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Jannik is in the middle of making scrambled eggs for breakfast when he gets the post notification.
He opens Instagram almost absentmindedly, more focused on preparing his meal than looking at his phone. The only reason he even clicks on the notification is that there is only one account he has them on for. Only one person whose life he’s interested in enough.
And Jannik is not disciplined enough to deny himself one of the few crumbs of Carlos Alcaraz that he still gets, more than a year after his retirement. Five years after his own.
They don’t really speak anymore. Not unless there’s an event they’re both invited to. At first, right after Jannik’s retirement, Carlos tried keeping in touch. He texted and he called, even visited once or twice.
But Jannik… It was hard for him to talk to Carlos when he still played tennis. Jannik was forced to retire due to an ugly injury caused by an unlucky fall. He couldn’t come to terms with it for years. And Carlos—
Carlos reminded him of what he lost. His career, the game he loved, the rivalry that shaped more than a decade of his life. Talking to him was simply too painful.
So, Jannik pulled away.
He got married, four years ago, to Alessandra. She was a model from Sicily, petite and pretty. They met through a mutual friend and got engaged fast. Too fast. They tied the knot and bought a house near Palermo, close to her parents.
Jannik was content with his life. As much as he could be, anyway.
But then Carlos announced the end of his career. And Instagram became the only way for Jannik to know what was going on in his life.
With no messages to read and no matches to watch, Jannik greedily took that chance. He never left a like and he never let anyone see the little tick inside the bell in the right corner of Carlos’s account. But checking anything he posted within seconds became a habit for Jannik.
He doesn’t control his fingers anymore. They simply click on the notification the moment it comes. Jannik’s brain reacts to the sound just like Pavlov’s famous dogs reacted to the ring of a bell. He’s been conditioned to not be able to ignore the chime.
He turns off the stove and looks at his phone, expecting another vacation photo or a picture of Carlos playing golf with his brothers. Instead—
The rattle of the pan reverberates throughout the kitchen. “Fuck!”, Jannik curses, putting the reddening back of his left hand into his mouth, trying to soothe the burn.
With his hand under a stream of cold water, he stares at the post in disbelief. He’s not sure he isn’t dreaming when he reads the words again and again, trying to get them to make sense.
…secret…
…hid…
…since I was young…
…not safe…
…proud…
…gay…
Jannik hears blood rushing in his ears. His heartbeat picks up as shock morphs into something more dangerous. He feels lightheaded.
In the video he posted, Carlos is speaking Spanish. He is sitting on the terrace of his home in Murcia, dressed in a plain white T-shirt, no logo on it. His hair is a bit longer than it usually was when he still played, his beard not shaven in days, maybe even weeks. But he looks… rested. Relaxed. The English caption below says:
Hi, everyone!
There is something I’ve wanted to share with the world for a long time. It’s something very important to me. Something I hid for years for the sake of my career.
I’ve known I was different since I was young. But I also knew it wasn’t safe for people like me, especially men, to become professional athletes. And I loved tennis too much to give up my dream. So, I chose it. And I don’t regret it. I was happy. I had a wonderful, rich career. And I’m extremely proud of it.
But now that I’m retired, I don’t feel the need to hide anymore. I don’t want to. I want to be free and I want to inspire other people to be themselves too. No apologies.
I’m gay. I’ve always been gay. When I was winning Grand Slam titles and Olympic medals. When I was breaking records. When I denied rumors about dating women I’d never even met.
I’m gay and I’m still me. Still Charly.
And I hope one day all queer sportspeople will feel safe enough to not hide anymore.
Sending you all love,
Carlitos
Jannik is frozen. Water is still running from the faucet onto his hand but he doesn’t feel the cool relief. He doesn’t feel anything at all, except for his heart hitting his ribs and the twisting of his stomach.
He stares at his phone, transfixed. He doesn’t hear Carlos’s words through the ringing in his ears but he sees his lips moving, mouthing the words that will ruin Jannik if he's not careful.
The words that already feel like both a curse and a blessing. Enslavement and liberation.
Jannik turns his phone off and puts it in one of the cupboards.
Damn it.
Jannik debates calling Carlos. (Or texting. He’s too much of a coward to risk hearing his voice not in a probably-practiced video but directed straight at him.)
The reactions to his—
Coming out. It won’t hurt you to call it what it was.
—announcement have been, in majority, overwhelmingly positive. Hundreds of players, former and active, male and female, commented under the post, offering support and encouragement. Jannik reads through all of them, ignoring the burning heaviness in his chest.
jackdraper: Proud of you mate! 🙏🏻
holgerrune: so proud of you brother! love you ❤️
iga.swiatek: 👏🏻❤️
arthur.fils: mon gars 🫶🏾
benshelton: so so brave my dude 👏🏻
cocogauff: HELL YEAH CHARLY 🥹🫡
agassi: Very proud of you!
rogerfederer: Congratulations Carlos! ❤️
He knows he should comment too. He should show his support publicly, it’s what his agent expects. If he doesn’t, Alex will write one himself. And most people will praise Jannik for not being a homophobic dick, some bigots will insult him for it, but Carlos will know the fingers that typed it weren’t Jannik’s.
He would know, Jannik is sure. Carlos knows him.
Or—
He used to. Before rust and dust covered their relationship. Before Jannik became distant and Carlos gave up when he wouldn’t respond to him for days. When he would decline his calls, at first claiming to be busy, then not bothering to make up an excuse at all.
Sometimes Jannik wishes he was braver.
Jannik can’t stop glancing at his phone. Whether it’s on the coffee table right in front of him or on the shelf across the room, so far he has to squint to get rid of the blurriness around it; it’s of no consequence.
His fingers twitch with the urge to grab it and contact the Spaniard.
At the same time, the idea makes him sick.
He wants to know how he’s doing. He wants to tell him—
But hearing him so happy and so free…
It would—
It’s not a good idea.
He finally comments on the post six days after it was posted. He only gets away with it because of how offline he usually is, at least to the public eye.
janniksin: Congrats 🙌🏻
He can’t bring himself to write anything more personal.
Carlos only likes the comment.
In the morning, he goes on a walk.
With sandals in his hand, he strolls along the shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The reflection of the rising sun is sparkling in the calm water. A gentle breeze kisses his cheeks and he closes his eyes, breathing in the salty air.
With scratchy sand around his bare feet, Jannik thinks.
A month goes by. Then another.
Jannik thinks.
It’s June when the interview drops.
Carlos is on the cover of Vogue España, handsome and bold and elegant. His hair is shorter again, his beard trimmed flawlessly. Jannik can’t stop looking.
He swipes through the carousel, lingering on some of the photos. Squeezing his eyes shut when looking at them begins to ache.
Jannik reads the interview. Of course he does.
It’s been a long time since he stopped pretending not to hang onto every single word this man says.
It’s not rare for Carlos to give interviews. He often speaks about his life post-retirement, about the current ATP tour happenings, about his career. He seems to like reminiscing about the past.
Jannik doesn’t. Maybe it’s the regret that hurts too much. He regrets not being able to continue playing professionally after getting injured. He regrets many chances he did not take.
But it’s not just regret that makes him want to forget.
He was happy. When he stepped on the court to play tennis, nothing else mattered. He was whole.
He was free.
He doesn’t want to remember because he’s scared. Scared that he won’t ever feel like that again. That happiness escaped his grasp the moment he fell onto the clay of Court Philippe Chatrier, clutching his knee and nearly whimpering in pain.
Jannik really wishes he could be braver.
Your coming out in April shocked the world of tennis. But lots of players, legends and fans immediately showed their support for you. Did you expect such a heartwarming response?
(Alcaraz smiles.) I did, actually. I know these people. I knew I could expect their support. My friends, my idols… They’re lovely people. Honestly, I never even considered the possibility of them not accepting my sexuality. I was a bit worried about the fans’ reaction. But everyone’s been very kind to me, both on social media and even on the street. People casually approach me, in Murcia, Madrid, Barcelona, to tell me they’re proud of me or they think I’m a hero.
Are you?
(Alcaraz laughs.) I don’t think I am. I’m just… myself. But If I managed to inspire anyone to be more open about who they are, then I’m glad. Really. It wasn’t my goal when I came out. I have to admit I did it for selfish reasons. (Alcaraz grins.) But if it helps someone come out, or just be braver, then it’s amazing.
I’m sure you’re aware of how much speculation about your love life has been going on on the Internet. Care to comment? Is there anyone? A partner?
Are you allowed to ask me that? (Alcaraz laughs.) I guess I agreed to this. No, there isn’t anyone currently in the picture. I’m not romantically involved right now.
Jannik’s heart jumps a little, a weird sense of relief loosening his limbs.
Don’t answer if you don’t want to but many fans would probably love to know if there was ever anyone on tour you were involved with.
(Alcaraz hums.) Sexually?
Jannik is surprised by his boldness. He shouldn’t be, though. Carlos has always been quite daring.
Yes. Yes, there was.
Jannik’s stomach clenches. Something unpleasant stirs in his gut, ugly and prickling.
But it was a long time ago. And it wasn’t anything serious.
What about romantic relationships?
Not on the tour, no.
Who then?, Jannik desperately wants to ask.
Why?
Maybe there just wasn’t anyone on the tour I was interested in? (Alcaraz laughs.)
He seems comfortable with this interviewer, Jannik notes.
No, it just wasn’t… realistic. With all the scrutiny… It would have been too hard to maintain a relationship with another player.
But if it hadn’t been too hard, would you have?
Are you asking if I was in love with someone from the tour? Another player?
Tell me if I’m overstepping, please, but yes. Were you?
Jannik holds his breath as his eyes skim down the text.
Yes.
Jannik’s heart drops. What?
But he didn’t know. I never told him. I doubt he loved me back, though. (Alcaraz laughs.)
Are you still in love with him?
(Alcaraz doesn’t answer.)
Understood.
Jannik puts his phone down, shaken.
The interview was honest. Maybe too honest. But Carlos has already proven he doesn’t care what other people think. Not enough for it to stop him from saying what he wants to say, anyway.
He’s never been contrarian but he has always been sincere. He never sugarcoated his opinions.
There was never even an ounce of a lie in his blood. Not a pinch of a half-truth.
Jannik often envied him that courage. Not because he lied to journalists. No. He couldn’t bother to even try. The only reason he ever held back in press conferences was his PR training (and Alex’s threatening stare).
But Carlos’s courage wasn’t only shown in interviews. It was the principle he lived by. And it was obvious in each step he took.
Jannik might have always been either honest when asked about tennis or diplomatic when asked about his opponents, but whenever he let go of his racquet, fear always returned.
Jannik still feels its cold, slimy claws around his throat sometimes.
Because on the tennis court, he was in control. But off of it—
Off the court, Jannik Sinner is a mess.
In July, Jannik goes to Sesto to visit his parents. He watches them together, still disgustingly in love, even after so many years, and he thinks.
In August, he’s invited to New York by Andre Agassi. He and his wife are organizing a charity gala before the US Open to raise money for underprivileged children. Jannik, of course, accepts the invitation.
Alessandra asks if she should come with him. People expect her to be there. After all, she always came to events with him. She was bright and beautiful on red carpets, smiling at photographers and other guests, shining in her sparkly gowns. Still, Jannik refuses, not even considering agreeing. Because that was—
That was before.
She only nods in response. If she’s disappointed, she doesn’t show it.
He assumes Carlos will be there. It makes him strangely jittery.
He’s never been nervous about seeing Carlos before. Now, the idea of talking to him makes him sweat.
But it also makes him excited. Because Jannik misses him. He misses him like a limb. His tennis, his laugh, his ability to make Jannik feel at ease with a single smile. Jannik hadn’t realized how much Carlos helped him, just by listening to him and understanding him in a way that no one else could. How safe and seen he made him feel by just watching him. Not before he was forced to retire and lost it all due to his own stupidity.
Now, he’s going to see him again. For the first time in years.
Jannik smiles to himself, the excitement tipping the scale.
The gala is held at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. Jannik arrives by the entrance as the sun is setting over the skyscrapers, covering the glass curtain walls in soft pink and fiery orange. He exits the limousine while adjusting his gold cufflinks. Lights flash around him but he doesn't even blink, walking up the steps and in through the fancy doors.
The ballroom is huge, with a high ceiling and a chandelier illuminating it, surrounded by large Greek columns. The walls are decorated with golden ornaments. Guests are still arriving, but there are a lot of people already inside. Jannik hears loud chatter and polite giggling, accompanied by the clinking of champagne flutes. Every dress he sees is more lavish, every grin more pearly white, every lip more red.
Even after almost two decades of balls, galas and parties, he’s still not quite used to the grandeur of it all.
Andre and Steffi are standing by one of the tables, talking to Roger and Mirka. Their arms are pressed together casually, their fingers brushing between them.
Jannik remembers Alessandra and the way she would have to remind him to put his hand around her waist while posing for pictures.
“Jannik!” Steffi welcomes him when she spots him, a kind smile on her face.
Federer turns to him and raises his glass in greeting. His hair is greying and the wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth got deeper since Jannik saw him last. Still, he carries himself with pride and elegance, seemingly not caring about the evidence of his aging (as if in spite of those accusing him of vanity). “Hello, Jannik”, he says warmly.
“Roger.” He nods, with respect and admiration both. Despite having known the man for many years, the Swiss still manages to intimidate him. “Mirka”, he greets.
After a couple minutes of exchanging pleasantries, Agassi asks him, “Have you seen Carlos yet?” Jannik shakes his head. “He told me he was looking forward to catching up with you. He seemed more excited about speaking to you than the gala.” Andre laughs.
Jannik chokes on his champagne, blush rising to his cheeks. Roger pats him on the back, his eyes full of quiet amusement instead of concern. “Oh?”, Jannik finally croaks.
“Gott, I still think about that final in Paris you two played”, Roger says with a dreamy sigh. The reminder of the loss is unpleasant, even after fifteen years. Jannik fights off a grimace.
“It was a great match.” He tries to smile.
“Those match points Carlos saved—” Roger shakes his head with a grin. “I would have hated to be in your place, Jannik.”
“Yeah.” Jannik purses his lips. I hated it too. More than you can imagine.
As if sensing his discomfort, Steffi loops her arm around Jannik’s and tells him, “I need to introduce my brother to you, he’s a fan.” She turns to Federer, “Excuse us, Roger, but we shouldn’t hog you. I’m sure lots of people want to speak to you tonight.”
“Thank you”, Jannik mouths to her as they walk away, maneuvering between tables.
“No problem”, she says with a chuckle. “I know Roger. He means well but he’s a little tone-deaf.”
Jannik snickers. “You said it, not me.”
“Don’t rat me out, then.”
“I would never, Stefanie.” Jannik feigns offence.
“Good.” Steffi grins.
Over the years, Jannik became quite close with Andre and Steffi. Agassi coached him after Darren retired and Simone’s methods stopped working well enough. And even though it was Andre who was officially his coach, Steffi also helped him a lot. Especially in the mental aspect.
They’re not only his mentors. They are also his friends.
Steffi tugs on the sleeve of his suit. “Look”, she tells him and points somewhere with a jerk of her head. “He’s over there.”
Jannik glances in the suggested direction, trying not to appear too eager.
A few tables away, Carlos Alcaraz is sitting next to Frances Tiafoe, laughing loudly. Jannik automatically smiles.
“Go say hi.” Steffi pushes him forward gently. Jannik nods, already moving, even though his stomach is clenching nervously. It’s just Carlos. You used to be friends. You’re going to be fine, he tries to encourage himself.
Before the anxiety manages to make him turn around and flee, Jannik walks up to the table. He wipes his hands on his trousers discreetly, trying to shake off the nerves. You’re a grown man. Get a grip.
“Hi”, Jannik says when he reaches them, his voice a bit breathless. Carlos’s whole face brightens when he spots him, his smile widening. Jannik feels warm.
“Jannik! Hey, big man!” Frances stands up to hug him. Over his shoulder, Jannik’s gaze meets Carlos’s. His eyes are shining, something equally affectionate and mischievous in them. Jannik is hypnotized.
When Frances lets go of him, Carlos’s arms close around Jannik’s body, engulfing him in an embrace. He smells good, Jannik thinks and immediately mentally slaps himself. Carlos’s cologne is fresh, light, not suffocating like fragrances tend to be. Jannik kind of wants to breathe it in. He feels insane.
“It’s nice to see you”, Carlos murmurs into his ear, his recently shaven cheek brushing Jannik’s neck as he almost tucks his head between his jaw and shoulder, before remembering they don’t—
They don’t do that anymore.
Jannik fights a shiver when the Spaniard pulls away. “You too”, Jannik tells him, his voice softer than he intended. “You look—”
Good. Happy. Free.
Beautiful.
—older”, he finishes and cringes. Foe barks out a sharp laugh, punching Carlos in the arm.
“Damn, bro, he’s not wrong!” He isn’t. Carlos does look older, with singular silver streaks in his hair and lots of small wrinkles around his eyes, surely from smiling too much. But despite having undoubtedly aged, he’s still…
Carlos rolls his eyes, laughing good-naturedly. “Thanks, Janni, but I do have a mirror in my house.”
Janni.
What started as an accent-caused mispronunciation morphed into a fully fleshed nickname over the course of their rivalry. Jannik missed hearing the way Carlos’s voice curled around the consonants of his name, smooth like honey.
“How have you been?”, Jannik asks, something heavy about the question.
Carlos’s expression sobers up. Frances stops laughing. “I—”, Carlos hesitates but then a timid smile appears on his face. “I’ve been well. Really well.”
Frances stares at him with fondness in his dark eyes. He squeezes Carlos’s arm, muttering, “I’m so proud of you, brother.”
Jannik wishes he could be as open about his own affection for the man. He swallows. “I’m…” He bites his lip. “I’m glad, then. You— I’m glad”, he repeats.
Carlos looks at him with something akin to sympathy in his kind eyes. Jannik feels naked. Carlos has always been able to understand him better than anyone else, even without words. He was foolish to think he wouldn’t figure him out right away.
Carlos grips his shoulder for a second, just a short squeeze, before letting go and looking around the ballroom. “I have to find Rafa, I promised to talk to him about an exhibition in Mallorca.” He pouts a little and it makes him appear so much younger. Jannik almost giggles at the sight. “I’ll find you later, okay?” It sounds like a promise.
“Yeah, okay”, Jannik agrees.
He could never refuse Carlos Alcaraz. Even if he wanted to.
He doesn’t.
The gala gets overwhelming pretty quickly. After the auction finishes, Jannik slips out of the ballroom and onto a secluded balcony. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, pretending the air isn’t mostly smog.
The night is chilly for August and Jannik puts his hands inside his pockets. He looks out at Central Park, its alleys illuminated by streetlights, its trees covered in darkness. The New York skyline is so captivating Jannik feels himself get lost in the city lights.
After several minutes of gazing upon the city, Jannik’s solitude is interrupted by steps.
He recognizes Carlos before the man even speaks.
He knows the sound of his feet on the tennis court by heart. The swish of them on hard surfaces, the scrape on grass, the glide on clay… Somehow this knowledge translates further. Makes him identify his steps in leather dress shoes, even though he should only know the staccato of Alessandra’s heels on fancy tiled floors.
“Why are you hiding here?”, Carlos asks, coming up to stand beside him.
“I…”, Jannik trails off. “I don’t know. I think I’m done with people for tonight.”
Carlos raises his eyebrow. “Ouch.”
Jannik giggles. “You know I didn’t mean you.”
“I know”, Carlos says, too softly for the tone of their conversation. Then, almost a whisper, “I missed you.”
Jannik is quiet for a moment, unblinking, despite his heart hammering in his chest. His palm closes around the railing in an attempt to ground himself. His knuckles whiten. “Carlos, I—”
I missed you too. I wish I kept in touch. I always want to talk to you. Everyday. I—
“I’m sorry”, Jannik utters, his eyes set firmly on the view in front.
Carlos inhales. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong.” He sounds genuinely confused and Jannik can’t believe—
He’s too good. And too naive.
“I’m sorry I didn’t contact you when you—”, he stammers. “When you came out.”
“Jannik, I don’t care—”
Jannik turns to face him. “I should have. I should’ve been there for you.”
Carlos’s gaze softens. “You were, though. You were there for me for years, even if you didn’t realize. I always felt your support. Always”, he insists. He doesn’t speak for a moment, letting silence brew between them as he watches the bustling city below. Wind ripples through his hair. “Do you know I used to seek you out whenever I was upset?”
In the distance, Jannik hears sirens.
“It’s true.” Carlos chuckles at himself. “You made me feel better by just… being near. I loved practicing with you, not only because you are an incredible player.” Are. Still? “I always regretted that we did it so rarely.”
“Me too”, Jannik admits, his throat dry. “I—”
I still dream about playing you. I dream about—
They’re close. Jannik can smell his cologne again and it makes his head spin a little, something about the scent intoxicating. It’s so… Carlos.
Jannik swallows. Carlos takes another step forward, their chests only centimeters apart. Jannik inhales harshly when the Spaniard’s hand curls around his elbow. “When I posted that video…” He shakes his head. “I lied to you. I did care if you saw it. I cared what you thought. I waited—” He bites his lip. “I wanted you to reach out. But I don’t blame you. We grew apart. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Carlos.”
“But you have to know— You must know, there’s no way—” Carlos looks him in the eyes, something raw in them taking Jannik’s breath away. “Of course I waited. You must know I did. I still do.”
Jannik’s hand moves on its own volition.
Carlos’s cheek is soft. The man gasps, the sound small and quiet, but for Jannik it’s louder than the string quartet inside. His thumb follows Carlos’s cheekbone, the pressure of it featherlight. His eyes widen when Jannik’s fingers curl around his neck.
Jannik slowly inches closer, as if hypnotized.
But when Carlos moves to close the gap and damn them both forever, Jannik flinches away.
“Fuck, I’m sorry—”
“No, I—” Jannik clenches his jaw. “I am sorry.”
The silence between them becomes uncomfortable. Jannik avoids Carlos’s gaze, knowing his eyes would betray all of his secrets if he looked into them right now. He feels transparent, defenceless.
He takes a few steps back.
He sees Carlos shuffle on his feet out of the corner of his eye; a nervous habit he has noticed before. The man opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, searching for the right thing to say.
“How—”, he starts and clears his throat. “How is your wife?”, he asks. Jannik feels sick. “Alessandra, right?”
He almost cheated on her. Almost kissed somebody else.
Not just somebody.
A man.
Carlos Alcaraz.
Carlitos.
Not just somebody.
Worse. Somebody important.
“Excuse me”, he blurts out. “I have to go. Sorry. I’m— Sorry.”
Jannik almost runs through the glass doors. Five minutes later he’s in a taxi, airport-bound. The watch on his wrist shows midnight.
Jannik doesn’t read tabloids. He simply doesn’t care for gossip. He hates rumours being spread, about himself and about other people, especially since they’re almost always false.
But it doesn’t mean he’s out of the loop.
“Have you seen this, babe?” Alessandra sits on the sofa next to him and pulls her knees to her chin, angling her phone in his direction. She grins. “Appparently, Alcaraz has exquisite taste.” She wiggles her eyebrows. Jannik’s heart constricts.
“What?”, he mumbles, trying to sound uninterested. He glances at the device.
Alcaraz’s Tropical Getaway With Mysterious Man Sparks Romance Rumors
Carlos Alcaraz was spotted enjoying relaxing vacation time in the Maldives with a handsome companion…
Jannik forces himself to keep reading.
Alcaraz, who came out as gay last year…
…chose not to comment on the matter…
…a beautiful couple.
Jannik fights the urge to tear his gaze away. The photos aren’t ambiguous. It’s obvious Carlos and the man are—
Jannik hums and smiles faintly. “I wouldn’t know.” He shrugs.
“Well, I think he’s very handsome. Hot, even.” She giggles but stops when it earns her no reaction. “Maybe it’s his boyfriend. You should ask Carlos about him when—”
Jannik stands up. “I’m going on a walk.”
“But, Jan, we were just about to—”
“We can watch it another day”, he offers, referring to the TV show they are currently on. “I need to… clear my head.”
“Alright.” Alessandra nods. Her gaze drops to the floor. “I think I’ll go visit Mamma then. I might stay the night at home.” She still refers to the house she spent her childhood in as home.
This place has never felt like anything more than a house for either of them. “Okay.” He doesn’t kiss her before leaving.
Jannik is asked to present the ATP Year-End Number One trophy in Milan in November. He spends a few weeks before the event at home in the Dolomites, helping his parents after his dad suffers from a heart attack.
When seven days pass without a single call from his wife, Jannik thinks.
When she finally calls, all apologetic, and Jannik doesn’t feel a thing, he wonders.
It’s raining in Milan.
Rain drops travel down the car window, leaving behind smudges of water. Traffic lights reflect in them, red, then yellow (orange?), then finally green, and the driver stomps on the gas pedal. Jannik’s stomach lurches.
But not because of motion sickness.
Carlos: see you in milano!
Carlos sent him the message three days ago. Jannik hadn’t known he was going to be there when he accepted the invitation to present the award; he probably wouldn’t have said yes if he had.
(Who is he kidding? He would never miss the chance to—
To what?
To what?)
But the other text is worse. It acknowledges…
It acknowledges what didn’t happen in New York. But Jannik feels as dirty as if it did.
Carlos: i’m sorry by the way
Carlos: i really am
Jannik didn’t respond but now he wishes he did. He wishes he told him not to mention it again, to forget it.
To forget it like Jannik cannot.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Jannik startles. He looks up from the sink and catches Carlos’s eyes in the gilded mirror. The water stops running.
“What?”, Jannik speaks up, a second too late. Something sad flashes across Carlos’s face, fleeting, before it’s replaced with a mix of irritation and a strange, guilt-like emotion.
“You’re avoiding me”, Carlos repeats. “Don’t deny it”, he adds, just as Jannik is about to open his mouth.
“I—”
“You didn’t respond to my texts. You turned away the moment you saw me.” Carlos sighs. “I said I’m sorry. I mean it.” He runs his hand through his hair, messing it up slightly. “Mierda, Jannik, I’m not going to—”
“I might.” The words escape his throat before he can catch them. “Fuck—”
“What?”, Carlos asks, confused and strained.
“I am avoiding you”, he admits quietly. “But I— I have to. I have to.”
Carlos’s fierce eyes bore into Jannik’s. “Why?”
“Hah.” Jannik turns his gaze away. He sees himself in the mirror, pale and slouched and scared.
“Jannik. Why?”
“Because I’m a coward.” It’s not an answer. At least not one that satisfies Carlos.
The man slowly steps towards Jannik.
A lightbulb flickers.
Jannik’s back hits the cold tile. Carlos’s hand hovers above his hip, not hesitating but… waiting. His scent hits Jannik’s nostrils, citruses combining with coconut, and suddenly he’s back on a hotel balcony in New York. His breath smells of the cherry liqueur that Jannik also tried earlier.
Jannik realizes how close they are. Too close.
Carlos’s hand grips his waist. “What would you do if you were not?”
Jannik drops to his knees.
“Oh, joder—”, Carlos curses, exhaling harshly. His lips drop open and Jannik wants to shove his tongue down his throat.
Jesus.
He ignores the pain in his knee, even though he has to fight a wince when it hits the floor.
“What about—”
“Shut up.” Jannik can’t think about her right now. He doesn’t want to. “Shut up, please.”
He never wants to.
His fingers push down the zipper of Carlos’s slacks, his other hand resting on his thigh. The Spaniard unbuttons them fast, hands shaking. Jannik reaches for the prominent bulge in the man’s boxers.
It’s hot and wet under his palm, pulsing when he presses down on it. Carlos swears. “Jannik”, he gasps out. It’s not a plea, not a warning, not an order.
Just his name.
Jannik’s cock starts hardening in his pants.
He pushes Carlos’s boxers down and takes his cock in his hand before he can psych himself out of it. “Have you ever…?”
“No”, Jannik answers. He looks down, his heart beating like a drum. Carlos is quite big. It makes him a little nervous.
But also… strangely excited. Because Jannik has missed being challenged.
He spits into his palm. “Madre de Dios—”, Carlos lets out, his breath catching when he looks at the Italian. Jannik gives his cock a firm stroke, then another. The man groans, tilting his head back. Jannik watches his throat bob, his abdomen tightening.
Jannik guides the length to his lips and licks hesitantly at the head. He feels Carlos’s thigh tense up under his palm. He digs his fingers deeper into the tan skin.
The taste isn’t unpleasant, albeit a bit salty. Jannik swirls his tongue around his cock slowly, trying to get used to it. After a minute, he moves on from the head and licks a stripe across the shaft, right over a bulged-out vein.
When he puts the tip into his mouth and sucks on it softly, Carlos moans and grips his hair tightly. Jannik’s cock twitches. “Yes, fuck, ah”, Carlos breathes. “Tan bueno.”
Jannik hums and takes a couple centimeters more, focused on figuring out what the Spaniard likes. He sucks the length harder and Carlos tugs on his curls, making electricity zap down his spine. “Jannik—”, Alcaraz whines, his thighs quivering slightly.
Soon, Jannik has taken him to the root. He’s moving his head back and forth, using his tongue to pull all kinds of sinful sounds from Carlos’s plush lips. He chokes a little when his cock hits the roof of his mouth. Carlos withdraws a bit, his hips angling away from him. Jannik tightens his grip on his thighs in response, swallowing him back down before his cock can slip out. “Joder, Jan—”
Jannik stops sucking him for a moment, just to say, “Come on, fuck my mouth.”
Carlos groans. “Fuck, you can’t ask me to— Jannik, you’ve never— What if I—”
“Carlos”, he exhales, looking straight into his eyes. His pupils are blown with hot desire. “You’re not going to hurt me. Fuck my face.” He kisses the tip and feels Carlos’s resolve crumble. “Please”, he adds for good measure, his voice sultry.
Jannik puts his cock back into his mouth, salivating. “You’re going to kill me, fuck.” Carlos takes a hold of his hair again and starts snapping his hips forward, carefully at first. He can sense his hesitation mix with the need to go faster, to go harder.
Jannik wants him to be rough. He needs him to make him forget why this is a bad fucking idea.
He begins bobbing his head in tandem with Carlos’s movements, moaning around his cock, and soon the other man’s control snaps.
“Fuck, fuck, you’re so— Eres loco, mierda…” His words become less and less coherent, his accent getting heavier with each second. “I’m— close”, he chokes out. Jannik’s lips tighten around his cock, set on making Carlos come on his tongue. “Jan—” Carlos tries to pull out but Jannik grips his legs forcefully.
After a particularly brutal thrust, his hips stutter and Carlos comes down his throat, shuddering. Jannik swallows it without a grimace, despite the slightly bitter taste.
Carlos’s cock falls out of his mouth, leaving a spit-slick trail down his chin. “I—”, Jannik tries to speak, his voice croaky.
Carlos’s hands clutch his arms.
In a heartbeat, Jannik is pulled up and pressed against the wall. Carlos’s calloused palm pulls down his trousers and underwear. It circles around his leaking cock, his thumb swiping over the sensitive tip. Jannik’s insides are in flames.
“Shit, Carlos—”
The Spaniard strokes his cock, fast and determined. His touch is electric, making Jannik’s body seize with each maneuver of his wrist. Jannik moans. “That’s it”, Carlos praises, his tone breathy. “Let go. Come for me”, he urges.
Jannik’s stomach coils. “Carlos”, he gasps out.
“Come for me, Jannik.”
Jannik spills into his hand with a long groan, his forehead hitting Carlos’s shoulder. He pants into his neck, trying to calm his hammering heart. Carlos’s own breathing is laboured, shaky puffs of air reaching Jannik’s ear.
He feels Carlos grin into his hair before the smile freezes on his face. He takes a step back from Jannik, pulling his boxers and pants back up. He doesn’t look at him when he mumbles, “I— We— We shouldn’t have done this.”
Jannik furrows his brows before realization hits him like a bucket of ice-cold water. Regret fills him instantly, making him sick. “Cazzo. Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo—”
He looks down, embarrassed, and catches a glimpse of his wedding ring, shining on his finger like it’s mocking him. A reminder of the vow he has just broken.
The vow he has been breaking inside his mind for a long time now. Longer than he is willing to admit.
“Fuck!”, he curses again, treading his hair with his fingers, pressing them to his scalp until it hurts. “I don’t know why— I— I’m—”
“Jannik. Jannik.” Carlos puts his palms on Jannik’s cheeks gently. “It’s okay”, he says. His voice trembles. “I won’t tell her. I promise. We can—” He takes a deep breath. “We can forget about this. Yeah?” He looks Jannik in the eyes, his gaze soft but also…
Disappointed?
“Carlos, I’m so sorry—”
“You’re fine, Jannik. We are fine”, he says firmly. Jannik isn’t sure if he believes him.
“Do you mean it?”, he mutters, helplessly holding onto the lapel of his suit.
“Always, Jannik. Always.”
He sounds sincere.
His eyes, though…
His eyes are sad when he pulls back. He moves to the sink and washes Jannik’s dried cum off his hand.
Without Carlos’s warm body right next to him, Jannik feels even worse.
They don’t talk to each other for weeks after Milan. Jannik spends Christmas with Alessandra’s family and pretends he didn’t fucking cheat on her, Jesus Christ.
For a while after coming back to Sicily, Jannik couldn’t look at himself in the mirror. He felt dirty. Tainted. Every time his wife looked at him, he thought she knew what he did. What he did to her.
And that he didn’t regret it as much as he should have.
Because the truth is—
The truth is Jannik has never felt more alive than when Carlos’s hands touched him, setting his whole body on fire. It was wrong, the touch was wrong, but it didn’t feel wrong.
So when Jannik finds out Carlos is going to be in Monte Carlo as a TV expert, he has no other choice.
“I’m going to Monaco for the tournament”, Jannik tells Alessandra one evening over dinner.
She just hums without looking up from her phone.
“I’ll be gone for, like, two weeks.”
“Okay”, she says.
Jannik sighs. “Do you think—”
Do you think we made a mistake?
“Huh?” She finally glances at him.
Jannik shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Alessandra smiles tentatively and reaches for his hand. Jannik tries not to flinch when she takes it in her palm. “It will be good for you. I know how much you miss tennis.”
Do you?, Jannik thinks, bitter. There is only one person who knows how I feel.
There is only one person who knows—
Jannik forces a smile onto his face and hopes it reaches his eyes.
It’s windy in Monaco. The sea breeze reaches every corner of the principality, filling Jannik’s nostrils with the familiar salty scent. He walks to the practice courts from his apartment, getting stopped for photos and autographs on his way.
"Più veloce! Andiamo, Edo! Forza!”, Jannik hears coming from one of the courts. The voice is familiar; so is its encouraging yet firm tone. He stops by the fence. A ball swishes right in front of him with tremendous speed, so fast he only sees a flash of neon green.
The player grins at his coach, proud of himself. It’s clear he’s been practicing for a while, his clothes drenched in sweat and covered in red clay. The coach shakes his head with badly hidden fondness.
“Ciao, Vagno!”, Jannik shouts in the man’s direction. When Simone looks at him, he raises his hand in greeting.
“Jannik! What a surprise!”, he says with a smile. His hair is almost fully grey now and his tanned face is covered in wrinkles. He looks… softer. “Jan, this is Edoardo.” He gestures to the boy who’s standing a couple of feet away, spinning his racquet nervously.
Edoardo Santi made his debut on tour last season. He quickly became Italy’s new tennis prodigy after he managed to get to the round of sixteen in Rome as a qualifier.
Jannik sees a lot of similarities between Santi’s game and his own. The serve, the jumping backhand, even the forehand slice. But the way he moves on the court—
“Hello”, Jannik says, smiling. “That was a really strong topspin.” He adds, “I watched your matches in Miami. You’re a very talented player.”
The way he moves is all Alcaraz.
“Grazie mille.” Edoardo blushes a little and looks at his feet. Jannik fights the urge to chuckle. The boy is only nineteen years old – he grew up watching Jannik, Matteo, Flavio… It was the golden era of Italian tennis, years of winning the Davis Cup, Masters tournaments, Grand Slams… After Berrettini had retired, soon followed by Jannik, no other Italian player was able to follow in their footsteps.
At least, not until Santi appeared. And even though he hasn’t won a title above 250s yet, everyone in the country can tell his future is bright.
Jannik tells him, “You have a great coach, Edoardo. You’re lucky.” Simone rolls his eyes. “I mean it, Vagno! You know how grateful I am for all the years you spent putting up with me.”
Simone laughs. “I don’t know how I managed to do that for so long, honestly. You were very annoying. All the trophies were barely enough to make it up to me.”
Jannik giggles, suddenly feeling younger again. He remembers all the antics he used to force Vagnozzi and Darren to deal with, the pranks and stunts he used to pull, all the times he wouldn’t listen to their advice—
“Go back to practicing, Edo.” Simone folds his arms over his chest and jerks his head in the direction of the baseline. The boy nods, smiles at Jannik bashfully and runs off. Jannik envies him this youthful energy.
Lately, he’s been feeling tired. So tired.
“I missed you, Simo”, Jannik says, quiet. Vagno’s eyes soften. He puts his hand on Jannik’s shoulder, stretching out his arm to reach it.
“I missed you too, kid.” He glances at his player again. “Are you up for hitting a bit with the boy? He would love it. You’re his idol.”
“I—” Jannik winces and scratches the back of his head. He should do it. For the boy. “I haven’t played since I…” Jannik swallows. “The knee, you know? It’s not in the best condition.”
Simone watches him carefully.
“You’re telling me your knee is too fucked up to play tennis but not to ski?”, he asks bluntly. Jannik’s cheeks heat up.
“I—”
“You can just say no, Jan. But I think you would enjoy it too.”
Yeah. Probably too much.
“Maybe next time.” He smiles tightly. “Good luck in the tournament.”
“Thanks, Jan.”
As he’s about to leave, Simone pulls him into a hug and yanks him down to whisper into his ear, “Please take care of yourself, alright? Your life isn’t over just because your career is.”
Something tightens in Jannik’s chest. “I’ll try”, he mumbles.
He sees Carlos during his third day in Monte Carlo.
It’s early evening. The sun is still out. Edoardo is currently playing his first match of the tournament on Court des Princes and Jannik tried to watch it but—
After Santi won the first set against a much higher-ranked player, cheers erupted around Jannik. People were chanting Edoardo’s name, whistling and clapping, yelling in Italian, seemingly completely unfazed by his presence, despite being desperate for his attention right before the match.
Jannik had to leave.
It’s petty and selfish, he knows. But he can’t stand being reminded of what he lost.
Love.
He goes to his favourite restaurant for dinner instead. He’s alone, but not bothered by it enough to try and find company to share a meal with. He’s used to eating alone, anyway.
The waitress offers him a table near the balcony. When he’s about to sit down, he notices a familiar figure bending over the railing.
Whether the man is gazing at the courts visible in the distance, the sea or the sunset, Jannik doesn’t know. But he supposes it doesn’t really matter.
Because the moment he steps onto the balcony and clears his throat, Carlos’s attention is fully on him.
Jannik hides a triumphant grin behind a friendly smile. “Hi”, he mutters. “I was wondering when you would show up.”
Carlos smiles back, his eyes dark. There is something soft in them. “Jannik.” The Italian steps closer, resting his forearms on the railing. “I looked for you.”
“Yes?” Jannik’s heart thumps faster. “How did you know I was in Monte Carlo?”
Carlos chuckles and rolls his eyes. “I have social media, Jannik. The ATP posted pictures and videos of you everywhere.”
“Oh.” Jannik bites his lip. He looks over his shoulder, then back at the side of Carlos’s face. “I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you—”
“You should stop saying sorry so much”, Carlos advises. “Especially when you don’t mean it.”
He sounds gentle but for Jannik his words feel like a slap. He blushes. “I do mean it.”
Carlos shakes his head in something akin to resignation. “Jannik. I know that it’s easier for you when we— When we’re apart. I understand.”
What is easier? Pretending that I’m happy? With my perfect house, and perfect wife, without tennis and without—
“It’s not.” Jannik’s words are barely louder than a whisper but they ring true all the same. “Nothing is easy without you.”
He doesn’t know what makes him so bold tonight. Maybe it’s the fact that he missed Carlos too much during these last few months to care about not revealing his cards. Or maybe it’s because they already crossed the line and there is no going back.
Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon. Jannik Sinner—
Or maybe he’s finally losing his mind.
Carlos makes a strangled noise next to him. He grips the railing in front of him so tightly his knuckles go white. “Jannik…”
“I talked to Simone today”, Jannik tells him, not really knowing why. He looks out at the bay as dusk settles over Monte Carlo. “He has a new protégé now, you know? His name is Edoardo.”
Carlos hums next to him. His grip on the railing loosens a bit. “Yeah”, he mumbles. “I know him.”
Jannik supposes this is true. Carlos stayed very connected to the tour after he retired. He attended tournaments, was a TV expert and played exhibitions.
He’s not a coward like Jannik.
“Vagno asked me—” Jannik coughs. “He asked me to hit with the boy. He said Edoardo is my fan.” Carlos chuckles a little. “But I just… I just couldn’t”, he whispers to the harbour.
“Why?”, Carlos asks. His voice is gentle.
“I— I just— After my injury—” Words keep escaping him as he tries to explain. Carlos stays patient. “I miss playing tennis so much I sometimes don’t want to get out of bed”, he finally admits. He feels a pang in his chest, hard like a punch.
Carlos sucks in a breath. “Jan—”
But Jannik continues, “I lack… motivation. There is nothing in my life that excites me anymore. I miss winning, I miss the competition. And I’m scared that— I guess I’m scared that if I play again it won’t be enough. That it won’t be enough to just hit with somebody. And then I will know I will never get that feeling back.” He exhales. “Now I can still hang on to that last bit of hope. That I can always pick up a racquet again and feel it all. But what if I do and it disappoints me? What then?”, he asks, a desperate edge to his tone.
A hand grasps his shoulder, delicate but steady. “Hit with me.”
“What?”
“Hit with me”, Carlos repeats. Jannik glances at him. There is a soft smile on his face. Fiery sparks dance in his eyes. “Have I ever disappointed you?”
Jannik only smiles at him.
“Do you trust me?”, Carlos asks, taking his racquet out of his bag.
The sky above them is light indigo, still waking up. In the east, it’s starting to turn pink, waiting for the sun to rise.
No one is around the country club yet.
It was Carlos’s idea to go at dawn. Jannik is grateful. He doesn’t think he would be comfortable enough to do it with other people watching.
Carlos, though…
Carlos makes him brave enough to try.
“I do”, he responds softly.
Jannik’s racquets were collecting dust in his flat, unused for years. They’re not in the best condition due to the passage of time but Jannik refuses to borrow one of Carlos’s. If he’s to play tennis again, it will be with his own racquet in his hand.
Carlos smiles at him from across the net. “Do you want to serve first?”
Jannik shakes his head. “I’ll receive.”
The racquet feels foreign in his hand. He adjusts his grip a few times, trying to get it to feel natural again. Before he positions himself for the return, he has to think about it for a couple seconds.
Carlos serves like he’s still an active player. Before Jannik registers its movement, the ball hits the court twice. Carlos grimaces apologetically. “Sorry.”
Jannik shrugs. “Fifteen-love”, he says.
He actually manages to hit a return but the ball ends up in the net. He makes eye contact with Carlos, silently begging him not to go easy on him. The Spaniard nods. Jannik takes a deep breath.
And misses the return.
“Again”, he tells Carlos.
“Vamos, Janni”, Carlos says with a grin when he finally wins a point after a lucky return and a long rally. His lungs burn already but it’s the best kind of fire.
Jannik laughs. “Forty-fifteen.”
Carlos seals the game with an ace but Jannik isn’t too bothered. He starts his own service game with a double fault, albeit he manages to gradually improve over the course of it. He still loses, Alcaraz breaking his serve, but Jannik only thinks, God, I missed this feeling.
He starts off cautious, worried about his knee. But soon the knot in his chest begins loosening, and the long-forgotten thrill reignites in his veins. His stomach tingles.
“How do you feel?”, Carlos asks when they take a break to hydrate.
“I… I don’t know.” Jannik bites his lip. “I missed playing so fucking much”, he chuckles, “but I feel… rusty? It’s weird.”
“You are a bit out of shape”, Carlos points out and giggles. Jannik punches him in the arm but he can’t stop the laugh he lets out.
“You didn’t seem to think so when I—”, he cuts himself off, his eyes widening. Shit.
Carlos looks at him with something like disbelief in his eyes. He mutters, “I didn’t think you’d bring it up.”
“Me neither”, Jannik replies, his throat dry. “I— Sorry. Let’s just—”
“Sí”, Carlos agrees quietly.
Jannik regains some of his old confidence during the set. When he shoots a backhand down the line, right past Alcaraz, he grins so hard the muscles on his face start aching. And even though he loses 2-6, it doesn’t matter. He hasn’t felt this good in a long fucking time. This free.
“Fuck, I’m exhausted”, Carlos complains, though the smile doesn’t leave his face. He throws Jannik a towel. “I really missed this.”
I missed you, Jannik says and barely holds himself back from blurting it out.
“Me too”, he mutters instead and squeezes Carlos’s hand briefly.
Me too.
“Did it—”, Carlos begins, an anxious note to his tone. “Did it disappoint you?”
Did I disappoint you?, Jannik hears.
“No. Of course not”, he adds, like the sole idea is unthinkable. “Playing you could never disappoint me”, he promises.
Carlos brightens. “Come with me on my yacht.”
“I don’t know, Carlos—”
“Please.”
Jannik sighs. He turns his eyes away from the other man, just to hide the smile worming its way onto his face. “Okay.”
Carlos’s yacht is technically not even a yacht. It’s a catamaran, wide and spacious. It’s not bigger than other boats in the marina but something about it feels huge to Jannik.
Opportunity. On the side of the catamaran its name is spelled in navy blue cursive. “Why did you choose this name?”, Jannik prompts, curious.
Carlos grins. “It was my brother who chose it. He said I never waste an opportunity. That I always take my chances. I thought it was a cool name.”
Jannik hums. “It is. And I agree with your brother. Too many times I gave you the opportunity to hurt me on the court and you never refused to take it.” He chuckles. He’s surprised to realize that he doesn’t mind thinking about those missed chances anymore.
“I never wanted to, you know?”
Jannik stares at him in confusion.
“I never wanted to hurt you”, Carlos clarifies. “I only wanted to win.”
Jannik smiles, sad. “Well, there is only one winner in tennis. And the loser always hurts.”
“But not anymore”, Carlos says, something insistent in his voice. Firm and passionate, as if he’s speaking the truest of truths. “We don’t have to keep hurting each other.” Jannik’s heart stops. “There is no winner and no loser. Just us.” He gazes at Jannik with a raw emotion in his eyes, one Jannik finds difficult to describe.
He swallows and nods. “Just us.”
They sail quite far away from the marina, the Monégasque shore barely visible without a pair of binoculars. The wind is gentle today, barely moving the pristine white sails. The sea is calm.
Carlos lets go of the ship’s wheel and stands beside Jannik, his eyes set on his jaw. The Italian doesn’t turn his head to face him but his stare makes him feel hot. A stronger blow of wind hits and a curl falls onto Jannik’s forehead, tickling his skin. “It’s a nice boat.”
“Thanks.” Carlos smirks. Jannik glances at him. His short-sleeved cotton shirt is unbuttoned, exposing his smooth chest. His abs look good, even two years after his retirement. It’s obvious how much he still works out. Jannik feels something stir in his gut.
Carlos steps out of the shade, his back turned to Jannik now. He finally dares to look and regrets it immediately.
The shirt is off, exposing miles of muscle. His skin appears almost golden in the midday sun, shining under the rays. Jannik’s mouth waters.
“Jannik?”, Carlos speaks, bending over and reaching for his bag. “Give me a hand?”, he asks, turning to face him. In his palm, he’s holding a bottle of sunscreen.
Jannik might pass out, he decides.
“Uh, sure”, he says, hoping to sound casual. He doesn’t think he succeeds, judging from Carlos’s grin.
The Spaniard exposes his back to him again and Jannik uses the opportunity to breathe. His heart is racing, alive with possibility. His hands shake when he opens the bottle, electrified, but the moment they touch Carlos’s skin they turn steady.
The touch feels familiar, even though it shouldn’t.
The contact is hot, almost burning, and Jannik isn’t convinced it’s because of the sun. He spreads the cream evenly over Carlos’s back, attempting not to think about anything at all, focused only on applying the white substance to his skin. He tries to be methodical, detached.
But even though his hands are steady, his breaths come out short and shallow. The glorious muscles of Carlos’s back tense slightly under his palms, the sole sign he’s just as affected. There is something intimate about the action, some kind of affection in the gentle movement of Jannik’s calloused hands.
When he’s done, he wipes his palms on his shorts. “Do you want me to…?”, Carlos asks, gesturing at Jannik’s silhouette. For a second, Jannik considers saying yes. But he knows it would be his doom. He shakes his head.
“No, thanks.” He smiles, a little awkward. “I think I’m going to keep my shirt on.”
Mischief flashes in Carlos’s eyes. “A shame.”
Like a stupid teenager, Jannik blushes furiously.
It wasn’t an element of his plan when he was leaving Sicily for Monte Carlo.
But he would lie if he said a part of him, hidden and shameful, didn’t hope for this.
Carlos on his knees in front of him, Jannik’s shorts pooled around his ankles, his cock in the Spaniard’s mouth.
“Gesù, Carlos— So good, fuck”, he says, his fingers buried in his hair. There are singular silver streaks growing among the black hairs but they only make him look better.
They’re below the deck, escaping the blazing sun in favour of cool air conditioning. It’s hotter today than it usually is in Monaco in April, an anomaly that seems fitting for the circumstances. Jannik angles his head back, hitting the wooden wall behind him. He closes his eyes, his stomach twisting with flaming desire.
He tugs at Carlos’s hair when he swirls his tongue around Jannik’s cock. “Cazzo, ah, so fucking good for me”, he mumbles, no restraint left in his body. His muscles are loosening and tightening simultaneously, shock waves of pleasure causing his orgasm to approach fast. “Carlos, fuck, please, I’m close— No, no…”, he mutters in protest as Carlos pulls off of him.
Carlos takes his cock in his hand instead, his grip firm around Jannik. He starts stroking it with intent, the harsh surface of his palm making Jannik go crazy. The fingers of Carlos’s other hand dig into his thigh. Jannik sort of wants them to leave bruises.
“Come on, Janni”, Carlos coos, his voice full of unfiltered lust. “Come for me”, he says, staring straight into Jannik’s eyes, his pupils blown so dark he can barely see his hazel irises. “You wanna come on my face?”, he asks, speeding up the motion of his wrist, and Jannik almost cums from the words alone. He moans. “Yeah? Do it. Do it, guapo.” Carlos lets go of his cock and Jannik takes over, stroking himself with fervour. “Yeah, come on, Jan. Come for me. Anda.”
Jannik groans. “Dale”, Carlos whispers. His hand is in his own shorts, tugging insistently at his length. More and more breathy sounds leave Jannik’s mouth, his abdomen tight and on the verge of snapping. “Come, baby”, Carlos encourages and closes his eyes. Hot ropes of cum hit his face seconds after, painting his features. Jannik lets out a long moan at the sight, boiling all over.
“Fuck, fuck, Carlos, you’re so— Sei così— Così bello, cazzo…”
Carlos swipes his tongue over his top lip, tasting the white liquid, and he comes with a whimper, spilling into his palm. “Jan, joder”, he exhales.
It takes Jannik’s heart several minutes to regain its proper rhythm.
Thirteen months after Carlos’s coming out, Jannik divorces his wife.
“I’m so sorry, Ale”, he tells her, his throat tight, when they’re sitting at the kitchen island in their villa. She’s twirling a strand of her dark, curly hair around her finger, a nervous habit Jannik knows. She looks a little sick, a little tired, but not…
Not surprised.
She still hasn’t said a single word. Not since Jannik sat her down and told her what he did. That he cheated, that he lied.
Not since he told her he can’t be with her anymore.
“I truly am”, he begs. “And I know it changes nothing. I know you must hate me right now and I understand… But, Ale, I never— I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry, you have to believe me—”
She sighs. Raises her hand.
Jannik shuts up.
“I believe you”, she says, her tone void of any emotion. “But what you did… God, Jannik, I— I should have probably expected it. I knew— But I trusted you”, she tells him, her voice turning upset. Desperate. Tears fill her eyes and Jannik feels like the worst person in the world.
“I—”
“Let me finish.” Alessandra takes a deep breath. Her lip quivers. “You know, I really was in love with you once.” Jannik swallows. His nails dig into his forearm under the marble counter. “When we met, I thought you were the one for me. You were a perfect gentleman, always knew exactly what to say and to do.” She chuckles to herself, the sound bitter. “But after a while, I realized… you were too perfect. All you said and did, it seemed almost— rehearsed.” She hesitates a bit. “Like you were… playing the role of my husband, staying true to the script but not— Not to me.” Jannik holds his breath, awaiting the final blow. “And not to yourself.”
He gulps, the grip on his forearm becoming painful. “How long have you known?”
“That you were gay?”, she asks bluntly and Jannik winces. “For years, Jannik.”
“Fuck.” He wants to tell her that he didn’t know. That he thought he loved her. That he thought they could build a life together, a life that would be enough for them both.
But the worst truth is that—
He can’t.
“Why did you stay with me?”
“I don’t know. A bunch of reasons, I suppose.” Alessandra looks ahead. “I was in love with you. I grew comfortable. I was hoping I was wrong.”
“Ale, I—”
“It used to hurt a lot, after I realized you didn’t love me, not like you were supposed to.” Jannik bows his head in shame and guilt, bile rising to his throat. “But then… I realized it wasn’t your fault. I made peace with it. And after a while, my love for you turned into something else. Fondness. Respect. Friendship.” She looks at him. “You deceived me. But when the anger left me… I knew I could never hate you for it. Jannik, look at me”, she asks, her voice a tad softer. He does. “I’ve known our marriage had an expiration date for years.” Then, “I’ve been waiting for this day since he posted that video.”
“What?” Jannik startles, his heart hammering in his chest. Feeling caught, even though he already confessed. “Ale, what are you talking about?”
Not to this.
“Jannik”, she says, a plea in her brown eyes. “Be honest with me. I deserve at least that.”
Jannik’s cheeks become red. His stomach twists with unease. “You know then?”, he acknowledges.
You know I was with him when I should’ve been with you? You know that I was devoted to him in ways I vowed to be devoted to you? You know that I love him, in a way that I never—
“Yes”, she confirms. “I would be more shocked if it wasn’t him.”
“But I— We—”
“Jannik. I know you are in love with Carlos Alcaraz”, she says, irrevocably. “It’s been obvious to me for years.”
“Longer than it’s been obvious to me then”, he says weakly. A pale smile graces her face.
“I was always the smarter out of the two of us.” She takes his hand in his. It’s warm. Warmer than he deserves. “I don’t blame you for not loving me, Jan. The years I spent with you— They weren’t wasted. I spent them with a friend. And I learnt a lot from you. You helped me grow.” She smiles, more gracious than he’s entitled to. “So I hope I can help you too.” She squeezes. “Don’t run from it. Embrace the love you have for him. It’s a true blessing to be known and understood like you and Carlos know and understand each other.”
If only Jannik was braver. “I wish I could have—”
She interrupts him, “I will find someone else to love me, I’m sure of it. I’m sure of it because I know my worth. Do you know yours?”
There is no elegy to be written about their marriage. No one weeps, no one mourns. The night is sad, full of melancholy and regret, but on the horizon… On the horizon, the sun rises again.
The e-mail sits in his inbox for days before he finally makes up his mind.
He adds an exhibition match in Umag to his calendar, his fingers shaking slightly. With nerves or anticipation, he cannot tell. Before he gets the chance to call his agent, a text comes.
Carlos: see you in croatia ❤️
Jannik doesn’t try to fight the smile that spreads over his face.
July in Croatia is hot. The clay courts look like they’re on fire. The earthy smell reaches his nostrils and he inhales the scent, feeling lighter than he has in months.
Carlos sees him the moment he steps into view. His face brightens. “Jannik!”
Before he can think about it, he’s stalking in the Spaniard’s direction and pulling him into a hug. He buries his face in the other man’s hair, smelling his coconut shampoo. Carlos’s arms close around him, making their torsos press together. They breath each other in for too long, probably, but neither of them cares. Jannik doesn’t want to let go. “Jan”, Carlos whispers into his ear. “There are cameras here.”
But Jannik doesn’t loosen his hold. Somehow he musters up the courage and presses a light kiss below Carlos’s jaw. He gasps. “Jannik…”
Jannik moves back, still gripping Carlos’s waist. “Hi.” He grins.
Carlos shakes his head with an endeared laugh. “Hi.”
They don’t talk about Jannik’s divorce, even though he’s fairly sure Carlos must have heard about it. It was all over the news, not only on tennis-related sites, for weeks after someone leaked the information to the press. Still, Jannik is thankful. He’s not sure he’s ready to talk about it yet. Not with Carlos.
Not with Carlos because—
It would change everything. And Jannik never liked change. He was always afraid of it.
The exhibition is a massive success. Jannik has so much fun, more than he’s had in nearly a decade. The fans are over the moon, cheering like it’s a Grand Slam final. “They still adore you”, Jannik tells Carlos with a huge smile.
Carlos corrects him, “They adore us.”
The sky is already turning lilac when they step onto the rocky beach, their hands brushing as they walk. It’s miraculously empty, no noisy tourists or nosy locals in sight. The Adriatic Sea is serene, gentle breeze cooling the summer air.
“I—”, Jannik begins. “Carlos, I—”
“I know.” He smiles softly. “I heard.” His tone changes, his expression turning worried. “Are you okay?”
“Yes”, Jannik tells him. “Yes, I’m okay.” And he means it.
Carlos’s thumb brushes the back of Jannik’s hand, no ring on his finger, before letting go of his palm. “And your… And Alessandra?”
“She’s…” Jannik hesitates. “She seems alright.” He pauses. “Actually, she seems to be thriving, even. The last time we talked she told me she was going on a date.” He smiles, sincere.
Carlos’s eyes light up. “I’m glad”, he murmurs. But after a heartbeat his expression sours. “Was it my fault?”, he questions quietly.
And even though Jannik expected him to ask, it doesn’t stop his chest from cracking open. “No”, he denies firmly. “It was my fault. Just mine.”
Carlos shakes his head. “I’m responsible too. I knew you were married and I still—”
“Carlos…”
“I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely remorseful.
“I am sorry, Carlos. If I weren’t such a coward—” He shakes his head, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “I never should have married her. I almost ruined her life.” I almost ruined my life. Did I almost ruin yours, too?
“You aren’t a coward”, Carlos opposes, something angry in his voice. His brows are furrowed when he grips Jannik’s arms. He repeats, “You aren’t a coward.”
Jannik chuckles self-depracatingly. “I’m not as brave as you. I’m not as— as fearless. I am full of fright, and of doubt.” Jannik closes his eyes. “No, I’ve always been a coward.”
“I am not fearless, Jannik. And you are not a coward. We are—” Jannik opens his eyes. Carlos’s gaze is full of conviction. “We are people. We make mistakes. Sometimes we get scared. Sometimes we hurt other people.” His eyes become glassy. Jannik’s heart gets stuck in his throat. “But we deserve to be happy. We do.”
Cicadas begin to sing.
It’s an August Sunday and Carlos is on his doorstep.
“You let her keep the villa, then?”, he asks in lieu of a greeting. Jannik nods, speechless. “Good. The flight here is shorter.”
Jannik quickly recovers. “What are you doing here?”
“Are you complaining?” Carlos raises an eyebrow, amusement colouring his voice.
Jannik grins. “Not at all.”
They spend a couple of days relaxing. They go to the beach and to the marina. They hit at the country club, attracting curious spectators and causing quite a commotion on social media.
Rumours appear and they don’t deny them.
Every morning Jannik goes to the boulangerie around the corner from his apartment. Every noon they have coffee in the same café. Every evening Carlos forces him to play chess, and every evening Jannik loses.
It’s so domestic, and so… right.
Time flies by but Jannik doesn’t count it.
They’re at the beach again. The sun is high in the sky, not a single cloud protecting Jannik from its intense rays. Around them people are sunbathing, walking their dogs or reading books, completely unfazed by their presence.
Jannik takes Carlos’s hand and the world doesn’t end.
“Mierda”, Carlos laughs. “Your nose is so red.”
Jannik rolls his eyes. “It’s not my fault I have a fair complexion.”
Carlos snickers. “Let me put some aloe on it?”, he suggests.
“Thanks”, Jannik replies softly.
The gel is cold when Carlos presses his finger to his burnt nose, but it doesn’t bother Jannik. Because Carlos is warm, and he is gentle, and he is patient. And he takes care of him.
God, he takes care of him.
It all hits Jannik at once. He becomes dizzy for a second, his heart pumping blood like he’s in mortal danger. Adrenaline fills his veins and suddenly, he knows.
He breathes, “You waited for me for years, didn’t you?”
Carlos’s eyes are sad when he smiles, the curve of his lips small. He doesn’t answer.
“You’re still waiting”, Jannik says, with thrill and horror both. “Fuck— I’ve been so dumb, so fucking dumb—”
Jannik grabs Carlos by the nape, his other hand gripping his hip, and kisses him forcefully. Carlos makes a surprised noise against his mouth that turns into a pleased hum when Jannik’s tongue licks over his lip.
Oh.
Oh, Dio.
Everything falls into place like dominoes.
He pulls back just to look at Carlos, his flushed face and darkened lips, wet from spit, before diving back in. He kisses him like he’s been starving for it. And he has.
Years of holding back, of yearning and anticipation, of frustration and denial, all poured into this kiss.
Jannik smiles into it, unable to contain his happiness. Carlos smiles too, so wide their teeth almost clash.
Jannik puts his forehead against Carlos’s, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply. “I love you”, he says. Then, “I’m sorry.”
Carlos laughs, the sound full of joy. “I love you too. Don’t be sorry.”
“Asshole.” Jannik giggles. “I’m not apologizing for loving you.”
Carlos hums. “Great. But you have nothing else to apologize for either.”
“I do”, Jannik argues.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
Carlos rolls his eyes. “Kiss me then. Make it all up to me.” He grins. “I have waited for years.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me”, Jannik says and kisses him again.
Every night, they spend hours taking each other apart in their bed.
“Janni, please—” Carlos is cut off by Jannik’s tongue exploring the roof of his mouth, sweeping over his teeth and tangling with his tongue. Carlos moans into the kiss, trembling. “I need you—
“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you”, Jannik vows before pushing into him delicately. The kiss turns sweet, Jannik’s love seeping onto Carlos’s tongue for him to taste it. They both groan when Jannik’s thighs hit Carlos’s ass, his cock buried deep inside him. “Fuck, you’re so tight, tesoro. So good.”
He fucks him hard, just as he like likes it, but the force with which he snaps his hips forward is blunted by his devotion. It’s tender instead of sharp, it’s thorough instead of rough. Carlos lets out breathy moans every time Jannik hits his prostate, whimpers softly when he speaks to him.
Into his parted lips, Jannik whispers, “I love you. Ti amo tanto, sempre.”
“Te amo, Janni, te amo para siempre—”
Jannik wraps his hand around Carlos’s cock and tells him, “Come for me, caro. Come for me.” He does, his back arching off the bed. The guttural sound he makes when he comes sends Jannik over the edge. “Cazzo, Carlos—”
Carlos pulls him down for a kiss, his hands touching all over Jannik’s face, caressing it. “Te amo, te amo, te amo…”
Afterwards, when they’re lying in bed, sweaty and satiated, Jannik murmurs, “Thank you.”
“For what?”, Carlos asks, nuzzling into Jannik’s neck.
Jannik smiles. “For making me brave.”