you tired of facing him over and over?”
Carlos allowed himself a small, polite smile. It hovered on his lips without reaching his eyes, a smile that was practiced and careful, one that any observer would instantly recognize as a mask.
For someone like him, who usually smiled with his entire face, it was unmistakably false.
A whispered, almost playful, “No comment” drifted from him like a thin veil of smoke, enough to hide behind but not strong enough to conceal the truth.
The moment his gaze dropped, the truth struck him sharply.
Of course he was tired.
Tired of having to explain a story that had long ago stopped needing explanation, tired of a fate that seemed predetermined, written in invisible ink on the path he was forced to follow. Tired of always seeing the same opponent across the net, the one who challenged him not only in skill and strategy but in some deeper, more invisible way that weighed on him day and night.
Backstage, the tension was almost tangible, thick enough to touch. Televisions lined the corridors, broadcasting looped highlights of the semifinals, their headlines flashing insistently.
Sinner–Alcaraz, The Final Act.
The space was crowded with people, with chatter, with movement, yet there was a silence beneath it all, a suspended hush that felt like the moment before thunder breaks.
The air smelled of warm plastic and disinfectant, the low hum of fluorescent lights created a continuous backdrop that exposed even the smallest thoughts, echoing off the white walls with a precision that made every footstep, every whisper, feel amplified.
When their paths finally crossed, it was as if the corridor itself had contracted, shrinking the space between them, making the world outside disappear entirely.
They met in the middle and for a heartbeat, nothing happened.
No words, no gestures, only the raw weight of recognition. Their eyes locked and the moment stretched longer than it should have, carrying with it the accumulated years of encounters, of victories and defeats, of sleepless nights spent replaying every error, every point, every near-miss.
Their shared history was etched in memory. Scoreboards that had always nudged them toward each other, photographs, commentary, the other’s name spoken like both curse and benediction.
Carlos was the first to break the silence. There was no provocation in his voice, no sharp edge, only a quiet acceptance of what was coming. His tone was low, roughened by a mixture of resignation and irony, far removed from the light banter they had exchanged days before.
“So… here we are again,” he said.
Jannik, standing opposite him, green eyes alert, tense, and cool, reflected a restrained irritation that was almost a silent reproach.
“We never seem to get rid of each other, do we?” he replied.
It wasn’t a joke and it wasn’t sarcasm. It was a knife, thin and precise, a bitter truth masked as a simple observation. A wound that refused to heal even when hidden beneath layers of composure.
Carlos tried to soften the moment with a half-smile, an attempt at levity, but the laugh that followed was hollow and unconvincing.
“Perhaps someone up there enjoys watching us,” he said.
It was like pouring salt into a fresh wound.
Jannik said nothing, simply turned and began to walk away, each step deliberate and measured, as if moving faster could somehow outrun the fire burning inside him. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, metallic, steady, carrying with them more than mere rivalry. They carried anger, the desperate urge to escape, and a quiet terror of never truly being free.
As Jannik walked away in silence, something stirred beneath his chest, a low, dangerous whisper that felt almost like a secret thought coming to life.
What if I don’t really want to be free of him?
It was a truth that hurt to admit, sharp and unsettling, because acknowledging it meant accepting that there was something comforting, even necessary, in this entanglement, a tether that stretched beyond frustration or anger.
It was like a rope that had bound his days and nights together for years. Cutting it would mean losing a part of himself he hadn’t realized he needed.
Carlos lingered a moment longer, watching Jannik’s retreating back. A knot tightened in his throat, squeezing the words he couldn’t voice. Beneath the carefully maintained calm, a thought rose unbidden, a quiet acknowledgment he couldn’t deny.
I can’t do this anymore.
The repetition of it felt like a small, private defeat, spoken only in his mind, a secret confession he would never share. He was perfectly at ease in the world when he was just the boy refining his shots, but to be constantly measured against someone else, to always face the reflection of another, was exhausting in a way no physical exertion ever could be.
Before bitterness could harden into anger, a gentler shadow crept in. As Jannik disappeared around the corner, Carlos was surprised to find himself thinking, and thinking it with the same shy shame one reserves for one’s own flaws, that perhaps, in truth, he needed this.
Perhaps the pull he felt was part of him, a force driving him to perform, to push beyond his limits. Perhaps that constriction, the source of his unease, was also the spark that kept him alive.
They walked down separate corridors but the moment lingered. Their words, gestures and unspoken truths hovered in the air like particles of gold suspended in sunlight. Every breath they drew, in rooms far apart, carried that same echo.
Because in that dimly lit hallway, in that fleeting interval, there was more than anger.
There was a vertigo of being bound to something greater than themselves, a painful awareness of wanting to run and not being able to, of craving an end while secretly longing for the loop to remain unbroken.
-
The dawn on the day of the final arrived too early, unjustly so, like it had decided to steal his sleep before it could ever become rest.
There was no light, only a pale glow seeping through the heavy hotel curtains. But for Jannik, it felt as if morning had already been with him for hours. His body had awoken before his mind, silently, with a heartbeat that refused to pause. Each beat rang like a drum, a summons echoing in his chest. Today.
He lay still, staring at the ceiling, as though by prolonging these suspended minutes he could delay the moment when everything would finally take shape.
He felt the weight pressing down on him, not just the weight of the match, not just the weight of the final, but the weight of years, of expectations, of countless voices that had carried him to this point.
The press, the fans, endless comparisons to the Big Three.
But above all, and this was the hardest to bear, the thought that on the other side of the net, waiting for him, would still be him.
Jannik turned slightly.
Beside him, Laila slept peacefully, her face relaxed, a stray lock of hair resting on the pillow. He watched her for a long moment, almost with envy, her calm seemed impossibly distant from his own.
He brushed his fingers lightly across her arm, a tentative borrowing of a fraction of that serenity. He didn’t want to wake her, this was his battle alone.
Curling inward, legs drawn up, hands clasping his knees, he allowed himself, for just an instant, to consider the unbearable thought that perhaps he could no longer carry it all. Not the weight, not the shadow that bore Carlos’s name.
But then another voice, stubborn and insistent, rose from within.
What if this is exactly what keeps you alive? What if he is your measure, your reason?
The question lingered unanswered, for deep down he knew he did not truly want to escape this destiny. He hated it, yet he needed it.
By the time he descended to breakfast, the world seemed subtly altered. The buffet was the same as always. Oatmeal, fruit, tea. But everything tasted wrong, too sweet or too bitter.
Every motion felt slow, observed, even the waiters knew that this day was different.
He sat with his head bowed, stirring his spoon absentmindedly in the bowl, when his phone vibrated. It was his mother.
Her voice was gentle, but tinged with a tremor Jannik recognized immediately. It was not fear, but love masquerading as courage.
“Did you dream last night?” she asked.
She knew him well enough to know that on nights before important events he often wrestled with nightmares that kept him awake. He would not tell her that tonight he hadn’t dreamed, but that perhaps he was living one within himself now.
She was not there, could not be, tied up by work obligations but he could still feel her presence, despite the distance.
“A little, yes” he replied, striving to conceal the exhaustion in his voice.
“Remember to breathe, schatz. You’ve come this far for a reason.”
Her words struck him sharply. Not because he doubted them, but because they contained the implicit possibility of failure.
His mother never spoke carelessly. She was already protecting him from that possibility, already loving him in the midst of it. And paradoxically, that made him feel more fragile than before.
He hung up without another word, staring long and unseeing into the air. His hand moved through his hair, a tentative attempt to wake himself fully, and in the mirror across the room he caught his reflection.
He looked older, marked by time and experience. In his eyes there remained a flash, a spark that whispered today, you cannot run.
Clutching the warm cup of tea in his cold hands, he repeated the thought like a mantra.
He could not run, not today.
Later, in the quiet cocoon of the hotel gym, Jannik found himself alone with his coach.
Outside, the world pulsed with anticipation. Journalists, fans, illuminated scoreboards flashing his name next to Carlos’s, even the absurd spectacle of the President watching, alongside half of the cinema and music world, athletes, and champions from other sports.
Inside, between the dull thump of shoes against the floor and the measured buzz of machines, time seemed suspended.
Vagnozzi watched him closely. He knew that rigidity in his shoulders, that grip on the racket that felt more like an anchor than a weapon.
He waited a moment before speaking.
“You know today isn’t like the other finals,” he said. Not with the intention to create anxiety, not to heighten fear, but to remind himself and Jannik that there was no more room for games, no more room for escape.
Jannik didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the floor, tracing a crack in the wood that seemed, at that moment, the most compelling thing in the room.
“I know,” he murmured finally.
“It’s not just about the number one ranking, you know that. It’s because he’s there, again.”
It could not have been clearer that anyone paying attention, willing or not, understood that this pattern could not be changed, not for the next twenty years at least. Thirty, if their bodies allow them to.
Jannik lifted his head, his green eyes flashing briefly with ferocity before settling into fatigue. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Simone nodded quietly. There was no need to spell out who or what he meant. “You can’t run from this, Jan. Every time you face him, he forces you to bring out your best. It hurts, I know, but it completes you.”
The words fell heavily, but they were not rejected.
Jannik remained silent, eyes glistening under the harsh white lights. He passed a hand over his face, as though trying to erase the weight pressing down on him.
“What if I don’t win? What if it’s not enough?”
His coach stepped closer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
“It’s not just about winning or losing and you know that. It’s about proving to yourself that you’re willing to fight. He will always be there, one way or another. You cannot avoid him, but you can decide how to face him across the net.”
A long silence stretched between them, thick with anticipation.
Jannik nodded, jaw set. In that simple gesture lay all his anger, all his fear, but also a promise to himself.
-
Carlos woke before the alarm could break the silence of the room. It had not been sleep, not truly, more like a continuous flicker of images, moving in and out like a film projected behind his eyelids.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the court. The sharp white line cutting across the hard clay, the crisp snap of the racket, the icy gaze of Jannik. It was as if the match had already begun hours ago.
He rose slowly, each movement heavier than usual. Pale light seeped through the window, the gray of dawn that seems to demand patience. Carlos lingered for a moment, gazing down at the city below.
New York was still half-asleep, yet he felt it awake inside him, a monstrous pulse of expectation and noise that belonged to no one but weighed on him like a boulder. He almost longed for the innocence of his first visit, back when he had no idea what life would demand of him.
In the bathroom, his reflection struck harder than he expected. Dark circles under his eyes, a shadow of stubble, and eyes burning with a nervous energy that no cold splash of water could wash away. He sprayed his face with water, gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself.
He dressed methodically, almost ritually. Shorts, white shirt, shoes laced twice because once was never enough to feel secure. Every detail mattered, and yet every detail seemed to slip from his grasp.
Breakfast was a formality. Toast, a slice of fruit, coffee that slid down like a hot knife. The taste was irrelevant, his mouth was bitter on its own.
When Ferrero entered, Carlos felt a strange mix of irritation and comfort in the calm, almost paternal presence of his coach.
“Did you sleep?” Ferrero asked, placing a newspaper on the table.
Carlos didn’t dare touch it. There could be his photo on the front page, or worse, another headline about him and his rival.
He met Ferrero’s eyes for a moment, searching for a way to hide the truth.
“Enough,” he said, but his voice betrayed him.
Ferrero raised an eyebrow, silent. The look said enough.
They sat in quiet for a few minutes while Carlos stirred his now-cold coffee with the spoon. Finally, he broke the wall of silence.
“It’s not just a final, Juanki. You know it,” he said.
Ferrero didn’t flinch. “No, it isn’t. It’s number one in the world, the mark of an era.”
Carlos shook his head, a bitter half-smile forming. Of course, anyone would focus on that, the title itself, the weight of it. And yes, it was heavy enough to make one tremble. But the real problem, he knew, lay with who he was fighting for it against.
“No, it’s not that. It’s that… he’s still there. No matter how far I run, how much I win, how much I change. At the end of the day, there’s always Jannik.”
Ferrero remained still, inhaling slowly. “And that scares you?”
Carlos pressed his jaw, tapping a finger against his cup. “It… tires me. It’s as if my career cannot exist without him, like we are chained together. Sometimes I think I cannot continue like this.”
Ferrero nodded and then spoke, his voice firmer than usual. “You know what I think? That chain that weighs on you is also the one that keeps you alive. You are yourself, but you wouldn’t be the same without him. And the same goes for Jannik. He is your mirror. No matter how much it hurts to look at him, you need it.”
Carlos lowered his gaze. He didn’t want to admit Ferrero was right. But he knew it, had always known it.
Every point lost to Jannik burned for days, but every point won sparked a fire inside him that no other opponent had ever ignited. It was hatred, respect and an obsession he would never confess.
He leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall. “What if today he takes even that away from me?”
Ferrero folded his hands on the table, his tone a blend of gentleness and firmness “Then you will rise again. But today, Carlos, remember this. You are not anyone’s shadow. Not his, not Federer’s, Nadal’s, or Djokovic’s. Today, you are yourself and only yourself.”
The words hung in the air, the space around him holding them close. Carlos closed his eyes, trying to engrave them deep within.
For a fleeting moment, it worked. And he prayed it would carry him through the entire match.
The sun was still high, yet its light filtered gently, casting Arthur Ashe Stadium in a warm golden hue, while the floodlights waited to take over in the artificial glow of evening.
The arena was beginning to fill. Every seat carried a shiver of anticipation, every step of the ball boys echoed through the air. Tension hung palpably, vibrating in the warm New York air, a mix of expectancy, curiosity, and reverence.
Jannik Sinner appeared in the entrance corridor, walking with measured, precise steps. Every muscle seemed wound tight, like the string of a racket ready to snap. Inside, with the audience still a distant murmur, he replayed the moments of the finals. The hard-fought victories, the points lost, the emotions of every stroke. In the back of his mind, the constant presence of Carlos, on the other side of the court, made a knot rise in his stomach.
Carlos Alcaraz appeared from the opposite side, his stride confident, a faint, controlled smile playing on his lips, carrying a hint of challenge. He felt the weight of the final pressing on him, but he masked it with the calm of someone who knows every inch of the court, every flick of the wrist. He, too, replayed the finals. The bursts of speed that had left him drenched in sweat and adrenaline, the surgical concentration, the constant pressure from journalists, commentators and the flashing scoreboards marking him as a potential number one.
The usual routines followed. Shadow exchanges to warm up, brief pre-match interviews, ritual photos to show camaraderie and rivalry while hiding everything else.
The crowd began to stir as both were ready. Applause, cheers, waving flags, while the ball boys meticulously aligned the balls along the baseline. Cameras zoomed in on their eyes. Determination and anxiety, a perfect mix of fear and the desire to prevail.
Then, it began.
Carlos’s serve struck like lightning, powerful and precise, hitting the T with a speed that made Jannik step back slightly. The first game unfolded immediately as a spectacle of pure tension.
Jannik, under pressure, tried to read the serve, anticipate its trajectory, and return with confidence. But Carlos’s down-the-line backhand, accompanied by a tight angle and a perfectly timed flick of the wrist, sent the ball out of Jannik’s reach more than once.
Each point became a miniature mental duel.
Who would keep their composure? Who would let nervousness slip through?
Jannik felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. The world number one could teeter from one side to the other, and he was there, suspended between pressure and adrenaline. His feet vibrated on the hardcourt with each step, sensing the crowd before his ears could even register it. He tried to focus on every technical detail: the angle of his forehand, the posture of his legs, the timing for his backhand.
Across the net, Carlos studied Jannik’s stance with careful eyes, reading the tension in his wrists, the slight stiffness in his legs. Every acceleration was calculated to force tiny errors. A short ball followed by a sudden lob, a kick serve to push him out of his comfort zone. His thoughts ran fast, almost mechanically.
The crowd felt the tension too. Sporadic applause when a shot went long or clipped the net, muffled cheers that exploded when the ball crossed the line in an ace or a spectacular rally. Even the ball boys seemed to breathe in sync with the players, the concentration palpable.
Jannik tried to respond with deep strokes, sharp forehands and cross-court backhands, attempting to destabilize Carlos. But whenever he seemed to gain ground, Carlos answered with precision and surgical control. Slices, down-the-lines, sudden bursts of speed.
Every shot from Carlos acted as a mirror to Jannik. Power, accuracy, command.
At the same time, a constant reminder of how essential it was to fight for every point.
The score climbed. Carlos held his breath and stretched to 3-0, then 4-1. Each game lasted minutes, yet felt eternal. Jannik’s heart pounded, his mind awash with conflicting thoughts.
By the end of the first set, 6-2 to Carlos in thirty-seven minutes, Jannik felt the weight on his shoulders, the knot in his stomach, and the awareness that he needed to regain clarity if he wanted to prevent the second set from slipping away as well. Tension, pathos, fear and challenge swirled inside him like an unstoppable tide.
Jannik entered the second set with a different energy.
The first set had shaken him, but now he felt something more. Anger, determination, and the desire to prove to himself, and to Carlos, that it was far from over.
His tactics shifted immediately. Fewer unforced errors, more precise strokes, changes of pace aimed at unsettling his opponent. He served more aggressively, but mixed in occasional slow seconds, rallies were shorter, punctuated by sudden drop shots into corners Carlos least expected.
The crowd felt the challenge, sensing tension rise with every stroke. Every return was a message.
I won’t give up, I see every move, I will test you.
Fans leaned forward in their seats, holding their breath as the balls struck the hardcourt, each hit measured and weighted, like a dance of strategy and power.
Midway through the set, Jannik finally claimed a break. The sprint to reach Carlos’s down-the-line forehand, the rapid footwork, the arm swinging open and closed in perfect synchronicity, brought him the decisive point. The joy within him was silent, hidden beneath a mask of concentration, a tactical triumph, a signal to his opponent that he would not yield.
A slightly long cross-court backhand from Carlos gave Jannik the opportunity to close the set 6-3. Every shot he hit now radiated awareness, strategy, mental strength, clarity.
Carlos watched him with a faint smile on his lips, not challenging, but acknowledging.I see every move you make, but I fear nothing, his eyes said.
Jannik felt a shiver run down his spine. The pressure grew, but somehow, he felt alive. Winning the set didn’t erase fatigue, didn’t extinguish anxiety, but it gave him energy and inner strength.
The match was still long, but that 6-3 restored confidence, the knowledge that the battle would continue and that nothing could be taken for granted.
Behind the net, Jannik breathed deeply, trying to channel the adrenaline. Every muscle was taut, but ready. His mind raced through mistakes and successes, tactics and sensations.
Carlos, across the court, gripped his racket, holding onto an invisible anchor. He felt the weight of pressure, but also the pleasure of the challenge. There was no hatred here, only that curious combination of respect, frustration and a subtle connection that kept them both pulsing with adrenaline and awareness.
The third set began under an almost unnatural silence in the stadium, as if the entire crowd were holding its breath. The warm air felt heavier than usual, thick with the sweat of the past days and the unspent emotions that no one had yet released.
Jannik gazed up at the sky above the concrete of Arthur Ashe, feeling every ray of sunlight as a weight pressing on his shoulders.
Carlos’s first serve made him jump. Powerful, precise, cut to the millimeter, a shot that left no room for error.
Each rally was a small mental war.
Jannik ran, returned, experimented with changes of pace, but his legs felt heavy, his heart pounding like a hammer. Carlos sensed everything, every hesitation, every micro-movement. His mind raced, analyzing, calculating, anticipating.
It was never just about the shots, it was about predicting where the familiar opponent would seek safety, where he would leave space for audacity.
The crowd became a single breath, a continuous murmur oscillating between excitement and tension. Controlled applause, sudden cheers, bursts of whistles, a chorus that seemed to accompany every breath of the two players.
Jannik felt each wave of sound vibrate inside him, amplifying both fatigue and focus. The strings of his racket hummed with every stroke, and the balls bouncing on the hardcourt seemed to mark the rhythm of a heart beating in sync with the match.
Carlos raised the pace, accelerating the exchanges. Deep forehands, tight angles, lifted backhands that forced Jannik to chase every last inch. Each shot carried surgical precision, a silent musicality, a rhythm that only someone who truly understood tennis, and the other player, could perceive. Jannik tried to read his opponent’s movements, to anticipate the next stroke, but every time he felt a step behind, as if Carlos knew instinctively a fraction of a second ahead.
The games passed. 1-0, 2-0, 3-0.
Within Jannik grew a mix of rage and admiration. Rage at his inability to dominate, admiration for the opponent’s perfection. Every point lost made him grip his racket tighter, every point won sent a tremble through his arms, shoulders and neck.
A long rally in the fourth game had them running side to side, anticipating every angle, trying sudden accelerations, drop shots, and delicate lobs.
The score climbed, 6-1 to Carlos.
Jannik’s anger, the awareness of the pressure, the bitterness of being behind again, all blended with an invisible energy that pushed him to fight, to not yield a single inch of court.
The match was no longer just about technique. It had become psychology, stamina, willpower.
When Carlos closed the set, the crowd erupted in thunderous applause, but for the two players, the sound was almost muffled.
Jannik breathed deeply, trying to shake off his frustration. Carlos ran a hand through his hair, knowing the match was far from over, yet feeling the same thrill that had accompanied him since the first time he faced Jannik on court.
Each set was a duel of wills, each point a piece of their shared history.
The final chance.
Every breath felt like a boulder on his chest, every muscle stretched to its limit. The floodlights highlighted every detail of the hardcourt, reflecting the colors of hats, shirts and racket strings.
Jannik positioned himself for his serve, breathing slowly, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. His feet were planted firmly on the court, his arm coiled with energy and the accumulated fatigue of the three previous sets. Inside, he felt the weight of every point that had come before, every mistake, every victory that had led them here.
The first game of the fourth set was a taste of what the finale would be: long, powerful, precise rallies.
Jannik opened with a strong, accurate serve, but Carlos responded immediately with an impeccable down-the-line backhand, forcing him to chase every last inch. The ball hit the court with a sharp thud, and for a moment, time seemed to pause.
Every game was a small war. Jannik tried to vary pace and depth, mixing sliced shots, sudden drop shots, and deep forehands, but Carlos read each move as if it were an open book. Every stroke carried strategic weight: the choice to open the court, to accelerate or to wait, became crucial.
The score moved slowly: 15-15, 30-15, 30-30. Jannik felt the anxiety rise, yet an irresistible excitement pulsed through him. Carlos, on the other side, felt the same. Pressure, focus, total concentration.
By the time the score reached 4-4, the crowd was on its feet, suspended in a silence heavy with tension. The two exchanged quick glances.
Jannik served, trying to push the ball long and powerful. Carlos answered with a taut forehand that forced him to accelerate, but Jannik managed to redirect it with a cross-court backhand, barely keeping it on the line.
The game continued point by point.
Jannik won one with a drop shot that Carlos couldn’t reach, his breathing ragged, his heartbeat marking the rhythm of the match. But Carlos immediately recovered with a powerful serve, followed by a razor-sharp cross-court forehand that Jannik could not anticipate.
Tension reached its peak. Jannik felt the exhaustion and pressure of the past hours and the three previous sets, Carlos felt the same energy, as if every thought, every hesitation from Jannik were a wave passing through him, giving him strength.
The decisive points arrived.
Carlos, serving for the match point. Jannik attempted his last defense, but every stroke seemed slower than his mind demanded.
Carlos closed the set with a powerful central ace.
The crowd burst out into an endless roar. The fans’ cheers swallowed up the sound of the bouncing balls.
Jannik let himself collapse, arms falling limply, racket no longer firmly in hand, breath ragged, heart refusing to slow its racing.
It was over. Carlos had won.
Carlos shouted. He dropped to his knees, hands clutching his hair and covering his face, his smile threatening to split his features, pure joy filling every part of his body.
The two met briefly at the net. A handshake, a fleeting embrace, a whispered “well done.” Nothing extravagant, nothing excessive. Yet hands trembled, hearts raced, minds were still spinning.
Carlos had won. He had conquered the 2025 US Open. He had returned to world number one, at just twenty-two years old.
He was legend. He was history. He was Carlos Alcaraz.
The box erupted. Coaches and family members rose to their feet, some tears falling quietly, others in hiccups of joy.
Carlos ran to them. He needed those embraces, those congratulations, those sensations.
New York exploded for him.
As Carlos received the hugs from his team, he felt every heartbeat of Jannik’s as part of his own victory, a silent acknowledgment of how intertwined they were, both in defeat and triumph.
The crowd continued to roar, the commentary narrating every detail and the two boys were now connected by different emotions, yet still linked, still part of the same story.
Carlos lifted the trophy in his hands, shining so brightly it almost blinded him. He saw his reflection in the silver, his sweat-streaked, exhausted face, the veins in his neck slightly raised, eyes slightly hollowed from fatigue. But he also saw the boy from Murcia smiling at him, congratulating him, holding him in an embrace and whispering ‘you did it.’ He gripped the trophy tightly, kissed it, held it close like a precious thing he feared might slip away.
But it wouldn’t slip away. His name was on it, and neither would the title, now his, clinging to him as if claiming him.
The noise in Arthur Ashe was an endless wave, a sea of applause that seemed unwilling to stop. Carlos lifted his gaze toward the night sky above New York, illuminated by the floodlights and camera flashes.
The microphone was handed to him, and for a moment he hesitated, the words stuck in his throat. Then, with his voice still broken from short breaths, he began to speak.
“First of all, I want to thank the audience. It’s incredible to play here, in New York. Every time I come back, I feel a special energy. This place is truly unique. I want to thank everyone who made this possible. The organizers, the ball kids and anyone else. You made us feel at home, and I’m grateful for that.”
The crowd roared, applauding even louder. Carlos ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to catch his breath.
Then he turned his gaze toward Jannik, behind him, holding the runner-up trophy. Jannik, standing still, watching him triumph.
“I want to say something about Jannik,” he continued, his tone suddenly more serious, sincere. “He’s an incredible opponent. Today was so tough, he really made me… sweat”, a laugh escaped him, “But it’s thanks to him that I can improve every day. Every time we face each other, he pushes me to give everything. He’s one of the greatest players I’ve ever met, and I have no doubt we’ll continue to share moments like this, again and again. I’m happy to share all of this with you.”
Jannik lowered his gaze, feeling those words like gentle blows, painful but warming at the same time.
He couldn’t believe that Carlos, in the middle of all that glory, had found the space and clarity to speak about him.
His stomach twisted.
It wasn’t pure jealousy, it wasn’t blind anger. It was something else, a tangle of pride and pain he didn’t know how to manage. He felt proud of the rival in front of him, almost happy to see that boy he had met years ago in Alicante had become that champion. And yet, the anger remained, burning deep in his chest.
Carlos turned back, continuing his speech.
The crowd applauded respectfully, some rising to honor Jannik as well. Carlos smiled, a shadow of emotion in his eyes, and concluded. “For me, returning to number one is a dream coming true once again. It’s an enormous feeling and I want to share it with my family, my team, everyone who is here with me. Thank you.”
He paused for a moment, then raised the trophy above his head.
The crowd’s rumour filled the stadium, deafening, and Carlos stepped down from that stage, after receiving congratulations from everyone, smiling like someone who had just learned to breathe again, and was happy.
-
The court was now behind him.
The floodlights, the crowd, the ceremony, everything belonged already to another world, the one where Carlos had shone, the trophy clutched in his hands, the universe at his feet.
Now, only the echoes of that celebration lingered, while the arena’s corridors had grown quieter, broken only by the soft tap of footsteps and the muted voices of the volunteers.
Jannik walked with his head lowered, the bag heavy on his shoulders, his shirt still damp with sweat and salt. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if he carried not just the weight of defeat, but the burden of years of expectation.
Behind him, he left Carlos and his radiant smile, the embraces with his team, the tears of joy of his family. That happiness had exploded on the court, but he couldn’t leave it fully behind.
“It’s alright, Jannik,” said Simone, his coach, his voice calm but unwavering as he fell into step beside him. “You played an incredible final. Today wasn’t yours, but you fought every point. You should be proud.”
Jannik only nodded slightly. The words passed over him like water over stone, but inside, his heart still churned.
He paused near a door, drawing a deep breath.
From the corridor came distant echoes. The celebration continuing in Carlos’ box, shouts of joy, applause still ringing, champagne corks popping and spilling over the new champion of New York, the new world number one.
Jannik clenched his jaw.
“Don’t shut yourself off, Jannik,” Vagno said softly, looking him squarely in the eyes. “It hurts, I know. But finals like this… they show the kind of player you are. This isn’t the end, it’s just another step.”
Jannik inhaled, but inside, the fire of contrast burned brighter than ever. Pride and anger, honor and ache.
The thought of Carlos celebrating as though born for this moment carved a hollow inside him. Not like poison, more like a wound that refused to stop pulsing, alive, achingly alive.
He thought he should hate him now. He should feel only the sting of loss, the ache of the trophy that wasn’t his.
But instead, he imagined him. Smiling, radiant, finally unburdened. He wondered if he would laugh long into the night, toast with his team, call someone at home with that joyful voice he couldn’t hide.
The last image that lingered before stepping out into the cold night air was still that. Carlos, surrounded by those who loved him, laughing, and Jannik, wondering if, even for a moment, that boy would think of him.
-
Carlos stepped through the tunnel leading away from the court, and the roar of the crowd grew muffled, distant, like a fading whisper behind him.
Behind him, the final was over. The trophy had been handed over, the microphones were silent. Ahead, however, was his world. The box that had supported him through every point, his family, his friends, his team.
The door swung open and an explosion of joy swept over him. Applause, shouts, sudden embraces. Champagne bottles popped, foam spraying over hair and faces, laughter ringing through the room.
It was as if the entire space was breathing happiness, as if everyone inhaled the same exhilaration.
Carlos laughed, a clear, almost childlike laugh. He let himself be held, lifted, drenched in bubbly champagne. He bounced from one hug to another, hair tousled, face still wet with sweat and tears. He was as happy as a child, a whirlwind of energy moving in every direction, unable to stay still.
“¡Campeón!” shouted his manager, raising a glass. “Number one again!”
Carlos looked at him, eyes glistening, then took a sip of champagne that tasted of victory and relief.
He wasn’t thinking of tomorrow, of responsibilities, of anything beyond this perfect moment. He just wanted to live in the present, to be cradled in the embrace of those who had watched him grow and fight to this point, to surrender to the pure joy of it.
He slumped for a moment onto the couch, the trophy resting beside him. He gazed at it, running his fingers over its smooth, cold surface, as if to confirm it was real. It was.
That cup, the return to the top of the world, this night that no one could ever take away.
Voices overlapped, questions flew, and Carlos didn’t always know how to answer them, but he felt they would understand.
He loved every second of it.
Behind the radiant smile, behind the clamor of voices and the toasts, one thought kept knocking at the door of his mind.
Jannik.
He couldn’t stop it.
Even on the happiest day of his life, with every fiber of his body screaming joy, part of him kept wondering how his rival was doing.
He pictured him in the opposite tunnel, in the now quiet corridors, perhaps already far away. He imagined him with his head down, hands gripping his bag, that quiet dignity that never wavered.
He wondered if he was hurting, or if, somewhere, he was trying to lift his gaze again.
Carlos knew him well, he never showed weakness, never let himself fall. Yet inside, Carlos kept asking, how would he be right now?
He took another sip of champagne, but the thought lingered, quietly, among the laughter. Memories of past matches, half-court smiles, handshakes at the net came back to him.
He knew Jannik hated and respected him at the same time, just as he felt for Jannik. A mutual dependence, inevitable and bittersweet.
He jumped back up, swept away by the group’s energy. He danced with the physiotherapist, sang with the trainer, let more champagne splash over him. Spanish songs blared at full volume and for a moment Carlos felt truly at home.
But even as he laughed, a doubt remained.
He wondered if somewhere, Jannik had shut himself in his hotel room, listening to his coaches tell him it would be better next time. If perhaps he felt the emptiness of defeat.
And he… he was here, happy, carried by victory.
For a moment he almost felt guilty, as if this joy should be shared. Because without Jannik, this victory wouldn’t even exist.
He lifted his gaze toward the neon-lit ceiling and, amidst the ocean of voices, toasts, and smiles, allowed himself one thought just for him.
Thank you, Jannik.
Then someone tugged him again for another hug, another toast, another moment of happiness.
Carlos laughed again, light as a boy who had just conquered the world.
-
Jannik felt, deep inside, that something within him was also fading, as if all the chaos left behind after the final were slowly dissolving.
The rumor of the crowd, the chants, the thunderous final point, everything now seemed distant, almost unreal.
In the taxi back to the hotel, New York unfurled outside the window like a silent film. Glowing billboards, car horns, people laughing on the streets. A world moving relentlessly forward, indifferent, while inside him a heavy silence took root.
As soon as he entered the hotel room, Jannik set his bag down without even opening it. He sank onto the bed, hands covering his face.
He could have cried, screamed, thrown his anger against the walls, but he didn’t. He remained still, letting his thoughts collide like restless waves.
He had lost. Not just the final, not just a trophy. He had lost the number one ranking. That small, proud “1” next to his name, a symbol of everything he had fought for, no longer belonged to him. He could feel it slipping from his hands, leaving behind a vast, hollow void.
It wasn’t merely the score that tormented him, nor the trophy he could have held but wouldn’t.
It was the silence after the roar, that empty sensation in his chest when a title ceases to be yours, a title he had defended with pride, with effort, with sacrifice.
Now it was in Carlos’s hands.
As he allowed himself to feel the ache, something subtler began to emerge. A spark, difficult to grasp, nearly hidden between the threads of anger and bitterness.
It was not resignation, it was something closer to awareness.
His journey did not end here.
Despite the disappointment, he sensed that the path continued, and if he wanted to rise again, he would have to look forward.
He was young, with so many victories already earned, so many milestones achieved, and he knew this was nothing more than another fleeting moment in his long life on the court. His career did not end here, it would continue to grow, continue to write history, and there was no need to dwell on what had passed.
On the contrary, he should look exactly in the direction that had become inevitable for him.
Forward, and forward with Carlos.
This certainty pricked and comforted him simultaneously.
It angered him because it meant admitting that there was no future without that overwhelming presence, that rival who had pushed him to the edge. In the same instant, it offered him relief. The knowledge that his growth was far from finished, that there was still ground to conquer, and that the engine behind it all was, ultimately, the challenge Carlos embodied.
It was a thought both sweet and bitter.
Bitter because it bound him, like chains, to a life that left no escape; sweet because, in the deepest honesty of his heart, he knew that without Carlos he would never have become the player he was, and he would never become anyone else in the future.
Around nine, a message arrived from Laila, inviting him to dinner.
She had come to New York for this, after all. She was staying in another hotel to avoid attention but had been invited to watch the US Open.
Their relationship was unclear, both to the public and to themselves.
He had met her a few months earlier through his PR team. She worked as a model for a fairly prominent communications agency, knew little about his tennis but clearly had her hands in social media.
They had begun spending time together more out of amusement than passion. She was kind, intelligent and had built a fortune on her presence alone, knowing exactly what to say, when to say it, how to act in public and in private. She was undeniably beautiful, and above all, uncomplicated.
With her, everything was simple.
His PR team had pushed for their association, claiming it would “benefit them both,” and they weren’t wrong.
Her name began to circulate almost immediately and it didn’t take long before the first rumors appeared.
Jannik found it frustrating. He disliked the spotlight, but he knew that in matters like these, his control was limited. In truth, the only realm where he held full, absolute power, was on the tennis court, in the challenges themselves.
Everything else was managed by those “in charge,” and Jannik often reflected on how he had become a perfect machine in the hands of a skilled team that shielded him from scandal while driving engagement.
He stared at the chat for a few seconds, the emptiness in his gaze a residue of defeat. He didn’t really feel like going, yet he knew that staying alone in the room would only mean tossing and turning in sheets and thoughts.
So he slipped into a simple shirt, his hair still tousled from a quick shower and went out with her.
The sushi restaurant was elegant, dimly lit with warm tones, minimalist décor, and the characteristic scent of seaweed and rice in the air. It was extremely private, no one acknowledged their presence. The tables were close, filled with couples laughing, likely other important people in New York who had their own matters to mind rather than theirs. Light voices blended with the music in the background. A kind of normalcy, in a way, that clashed sharply with the storm inside him.
Laila spoke, filling the silences with stories and simple questions. “Have you seen that new movie? I hear it’s amazing” or, “This winter we could go skiing together, would you like that?”
Jannik nodded, smiled occasionally, but his eyes remained elsewhere, fixed on an undefined point on the table.
Her words passed over him, not because he didn’t care for her, but because he knew that none of the questions she asked could touch what weighed in his heart.
She hadn’t been on the court, she couldn’t feel that weight on his shoulders, that roar in his chest, the sensation of touching the sky one moment and plummeting the next. It was not her world, and she showed little interest in the one dominated by the red-haired figure opposite her. He was certain that, even if explained, she could never understand.
Above all, she could never grasp how present Carlos was in every corner of his mind.
Every pause between bites became a doorway through which his thoughts wandered, only a few streets away.
He imagined Carlos celebrating, enveloped by his team, his face drenched in champagne, a smile that seemed boundless. He saw him jumping, hugging everyone, raising his arms again like a boy who had never stopped believing.
That moment belonged as much to him as to Carlos, because without his counterpart, without that struggle, it might never have been the same.
He knew it, perhaps as did Carlos.
“What are you thinking about?” Laila’s voice broke through, sweet yet slightly bitter, as if she had realized she had been speaking to a wall for a while.
Jannik lifted his eyes, caught off guard, and gave a faint smile that didn’t reach them. “Nothing. Just… a long day.”
A bit of an understatement, almost laughable, for a boy who had just lost the world number one ranking and a Grand Slam final.
She looked at him for a moment longer, thinking about to insist or not, then sighed and lowered her gaze to her plate, realizing she was facing someone who, no matter how much you tried, would not open up.
She continued to speak, but her voice sounded distant, removed.
Jannik, at that moment, understood with almost cruel clarity that she didn’t really know him.
Or rather, she couldn’t know the part that mattered most.
The part on the court, tied indissolubly to Carlos.
Her questions, her attempts to coax a smile from him were genuine, appreciated, truly appreciated, but insufficient to fill the void he felt.
And as she continued talking, he found himself thinking that perhaps there would never be anyone who could understand him completely, except the one who was now laughing in another room, surrounded by another crowd.
When they stepped outside, the cool New York air greeted them. After the final, even the city seemed altered in its colors, its smells, its warmth.
Laila squeezed his hand, still trying to reassure him. “It’ll be better next time, you know.”
Jannik looked at her and nodded faintly.
Inside, he knew it wasn’t that simple. Every “next time” would still have Carlos on the other side.
Always the two of them.
That awareness hurt and comforted him at the same time, like a bittersweet melancholy rooted deep in his chest.
-
The venue was one of Manhattan’s most exclusive, a rooftop that commanded the skyline, skyscrapers illuminated like shards cutting through the night sky.
The entrance was already a chaotic mix of photographers, journalists, and onlookers, everyone wanted a glimpse of the new king of the US Open.
Carlos arrived with his team, elegant yet casual in a perfectly tailored dark jacket he would soon toss aside without a second thought, a white t-shirt against his chest, an intense scent of cologne mingling with the sweet tobacco of cigars already lit here and there.
The moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere overwhelmed him. Music thumped from the speakers, a mix of reggaeton and American hits, flashes followed his every move, hands reached out for autographs, selfies, or even just a brief touch. Famous actors, singers, athletes from other sports, all wanted to congratulate him.
A glass of champagne was placed in his hand almost before he realized it. He raised the glass and drank it in one swift motion.
For once, he didn’t think of tomorrow, of diets, of training. This night was his, and he intended to savor it to the very last breath.
“¡Campeón!” someone shouted behind him. He turned and recognized a pair of old Spanish friends, who had come specifically to celebrate with him, aided by his brother and his team. He embraced them with that genuine joy that lit up his face and for a fleeting moment he seemed like any other young man, just a twenty-year-old boy, happy and free from the weight of the world.
Then the women arrived. Beautiful, smiling, curious. They approached under various pretexts. An autograph on the arm, a photo too close, a glass offered with a look that spoke more than words ever could.
Carlos laughed, accepted, signed, posed for pictures. He felt the warmth of skin, the scent of perfume, hands brushing his arms and back. He could choose anyone and he knew it. He was the champion, the golden boy of the evening, the axis around which this glittering microcosm revolved.
He danced on the floor, sang the choruses at the top of his lungs, letting the Latin rhythm loosen his body. Occasionally, he would stop to laugh, to toast, to answer questions from journalists who followed him even here, in this corner of the celebration and he didn’t bother to shoo them away.
Let them see, let them write.
He was twenty-two, having fun, and God, he deserved it.
A camera caught him lifting another bottle, pouring into the glasses of his friends. He knew the footage would circulate everywhere the next day, and he didn’t care. He wanted the world to see how happy he was.
Sweaty, tousled hair, cheeks flushed from the alcohol, his hoarse voice rose above the music.
It seemed almost impossible. Years of sacrifice, dawn training sessions, aches of body and soul had led him here.
To the top. Once more.
As the night continued and the flashing lights began to blur with his senses, an uncomfortable truth surfaced among the bubbles of champagne.
He was surrounded by everything anyone could ever desire: fame, success, beauty, pleasure, gorgeous women smiling at him with eyes promising easy nights, and yet he couldn’t rid himself of a thought that returned, stubborn, like a shadow brushing against the edges of his mind.
Jannik, again.
He saw him still there, on the court, head bowed, gaze lost in the void. He imagined him in that quiet evening, far from this uproar, locked within himself.
A shiver ran through him, like for a moment there was no music, no lights, no people. Only that red figure, ever-present in every struggle, in every memory.
He drank again, trying to banish the image. A girl slung an arm around his neck, and he smiled, posed for a selfie, let the flash blind him for a moment. Inside, the thought remained.
He shook his head, almost annoyed with himself.
“Come on, come on, otra!” he called to the waiters, ordering another round for everyone.
As he raised the glass again, losing himself in the crowd, he realized that no toast, no stolen kiss, no sparkling New York night could ever erase that invisible connection.
Carlos was the world champion, the most desired boy in the room.
But even in this triumph, a part of him remained elsewhere.
-
The days following the final passed quickly, yet they were filled with details that remained etched in memory.
For Carlos and Jannik, it was the same span of time, yet experienced so differently that it felt as though they were living in parallel universes.
Carlos stayed in New York, both trapped and exhilarated by the whirlwind of being the new champion. Interviews followed one another relentlessly.
“Carlos, what does it mean for you to return to number one?” asked an ESPN journalist, microphone thrust toward him like a spotlight.
He smiled, running a hand through his hair, still disheveled from the previous night and stubbornly refusing to settle. “It means the sacrifices are worth it. It’s a dream and I don’t want to wake up.”
Another journalist asked, “This rivalry with Sinner seems destined to last. What do you think of him after this final?”
Carlos lowered his gaze for a moment, then answered calmly, “It’s always an honor to play against him. We’ll see for how much longer we’ll challenge each other.”
Every sentence reverberated instantly across social media, cementing him further as an icon. People stopped him on the street, venues wanted his name, models sought him out in exclusive lounges. Every day brought an invitation, a popped bottle, a photograph circulating everywhere. The celebrations felt as if they might last months, yet in reality it was only a weekend.
Carlos laughed, letting himself go, but in certain moments, alone in his room, his head throbbing from alcohol and notifications, his eyes always fell on the highlights of the final.
He couldn’t resist clicking, couldn’t stop himself from watching Jannik’s face on the other side of the net.
Jannik, on the other hand, chose silence.
Remaining a few more days with his team in a New York hotel, he sought refuge in the routine of those remaining days before returning home. Light morning training, stretching, a few runs in Central Park with his hoodie pulled up to avoid being recognized. But his mind never stopped buzzing.
At lunch with his coach, Vagnozzi, they tried to lighten the mood.
“Come on, Jan, at least you avoided losing with three bagels. Isn’t that progress?” he joked with a half-smile.
“Yes, tremendous progress…” Jannik replied, irony threading his voice, twirling his fork in the plate without touching the food.
Darren Cahill attempted to ease the tension. “Remember, it doesn’t end here. You’re twenty-four, you were number one for months. It doesn’t change who you are, it only changes what comes next.”
Jannik nodded, smiled and returned to his meal, but inside he knew those words were not enough.
In those days, he did small, almost mechanical things. He watched Netflix series without truly following them, answered friends’ messages distractedly, descended to the hotel lobby for a coffee as if the gesture could somehow piece himself back together.
Yet wherever he went, someone mentioned Carlos. A taxi driver, a waitress, even a fan who stopped him on the street: “Great match, shame about the final, but Alcaraz was unbeatable…”
He smiled politely, nodded, but inside he clenched his fists in his pockets. And it wasn’t because of the match.
-
Jannik’s return to Europe carried the ambiguous taste of a truce. The plane touched down on a gray morning, light rain tapping against the windows, mist curling around the airport.
It was September in Italy as well and autumn was beginning to make its presence felt.
A stark contrast to the dazzling nights of New York. No more blinding lights, no more cameras, only the damp silence of the mountains waiting for him.
He had promised himself he would turn the page there, leaving behind the defeat and all that had followed.
Coming home meant returning to familiar rhythms. The scent of wet earth, days measured by training sessions, simple lunches with his family in dialect.
But it was enough to open his phone to realize that New York had followed him all the way home.
He had barely touched it in the past days, using it only to reply briefly to messages from friends or distant relatives, or to answer his team’s requests for upcoming shoots and interviews, never for leisure, never for anything else.
When he unlocked it on his couch, after a carefree lunch and some chatter with his brother, he realized that something had come back with him, the unmistakable feeling that had been gripping him for days.
The images were everywhere.
Sensational headlines, endless carousels of photos and videos flooding social media.
Carlos seemed omnipresent. A glass of champagne in hand, a broad smile, hair tousled from sweat and alcohol, a video of him laughing uproariously as someone hoisted him onto their shoulders, looking more like a carefree boy than the new number one in the world.
Another, more provocative, showing him dancing too close to two clearly tipsy girls, their hands brushing almost imperceptibly, glances leaving no room for innocent interpretations.
Those clips raced through comments and red hearts, reposted by sports pages and gossip accounts alike: “The King of New York,” one proclaimed; “Number one on the court and at the parties,” another wrote.
Jannik sat motionless, the screen illuminating his tired face. A sudden, sharp tightening gripped his stomach.
It wasn’t anger, nor pure envy. It was a subtle pang, an irritation he could not shake.
Every image seemed to steal his breath, as if someone were reminding him that he could never truly separate himself from that other boy. Despite the miles, despite the intentions.
Photos of Carlos surrounded by women, doubled over laughing, the world seemingly at his feet, gave him a strange sense of intrusion. As if that lightness, that exposed joy, were somehow an indirect provocation to him as well.
He let himself sink onto the couch, the phone clutched in his hands. The northern drizzle tapped against the window but he could not look away. Every new video, every reposted photo, was like an involuntary summons.
In that silence soaked with annoyance, he understood once again that there was no escape: whatever he did, Carlos was there. A luminous shadow, an intrusive reflection.
And in that instant, he realized that the match was far from over.
It never would be.
-
The evening after, Jannik let himself be persuaded to go out again, almost reluctantly.
His team had suggested he be seen with Laila in his hometown, it would boost engagement for both their names and was a perfect publicity move, especially with important events scheduled in the coming days that required maximum media attention.
The girl had flown on a private jet the day after Jannik’s departure and this time no one announced their presence, almost an unspoken invitation for paparazzi and journalists to watch and follow them.
She would be staying in Milan and she had asked if he wanted to go with her, but he had declined almost immediately, preferring to remain in his beloved Alto Adige for as long as possible.
The restaurant they went to was one of those elegant spots, with warm, soft lights sliding along pale wooden walls, neatly arranged tables, the polite murmur of other couples dining and wordless songs drifting in the background. The smell of fresh fish enveloped him as he entered, but instead of relaxing him, it stirred a subtle nausea, everything around him oppressing him.
They sat at a corner table. Laila smiled, light and easy, he was stiff, his back almost glued to the chair.
He ordered without much thought, staring at the menu as if it were a blank sheet of paper.
When the dishes arrived, he took what was his and brought it to his mouth without ceremony.
She talked, she talked a lot. Trying to coax a smile from him, trying not to ask about the tournament, trying to lighten the heavy air that had settled over him.
“You know they’re writing about us everywhere, right?” she asked at one point, her tone wavering between pride and embarrassment, trying to convince herself it was a good thing.
Jannik didn’t even lift his eyes to meet hers. He had finished the first course of his meal and had briefly glanced at his phone to reply to a message from his manager, then fallen into the trap of social media and the first thing he saw was yet another video of Carlos.
He shut everything down immediately, clutching the phone tightly in his hands, silently thanking whoever had made it in titanium.
“Yeah…” he replied curtly, without looking up, as if the images had stolen his voice as well.
“You don’t care, do you?” Laila insisted, tilting her head, trying to meet his eyes.
“No, not really.” The tone was harsher than he intended, almost cutting. He regretted it almost immediately.
After all, he wasn’t angry with her, quite the opposite. She sighed, brushing her hand over his arm, a gentle gesture that slid off him without effect.
Jannik realized he couldn’t even pretend. He was there physically, in front of a plate of meat, yet inside, he was boiling.
Every laugh of Carlos captured in those videos, every ironic comment that popped up on his phone, was like a mirror reflecting back his own immobility.
He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to discharge somewhere the nervous tension he could not manage. The clinking of glasses around the restaurant sounded unbearably loud, Laila’s voice too distant.
In his mind, there was only him.
-
Carlos sat comfortably in the pale leather seat of the private jet, his eyes a little dark and tired from late nights of celebrating and early mornings filled with interviews and photoshoots around New York.
He was weary, but the kind of weariness that follows victory, a light exhaustion, as if the body was finally willing to surrender while the mind continued to race.
Beside him, his agent spoke with animated excitement about new sponsors wanting him on board, figures and opportunities flying fast, while a couple of friends and his brother laughed uproariously, replaying videos from the party.
Him leaping onto the sofa at a club, him gripping a microphone and shouting “¡Vamos!” as if still on the court, him surrounded by faces, hands and intermittent flashes of light.
Carlos nodded, smiled, letting the scenes paint themselves in his mind.
Everything seemed perfect. The return home as a champion, the number one reclaimed, the promise of training again at El Palmar, on the red clay courts that had known his sweat since childhood.
He felt Spain would welcome him as a hero, and this time something inside him was different. Not just the satisfaction of winning, but the awareness that the victory had changed him. He would return to his place, among the scents of his homeland, with an invisible crown on his head and the smile of someone who had made it.
Amid all that exhilaration, an unwelcome thought appeared. With a quick motion, he reached for his phone, almost as a distraction.
He opened Instagram, the screen lit up his tired face.
The first images were still from his party, reposted by fans, videos of his celebration. Then, as his finger scrolled slowly, they appeared.
Photos of Jannik dining with Laila.
The two of them seated at a table, he in a light shirt hanging loose on his shoulders, she smiling, leaning slightly toward him.
Nothing extravagant, nothing dramatic, but the atmosphere already told a story. “The new power couple of world tennis?” one page headlined.
Carlos swallowed slowly. A subtle, almost physical pang crossed his chest. Those images scratched at him, as if simply seeing them drew a boundary between him and Jannik, a barrier he didn’t want to acknowledge.
He scrolled past, but the tight knot in his stomach remained.
He wondered why. Why those photos, so innocuous, unsettled him so.
Perhaps because he knew Jannik well enough to sense that behind that downcast gaze, behind that closed posture, there was no lightness. He wasn’t a gossip boy, never had been and he was fairly certain that seeing him like that, posed in the social media lens, would always bother him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the seatback. The voices around him continued cheerfully, discussing future projects requiring his attention.
The jet raced toward Murcia, carrying him home, to his world, but inside, a sharp new awareness was taking root.
No matter where they went, no matter what they did, their lives continued to intertwine.
He was returning as a champion, yes, but that title had never truly belonged to him alone.
-
The silence, once they were officially home, carried the weight of a door closing on something alive.
It was not the gentle quiet of an ordinary night, it was the stillness that follows a crackling storm. The air was clean and charged with electricity that one doesn’t quite know where to discharge.
The rooms, their rooms, the beds, the routines, seemed to have waited for their return as if to allow them, for a fleeting moment, to be those children who had once lived them years before.
Carlos returned to Murcia like someone coming back after a long absence to a house he knew by heart. The kitchen crowded with a small family party, the mother’s voice carrying the same familiar sound it had for years, friends seeking lightness through jokes and embraces. The gleaming trophy sat on a table like a guest, people watching it, observing it, while Carlos kept a careful distance.
The days following the final unfolded with the measured gestures of learned rituals. A few meetings with their respective teams, managers and agents proposing plans for the months ahead, training sessions tinged with revenge and validation, and a touch of ordinary life to balance it all. Old friends, walks through towns they knew too well, naps on pillows imbued with familiar scents and memories.
Jannik rose early. He walked barefoot through the house, to feel the ground and measure time in steps not so different from running across cement courts.
He found his usual tools. A tube of grip, a pair of shoes still dusted, left where they were because he no longer needed them, the bag he no longer wished to close.
He slipped on his jacket, and as he did, his mind wandered back to Flushing, but not to the points, not to the draws, but to a glance, the crease beside the eyes, the way the muscles around the mouth tensed when a victory had been won. That expression remained etched in him like an echo.
The thought became a question. It was need.
The need manifested in small gestures that seemed trivial but burned with substance. Opening the page of an old match to watch a movement, staring at a photo of them just leaving the court, lingering on a detail as if it were a clue.
It was an addiction he liked to call discipline, hidden beneath the guise of ‘I study him to beat him’.
Carlos, meanwhile, filled his afternoons with the faces of those who had always watched him grow.
A brother bringing him delicacies from Spain, an old friend whose laughter would eventually give way to personal stories that grounded him, taking him back in time while keeping his feet firmly on the earth.
When the door closed and the noise faded, even he was left with the remnants of the match, with the sensation of a body that had given everything to avoid losing sight of something that, deep down, he did not want to lose.
The two homes, the alpine refuge for one and the warm apartment for the other, became soft, reassuring places, spaces where they tried to piece themselves back together. But the pieces were not objects at all, they were days spent together despite the distance, heartbeats, words left unspoken. Those seemed like the pieces of a puzzle for which you could never find the right place.
Their communication lived in details. A like left quietly, a story viewed and immediately closed, a message unsent for hours.
It was a conversation that thrived on the unspoken, yet spoke louder than words ever could.
-
Routine began to reassemble itself around the remnants of what he had left behind before leaving for New York.
Training sessions, physiotherapy, runs through the forest to clear his mind, but everything seemed to walk a taut line drawn by the final. He had taken to rising at dawn, to running while the mist still lingered low over the meadows, as if he could outrun the thoughts that pursued him.
His family restored a calm and serenity that sometimes felt like a distant memory. No one, paradoxically, mentioned the lost title, the news articles about him, his rival, or anything at all. For a fleeting moment, he felt like a nobody again.
Meals shared around the table, casual conversations about his parents’ restaurant and the people who frequented it, Mark, his brother, recounting tales from work, his little cat climbing onto him every so often, a silent reminder that he was never alone.
For a moment, it was good to be nobody, and he tried to savor as fully as possible that peaceful sensation, the kind you can only find when returning home after a long absence.
But, unfortunately, it did not last long.
It was his manager, Alex, who brought him back down to earth with a practical, professional call, swift, like so many things in the life of tennis and in the life of a champion.
“Champion, you have a charity dinner!” he said on the fourth day, his voice bright, trying to infuse a bit of enthusiasm without excessive ceremony.
Alex knew Jannik well. He had been his manager for years, had watched him grow into the man he had become, taught him many things, and shared enough experiences to understand that Jannik was not accustomed to this sort of attention.
He loved doing good, helping others, charity, but never liked doing it under the gaze of everyone, he disliked being on display while giving.
“It’s the ‘Rackets for the Future’ project. The brand insists, sponsors are counting on you, and your presence is required. It’s in Milan, in a few days, date to be defined. It’s a great opportunity Jan. For the kids, for sport, for our image… and it’s not a long commitment,” Alex added at the end, almost to reassure him, anticipating the eye-roll his client might give.
Jannik responded to the first sentence with a sigh that spoke more than a thousand words, then he gathered courage and spoke.
“Alex, is it really necessary? I’m… not really in the mood, honestly.”
Jannik was not the type to haggle or refuse. Often, his sense of duty extended beyond the court, and he silently accepted tasks he did not wish to undertake. But this time, it was genuinely difficult.
“I don’t know if this is the right moment. I just want to train. The travel, the photos, the words… I need to stay a little out of the cycle.”
“I know, I understand,” the manager replied. “But I believe it would do you good. Stepping away from routine a little, being seen in public, and, most importantly, not being downcast will help.” His words carried more the weight of friendship than management, a balance Alex knew how to maintain and Jannik how to interpret. “But there’s more. The sponsor contract stipulates certain appearances, and this dinner is designed for you to be the face of the project. We can negotiate some details, of course, but skipping it? Not now.”
Pragmatic as ever, he outlined the reasons. Concrete words, almost cold, yet carrying the subtle pressure of someone representing not just the player but his entire career.
Jannik listened, allowing himself the silence before answering. “Alright,” he said finally, sighing. “I’ll go, but nothing fancy. I can’t do it, I don’t want to perform.”
“No performance,” the manager promised. “It will be a small, contained affair. Remember, every step outside the court is part of the work. And also,” he added with a tone betraying pragmatic affection, “it does good for them, for the kids. Don’t underestimate this side of it. And try to smile!”
The call ended before Jannik could respond or reconsider.
In the days leading up to the event, Jannik moved as if nothing had changed.
Occasionally hitting a few balls, listening to music when it happened to play, taking relaxing baths. Small, simple things to keep the thoughts at bay. He slept worse, of course, but he forced himself to stay close to what he knew how to do: prepare his body, sharpen his mind.
The date arrived via message, short and to the point, from Alex, sending him the location and time. Jannik didn’t even bother noting it down, he simply read it and returned to his training.
Every now and then, in his free moments, he would watch highlights of the final, not out of sentiment, but to study a stroke, a posture, as one does with an opponent.
The gaze was technical, precise, avoiding emotion, yet it could not erase the lingering sensation.
-
The evening of the event came with a fine rain that made the city shine like freshly ironed paper.
The entrance to the villa hosting the dinner opened onto a stone courtyard, where a few elegant cars let only glimpses of their headlights peek through.
The location had been carefully chosen. A renovated historic palace, one of those with high ceilings and hanging chandeliers, an inner garden transformed into a lounge, rooms with dark wooden panels and a grand staircase leading to the main floor. Inside, the air carried the scent of beeswax and white wine, mingling lightly with the subtle scent of cologne from the guests and the fresh aroma of white flowers lined up along the tables.
Someone from Jannik’s team had carefully chosen his outfit. Nothing sloppy, nothing too contrived. A solid navy blazer, tailored cut; a white shirt without a tie, cuffs closed with discreet cufflinks, polished shoes but not flashy.
He felt a bit like a stranger in his own attire. The fabric sat on him only out of respect, out of duty. He looked at himself in the mirror before leaving and adjusted his collar with a habitual gesture, almost reminding himself that perfection in motion would not dissolve the knot in his stomach. He had independently chosen a light fragrance, a hint of citrus and wood, something that did not shout but lingered close to his skin.
After a short ride in a car decidedly too large for him and his team, he arrived at the hall.
He entered through a corridor smelling of old wood and warm wax. Waiters passed with trays of light appetizers and glasses of champagne, the murmurs of the guests forming a soundtrack of warm tones and polite laughter. Families connected to the world of sport, entrepreneurs with subtle ties, former athletes sipping prosecco. In one corner, a pianist played classical pieces, a gentle accompaniment meant to calm the room’s excitement. Tables were set with cream-colored linen, porcelain plates, silver cutlery glinting softly.
Jannik moved through the space, collecting greetings his role demanded. He shook hands, delivered small speeches about the project, the opportunities it offered young players through the supported tennis schools.
The words were of the moment, but not empty. He knew how important it was to leave genuine traces for those watching, for the kids themselves who would follow later, and for the future that awaited them. He felt the gratitude of someone calling him godfather and he responded with a measured smile, genuine enough.
At the central table, among the rows of guests, sat the sponsors. The scene was meticulously planned. A presenter to introduce the project briefly, a couple of speeches, a small charity auction with symbolic items donated by athletes.
Behind the scenes, the staff moved swiftly. Microphones checked, lights calibrated. Everything was designed for simplicity, to avoid a cover-story spectacle. Yet the presence of accredited cameras and some photographers ensured the evening would be covered, at least partially, by the media.
Jannik moved like someone performing a role written by others. Subtle signals, prepared remarks, expressions of thanks. He searched for sincerity amid the formal gestures, a word lost among the chatter that might be salvaging.
Then, the unexpected.
A sudden movement in the room, a ripple of murmurs sweeping through the guests. Some turned toward the entrance, the discreet flashes of the accredited photographers beginning to flicker.
Jannik followed the reflection unconsciously and when his eyes settled on the doorway his stomach tightened in an abrupt knot.
Carlos.
It couldn’t be true, and yet… he was there.
Dressed in a midnight-blue suit, his pale shirt unbuttoned just enough at the collar, Carlos walked in as though he’d always been meant to. His hair was swept back with that practiced nonchalance that never failed him, his smile easy, effortless, the kind that opened rooms without even asking.
He moved through the crowd the same way he moved across a court. Unhurried, assured, with that quiet magnetism that drew every glance toward him. A few guests reached out to shake his hand, others rose halfway from their seats in greeting. The photographers’ flashes tilted subtly in his direction, as if the evening, from that moment on, had found its center of gravity.
Jannik froze mid-motion, the glass of prosecco suspended halfway to his lips. The taste suddenly turned bitter, metallic, his own body warning him that he wasn’t ready for this.
No one had told him, no one had prepared him.
Was it some sponsor’s idea, a calculated move to stir attention?
Or was it one of those coincidences fate likes to stage, just to remind you that you never really get to escape what still burns in you?
His heartbeat thundered in his throat, at his temples, too loud to ignore. He tried to look away, to focus on the polite laughter and conversation around him, but he couldn’t.
Every movement Carlos made, every laugh, every handshake, found him, pierced through the noise like invisible arrows.
Of course Carlos noticed, naturally.
Because he always did.
He didn’t do anything theatrical, he didn’t stare or rush toward him.
Just a glance, fleeting, almost careless, but charged with that spark Jannik knew too well. A flicker that said ‘I’ve seen you’.
Then, as if nothing had happened, Carlos turned back to the others, smiling, charming, flawless in the role everyone expected him to play.
Jannik, instead, felt like a stranger in his own skin.
The room sharpened around him, every detail too vivid, the rustle of linen tablecloths as someone moved, the sweet smell of white wine lingering in half-empty glasses, the clink of cutlery, the shifting murmur of voices.
It was all too much, it all seemed to converge toward a single, magnetic point.
Him.
Perfectly at ease, even here. Even at this dinner that wasn’t supposed to belong to him.
Jannik realized his fingers had gone white around the stem of his glass. He drew a slow breath, trying to hide the tremor running through his hands. But the harder he tried not to look, the more his gaze betrayed him.
For a heartbeat, no longer and no shorter, their eyes met.
A silent exchange that stretched like a taut string between them, fragile and unbreakable.
Jannik was the first to look away.
He turned toward a painting on the wall, pretending to study it and the pulse beneath his ribs was no longer steady.
No confrontation, not a single word, and still, the whole night already hung suspended, waiting for that inevitability.
Carlos broke away from the group of sponsors he’d been entertaining, a couple of familiar faces laughing too loudly at one of his jokes. He gave them a brief wave, leaving behind their warmth, their noise. The glass remained in his hand, his fingers loose around it, his step unhurried.
There was something magnetic in that calm stride, the way people instinctively moved aside to let him through, the way his presence seemed to shift the room’s gravity.
Jannik stood a little apart, his back lightly against the wall, as though trying to breathe through all that elegance pressing in on him.
Carlos lifted his brows slightly, just a trace of irony, and approached. His steps were deliberate, but his smile measured, almost careful.
Only when he was close enough to be heard, he spoke.
“Nice evening,” Carlos said quietly, his voice meant only for him. No greeting, no pleasantries. Calm, almost casual, but his eyes betrayed that subtle glimmer that always gave him away. “You’ve organized it well. Congratulations!”
Jannik swallowed, throat dry. “It’s not my evening,” he replied, too quickly.
Carlos tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “No? You wear it well. I thought I’d find you more… nervous. But you seem comfortable.”
Jannik’s hand tightened around the stem of his glass, the crystal dangerously thin between his fingers. “You’re the one who’s comfortable. Always are, in places like this.”
“True.” Carlos took a step closer, just enough for Jannik to catch the fresh scent of his cologne, something sharp and clean, familiar in a way that hurt. “But tonight you almost look like one of us, I’m surprised.”
Jannik’s eyes lifted to his, steady and unflinching. “I’m not here to surprise anyone.”
A soft, amused silence.
Then Carlos, with that slow half-smile, asked, “Where’s Laila?”
The name hit like a stone thrown into still water.
Jannik’s jaw locked. His eyes widened, not in shock, but in something more dangerous.
He set his glass down sharply on the table beside him, not caring whose it was.
“What about you?” he said, his voice low, slicing through the space between them. “Didn’t bring one of your… party companions? I thought that was your natural habitat, being with them. Considering what you did after the final.”
Carlos laughed softly, but there was no joy in it. “Still stings, huh? The number one?”
“It’s not the number that stings,” Jannik answered, and this time his voice trembled just enough to betray the truth. “It’s how you did it.”
Carlos looked at him the way one looks at an opponent just before the serve, all focus and no mercy. “How?”
“The carelessness,” Jannik said, his voice a sharp whisper. “Like it were all a game, like none of it ever cost you anything.”
Carlos leaned in slightly, lowering his tone. “You still don’t get it. That is how I live and that’s how I win.”
“It won’t last,” Jannik shot back, teeth clenched.
The smile faded from Carlos’s face, replaced by something harder, colder. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right, we should all be like you.” The sarcasm was unmistakable in his voice. “Grit our teeth, destroy ourselves, pretend we don’t feel anything. Because that’s what makes you strong, right?”
Their gazes locked, unyielding. Around them, laughter, music, the soft murmur of the party carried on, but the air between them had gone still, charged, electric.
“We’re not the same,” Jannik said finally.
Carlos tilted his head again, the faintest ghost of a smile curving his lips, sharp as a blade.
“And yet,” he murmured, “look at us. Always ending up here, always the same place. Always you and me.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the words they’d just exchanged, a silence so dense it seemed to hum between them, like the still air before a storm.
Jannik could feel his pulse beating hard against his temples, his fingers tightening around the glass as if that fragile object could somehow hold him together. Carlos stood opposite him, eyes bright, though his uneven breathing betrayed the calm of his posture.
It was a silence that didn’t belong to the room anymore, but only to them. Private, alive with all the things they didn’t know how to say.
Around them, life resumed its rhythm as if nothing had happened. Waiters glided past with silver trays, the lights fell softly over the linen tables, a laugh, too loud and too careless, broke the air just a few meters away.
But for both of them, the world had gone distant, muffled, blurred at the edges.
All that remained was that invisible thread between them, stretched thin, trembling, something that held them together even as it pulled them apart.
An event organizer, elegant in a dark suit, approached with a discreet bow.
“Gentlemen, the official toast will begin shortly. We kindly ask you to join us on stage.”
His voice sliced through the stillness, dragging reality back between them like a blade through water.
Carlos was the first to move.
He inhaled quietly, as if gathering a breath large enough to rebuild his composure, then turned toward the man with his usual ready smile, flawless, polite, the one he reserved for the world.
A small nod, a shift of the shoulders, and he was already gliding back into the crowd. Eyes followed him instinctively, drawn to that effortless magnetism that clung to him like a second skin.
Jannik stayed where he was.
The glass trembled faintly in his hand, and only then did he notice how tightly he’d been holding it. He tried to loosen his grip, but the hollow ache in his chest anchored him to the floor.
He watched Carlos moving forward, surrounded by warm faces and easy laughter, and for a moment it struck him.
The absurd feeling that Carlos belonged there. That world of lights and applause fit him perfectly, while Jannik lingered on the edges, trapped somewhere between duty and a feeling he still refused to name.
Just as Carlos was about to disappear into the crowd, he turned.
It wasn’t a grand gesture, almost no one noticed. Just a brief motion, a glance cast over his shoulder, finding Jannik’s eyes again.
No smile this time. Just that faint, tight line of his mouth, the barest trace of bitterness.
In that instant, in that flash of dark eyes cutting through the noise, Jannik recognized it, the same tension that burned through his own chest.
Then it was gone.
The crowd swallowed them whole once more, each resuming the role expected of him, each wearing the mask the world demanded.
The toast arrived like a scene imposed, a scripted act neither of them could refuse.
They were called together to the stage, asked to raise their glasses before the crowd of glittering guests. The lights brightened like stage lamps, and the camera flashes marked the rhythm, cold, relentless, mechanical.
Carlos looked as if he had been born for it.
The right smile, open and unforced, the perfect handshake, the easy laughter that filled the room with warmth.
What on court became strength now turned to charm, that same gravity that pulled everything toward him.
Beside him, Jannik stood with his own glass lifted, but the feeling of alienation pressed hard against his chest. Every motion felt rehearsed, too precise.
The crystal was cold in his hand, and yet it burned.
The lights weighed heavy on his skin, the gazes of the guests slid past him, never settling.
All the while, Carlos’s nearness, his presence, his composure, made everything worse. Because he made it look so easy, so natural, so inevitable.
A photographer caught the moment, the two of them side by side, glasses raised.
Carlos smiling wide and sure, Jannik with a faint, polite curve of the lips.
The perfect image of cordial rivals, almost friends.
A lie, bright and clean as the crystal they held aloft.
As soon as they stepped off the stage, Jannik felt an urgent need for air, not the perfumed kind that filled the hall, but something real.
He crossed the room in quick strides, ignoring greetings and polite hands reaching for him, until he found a side corridor.
At the end, a door. He pushed it open.
Outside, silence greeted him like mercy.
The city stretched out before him, its lights flickering like a constellation built of glass and metal. He leaned against the railing, elbows braced, drawing in a deep breath. The night air stung his skin, sharp and clean, a pain he welcomed.
He closed his eyes, letting the murmur of the party fade behind him, until only the pulse of his heart remained.
Then, behind him, the door opened again.
He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
Carlos stepped out quietly, leaving the hum of the crowd behind him. His jacket hung open, the knot of his tie loosened just enough to breathe. His footsteps were unhurried, the measured stride of someone who has nothing left to prove.
He approached with the same unthinking grace with which he would cross a tennis court.
For a long moment, he said nothing. He simply took a place beside him.
The terrace felt suspended in another world.
Behind them, the murmur of the gala persisted, a background of clinking glasses, polite laughter, and the delicate strains of a string quartet trying to give rhythm to a night that had been too carefully constructed.
Out there, beneath a heavy sky, time had slowed. It had thickened, holding its breath.
Carlos had crossed the distance without hesitation. He’d left his drink half-finished on a table and now leaned against the railing, shoulders relaxed, looking at Jannik with that half-smile that to others seemed easy and genuine, but which Jannik knew was a mask.
“I didn’t think you were the type to run away,” he said quietly, breaking the silence.
Jannik turned slightly, his eyes lingering on the profile lit by the warm glow spilling from the hall.
He drew in a breath before replying, his voice sharp as a blade. “I didn’t think you were the type to follow.”
A clean hit. Carlos took it in with a faint grimace but didn’t retreat.
Between them, there was no longer distance, only air, compressed and ready to shatter.
Jannik’s hands tightened on the railing until his knuckles turned white. He stared into the distance, but inside, something surged, an uncontainable tide. He tried to swallow it down, as he had done a thousand times before.
Not this time, not here, not in front of him.
His voice came out harder than he intended.
“Why are you here, Carlos? What do you want from me?” “You’ve already taken everything. The US Open, the number one spot, the crowd chanting your name wherever you go. Isn’t that enough?”
Carlos went still, his eyes darkening. The usual levity didn’t come. When he spoke, his tone was low, raw with something like pain. “I thought you, of all people, knew me better than that. And yet you talk like everyone else. As if I’m nothing but the trophies, the smile, the photos with a cup in my hand.” He paused, then gave a short, hollow laugh. “Maybe we don’t know each other as well as I thought.”
Jannik turned then, eyes sharp and burning. “No, the problem is that we know each other too well.”
Carlos studied him for a moment, searching for the truth beneath the words. Then he took a step closer, his hands in his pockets. “Then tell me. What is it that bothers you so much? That I’m here? That I win? That I can smile while you always look like you’re carrying the weight of the world?”
“You don’t understand,” Jannik muttered, shaking his head.
“Then make me understand!” Carlos’s voice rose, trembling with emotion, no longer calm. “Because every time I look at you, it feels like there’s something you want to say but never do. This isn’t just about tennis, Jan. You know that as well as I do.”
The words fell between them like a blade.
It wasn’t just about tennis.
Jannik’s fingers clenched around the railing until they hurt. “I look at you and see everything I can’t be. Every time I’ve lost, every time I’ve felt one step behind. And you…you make it look easy. I have to die out there just to match you, and you look like you’re having fun.”
Carlos drew a deep breath. For the first time that night, his smile was gone. “You think it’s easy? You have no idea what it means to be me. To wear that smile, even when I don’t want to. To feel everyone watching, waiting for me to fall. And you’re always there. Even when you’re not beside me, you are.”
The air between them thickened again, heavy and electric.
Jannik’s heart pounded so hard it hurt. “And what about me? What do you think I’m supposed to do? Everywhere I turn, you’re there. I can’t even breathe without feeling like I’m chasing you.”
Carlos stepped forward, so close that Jannik could feel his uneven breath.
“Don’t you see it’s the same for me?” he shot back, his voice breaking with force he hadn’t meant to reveal. “You have no idea how much I chase you, Jannik. How every time I face you, something in me changes.”
The words struck deep, half wound, half caress.
Jannik trembled. He dropped his gaze, his hands shaking. “It isn’t fair,” he whispered. “I look at you and feel everything at once. And you always look untouched, untouchable.”
Carlos gave a small, bitter smile. “That’s what you want to believe. But every time I see you, I lose my balance. You strip me of it completely.”
A breeze swept between them, as if trying to cool the fire that was now devouring the space they shared. “I can’t get free of you. Every time I win, a part of me wonders if you’re watching. Even tonight, surrounded by everyone, I could only see you.”
Silence followed, unbearable and absolute. Jannik’s breath came uneven, his whole body trembling like a string about to snap.
“You can’t just say that,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You can’t pretend this is a game, like everything else.”
Carlos’s smile was faint, but there was nothing playful in it. “I’m not pretending, Jan. And you know that.”
The silence swallowed them whole. Behind them, music continued, distant and out of place. Someone laughed loudly inside, the sound almost absurd against the quiet of the terrace.
Jannik swallowed hard. His pulse beat in his temples, his hands, his throat.
There was no way out, not anymore.
“You’re…” he began, but his voice cracked. He shook his head, frustrated, at himself, at Carlos, at all of it. “I don’t even know what you are to me anymore.”
When he looked up, Carlos was still watching him, unflinching.
He’d learned to withstand the pressure of crowds, of journalists, of sponsors, but never this.
Never those pale green eyes that cut right through him. His favourite eyes in the world.
“You can’t say something like that and leave it hanging,” Carlos said, his tone low, almost commanding. “What am I to you, Jannik?”
Jannik clenched his jaw, a sharp pain shooting through his teeth. His breath escaped in a strained rush. “You’re the one who makes me look in the mirror and fail to recognize myself. You’re the noise that never stops. Every time I think I’ve done enough, you show me that I haven’t. And I can’t take it anymore.”
Carlos stepped forward, the air around him charged. “You think it’s any different for me? You talk about irritation, envy, but I live in fear of losing you. Not the match, not the ranking. You. The presence of you. Who you are on court, who you are off it.”
Jannik let out a short, unsteady laugh. “Words, Carlos, they’re just words. You’re good with words, with gestures, with smiles in front of cameras. But I don’t believe you.”
He said it too loudly, as if trying to convince himself, ready to turn, to run, to escape the weight of what they’d just unleashed.
But Carlos stopped him, his voice cutting through the air. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel it. Don’t tell me it doesn’t burn inside you the way it burns in me.”
Jannik froze. Slowly, he turned back. His pupils were wide, his fists clenched at his sides.
“What exactly am I supposed to feel, Carlos? Tell me.” His voice was hoarse, foreign to his own ears. “That we’re trapped in something without a name? That we’re consuming each other and can’t stop? Is that what you want to hear?”
Carlos closed the space between them, their breaths mingling. His tone now was fierce, wounded.
“I want you to stop pretending it’s just tennis. That it’s just rankings and trophies. It never was. Not for me, not for you.”
Jannik bit down on his lip, trying to hold something back. Then, almost shouting, his voice cracking open. ““Then tell me! Tell me what it is! Because I can’t anymore, I can’t understand it, I can’t understand you!”
A silence fell so deep it smothered even the music from inside. The world blurred, only their ragged breaths remained.
Carlos shook his head, running a hand through his hair as if trying to free himself from the weight of it all. “See? We can’t even talk about it without breaking apart. Everything between us is too much. Too much tennis, too many expectations, too much silence.” He lowered his gaze, his voice barely above a whisper. “And yet I can’t stop.”
The words struck Jannik like thin blades. His hands trembled, his whole body straining to keep still. He looked toward the hall, toward the world that kept turning without them, and felt a hollow ache bloom inside.
“We’re a mess,” he said softly, his voice raw. “A disaster I don’t know how to handle anymore.”
Carlos looked at him, and his gaze softened for the first time. There was no anger now, only truth. “Maybe we are, but you’re still the only thing I can’t stop looking for.”
Jannik dropped his gaze, unable to bear it. His hands shook, his legs felt made of lead.
They were balanced on a thread, one breath away from collapse.
Behind them, a door opened and a burst of laughter spilled onto the terrace, a reminder that the world still existed somewhere else, full of applause and pretence. But neither of them moved.
They stood there, caught in the wreckage of something that had finally spoken its name.
The evening air had turned colder, sharp enough to sting the flushed skin of Jannik’s cheeks.
They had stayed outside too long, and yet neither of them could summon the will to go back in. The words had burned out between them, leaving only the weight of their breaths and the obstinate pounding of hearts that refused to quiet.
Carlos stood a single step away, so close that Jannik could feel the warmth radiating from him, could catch the faint trace of cologne lingering in the air.
He said nothing, he didn’t need to. Every flicker of his eyes, every small tightening of his jaw spoke louder than language ever could.
Jannik kept his hands in his pockets, as if to anchor himself. But his fingers trembled and not from the cold.
There was an urge building inside him, raw and impossible to tame, a need to move, to either step back and free himself or step forward and give in completely.
He stayed frozen between the two, caught in that unbearable tension that felt like it might consume him from the inside.
The silence between them had become something alive, almost tangible. A gust of wind lifted a loose strand of Carlos’s dark hair, and Jannik found himself staring, too long and too intensely.
That was when Carlos moved, barely. A subtle shift, a lean forward, a hesitation so delicate it could have been imagined, and yet Jannik felt it like the crack of thunder before the storm.
His heart lurched into his throat, time fractured. The distant laughter, the clinking glasses, the music, all of it dissolved, leaving only them.
Two figures suspended in an instant that could tip either way.
One more inch, one deeper breath, and they might have fallen.
Carlos stopped.
He hesitated, just for a second. His lips parted, as if to speak, and a sound tried to escape, but only a broken syllable made it through, fragile as glass.
“I…”
Jannik held his breath. His blood roared in his ears, his legs felt heavy, his hands ready to break free from his pockets.
One inch more. So little.
But reality, cruel and relentless, found them before they could cross that line.
“Hey, there you are!”
A bright, oblivious voice cut through the air behind them.
A staff member, grinning, phone in hand. “They’re looking for you inside. Interviews are starting, come on!”
Carlos stepped back half a pace, swift, like someone caught off guard. Jannik lowered his gaze, his jaw tightening hard enough to hurt. The invisible thread between them snapped in an instant, leaving behind nothing but the raw ache of what almost was.
“Coming,” Carlos answered, his tone too controlled, wearing a smile that was all surface and no truth.
Jannik said nothing. He stood still for a heartbeat too long while Carlos turned toward the door.
The emptiness in his chest burned, a hollow, aching reminder of something stolen, interrupted before it could take form.
When he finally followed, the air inside felt heavier, closer.
As he walked behind Carlos, he knew that moment wouldn’t fade easily.
The tension hadn’t broken.
It had only learned to hide and to grow.
-
The days following the gala event slipped away like water through his fingers.
In Milan, where he had stayed a few days longer, between formal goodbyes, postponed interviews and polite encounters, Jannik tried to recover a sense of normality.
The flight back to Monte Carlo was slow, almost meditative. The plane carved its path through a spotless sky, clouds spread beneath him like cushions of white. He watched them without really seeing, his gaze lost somewhere between thought and memory. The low hum of the engines filled the cabin, magnifying every faint sound, the rustle of passengers shifting in their seats, the footsteps of the crew, the soft murmur of conversation. Everything felt familiar, and yet unreachable, distant, separated from him by glass.
His luggage was neatly packed. Rackets sealed, shoes folded away, clothes lined with care. Each object contained a fragment of the life awaiting him, the discipline, the repetition, the precisione, but none could hold the weight of his thoughts.
Jannik drifted in silence, his breathing uneven, as though still running toward something intangible, something he could not name.
Morning in the Principality of Monaco arrived with the hush that only early hours allow, before the sun fully rises. The streets below were still, bathed in the pale light filtering between palm trees and pastel façades.
Jannik opened the shutters with a slow motion, every morning had become a repetition that no longer surprised him.
The city stretched beneath him, silent and real, ready to welcome him, to soothe him with its calm surface.
There, his routine resumed its rhythm.
The gym was empty, the court glistening beneath the soft morning sun. The scent of rubber and sweat met him like an old friend.
His hand found the grip of the racket with mechanical precision, the sound of the ball striking the ground echoed clean and sharp, each hit steady, measured.
Everything was in its place, familiar, ordered. Still, it wasn’t enough.
During physiotherapy, the touch of the therapist’s hands felt sharper than usual. The man spoke of muscles, recovery, posture, but Jannik only half-listened. The words blurred, drowned beneath the memory of the terrace and the warmth of that final encounter with Carlos. Each press, each movement across his skin, carried the ghost of a tension that no rest could ease.
Simone approached him with an easy step as the therapist worked on his calves. “You okay, Jan? You seem kinda off today.”
Jannik exhaled slowly, lowering his gaze, a faint smile escaping him. “Just tired.”
The coach nodded, not pressing further. No explanations were needed, the distance in his eyes spoke clearly enough.
He returned to the court, focusing on the rhythm of the ball, the pulse of his heartbeat but something inside him had shifted, something no exercise, no repetition could ever set right again.
He continued to train his serve beneath the mild September sun, his mind already turning toward his next tournament.
Beijing awaited him, his first competition as the world number two. He needed to give his best, flawless, unshaken, constant. Every gesture carried an invisible weight: the need to prove, to confirm, to never falter, especially now.
Each stroke was more than practice. It was performance, precision, control, endurance. He had to show the world that he was still a champion, still the greatest Italian player in history.
“So, Beijing?” he asked, his tone quiet, almost as if challenging himself rather than anyone else.
“What about it?” Simone looked up, one eyebrow raised, curious about where this was going.
Jannik didn’t reply.
The coach smirked. “Oh, are you asking if your friend will be on the other side of the draw?”
Jannik froze mid-rally, letting the ball fall untouched to the clay. His reply was sharp, cutting.
“Just checking who my opponents are.”
The coach regarded him with the patience of someone long used to reading between the lines. “No, he won’t. He’s going to Tokyo.”
A weight settled heavily in Jannik’s chest. His muscles slackened for a moment, his breath came slower.
The realization left him suspended. No meeting, no match, no chance to face him again, not even across a net. The awareness of that distance, physical and otherwise, brought with it a strange unease.
There would be no him on the opposite side, no chance to read his movements, no silent glances traded before a serve.
Suddenly, the tournament that had once seemed only strategy and skill felt hollow, longer, slower, emptier.
The coach noticed the subtle change. The stillness in his eyes, the slight drop of his shoulders, a silence that spoke more than words ever could.
It was the first time, after so long, that their paths would not cross. And he was no longer used to that.
Thousands of kilometres away, Carlos moved through the quiet rhythm of home in Murcia.
The smell of strong coffee at dawn, the familiar murmur of the radio, the light steps of his brother chatting in the kitchen, small details that grounded him in a normality that felt almost solid. Morning runs in the park, hitting sessions beneath the Spanish sun, the simple structure of a routine that offered safety. Beneath his smile, the shadow of Milan lingered, persistent and unshakable.
He thought of his next tournament, Tokyo, of giving his all once again.
Being number one in the world was not a title, it was a burden that pressed into every breath, every muscle. He knew all eyes were on him now, waiting for a crack, a slip, a loss, a single game, a single set.
Every serve, every shot was measured, deliberate, weighted. His first tournament as world number one filled him with a quiet anxiety. The world watched, the press wrote, sponsors waited for reassurance. He had to deliver, again and again.
He had to prove that he had earned it, that he belonged there. Not just to them, but to himself.
Training, sweating, the shock of cold baths, it helped. It steadied him. It quieted the heat that rose in his body whenever certain memories returned. But it never erased them.
The thought of Jannik, miles away, slipped into his mind like a pulse, weaving itself into the rhythm of his movements, the ache of his muscles.
It wasn’t just memory. It was a presence, invisible and constant, that made every drill heavier, every stroke sharper.
The day began early, as always. Warm-up, stretching, strokes. He was back on the same court where he had grown up, the one that had shaped him, with Juan Carlos watching from the sidelines.
“Dios,” he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel, “I’d forgotten how hot Spain can be.”
The coach laughed and tossed him a bottle of water. “Tokyo will be cooler.”
Without meaning to, his mind shaped a question, one that came almost by instinct whenever tournaments were mentioned.
“By the way,” he asked suddenly, trying to sound casual, “anyone we know going to be there?”
The coach, seated on a stool nearby, smiled knowingly, with that air of someone who had long since learned to read him. “Oh, don’t worry, no distractions in Tokyo. He’ll probably be in Beijing. You’ll be free to enjoy your number one spot in peace.”
Carlos laughed, a short, light sound, almost mocking himself. But inside, something tightened. The remark was innocent enough, yet the emptiness it revealed was immediate. Just days away from his first tournament as world number one, the thought of facing it without that presence made him strangely restless, a little less driven.
He resumed hitting, searching for precision, for rhythm. Every smash, every backhand, every serve was flawless in form, but missing something, something like the spark that Jannik always brought out in him, the silent challenge that pushed him to go further.
Juan Carlos watched him closely, noting the difference, the absence of lightness, the faint melancholy hidden behind those focused eyes.
“Carlos,” he said finally, with a gentle, almost fatherly smile, “I know what are you thinking. It’s ok, even number ones need a push sometimes, and that push doesn’t always come from a trophy. Sometimes it comes from the person who makes you sweat twice as hard.”
Carlos understood instantly. He wasn’t just talking about tennis.
Standing there, at the net, sweat tracing the curve of his neck, he realized that push, the force, the charge, would be missing.
He paused, the ball resting loosely in his palm, and stared across the empty court, imagining the other on the far side of the world.
His mind, always quick, always forward, found itself caught in a silence heavier than any match he had ever played.
“It’ll be different without him,” he murmured, almost to the clay beneath his feet, to the air, to the wind. “It won’t be the same.”
His coach nodded silently. There was nothing to add.
A world number one could have everything, yet some absences couldn’t be filled with trophies or applause.
And so Carlos kept hitting, stroke after stroke, under the slow descent of the evening sun.
The light turned golden against the clay, his movements steady, relentless. He tried to turn the ache into strength, the longing into rhythm.
But deep down, one truth stayed with him, constant and undeniable.
Distance would not erase a thing.
Not in any sense of the word.
-
In the days that followed the predictions of their coaches became reality.
Draws were released, news circulated, interviews were published. For the first time in what felt like forever, the two most promising and celebrated young talents of modern tennis were heading in opposite directions, diverging almost entirely.
Tokyo glimmered even when there was no need for light. Neon signs flickered against orderly traffic, hurried faces never glanced back.
Carlos walked silently through the hotel corridor, his duffel bag thumping rhythmically against his leg.
The city embraced him with its characteristic scents, fans awaiting him with feverish anticipation, interviewers ready to pepper him with questions.
He was tired. Jet lag weighed on him, and so did the thoughts that clung to him like a shadow.
He paused for a moment by the window of his room. Below, the city moved like a perfectly tuned mechanism, while he felt, paradoxically, out of place.
At that same moment, Jannik awoke early, the sharp morning light cutting through the heavy curtains of his room.
Beijing smelled different. Dense, metallic, mingled with the damp pulse of the city. He laced his shoes, pulled on his jacket, and stepped into the corridor, eyes fixed to the floor as if to hide his thoughts from the world.
On the training court in China’s capital, Jannik moved with almost obsessive precision.
The crisp crack of each ball meeting the racket echoed through the half-empty hall, measuring time more reliably than any metronome. Diagonal backhands, topspin-laden forehands, feet sliding and repositioning with meticulous care. Every flawless motion lay a hidden distraction, a mind momentarily elsewhere.
His coach noticed it during a change of pace.“Jan, shall we stop? You seem a little distracted.”
Jannik paused to catch his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel. A half-smile, unconvincing. “No, no. It’s just the Beijing air.”
A shot went long.
The coach noticed. “You’re tense, you’re never this tense on the first day.”
Jannik shrugged, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing.”
But deep down, he knew. He was someone, not nothing.
At the post-practice press conference in Beijing, the usual questions were asked. Physical condition, adaptation to the court, expectations.
Jannik answered calmly, resting his hands on the table, speaking in that measured tone that seemed to conceal more than it revealed, alternating between Italian and English.
The inevitable question arrived, as he had known it would.
“Won’t it feel strange to play such an important tournament without the possibility of facing Alcaraz? We’re used to seeing you play against each other by now.”
Jannik offered a brief, courteous smile, almost a formality. He paused an extra beat, buying himself time.
“It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. It happens. But yes, it will feel different.”
A murmur rippled through the journalists. Someone pressed further. “Different how? Easier? Harder?”
Jannik’s gaze lowered to the microphone, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table.
Easier? Maybe. Harder? Not really.
Emptier.
But that he could not say aloud.
So he shrugged, as if it were mundane. “It’s different when you know a certain kind of challenge won’t come. But there are plenty of other strong players, we’ll see how it goes.”
The brief pause, the fraction of a second his eyes lingered elsewhere, betrayed the truth. Something had indeed changed.
Meanwhile, an hour ahead, Tokyo stirred to the sound of racket strings.
Carlos was working on his serve, one after another, with that explosive power that defined him. The balls whistled through the air and thudded against the court, yet his focus wavered.
The coach watched, arms crossed. “Are you already in tournament mode, or are you still in Spain?”
Carlos chuckled softly, shaking his head to shrug off some invisible weight. “Hey hey,” he said, thick accent threading every word, “I’m here. I’m here. Maybe… too much.”
He returned to the serve and short rallies. After half an hour of intense rhythm, he stopped with a grimace. His mind had drifted again, if only for an instant.
The coach noticed and laughed. “Already imagining the final? Or missing someone on the other side of the net?”
Carlos tried to laugh, but it came strangled. “No, no… none of that.” He returned to serving with a quiet fury, as if willing the absence itself out of existence.
But his serve faltered, wide. Twice.
A third time, and he stopped, breath broken.
Hand running through his hair, he cursed himself silently. The thought of him alone could make him falter so easily, it was absurd.
The coach observed, silent, tilting his head. Carlos resumed, but even during a brief water break, his hands trembled subtly.
The thought inevitably drifted west, to Jannik, living the same routine under the same sky, yet with different horizons.
He returned there mentally, because he knew Jannik would understand.
He would understand the pressure, the exhaustion of relentless jet lag, the awkwardness of having to answer polite questions when all you want is solitude, to think.
What tormented him most was the time difference. Just one hour.
Enough to glance at the clock and know what the other was doing. If he finished morning training, Jannik was just starting; if Jannik sat down for lunch, he was already back on court for the next session.
A cruel proximity that made absence feel all the more palpable.
It was like having a ghost beside you, alive, present. No effort needed to sense it, you only had to breathe.
In Tokyo, the same routine played out, with other microphones, other languages. Carlos sat before the journalists, the familiar smile on his lips, eyes slightly more serious.
“You’re number one, first Asian tournament in a long time. What do you think of the draw? Do you feel any pressure after getting the number one title again?
Quick, decisive reply, “I’m glad to be back. And yes, of course i feel the pressure. Everyone wants to beat the number one, that’s normal.”
Then came the question he had been waiting for, the one that hit straight to the gut. “Do you think the tournament loses something without Sinner?”
Carlos tilted his head slightly, and the smile slipped. A second of silence too long.
“I don’t know, maybe.”
Someone in the room chuckled, thinking it a joke. But he did not laugh. Something was lost for him, yes. Yet he could not say it aloud.
Another journalist pressed. “Do you mean it’s easier without him? Less pressure?”
Carlos ran a hand over his neck, a nervous gesture. “It’s not a matter of easy or hard. When you play against certain opponents, they push you beyond yourself. They force you to be better. When they aren’t there… the level stays high, but something is missing.”
The room held its breath. Silence more eloquent than any words.
Both knew the other would see, hear, read these words. They would appear in newspapers, in videos, bouncing across social media.
It was like sending hidden messages beneath the veil of interviews.
As the press conference ended, Jannik slowly removed his jacket, feeling the warmer air of the room compared to the cold corridors of the facility. He nodded to the journalists, as always, and walked back into the tunnel toward the locker rooms.
Each step echoed, yet the only sound remaining was the question itself. Won’t it feel strange without Carlos?
He would have liked to answer yes, that it would feel emptier, colder, that in a way it was not the same tournament without him on the other side of the draw.
Instead, he had said very little, hiding the rest behind a brief smile.
He leaned his forehead against the locker door and stayed there for a few seconds.
It wasn’t physical fatigue, it was the weight of something he had not yet learned how to manage. Team members passed by, talking, joking, but no one pressed.
Cahill’s gaze lingered, long and attentive, as if to say, I understand more than you think.
Late in the evening, Jannik stayed a few minutes longer on the court after training. The others had already left and silence enveloped him.
He hit a few balls alone, without pressure, without purpose. Only for the pleasure of feeling the strings vibrate, as he had when he was a child.
In that moment, he found himself imagining Carlos on the other side of the net, his quick replies, the mischievous smile after a won point, the look that burned hotter than the ball itself.
He stopped, panting, running a hand through his hair.
“What the hell am I doing?” he whispered, as if someone could hear him.
In Tokyo, at the same instant, Carlos sat at the edge of the court, water bottle in hand, breath uneven. He, too, found himself smiling alone, shaking his head.
“This isn’t right,” he murmured. But he could not stop thinking of him.
That night, both were alone in different cities, yet so close in time.
Jannik stared at his phone on the nightstand, screen lit, no notifications from him. Carlos had left his on the table, untouched, almost afraid it would become a summons.
Both knew they would not write.
The silence between them carried a new weight.
It was no longer indifference.
It was no longer the usual distance, it was an absence that scratched.
-
The first day of the tournament had arrived.
The center court in Tokyo gleamed under artificial lights, even as the sky had already fallen into a sharp, clear evening. The concrete was smooth, almost polished, like it was waiting solely for the quick steps and crisp strikes of whoever would claim dominion over it.
Carlos inhaled deeply as he bounced the ball before his first serve.
The audience, polite yet restless, held their silence, charged with anticipation.
It was his first match as the world number one after weeks away from competition. He knew exactly what that meant. Every glance, every breath, every grimace would be scrutinized.
He felt as though he wasn’t just playing against Báez, but against an invisible tribunal.
He tossed the ball into the air, the motion fluid, the impact sharp. Ace down the center. The crowd’s roar surged like a wave.
The opening game passed quickly, almost perfectly. Carlos felt the shots flowing from his shoulders into his arm, the racket a natural extension of his body. He moved his opponent from side to side, immediately trying to impose his rhythm.
But in the third game, as he charged the net to finish a long rally, his left foot landed awkwardly on the concrete. A split second, a sharp burn, a pain that shot like lightning up his ankle.
He continued, forcing himself, but then came a sudden stop. His face contorted. The crowd held its breath. Báez returned to the baseline, hesitant, eyes glistening with the sharp sting of the pain he saw reflected. Carlos lay there, hands covering his face.
No, not now. Not here. Please.
A chorus of encouraging applause enveloped him, but in his mind, it was distant noise. His ankle throbbed, alive and merciless. And now the pain radiated through his entire body.
He thought of retiring.
For an instant, brief yet real, he imagined himself seated, ice pack on the ankle, newspaper headlines ready. ‘World Number One Falls in Debut’, ‘Alcaraz already out’.
He called for a medical timeout.
The physiotherapist massaged his ankle, checking at every touch if it hurt. Spray, hands, oils. Two and a half minutes of meticulous care.
The physiotherapist wrapped his ankle in a rigid bandage, slid the sock back over it, and whispered, “How’s it feeling?”
Three minutes, MTO over.
Carlos nodded, jaw clenched. He hopped lightly on the spot, testing the pain. It was there, but bearable.
“Let’s play.”
He returned to the court. The first two points were torture, each sprint a knife, each step a risk.
I cannot give up. Not in front of them, and not in front of myself.
And it was there that everything changed.
He began to strike with measured fury. Deep serves, tight backhands, forehands that sliced through the air.
Each shot was a statement. I am here, I am number one.
Báez tried to resist, but the momentum had shifted. The crowd, tense moments before, now erupted with every winner.
At 5-4 in the first set, Carlos took the serve to close it out. The ankle still burned, but the pain had become fuel. He felt alive, more than ever.
Three quick points, then an ace on the line.
Set.
Fist clenched, a victorious shout, the crowd on their feet.
The second set was domination. Carlos ran less, but struck with greater precision. He cut unnecessary movements, played with fierce intelligence. An immediate point, then another. At 5-2, he took his serve again. It was time to finish.
The ball tossed into the air, full impact, the shot piercing the center.
Ace.
Victory.
He sank onto the bench, breathing heavily. The ankle still throbbed, but inside him, doubt had vanished. He had shown everyone, and most of all himself, that no pain would stop him. Not that night, not upon his return.
Carlos Alcaraz had won, against all odds, his debut.
Carlos Alcaraz reaffirmed himself, once again, as the world number one.
-
Thousands of kilometers from Tokyo, separated by barely an hour of time difference, Jannik adjusted the wristband on his arm as he waited for Marin Čilić to prepare for his serve.
The Ariake Coliseum shimmered to the east, the National Tennis Center in Beijing breathed to the west.
Two different cities, two different tournaments, but the same moment. While Carlos wiped the sweat from his brow on the bench after his victory, Jannik bent his knees in return, ready to begin his own performance.
The Chinese crowd was attentive, engaged, silent at the right moments. The air was more humid than he had anticipated and every breath felt heavier.
The ball coming off the Croatian’s racket felt even heavier. Despite his age, Čilić had strength, had a serve, possessed that ruthless determination of someone unwilling to concede even a point to a younger opponent.
The first set became an arm-wrestle. Jannik returned deep, searched for angles, tried to wear his adversary down with long rallies.
Every now and then, at thirty-all, an unstoppable shot came. An ace, a service winner, a flat strike that obliterated any construction.
At 5-5, Jannik found himself 15-40 on his own serve. The risk of dropping the set loomed.
His heart raced, thoughts wandering beyond the baseline.
He shook his head. He could not allow Carlos to occupy even that fragile corner of his mind. Not now.
He focused. Wide serve, down-the-line backhand, an overhead smash, game.
A short, restrained shout, yet vibrant.
The crowd applauded. The narrow escape allowed him to breathe once more.
Čilić started strong, but Jannik remained steady. An anticipatory return, a long backhand, Čilić erred.
The first set belonged to Jannik.
Sitting on the bench, he picked up the water bottle. Thoughts drifted for a moment.
Is he playing now? Has his match already ended?
He bit the inside of his cheek, a subtle punishment. His mind could not drift again to Tokyo. He had to remain here, on this court, in this Chinese night.
The second set was different.
Čilić dipped, Jannik rose. The serve found its mark, the backhand cut deep, movements were fluid. Now he dictated the rhythm, controlled the rallies. Each shot felt like a step toward the exit door, yet with a clear message.
I am here, I endure, I do not break.
At 5-3, serving to close out the match, the thrill of pressure shivered through him. Then, a serve to the body, a backhand winner.
Done.
Victory.
Jannik lifted his arms just slightly, restrained as always. His heart raced for the silent echo he knew would ripple outward.
I am here too. Even without you, I hold my part.
He had just left the court, the match still buzzing in his legs and arms. Sweat dripped down his back, the racket rested along his arm, his shoes moved over the polished floor with that slow, heavy rhythm that follows exertion, muscles still trembling, saturated with adrenaline.
He needed to disconnect, to release, to shake off the tension of hours and hours of unrelenting focus.
Vagnozzi was speaking with Cahill, arranging water bottles and towels, discussing upcoming training sessions and the schedule for Beijing, entirely unaware that Jannik was approaching, trying to shake off the tension of the match.
“So, tomorrow, light session or full?” Cahill asked, casting a glance at the still-flustered boy, teasing. He knew Jan hated talking about training immediately after a match, and in a small act of mischief, Cahill always asked. It was a little game between them.
“Full,” Jannik replied, laughing, but without much conviction, his thoughts already wandering elsewhere, fatigue weighing on him. He mounted the stationary bike for his cool-down and began to pedal slowly.
Vagnozzi chuckled. “Alright, but at least do it like Carlos in Tokyo, huh? Hurt his ankle and kept going as if nothing happened. Another who doesn’t know how to stop.”
Jannik froze mid-motion, as if a sudden jolt had shot down his spine. The joke vanished in an instant, replaced by a flood of worry. His hands, previously relaxed, clenched around the handlebars.
His heart raced, and his mind filled with images. Carlos staggering, the pain bending him for a moment, every step seemingly too heavy. A flash of concern shot through him, sharp, electric, impossible to ignore. “Wait… what?” he said, his voice harder than he intended.
Cahill, noticing the boy’s expression, tried to soften the blow. “Just a knock to his ankle during the match. He kept going, no big deal. He went on and finished the match without any problems.”
Jannik couldn’t hear the lightness in the words. His breathing quickened, his heart racing. “No big deal?” he repeated, his voice rising. “What do you mean ‘no big deal’? What the fuck happened?”
Vagnozzi and Cahill exchanged a glance, recognizing the sudden vehemence in the young man. “Jan…” began Vagnozzi, “there’s nothing to worry about, it’s nothing serious. It happened a couple of hours ago.”
“I don’t care when it happened!” Jannik shot back, his face tense, brows furrowed. “I want to know how he is now. If he can walk, if he feels pain. Has he been treated? Can he walk? Did he finish his match? God, he cares so much about this, it’s his first match as world number one. Is he scared? Is he okay?” The fear in his eyes was raw and heartbreaking.
The physiotherapist attempted to place a hand on his shoulder, but Jannik brushed it away, tense. “Don’t try to calm me down with some sweet little words. I don’t want any of that. I want to know!” His voice was raw, sharp, full of urgency.
Vagnozzi sighed, realizing he could no longer downplay the situation. “Nothing is broken, Jan. He’s walking. He took a few extra steps and he’s okay. He even finished the match. Really, nothing serious happened.”
The coaches looked at him and finally they saw something deeper. It wasn’t just concern for a colleague, for a world number one nursing an injury.
It was Jannik, unable to detach from thoughts of Carlos, consumed by something far beyond tennis, beyond matches, beyond rankings.
Jannik dug into his jacket pocket, searching for his phone, ready to reach out, as if the number itself could calm his heart. “I need to hear him… now. I can’t… I can’t stay here without knowing.”
“Jan… breathe,” Cahill tried, his tone serious now, while Vagnozzi moved closer to steady him, attempting to reason with him. “You’re letting anxiety take over, there’s no need to lose control.”
But Jannik did not listen. Every word of reassurance fell distant, useless. His mind was trapped in the image of Carlos bent by pain, caught between determination and the fragility of his ankle. The worry was real, tangible, a knot in his stomach tightening with each passing second.
The coaches exchanged a loaded glance. They saw a different Jannik, one far from his usual controlled, methodical self on the court.
Vulnerable, almost desperate, ready to explode, unable to ignore what he felt. It was the first time they had perceived him this way, so… human, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of his emotions.
Jannik tore his gaze away from the two coaches as if they were a heavy shadow holding him back, ignoring their reassuring words, ignoring their attempts to calm him.
Without a second thought, he left the warm-up area, steps rapid and determined, ignoring the curious glances of the few present, ignoring the security that would normally follow his every movement. It didn’t matter who saw him, it didn’t matter what they thought.
He had two goal, air and the chance to contact Carlos.
He stepped out into the warm afternoon air, the artificial glow of the streetlights stinging his eyes, but he didn’t care. He took a deep breath, the fresh city air filling his lungs like a blade capable of banishing, even for a fleeting moment, the knot of anxiety and fear tightening his stomach. Every step on the concrete brought him closer to that breath he desperately sought, closer to a touch he now craved as if it were oxygen.
The phone trembled in his hands. Incoming messages scrolled relentlessly, notifications from sponsors, friends, journalists. But he ignored them all.
There was no time, no space for any of that. Everything else was background noise.
There was only Carlos, only his voice, only the chance to know he was alright.
He rested his thumb on the screen with trembling hands, feeling every nerve vibrate beneath the skin. Each breath became short, shallow.
For a moment, he hesitated, as if the act itself were forbidden, as if calling could turn fear into reality. Then, with a breath escaping like a whisper through clenched lips, he pressed the call button.
The phone rang in Jannik’s hands, a high-pitched sound that made his chest vibrate. He closed his eyes for a second, savoring the silence before Carlos’ voice materialized on the other end, warm, steady, real.
“Jan…?” Carlos said, his unmistakable Spanish accent tinged with a hint of disbelief, as if he hadn’t expected such a direct, sudden call.
“How are you?” Jannik wasted no preamble. His voice was tense, hoarse, charged with an urgency he could not contain. “Tell me right now. How are you really? Don’t lie, not now.”
Jannik heard Carlos’ breath, slow, measured, like he were choosing his words carefully. Every second stretched, and Jannik’s heart pounded like a drum in his chest.
“I’m… I’m fine,” Carlos finally replied, and Jannik heard that note of hesitation, that small crack in the voice that confirmed everything he had feared.
Jannik gripped the phone like an anchor, his thumb brushing the display as if to hold onto reality. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered as a prayer, as an urgent plea burning inside him. “Don’t do that tough guy thing, not now. Tell me you can walk without being in pain, that you’re okay, that you’re not pretending everything’s fine. Tell me the truth, please.”
Carlos laughed softly, almost bitterly, and Jannik felt the honesty in the voice more genuine than any press conference or smile in front of cameras. “I can walk just fine, and yes, I’m okay. It hurt for a while, but I’m feeling better now. Really.”
Jannik inhaled deeply, letting the tension slip away for a moment, but only a moment. His heart still raced, his hands still trembled. “Good,” he said, his voice calmer, though his mind still roiled with emotion. “Good… thank you.”
“Jan?”
“Yes?” he replied so quickly.
“Know that I still won. I’m number one in the world for a reason,” Carlos added, because that was Carlos.
Even in pain, even in worry, he always found the time and way for a smile, a joke.
“Yes, you’re definitely okay,” Jannik replied, teasing as well, his heart finally beginning to settle, and at last, after a long while, a smile spreading across his face.
They remained silent for a few seconds after a shared laugh, two breaths, two hearts separated by thousands of kilometers and an hour of time difference but close enough to feel each other within.
Jannik didn’t care who might be watching, who might notice his state. It didn’t matter.
There was only that voice, only that connection that finally calmed him and, at the same time, shook him more than anything else.
For the first time that evening, as the distant noise of the tournament continued behind him, Jannik felt suspended, fragile and powerful at the same time, as if the very air had returned something he hadn’t known he needed.
The certainty that, even across a distance, the bond between them had become something no match, no injury, no city could break.
-
Carlos entered the hotel almost without noticing, his quick pace still betraying the lingering agitation from the call. The door clicked softly behind him and the cool air of the lobby brought immediate relief.
It wasn’t the fatigue from the match moving him this way, nor the tension of the freshly claimed victory. It was something else, something subtler, more powerful.
The team was there, sitting in the lounge, some eyes fixed on tablets and computers, others talking quietly. As soon as they saw him, the questions started, fast, almost nervous.
“Hey Carlos, all good? Need a breath of air?” one of the trainers asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Important call?” added another, with a mischievous smile, as a little joke.
Carlos paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. His mind went back to those few minutes speaking with Jannik and a shiver ran down his spine.
The questions from his staff weren’t intrusive, but the speed with which they sought details betrayed their curiosity, something in his behavior had put them on alert.
“All good, yes”, he answered, his voice slightly lower than he intended, as he removed his jacket and folded it calmly, as if to regain control.
The physiotherapist, sitting on a stool near the elevator door, looked up. “So, how’s the ankle? Didn’t push it too hard?”
Carlos nodded, but his mind wasn’t on that. The ankle, thankfully, held up and he knew the post-match treatment would take care of it. Still, every step in the hotel corridor was still slightly measured, as if the contact with the floor reminded him of the mild pain he had felt during the match.
He walked toward a private room temporarily set up for physiotherapy, on a floor with enormous windows overlooking the Japanese capital.
The city lights stretched out like a sea of tiny stars, and the air was infused with urban scents, mingled with the freshness brought by the evening breeze.
Carlos’ thoughts raced, thinking of Jannik, the tone of his voice, the worry he had just sensed. There was something fragile in that conversation, something that made him feel suddenly light and vulnerable at the same time.
Once inside the room and lying down briefly, the physiotherapist approached, checking the ankle carefully, palpating the sore spots and massaging gently.
Carlos inhaled deeply, trying to find the rhythm of his breath.
“Do you need ice or will stretching exercises be enough?” asked the physiotherapist.
“Just stretching,” Carlos replied, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table.
After the check-up, Carlos took his phone from his pocket. His hands were still slightly trembling, a residue of the emotion from the call.
He didn’t want to read messages or notifications, the outside world could wait. Only one thing mattered.
He opened the chat and began to type.
‘Thanks for worrying about me.
You didn’t have to, but I needed it.’
He pressed send before he could reflect, his thumb hovering a millimeter from the screen. The adrenaline of the match, the past pain, the fatigue, everything had merged with the need to communicate something true, immediate, unfiltered.
The phone vibrated a few seconds later.
It was Jannik. Carlos opened it and read the message.
‘I already knew but I’m glad to hear it.
Be careful.’
The physiotherapist looked at him again, with a small smile. “Looks like you’re talking to someone important,” he said softly, as not to disturb.
Carlos nodded, a small smile betraying a heart both heavy and light at the same time.
-
Carlos, after dinner, after training, after everything, left the hotel as if it were all too tight around him. He asked not to be followed, not even by his brother. Not out of spite, not because he didn’t enjoy spending evenings with him and his team in restaurants or hotel lobbies, but because he wanted to be alone.
Just him and the empty street ahead, illuminated by neon streetlights reflecting off the rain-slicked pavement from the afternoon.
They were worried, afraid that walking might worsen his condition, but Carlos insisted and managed to step out on his own.
The air was crisp, sharp against his cheeks and in his nostrils, and the sound of his footsteps on the sidewalk echoed like a racing heartbeat, marking the rhythm of the confused, tumultuous thoughts pushing their way through him.
The wind lifted his hair, slipping under the folds of his light jacket, brushing his neck and uncovered hands. Each puddle reflected fragments of yellow and red light, and in those liquid geometries Carlos saw glimpses of the past months. Endless matches, training under the scorching sun, tension silently accumulated.
He turned a corner and found himself on a small side street lit by a single lamp. A musician was playing a violin with such intensity it seemed he was absorbed in a world of his own. The notes rose, full of pathos, and Carlos stopped, breathing deeply.
For a moment, the musician’s eyes seemed to be searching for someone, an absence echoing in his gesture, and Carlos realized that the emptiness he felt inside wasn’t only physical.
He stood there, motionless, listening to the notes spreading through the sharp, cool air.
Every vibrato of the violin brought to mind unspoken images and sensations. The musician closed his eyes, bending slightly forward and Carlos felt a shiver. The music seemed to speak directly to his thoughts, to that thin thread connecting him to the other, invisible but real.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Carlos took it out slowly, almost timidly, and looked at the screen. It wasn’t an urgent call, not an extraordinary message, just his brother checking briefly to see if he was okay.
His thoughts went elsewhere and the idea of writing to Jan made him smile faintly. His hands trembled slightly as he typed, completely ignoring the world around him.
‘I hope you’re breathing too, over there in Beijing.
The city must feel enormous at night.’
He sent the message and stayed there, leaning against the wet wall, inhaling the cold air deeply, savoring every sound and every breath.
‘I’m breathing.
Thanks for checking on me.’
Carlos smiled, almost in disbelief. A short, simple message, but enough to make the weight of the night feel less lonely, to make the distance between Tokyo and Beijing bearable.
-
Night had fallen over Beijing, bringing with it an almost unreal quiet, strangely intimate, that seemed to isolate Jannik from the entire world.
After dinner, after the victory, after the distant city’s footsteps and chatter, Sinner had felt the need to withdraw.
He had closed the door to his hotel room, but he hadn’t stayed there. He had taken the path to the training court, deserted, lit only by artificial lights that cast long, cold shadows on the glossy asphalt.
The silence was almost tangible, and every breath, every step, seemed amplified in the night. The smell of resin and rubber from used balls filled the air, mixing with the night’s chill.
Jannik served with mute fury. The sharp sound of the ball hitting the metal net echoed like a hammer, repeated, obsessive. He didn’t count attempts, didn’t pause for breat. Every gesture was a way to not think, to keep at bay the whirlwind that had pulled him in since the afternoon.
“You know, at this hour, you don’t have any excuses, right?”
The voice came from behind, light, almost amused. Jannik barely turned, his chest rising quickly.
Simone was there, leaning against the side gate with his jacket half open, a smile that tried to mask attentiveness.
“Excuses for what?” Jannik asked, brusque.
“You can’t blame the wind or the sun. If you miss now, it’s all on you.”
A sigh escaped his lips, a half-smile that quickly faded. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Finally, they stopped near the baseline, where the court reflected the floodlights like a dark mirror.
Simone leaned against the gate, arms crossed, watching him.
“Did you call?” he said softly. “Did he answer?”
Jannik nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Yes… all fine.”
Simone tilted his head, as if reading more than the facts. “And you? How are you?”
Jannik sighed, lowering his gaze to the court. “I overreacted… sorry. I… I said stupid things.”
“I’m not judging you and you don’t need to apologize.” Simone’s voice was firm, reassuring, but with a seriousness that made clear he wasn’t just speaking as a coach. “That’s not what matters”, he shook his head. “What matters is that you understand what really happened, what’s really happening to you.”
Jannik clenched his jaw. “Nothing is happening. I got worried because… because it’s normal to worry. He’s a colleague, if he gets hurt… it’s obvious you think about it.”
For the first time, Simone looked at him without indulgence. “Really?”
The silence was heavy and uncomfortable.
“Do you know how many times, in recent months, your colleagues have been injured? How many have withdrawn, even during matches against you? Dozens. Yet I’ve never seen you like this. Never seen you jump up, lose control.”
He paused, letting the words fall. “Well, this time...”
Jannik felt the weight of reality press down on his shoulders. A slow grip, one he hadn’t yet dared to acknowledge.
He drew a deep breath, trying to organize the thoughts and sensations swirling inside him since that night in Milan, the call, all the matches together.
Then he spoke, in a low voice, as if the words were dangerous.
“I was scared, okay?” he admitted. “Scared that… that something could happen to him. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“You know he’s fine now.”
“It’s not enough,” Jannik confessed, shaking his head. “I can’t convince myself. I keep thinking, keep asking if tomorrow it will be worse, if he’ll wake up in pain, if…” His voice cracked, but did not break completely. “I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be like this. Not for him.”
Simone remained silent for a moment, chin slightly lowered, watching the boy. “You mean not for someone who’s just a rival?”
Jannik shook his head, unable to tear his eyes from the illuminated concrete, laughing, because in that moment it was the only thing he could do if he didn’t want to start crying.
”I don’t… I don’t know.” A longer sigh this time, as if he had been searching for air in his lungs for years and only now could finally release it. “Every time something happens… I think about it, Simo. Every time he wins, or gets hurt, or I see him from afar… something stirs inside me.” He spoke bitterly with himself. “It shouldn’t, not with him. Why should he be more than just another opponent? Someone I want to beat. Someone who takes titles from me, not sleep.” He paused for a moment, then, realizing, laughed lightly. “In the end, he takes both.”
Vagnozzi stepped closer, gently. “Since when has it been like this?”
Jannik sat on the bench, exhausted, and not just from the fierce night practice.
He hesitated, brow furrowed. “I don’t know. Maybe from the start, maybe from when I realized he wasn’t like the others. But I pretended it was normal, told myself it was tennis.” He shook his head, eyes glistening. “But it’s not normal, Simone. It’s not normal to feel like this.”
He raised a hand, trying to brush away the tears forming in his eyes.
“You’re only human, Jan.”
A long silence enveloped them.
“Jan, listen to me,” the coach continued. “I’m not here to teach you anything this time, and you’re not here to prove anything to me. What you feel… whatever it is, you just need to be careful. You can’t let it become a weight, something that crushes you, makes you lose yourself.”
Jannik let himself fall to the ground, body exhausted. “And if I don’t know what I am feeling?”
And for the first time, speaking that phrase aloud was like letting go, finally allowing himself to be completely human, a simple twenty-four-year-old boy.
Simone crouched in front of him, eyes steady. “Then you learn, one day at a time. Like with new shots. You make mistakes, try again, insist. But don’t lose yourself and don’t lie to yourself. That’s the only mistake you can’t afford.”
The silence grew even denser.
Jannik barely nodded, but inside he only felt the need to scream. It stretched on, and Jannik welcomed it, even if it was an unwelcome presence.
Simone understood, patted him on the shoulder. “Tomorrow you have another match,” he finally said, standing up. “Go to sleep, you need rest.”
Jannik followed him toward the exit. He wanted to shout, to free himself from the weight, but remained silent, gripping the racket like an anchor.
He returned to his room.
Outside, Beijing slept.
Inside that room, Jannik did not.
-
The next day, the Tokyo sun filtered weakly through the few clouds above the sports center, breaking the light into thin beams that traced lines of dust and shine across the parquet courts.
Carlos had been there for hours. His ankle, still bandaged, pulsed with every step, and the ice he had applied moments before already seemed to slip beneath his warm skin, as if the pain were trying to weave itself through every fiber of his body.
Every jump, every change of direction, every sudden sprint reminded him sharply and painfully of the limits he was pushing.
His heart pounded in his throat, sweaty hands gripped the racket with nervous impatience and his mind raced faster than his feet.
Defeat was not acceptable, not even as a thought.
Álvaro watched him from a corner of the court, arms crossed, gaze attentive and slightly concerned.
The physiotherapist had already raised a hand to catch his attention, raising an eyebrow as if to remind him that the pain was no trivial detail.
The coaches alternated between advice, questions, and half-orders, trying to make him understand that the smartest strategy was to stop.
Carlos ignored them, continuing to push, to run, to hit the ball as if it were the only way to prove to himself that he could make it.
“Carlos, enough! You’re hurting yourself,” the physiotherapist said, calm but firm, trying to meet his gaze.
Carlos bent forward, hands on his knees, trying to breathe slowly. He didn’t want to give up. He was used to gritting his teeth, playing above fatigue, pushing beyond. But this time the feeling was different. Every movement was like walking on terrain that could give way at any moment.
Behind him, Álvaro watched in silence. Then, calmly, he said, “Hermano, that’s enough.”
Carlos straightened abruptly. “No, not yet. I have to keep going.”
“Going where?” Alvaro looked at him seriously. “Hurting yourself? Dragging yourself on court for two days and then ending up sidelined for two months?”
Carlos lowered his gaze, the racket spinning nervously between his hands. “You don’t understand. I can’t retire, not now.”
“Carlos, listen to me. If you stop now, you rest, the ankle heals and you’ll arrive in Shanghai ready,” he advised responsibly. “You know who’s there.”
Those words clicked like a switch.
Jannik.
The name flashed through his mind like lightning. He saw his face, the red hair falling over focused eyes, the expression both hard and vulnerable that he wore every time they stepped on court against each other.
Carlos bit the inside of his cheek. He felt his heart race, almost stronger than the pain in his ankle. He didn’t want to give up on that idea.
In Shanghai there would be the chance, another battle, another confrontation. And he wanted to get there whole, to play at his maximum.
“If you don’t stop now,” Alvaro continued, “you’ll show up in Shanghai already half-broken. And with Jan, you can’t afford that. With him you need your best.”
Carlos raised his eyes to his brother. He said nothing for a few seconds, but inside images and sensations stirred. The handshake at the net, the way Jannik always had the ability to make him give more, something different.
He wasn’t just a rival, he never had been entirely. He was the only one who could make him feel the match like it was life itself.
Yet, beneath that surge of emotions, another voice pressed, that of the world number one.
The weight of that role rested on him like a boulder. A number one does not retire, does not show weakness. A number one fights to the end, even when the body screams stop.
He thought about what the newspapers would say, the headlines that would question his resilience, his hunger.
He bit his lip. He was angry at fate, at that ankle that had twisted at the wrong moment, at the pain limiting him just when he wanted to keep running. It almost felt like an injustice. Everything was going well, and suddenly he was stopped.
But as he inhaled deeply, he realized that stopping was not cowardice. It was clarity.
Quitting now meant not burning out forever, meant protecting the next challenges, the ones that truly mattered. Inside him was bitterness, yes, but also a quiet certainty.
In Shanghai, when he found Jannik on the other side, he had to be whole.
He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and finally let out a long, bitter sigh. “You’re right”, his voice trembled slightly. “If I keep going like this, I’ll arrive empty. And I… I don’t want to be empty against him.”
Álvaro watched him, nodding gently. “I knew it. Then stop, end it here. Think about the next step. It’s not surrender, Carlos, it’s intelligence.”
Carlos sat on the bench, placed his ankle on the ice, and let himself fall back, staring at the ceiling. He felt a weight dissolve, even if the physical pain remained. He grabbed his phone and typed a message to his team.
His fingers hesitated on the keyboard, but in the end he wrote a few simple words. “I’m stopping here.”
He pressed send and let out a tired smile.
Álvaro gave him a light, knowing pat on the shoulder. “That’s good. Now let’s focus on getting you fixed. The rest will come.”
It was the hardest choice, but also the only right one.
-
The morning in Beijing began with an almost cruel clarity, the air sharp and biting, heavy with smog and the sting of cold wind that scraped at his lungs with every inhale. The sky hung low, gray and suspended, as if time itself had paused, while the lights of the courts cast their merciless glow, tracing every movement in stark, almost theatrical relief.
Jannik was already there, racket in hand, his unruly hair hidden beneath a cap, every motion precise, deliberate, yet fluid. His legs were light, as he demanded of himself on mornings when lucidity ruled his mind, when body and thought moved in perfect, taut harmony. Each forehand cracked sharply against the yellow ball, slicing through the thick air and echoing off the empty stands. The balls flew like blades of light, the vibration of the strings resonating through his very bones, an intimate and almost violent dialogue between body and intent.
“More aggressive, Jan! Don’t give away an inch!” Simone’s voice rang, clapping hands in a rhythm meant to ignite, to kindle the latent fire that always simmered beneath Jannik’s control.
With every strike, his eyes narrowed, a fleeting flash of lightning within their depths. A fierce, relentless determination to prove, to himself first, then to the world, that he had not vanished, that the world number two was still alive, still present, still ready.
Darren spoke, voice calm, measured, unshaken. “Don’t dwell on what’s being said out there. Rankings don’t define who you are. You know your worth. Tomorrow, show Atmane!”
The words rooted themselves deep, taking hold as a seed in fertile soil. Jannik did not answer. He drew in a deeper breath, let the rhythm of serve and swing guide him, one strike following the next. The fatigue began to bite into his lungs, but with it came the sharp, undeniable awareness of being alive.
Half an hour later, soaked in sweat, exhaling clouds of vapor into the freezing air, he sank onto a bench. Shoulders trembled, wrists taut as drawn cords, but it was the fatigue that comforts. Proof of endurance, evidence of having tested limits and survived.
“Well done,” Vagnozzi remarked, passing a bottle of water. “This is how champions play.”
Jannik drank in long, deliberate sips, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second. A ceaseless tide of emotions inside of him. Pride for holding himself on court, mingled with the subtle, insistent ache that rose whenever his place in the world was reminded to him, whenever his name appeared alongside the giants of the sport.
The day unfolded in the gym, then on the physiotherapy table. Lying on his back, he surrendered to the skilled hands of the physiotherapist, fingers pressing deep into quadriceps, coaxing tension and pain from his muscles. Each touch carved faint, suppressed groans from between his teeth, every motion a reminder of the body’s delicate resilience.
Around him, the team formed a bubble of familiarity. Cahill with his tablet, scrolling through stats and charts like musical scores, Simone recounting distant tournament anecdotes, laughter low and soft, almost secretive, even the physiotherapist, hands engaged, finding room for a carefully placed joke.
Laughter floated lightly, a fragile thread of comfort, like a warm blanket draped around him.
“If tomorrow you step onto the court this loose,” Darren said, shifting his gaze from the tablet to Jannik, “Atmane won’t have much of a chance.”
Jannik offered a faint smile, that composed expression he often carried in closed rooms. The blood raced, every word of encouragement a spur, every reminder a weight.
Being skilled was not enough. He had to be exceptional, again and again, at every tournament, without fail.
The laughter around him reached his ears but never touched him fully. He felt like a spectator, body present but mind elsewhere, caught between the razor-sharp focus of practice and the tangled skein of thoughts he had yet to name aloud.
When the session ended, Jannik remained still on the table for a few seconds, arms stretched along his sides, eyes fixed on the white ceiling, its cold light unyielding. The physiotherapist gave a gentle double tap to his calf, silent approval. The others were already laughing, commenting on tactical choices from a match they had watched the night before.
He dressed slowly, aware of skin still warm beneath a fresh shirt. His muscles were taut but in that familiar, satisfying way. The weariness that whispered he had done all he could, that preparation had been thorough.
Hoodie on, water bottle in hand, he instinctively reached for his phone.
He intended only to check messages, a fleeting glance at notifications. But a headline appeared, bold and intrusive among the usual scroll.
“Alcaraz withdraws from Tokyo, ankle pain too severe.”
His breath stopped, his thumb froze midair. He pressed play.
The video opened. Carlos sat before the microphones, blazer slightly rumpled, hair tousled, smile strained, eyes dim in a way Jannik had never seen.
“It was not an easy decision,” Carlos said, calm yet with a subtle fracture beneath his tone, “but I must think of the future. The pain prevents me from playing as I wish. Better to stop now and recover for the upcoming tournaments.”
Each word struck like a blow to the stomach. Heart racing, blood pulsing in his temples, the room’s noises faded to a distant hum. Bags, footsteps, even the soft banter of the team dissolved.
There was only the face on the screen. That half-smile, that fleeting grimace that had crossed Carlos’ features as he spoke of pain. Jannik studied it, searching for truth, for what lay behind the carefully chosen words.
Was he really okay, or was there more? Was the ankle truly just sore?
“Jan?” Simone’s voice tugged him back into the room.
Jannik lowered the phone slightly, jaw locked, speechless.
Cahill leaned in, catching the screen. No words were needed. His glance met Vagnozzi’s, a silent nod confirming what they already knew.
Here it was again.
They had kept the news from him until now, sparing his focus before training.
“Carlos?” Darren asked softly.
Jannik merely nodded, eyes still fixed.
Simone rested a hand on his shoulder, deliberate, grounding. “It’s precaution, Jan. You know that. Better to stop than risk worsening. It’s the right choice.”
“They always say that,” Jannik murmured, breathless, eyes glued to the screen. “I want to know if he’s really…” His words dissolved in his throat.
“Look, it’s a smart decision,” Darren said, voice calm as ever. “It shows he cares. He’s thinking ahead, probably Shanghai.”
Jannik pressed his lips together, nodding, yet within him a storm. Part of him wanted to believe, to trust that it was mere prudence, another part unable to forget that fleeting shadow in Carlos’ eyes, a shadow no smile could conceal.
The team remained silent. No jokes, no attempts to lighten the weight. None were necessary. A single glance sufficed, concern was palpable, raw, unyielding.
“Don’t worry, Jan,” Simone whispered. “Trust this time. It’s the right decision for him. Now focus on Beijing, show what you have inside.”
Jannik drew a deep, steadying breath, as if to contain the tempest in his chest. He closed the phone, set it beside him, and nodded. “Yes, Beijing.”
Yet even as he spoke the word, he knew a fragment of himself remained elsewhere, trapped in that video, in Carlos’ gaze and voice, in that shadow branded into his mind, an indelible mark that would not fade.
-
Carlos had spent the afternoon locked inside his hotel room, his ankle wrapped tightly, his spirit heavy.
The decision to withdraw from Tokyo had been like swallowing a bitter pill, one of those that lodge in your throat and refuse to go down.
For hours he hadn’t spoken to anyone, not even to Álvaro who, though only a few feet away, had watched him in silence. The only sound in the room was the steady hum of the air conditioner, a dull rhythm that seemed to mark the time he was losing.
Then came the call that shifted the weight of the day. His mother’s face appeared on the screen, bright and open, her smile like sunlight through glass, her voice one that could soften any edge.
“Carlitos, mi campeón… what’s that face? You look like a little boy whose sweets have just been taken away.”
He had tried to laugh it off, but the truth was exactly that. He did feel like a child who’d been robbed of his favorite game. “Mamá… it hurts. Not just the ankle… everything.”
On the other end, Virginia shook her head gently, as though she already knew the right words.
“Ay, mi sol. Legs heal. Tennis can wait, life cannot. You’re strong and every time you come back, you come back greater than before. Don’t you see? This is only a pause, not an ending. You’re not less of a champion for stopping, you’re more of a man for learning how to. Tennis isn’t going anywhere. And what I want is for you to be happy, whole, not a wounded hero.”
Carlos closed his eyes for a moment, letting her words settle. He knew she was right, but hearing it in her voice soothed him in a way nothing else could.
She always called him mi sol, mi niño, and even at twenty, those words still brushed against him like a hand through his hair. When the video call ended, he felt as though the air in the room had changed, lighter somehow, easier to breathe.
Evening came slowly and beyond the window Tokyo began to glow, an ocean of artificial stars rising against the dusk.
Finally, Carlos left the room to join his team. With Álvaro and the others, they had chosen a modest dinner nearby, nothing fancy, just warmth. Laughter spilling between chopsticks that slipped clumsily through their fingers, jokes that needed no translation. Even his ankle, carefully watched and wrapped, seemed to ache less when he was laughing.
For the first time in days, Carlos allowed himself to forget, to let the scoreboard, the rankings, the losses drift away.
That night, he was simply a boy surrounded by people who loved him, not the number one in the world with a rebellious ankle.
Thousands of miles away, Jannik’s evening had an entirely different weight.
He too had gone out to dinner with his team, but the air at his table felt heavier. They laughed, they talked, they traded locker-room stories, but he seemed absent from it all, there and not there, like a reflection caught in glass. He answered in monosyllables, smiled when prompted, then fell back into silence, his gaze fixed on the half-full glass of water before him.
The phone in his pocket vibrated, again and again. Notifications, messages.
Laila had written to congratulate him, to ask how he was. He hadn’t answered, he couldn’t find the words. Inside him, everything was building up like snow hardening into ice, silence turning to weight.
When he returned to his room, he let himself fall onto the bed. For a moment, he considered closing his eyes and shutting the world out. Then the screen lit up.
An incoming call, from Mamma.
He sat up at the edge of the bed and answered.
“Hallo, Schatz,” said Siglinde, her voice carrying that pet name that still made something inside him tighten, as if the years between them had suddenly disappeared. “Are you tired?”
Jannik lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, forcing a faint smile. “A little. You know how it is… training, matches, the usual routine.”
His mother looked at him through the screen with that gaze that pierced right through him, the one she used when she could see he was hiding something. “Routine never made you this quiet, Jannik.”
He turned his eyes away, fingers tugging at the edge of his hoodie. His breath grew shallow. Even from thousands of kilometers away, she could still read him too easily.
Siglinde waited a moment, then spoke again, her tone softer now.
“You know, when you were little and you fell while skiing, what hurt you most wasn’t the fall. It was the fear that you wouldn’t be able to get up again. Maybe that’s what it feels like now, doesn’t it?”
Her words struck him right in the chest. He swallowed, eyes downcast. He didn’t nod, didn’t deny it. His lips pressed together, as though holding back something fragile.
“Jan,” she continued gently, “you don’t always have to prove you’re strong. Not with me. Remember, you are more than what you win or lose. And I’m sure I’m not the only one with whom you can be truly yourself.”
Jannik inhaled deeply, her words had forced him to look inward. He felt the urge to reply, to open up, but all that came out was a whisper.
“I know, mamma. Thank you.”
After the call ended, he stayed still, the phone resting on his knees, a hollow ache spreading in his stomach. Her words echoed inside him, clearer than anything else.
For a long time he stared at the black screen. The room was dim, lit only by a bedside lamp, and the distant rumors of the city seemed to deepen the silence that filled him.
He ran a hand through his hair, restless. He had always believed he could control everything: the timing of his strokes, his preparation, even his emotions on court.
But this… this was different. It left him raw, exposed.
He stood up abruptly and began pacing the room. Every time he tried to think of something else, his mind circled back to the same place.
To Carlos, to the sound of his voice during that call, to the pain he’d glimpsed in his eyes despite the smile he wore to conceal it.
The phone still lay on the bed, motionless. Jannik bit his lip, frustrated with himself, then reached for it.
He unlocked it. Notifications filled the screen with messages, interviews, social requests. He ignored them all.
He opened only one conversation. That one.
The cursor blinked against the blank space, and for a moment it felt like the hardest match he’d ever played. What could he possibly say? What did he truly want to say?
His fingers trembled slightly, but in the end he wrote just a few words, short, spare, in that restrained way that was his alone, as if it were the only form capable of holding what he felt.
His heart quickened as the message went through. Once sent, he fell back onto the bed, eyes tracing the ceiling. Each second without a reply stretched into eternity.
In that stillness he knew with sudden certainty that he had done the right thing.
-
The hotel lobby in Tokyo was alive with soft chatter and the gentle clinking of glasses.
Carlos’s team occupied a large table near the tall windows, where the city lights stretched endlessly beyond the glass. They were laughing, talking about everything and nothing.
Carlos, sitting among them, tried to let himself sink into the moment. He set his glass down and, almost out of habit, reached for his phone.
One notification, a single message.
He saw the name and his heart skipped a beat.
How are you?
Carlos froze. For a heartbeat, the noise of the lobby seemed to fade away, leaving only him and the glow of that screen. A smile rose to his lips, warm and unstoppable.
“What’s up, Carlitos?” Alvaro asked, catching the distant look in his eyes.
“Nothing, nothing…” Carlos murmured, shaking his head as he lowered his gaze back to the phone.
His fingers moved quickly.
Better now, resting helps. My ankle just needs time.
He waited, his pulse drumming faster than he wanted to admit. The reply came almost instantly.
Does it hurt?
Carlos ran a hand through his hair, still smiling. It was so very like Jannik, direct, grounded, never one for embellishment.
A little, but it’s manageable. Nothing serious. I’ll do some more checks tomorrow.
So it hasn’t gotten worse?
No, don’t worry.
At the table, his team was laughing about something he hadn’t even heard. Carlos was already elsewhere. Every word from Jannik pulled him in, closer.
You did the right thing stopping. Better to recover now than risk everything later.
Carlos read the line twice.
It wasn’t just concern, it was care, the kind that felt protective, almost intimate. His chest grew warm.
I know. Still, it’s not easy. I wanted to finish the tournament.
I know.
Two words. So simple, yet carrying a weight that made Carlos’s pulse quicken again.
Then, to lighten the air, he typed with a teasing smile, I’ll beat you in Shanghai anyway.
Jannik didn’t let that pass. Oh yeah? Let’s just hope your ankle doesn’t give you an excuse.
Carlos laughed softly. No excuses. But don’t worry, I promise to be gentle.
You don’t have to be gentle. I’ll beat you anyway.
Look at how confident we are, Mr. Sinner.
They went on like that, trading light banter, though the undercurrent between them was unmistakable.
Jannik asked about the ankle, the doctors, the recovery, Carlos answered, trying to reassure him.
Each message came with a quiet smile that rose unbidden, and a thought he couldn’t shake. How much he wanted to be ready to face him again, soon.
Then came that small, suspended moment.
Aren’t you tired?
Carlos lifted his gaze toward the lights of the lobby before typing back. A little, but I don’t want to sleep yet.
A brief pause followed, then Carlos decided.
Do you want to talk? A call, I mean. Keep me company for a bit.
Jannik hesitated, his eyes fixed on the screen. Then his fingers began to move.
All right.
Carlos laughed again at one of Juanki’s jokes, but his mind had already wandered elsewhere. He rose from the table in one swift motion, disguising it as fatigue.
“Buenas noches, chicos,” he said, offering a faint smile to the team. He tried to appear casual, but the grin spreading across his face was far too bright to go unnoticed.
“Look at that face,” Alvaro teased, narrowing his eyes. “He looks like someone who’s won the tournament without playing the final.”
Carlos flushed slightly, shrugging as if to deflect. “Just… happy to rest.”
Inside, he couldn’t wait to leave. The desire to linger and keep laughing had vanished long ago, every second spent there felt stolen from the moment he was waiting for.
The phone in his pocket seemed to grow heavier by the minute, pulsing with a quiet insistence, as if it were alive. That restlessness was impossible to hide.
He crossed the lobby with quick strides, the sharp sound of his shoes against the polished marble echoing faintly around him.
His heart was beating fast, not with the adrenaline of a match, but with something different, lighter, something that made him smile to himself.
He felt almost like a boy about to do something forbidden.
When he reached his room, he closed the door softly behind him, as though guarding a secret, and let himself fall onto the bed without even taking off his shoes. The warm light of the bedside lamp barely touched the walls, casting a gentle glow that made the whole room feel suspended in time, as if this moment belonged to him alone.
The phone vibrated in his hands.
Carlos looked at it for a few seconds, hesitant. He knew it would take only one touch, one simple gesture, to cross that quiet line they had both pretended not to see. He drew in a breath, trying to calm the tension tightening his chest.
A brief hesitation, one deep inhale, then his thumb brushed the green icon.
The silence filled with a ringing tone.
In that suspended waiting, Carlos realized he was smiling like a fool, his heartbeat quickening with every passing second.
Then a voice.
“Hello?”
It was Jannik, his voice low, almost startled.
Carlos bit his lip, a flutter tightening in his stomach before he smiled, without meaning to. “Hola, Jan.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually call.”
“And I didn’t think you’d actually answer,” Carlos replied, with a nervous laugh, sounding every bit like a boy talking to his first crush over the phone.
A brief silence followed, dense, charged with everything they weren’t saying. Then their laughter overlapped, breaking the tension and leaving behind a quiet warmth that seemed to travel through the line.
“So,” Jannik began, his tone lighter now, as if he had finally settled into the sound of that connection, “how’s Tokyo when you can’t play?”
Carlos stretched out on the bed, eyes fixed on the white ceiling. He could almost feel Jannik beside him, close enough to touch, not continents away. “It’s strange. The city’s beautiful, but I see it like a tourist, not a player. It’s different. I walk slowly, I notice everything… it feels like I have more time.”
A faint breath reached him through the receiver. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
“No, it’s not,” Carlos admitted. “But inside… I miss it. The competition. That rush of adrenaline, you know? When your body and your mind move in the same direction.”
As he said it, he realized that what he missed wasn’t just the game but it was the thought of seeing him again across the net.
On the other end, Jannik exhaled softly.
Carlos could almost picture him with his shoulders slightly slumped, expression serious. “In Beijing it’s the opposite. Everything moves too fast. Everyone wants to see if you can win again, if you’re still who you were… you don’t even have time to breathe.”
Carlos stayed silent, pressing the phone closer to his ear, trying to absorb every shift in Jannik’s voice. “And are you? Breathing, i mean”, he asked at last, halfway between teasing and genuine curiosity, testing the edge of something deeper.
“I don’t know,” Jannik said after what felt like an endless pause. “I’m trying to figure it out, but it’s not simple.” His voice dropped, rougher, carrying a kind of truth he didn’t share easily.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was alive with unspoken thoughts, with the weight of what hovered between them. Carlos bit the inside of his cheek, realizing this conversation was cutting deeper than he had intended.
Then, to lift the air again, he let his tone soften into a smile. “Come on, tell me you’re having at least a little fun. You can’t always be as serious as you seem.”
A quiet puff of laughter came through the line. For that instant, the world felt less complicated.
“Having fun?” Jannik chuckled. “Maybe a bit with the team. Some laughter here and there but I’m definitely not like you. You can laugh at anything.”
Carlos smiled, running a hand through his messy hair, the phone pressed close to his ear. Jannik’s voice felt warm, close, like he was lying right there beside him. “That’s my superpower,” he said with mock seriousness.
The laugh that followed was so genuine it made Carlos laugh too, a sound of pure ease he hadn’t felt in days.
The conversation flowed, smooth and unhurried, like a river finding its course. They spoke of restaurants and strange dishes. Jannik told him about the night Vagnozzi had insisted he try a soup that was far too spicy. “My mouth burned for twenty minutes, Carlos. He couldn’t stop laughing.”
Carlos doubled over on his side, clutching a pillow to stifle his laughter. “I wish I’d seen that! I can picture your face, bright red…”
“It wasn’t funny.”
“It is now,” Carlos managed between laughs.
Then suddenly, Jannik’s tone changed. “So… what’s it like, being number one in the world?”
Carlos went quiet, the question landing deep. He licked his lips, searching for words. “Well, i think you already know, don’t you?It’s… heavy. Everyone expects something from you, always. You can’t make a mistake. Every loss feels like a disaster. You feel… alone. But yeah, there are incredible moments too. The crowd cheering for you, feeling like you’re living a dream. But you don’t always get to feel it while it’s happening.”
Jannik listened in silence, and Carlos could sense the empathy breathing through it. “Yeah, you tell me. Look more fun from the outside,” he said at last, a trace of melancholy in his tone.
Carlos exhaled slowly. “And you? You’ve been there longer than I have. What was it like for you?”
Jannik’s breathing shifted, slower now. “At first I didn’t even understand what was happening. Then, over time… it became a cage. You look in the mirror and you don’t see Jannik anymore, you only see the number one and you forget who you are off the court.”
Carlos felt a shiver run through him. Those words struck straight to his heart. “And now? Are you finding him again, Jannik?”
“I’m trying,” he admitted softly.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy, it wrapped around them, gentle, protective. Then Carlos, with a half-smile, tried to lighten it. “Well, I’ll help you remember who you are in Shanghai.”
Jannik laughed, brief but genuine, a sound that warmed Carlos more than he wanted to admit. “How’s that?”
“By beating you. Just so you remember you’re human.”
“We’ll see,” Jannik replied, his tone balanced perfectly between challenge and tenderness.
Minutes slipped by as they drifted into memories. Carlos recalled their first real match. “Do you remember Alicante? Our first match? I was just a kid. I thought I could take on the world, and you made me run like crazy.”
“That’s not true,” Jannik laughed. “You were already strong, and you knew it. I was the one terrified of you. All I could think was don’t let him see you’re shaking.”
“I was shaking even more!” Carlos laughed. “I looked at you and thought, this guy never misses.”
They wandered through other stories, shared trips, unexpected training sessions, endless waits in airports. Every detail tasted like memory, tying them together in ways neither could quite name.
As the night deepened, Carlos glanced at the clock and gasped. “Jan, it’s two in the morning here.”
“Already?”
“Sí. But… I’m not tired.”
“Me neither,” Jannik admitted, his voice now low, almost a whisper.
That was when Carlos realized the hour no longer mattered, nor the distance. That voice was all he wanted to hear.
They kept talking, weaving words and pauses, half-laughs and soft sighs. The hours slipped by unnoticed, until their breathing grew slower, their thoughts softer, like they were falling asleep beside each other, connected only by that invisible thread neither dared to break.
Their voices had become slow, almost cradled by sleep. Carlos stared at the ceiling, the golden light of the lamp spilling gently over him. His heart was calm, steady yet full, as if Jannik’s voice had filled every corner of the room.
“You know something?” he whispered.
“Tell me,” Jannik murmured back, his voice low, intimate, like a secret.
Carlos smiled, even though Jannik couldn’t see him. “I didn’t think a call could make me feel this good.”
A deep breath. “Me neither.”
They lingered there, afraid that even a word too many might break whatever had settled between them. Then Jannik spoke first. “We should sleep.”
Carlos laughed softly, rubbing his eyes. “Sí, my mom would say the same.”
“And your mom is always right.” The line was playful, but beneath it lay something tender.
Carlos laughed again, this time softer, tinged with warmth. “All right, then. Let’s sleep.”
Another silence, heavy with everything they both felt but didn’t say.
“Carlos?” Jannik’s voice was barely a breath.
“Sí?”
“Thank you.”
Those seven letters warmed Carlos more than any long confession. He smiled, lips pressed tight to hold it in. “No, thank you, Jan.”
There was a faint sound, a small shift, a movement on the other end, before Jannik added, slow but sincere, “And… good luck. For Shanghai. You don’t need me to say it, but… I want to see you at your best.”
Carlos laughed quietly, a soft ache blooming in his chest. “I’ll try… though I’m still going to beat you there.”
“Dream on, Carlitos.” His voice carried that playful edge that always hid affection.
They both laughed, short and real, and the echo of that shared joy lingered, stronger than any word.
Then Jannik whispered first, “Good night.”
Carlos closed his eyes, the smile still etched on his face. “Buenas noches.”
Only then, with hearts full and the warmth of that last exchange still alive between them, they both pressed the button that ended the call.
-
The morning in Tokyo had a different color to it, a blend of pale and golden light that slipped shyly through the heavy hotel curtains.
Carlos stretched as he woke, feeling the softness of the sheets against his skin and the faint sting in his ankle that he still couldn’t quite ignore. Despite everything, a smile found its way to his lips, a remnant of the night before, still warm in his chest.
Alvaro caught sight of him coming out in a tracksuit, hair tousled, lighter than usual, and laughed.
“Hermano, since when do you wake up smiling like that?”
Carlos shot him a mock-severe look, tinged with embarrassment. “Must be the Tokyo air, it’s good for me.”
The trainer, already fiddling with a resistance band, added with teasing irony, “You sure it’s just the air?”
Carlos shrugged, color rising to his ears. Pretending indifference only half worked. Inside, a thought kept running, stubborn and insistent. The calm of last night’s call.
Every small detail came back to him, while the distant hum of the city melted into the quiet rhythm of his morning.
Meanwhile, in Beijing, Jannik’s alarm buzzed softly beside the bed.
He rose slowly, his legs still heavy, stretching with habitual languor, though without the weariness that had weighed on him in the past days. His breathing came deep and full, something in him had shifted.
When Jannik stepped onto the court, there was a new kind of resolve in him. The sun filtered through the clouds, illuminating the slick surface in fleeting flashes, and he felt every step, every bounce of the ball as a signal of energy returning.
His movements were smooth but precise. The left foot driving forward, his arm following through with purpose, the racket cutting the air with that muted, clean sound that only comes when everything aligns.
With each forehand, each backhand, warmth grew inside him. Not only physical, but something deeper. The tension of the past days, the unease, the quiet longing, all of it seemed to pour into that pure, driving energy. Every ball hit with power felt like a small act of redemption, a way to remind himself that he still ruled his game.
Vagnozzi and Cahill exchanged a glance, catching the difference at once.
“He looks like another man, doesn’t he?” Simone murmured.
Cahill nodded, a contained smile on his lips. “Haven’t seen him like this in weeks.”
Jannik could feel that awareness burning in his veins, a mixture of joy and adrenaline. Each time he managed a tight rally or sent the ball spinning perfectly into the far corner, a brief smile escaped him.
It wasn’t just the pleasure of the sport, it was the sensation of finding himself again, of recovering that fire that had dimmed lately.
“Come on, Jan!” Simone shouted, his voice echoing in rhythm with the strikes. “Remember who you are!”
The words weren’t mere encouragement, they were a call, a reminder of his worth, his strength.
Jannik felt them resonate deep. The others on the team watched him, smiling to themselves. There was something contagious in his rekindled energy, something that seemed to ignite them too.
So, between one rally and the next, Jannik wasn’t simply training, he was reclaiming the best of himself.
When his match against Terence Atmane began, every strike became an act of introspection.
The first set was a quiet display of control. Jannik kept his first serve above eighty percent, broke Atmane’s serve in the seventh game and closed the set 6–4, satisfied but not yet fulfilled.
The second set turned thornier.
Atmane changed rhythm, slicing deep, forcing Jannik to adjust and react. A few unforced errors crept in, and the Frenchman took it 7–5.
Jannik paused at center court, breathing deeply, trying to let frustration slip through him. Every lost point drew his mind back to Carlos in Tokyo, to that injured ankle that had forced him to stop.
A flicker of empathy crossed him. The world’s number one, so often seen as unshakable, was human too, fragile in certain lights.
The third set changed everything.
Something ignited within him, pure resolve, the desire to command the present and master his own rhythm. His serves were precise as a blade, he sprinted from corner to corner, carving the court open. Every shot, every smash, every passing stroke became a declaration that he was still here, giving everything. He sealed the set 6–0, sweat tracing his temples, his legs heavy but content.
He won and in the roar of the Chinese crowd, he felt a sudden quiet inside him, an urge to share that moment.
At the handshake, while his opponent thanked him, Jannik could think of only one thing.
A voice, a laugh, echoing far away.
-
Carlos spent the afternoon in physiotherapy. His ankle was still swollen, but the pain had softened into something bearable.
“No strain today,” the physiotherapist reminded him, hands moving with calm precision along the inflamed tendon.
“Ya, ya…” Carlos muttered, though inside, impatience burned like a fire he couldn’t put out. He had always hated stopping, every minute away from the court felt wasted, every pause an obstacle between him and the game. And yet, that day, he let the hands work in silence, surrendering to the careful rhythm of recovery.
As the therapist’s touch moved along his ankle, Carlos closed his eyes and his thoughts slipped inevitably toward Jannik.
He pictured him out on the court in Beijing, the racket springing in his hands, every shot measured and deliberate.
Each vibration of his phone made him start, hoping for a message, a simple sign that Jan was fine, focused, that the match was unfolding as it should.
The shadow of the next tournament hovered constantly at the edge of his mind, with the distinct outline of a red-haired rival already sharpening into focus, stoking the hunger to return at full strength.
When Carlos finally left the treatment room, his ankle wrapped tight, he found his team in the hotel lounge, laughing and teasing one another over tea and sparkling water.
His mind was elsewhere, his gaze fixed on his phone. Live updates from Jannik’s match in Beijing scrolled across the screen.
Each point pulled him deeper into that invisible seat beside Jan.
Minutes passed, tension coiling tighter in his chest. Every ace, every clean forehand from Sinner felt like a pulse inside him. He caught himself smiling when he read about a particularly brilliant rally, imagining Jan’s body folding into motion with that unmistakable grace, his focus absolute, the world narrowed to a single, spinning ball.
“He looks happy,” Alvaro remarked, noticing his brother’s silence and guessing what held his attention. “And not just because he’s winning. It’s like… he’s enjoying himself again.”
Carlos nodded faintly, eyes still on the phone. He felt both distant and impossibly close, tethered to Jannik by something that no world ranking could measure.
When the final update came through, Jan victorious, Carlos exhaled, a strange blend of relief and something softer threading through him.
It wasn’t just the triumph of a rival, it was the quiet certainty that Jan was all right, that he was still there, that Shanghai would still be theirs to share.
A small smile slipped out, half a sigh of ease, as his team kept laughing around him, unaware that, in that instant, Carlos’s thoughts were already far beyond the noise of the hotel, reaching toward another city, another heartbeat.
-
Back in the locker room, Jannik let himself fall onto the bench. The noise around him, the cheerful chatter of his teammates after the win, the clinking of bottles, the faint hum of laughter, felt exactly as it should, in its rightful place.
His gaze drifted to his phone, screen glowing under a flood of notifications, but one name stood out brighter than all the others. Without thinking, he reached for it, fingers trembling slightly, and typed a message.
Done. Won.
How are you?
Carlos drew in a slow breath as he read the words. A small smile unfurled on his lip, spontaneous, involuntary. Jannik’s presence, even from afar, felt tangible, as though he could hear the rhythm of his breath through the glass of the screen.
I knew it!! Well done.
I’m ok, ankle’s annoying, but I’ll survive.
As he typed, fragments of the past days came rushing back. The worry over his injury, the tension of withdrawal, that late-night conversation that still lingered between them. All of it seemed distant now, softened by the quiet certainty that Jannik was fine.
There was a tenderness in that knowledge, subtle but deep, an invisible thread that held them together across the miles.
Then came Jannik’s reply, light but charged with playfulness.
Don’t start playing the victim, I’m not sparing you in Shanghai.
Carlos bit his lip, laughing softly, his pulse quickening. There was always that delicate balance between them, a game of provocation and care, of rivalry tinged with something warmer.
Jajaj, tranquilo… you already know how it ends!!
A flicker of amusement crossed his eyes, and for a moment he forgot the throbbing in his ankle, forgot the weight of being the world’s number one.
He imagined Jannik on the other side of the screen, smiling, maybe shaking his head with that quiet irony of his, and felt an answering smile curve on his own face.
The world might never understand, but in those brief exchanges, in that invisible current between them, there was a kind of intimacy that couldn’t be replicated.
Jannik gave a small shake of his head, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth as he looked up at the ceiling. And Carlos could almost see him, the way he would pull on his sweatshirt, the way the court lights in Beijing would catch on his face, tracing the calm determination that lived there.
Around him, his team kept talking, laughing, moving, but no one dared interrupt that quiet, suspended instant.
Though surrounded by others, Jannik was elsewhere entirely, caught in that fragile thread of connection that stretched between them, sweet and unspoken, shimmering in the quiet like something neither of them could name.
-
The tournament in Beijing moved forward with relentless rhythm, leaving no room for hesitation.
Those days, Jannik woke with a lightness that felt new. It didn’t mean he was less focused, if anything, the opposite. Every practice carried a sharper energy, as if he had found his way back to the joy of playing like a boy again: eager, alive, entirely present. Simone and Darren exchanged quiet glances when they caught him smiling more than usual during stretching, or humming softly to the music that filled the locker room. No one said it aloud, but everyone sensed it, something inside him had shifted.
The first true test came against Grigor Dimitrov: elegant, fluid, a player whose tennis could almost pass for choreography. For a set, Jannik had to chase, digging deep to counter the Bulgarian’s artistry, not allowing the delicate drop shots to pull him off balance. Every game was a war of inches and restraint. Then came two consecutive backhands down the line, clean, fearless, and a break of serve.
He sealed the second set 6–4, closing the match with the quiet triumph of someone who had tamed one of the circuit’s most unpredictable dancers.
There were congratulations, interviews, dinners; and then, late at night, when the world finally grew still and he could allow himself to just be a twenty-four-year-old happy boy again, Jannik would unlock his phone. He’d play some music, or let a show murmur in the background, and talk to Carlos. Nothing special, updates about the ankle, the day’s training, a few jokes, mutual congratulations. But between those ordinary words ran a quiet current of familiarity, as though their voices were building a space that existed only for them.
That night, another message came.
Carlos: “Saw the highlights. That backhand on the line wasn’t human.”
Jannik smiled, warmth curling in his chest. He liked that Carlos knew, really knew, how strong he could be. And perhaps, it wasn’t only that.
“It was just tennis,” he replied.
A moment later came the answer:
“No. It was yours.”
That word lingered —yours— echoing longer than it had any right to. It felt like a whisper that meant more than it said.
Then came Zverev. A brutal semifinal. A familiar adversary who gave nothing for free. The first set, Jannik claimed with clarity and aggression, stepping inside the court and carving open angles with precision. In the second, Zverev answered with iron serves and pounding forehands that forced Jannik a step behind the baseline. One set all.
The third became a war of attrition: every point a duel, every breath leaden. Jannik took risks he usually avoided: a couple of daring serve-and-volleys, drop shots born purely of instinct.
At 4–4 came the longest rally of the match, twenty-three strokes, the German commanding the rhythm, until suddenly, Jannik changed direction, sending a backhand down the line that kissed the paint. The break was his.
He served for the match, hands trembling faintly, heart hammering in his throat, and ended it with an ace that split the night open. The stadium roared, a sea of sound surging around him, but inside there was only quiet, a stillness made of pride, relief, and the strange, radiant peace that follows the storm.
There was no victory more deserved.
And no smile more genuine.
-
Returning to Murcia for Carlos felt like slipping into an embrace that asked nothing in return.
The airport carried the familiar scent of home, a mingling of salt and wind, and the moment he stepped through the arrival doors, he realized how much he had missed that warm light, so unlike any city he had passed through before. There were no crowds of fans, no camera flashes, only his father’s car waiting and his mother’s wide smile as she pressed a kiss to his cheeks, as if he had been away for years rather than a few long days in Tokyo.
“Ay, mi niño… you keep getting taller and thinner,” Virginia murmured, holding him tight.
Carlos laughed softly, bending slightly to be enveloped more fully. “Mamá, I’m twenty now. You can’t keep treating me like I’m ten.”
“For me, you’ll always be a child,” she replied, tousling his hair with effortless affection.
Returning felt like the right choice, the one that promised comfort, quiet, and the gentle rhythm of home. He would miss Tokyo, and he hadn’t forgotten the tournament he’d forfeited, but there was something here that no trophy could ever match.
Inside the house, he was greeted by the familiar clatter of Jaime’s steps on the stairs, plates set on the table even before he had kicked off his shoes, voices overlapping in the kitchen.
He sat down, and his mother continued to fill his plate. Croquettes, salad, fresh bread, as if she feared that years of tournaments and travel might wear him away.
“Mamá, enough,” he protested with a laugh, “I’m not growing anymore.”
“No, but you’re always running. And running consumes you.”
Jaime watched him with a mischievous grin. “Hermano, ever since you got back, you’re always staring at your phone. I’ve never seen anyone smile like that at a screen. Who’s writing to you?”
Carlos tossed him a rolled-up napkin. “Curious as ever.”
“Is it a girl?” his brother teased further. “Or…?”
“Or nothing,” Carlos said, cheeks warming as he hid behind his glass of water.
His mother said nothing, watching quietly, that innate tenderness evident in her gaze. She already knew, and in truth, she was glad to see that new light flickering in her son’s eyes.
The following days flowed at a pace entirely different from the frantic rhythm of the tour. Mornings began later, with sunlight spilling into his childhood bedroom, the walls still plastered with posters he had never wanted to remove.
He’d descend to the kitchen in his tracksuit, breakfasting with Jaime and Alvaro as they teased endlessly, then make his way to the local tennis club.
No cameras, just kids staring as though he had returned from some grand adventure.
Training was lighter, almost playful. A few rallies, laughs with Juanki, exercises to loosen his ankle. Yet each stroke carried a different heat, as if he weren’t just exercising his body, but tending to something deeper. There was no hurry to prove anything and that feeling surprised him almost more than the slowly fading ache in his ankle.
One evening, returning from the club, Jaime teased him again. “I don’t know who’s writing to you, but I’ll say one thing. You smile more now than when you won the US Open.”
Carlos shook his head, ruffling his brother’s hair. “When you win a Slam, you’ll understand!” he said, pretending it was about that, but inside he knew Jaime was right.
When asked about the next tournament, Shanghai, he replied only with a smile and a shrug. Yet in the quiet of Murcia nights, he knew his thoughts always wandered there.
That evening, after dinner, Carlos stepped onto the family balcony. The air of Murcia carried its unmistakable fragrance, a mingling of damp earth and night-blooming flowers, a sweetness that made him sigh.
He sat down with his phone in hand, gazing at the scattered city lights, like stars spilled across the ground.
The first message sent itself, almost.
It’s so quiet here. Just crickets, and my brother making noise in his room.
What about you in Beijing?
The reply arrived minutes later, direct and essential, unmistakably Jannik.
The air conditioner, distant traffic.
But in my head, there’s more silence than noise.
Carlos smiled, thumb gliding over the screen.
Good silence, or heavy silence?
Depends. If I get distracted, good. If I think too much, heavy.
A pause, then another message, brief but spilling out unguarded. Today I thought I saw you in the stands.
Carlos bit his lip, heart racing.
Then tomorrow make me sit lower, not up high. I don’t want you straining to find me.
Jannik didn’t reply immediately. When the notification finally came, the simplicity was startling.
Alright.
Shangai.
Carlos lingered, holding the phone between his hands, as if those two words were more than a place, more than a tournament.
They were a hidden promise, a meeting point that needed no explanation.
-
The Beijing final was the pinnacle of his week.
Across the net stood Daniil Medvedev. The enigma, the wall, the endless patience that had broken so many opponents.
Jannik knew him well, he knew what it meant to face him, relentless rallies, returns sharp as knives, a mind-bending ability to warp the logic of each point.
The first set was a test of endurance.
Daniil immediately forced him into five, six, seven extra shots per point. Jannik felt his quads burning, his breath shortening, yet he never backed down. He raised his first-serve percentage, anticipated with his forehand, risked daring down-the-line shots.
The Russian responded like a champion. In the second set, he took control, pushed Jannik behind the baseline, forced him to taste frustration. A couple of double faults sealed the set at 6-4. Everything had to be reset.
The third set was an act of faith.
Every point a tightrope between clarity and recklessness. Jannik found courage in shots he would not have dared weeks before. Sudden drop shots, counter-balanced returns, even a surprise approach to the net. At 5-4, with Medvedev serving, he decided not to wait. He stepped into the court on a second serve, down-the-line backhand kissing the line, arms raised, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
6-4.
The match was his.
When the final ball stopped, the stadium’s roar crashed over him like a wave.
For a moment, the sound seemed to dissolve, leaving him suspended in a silence that was his alone, as if the world had ceased to exist.
He did not shout or jump. He clenched his fists, leaned slightly forward, feeling his hands tremble, breath uneven. He looked toward the bench, saw Simone applauding with that calm knowledge only someone who truly understands him can have, Darren’s arms raised.
The smile came naturally, not by choice but by necessity, as if his body itself was declaring, you did it.
Walking to the net to shake Medvedev’s hand, his legs felt like stone yet light at the same time. Each step carried the weight of the preceding weeks: the effort, the doubts, the nights wondering if it was enough, if he was still capable of standing among the best. Yet there he was, victory in hand.
In the almost absent-minded gesture of wiping sweat from his brow lay the awareness that he had proven something first to himself, before anyone else, that his tennis had never slipped away, that being number two was not a compromise but a state of strength.
The crowd continued chanting his name and he let himself be carried by that warmth. He felt his heart race, not from fatigue, which was now a sweet tiredness, but from pure emotion. It was as if every muscle, bone, and fiber of his body wanted to imprint that moment, never to forget it.
On the podium, trophy in hand, he couldn’t take his eyes off the silver that reflected the arena lights. Heavy, cold, yet somehow alive.
Lifting it, he felt a strange vertigo, not just joy, but gratitude. For the child who had spent countless hours on frozen courts in the north. For silent sacrifices, for the days of defeats that had burned more than any muscle. And for those who had always believed beside him.
Dinner arrived almost as a second reward, simple and warm, away from crystal and immaculate tablecloths. Jannik entered last, still smelling of court sweat and adrenaline. The trophy remained at the hotel, but he felt its weight invisibly with him, a presence that lifted him.
Simone ordered wine without a word, eyebrows raised as if to say tonight we celebrate, period.
Darren teased immediately, “Careful! Don’t know how we’ll get it back to the room.” Everyone laughed, including Jannik.
The dishes arrived steaming. Noodles, rice, spiced meat scented with ginger.
Jannik absentmindedly lifted his fork, more attuned to the sounds, the teammates’ laughter, light jokes, clinking glasses, than to the taste. It was a pleasure to be swept into that lightness, to watch his coaches laugh like boys, as if this title liberated them too.
At one point, Vagnozzi stood, solemn for two seconds, then mimicked Medvedev’s expression after that impossible down-the-line backhand. “Did you see that? He looked like he was searching for the remote under the couch!” Laughter erupted, and Jannik lowered his head, eyes squinting to avoid being overtaken, cheeks flushed.
Then Darren raised his glass. “Don’t forget, Jan. This isn’t an endpoint, it’s proof that you can beat anyone, anytime.” The words stayed with him more than the wine, more than the food.
They were right. The victory itself wasn’t all, it was what it represented, that the work, the sacrifices, the falls, had not been in vain.
But beneath that genuine gratitude, something more private stirred.
His hand occasionally brushed into his pocket, touching the phone as if instinctively.
Not yet. He wanted to savor the celebration first, but he knew exactly who would write the moment he returned to the room.
Watching his team, he felt a deep, almost familial warmth. They had been his anchor, his shield.
But Jannik realized his happiness would not be complete unless shared with the one person who had been silently present these days, through messages that seemed trivial but were everything.
Back at the hotel, the Beijing air humid and sticky, he felt light, like he could walk for miles.
In the car with the team, he listened to their jokes, but his mind had already drifted to the moment he had imagined for hours.
Lying on the bed, opening his phone, and writing to Carlos.
He already knew the words. Simple, unpretentious, like always between them. He imagined the reply, the tone, the smile lighting up the other side of the screen.
That thought alone kept him alive, kept him warm. It was not just a victory, but something to be delivered, shared.
That night, returning to his room, trophy on the nightstand, legs weary, Jannik felt complete and empty all at once.
Complete for what he had achieved, empty until he pressed send.
The hotel room was immersed in silence. Only the faint traffic noise in the distance filtered through the slightly open window.
Jannik flopped onto the bed, still dressed, the trophy gleaming in the dim light. Legs heavy, arms relaxed and his mind refused sleep. He replayed every point, every cheer, every handshake.
Above all, there was one thought.
I need to tell him.
He picked up his phone, hesitated, something about this gesture mattered more than the trophy. Then he began to type.
It’s done. I won.
It was tough, but I brought it home.
Moments later, the screen lit up.
I knew it. Didn’t need you to tell me, I felt it.
But tell me everything, every point, every moment.
Show me the match through your eyes.
Jannik smiled, turning on his side, holding the phone like it was fragile. He typed slowly, almost speaking to himself.
At first it was like running uphill, he took everything.
But then I found courage. I risked more, let go of fear.
In the end, I didn’t think about who was in front of me, only who I wanted to be.
A pause, then the reply.
And you did it.
That’s what makes you different, Jan. You don’t just play, you become the game.
Those words warmed his chest more than any applause. Hand on forehead, eyes closed, he let himself be cradled by the feeling of not being alone in the room.
The best part is telling you, though.
So you know what to expect if we meet on opposite sides of the draw soon.
He joked, lightening the tension. Immediately, the notification vibrated.
Then go on.
Tell me everything, until you fall asleep.
Jannik chuckled softly. Despite the teasing, Carlos wanted to know. He hadn’t replied to provoke, he had replied to understand.
And so Jannik wrote on, point by point, feeling by feeling.
The Beijing night stretched long, a conversation with no end, as if their words bridged the distance.
When sleep finally claimed him, the phone was still clutched in his hands, Carlos’s last message glowing on the screen.
Shanghai is closer than we think.
And with that thought, he fell asleep, serene, heart already turned toward the next match.