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Roger had not expected to see the weary and worn traveler on his doorstep. But then again, he had asked the Spaniard to visit him—and publicly, Rafa might add.
Perhaps why he looked so tightly withdrawn, too.
“What a nice surprise,” Roger said, and meant it. He had only been taunting, really. It was a defense mechanism from all the questions about Mirka on Valentine’s Day—as if everyone celebrated the same way—and Roger had been fed up: Yes, a week apart obviously means trouble, let me ask my tennis boyfriend to join me.
On the other hand, Mirka had looked at him with exasperation when he had accepted the Rotterdam wild card. She was probably remembering the last time he was number one and how unbearably serious he had been; plus all the questions of whether he could then defend the Sunshine Double. So when Mirka requested a self-care weekend, Roger didn't think it had been unreasonable or unexpected—his coaches were probably due for one, too. Some sandy beaches and a few margaritas.
But when Rafa slipped past him with a small duffel bag, eyes to the floor, Roger remembered something else she had said: Have fun with your new love affair.
He thought Mirka had been joking—he had also taunted Rafa because he knew she’d be listening and would roll her eyes—but perhaps she had a point: He loved this. If he could send flowers to the spirit and muse of competition, he would. He hadn’t felt this alive in ages.
Roger was wondering whether Rafa liked roses or daisies, but then noticed the jet lag and stiffness.
Maybe Rafa was tired of his shit, too.
“Well, Rogi?” Rafa had hands on his hips. “I am here. In Rotterdam.”
Roger glanced from his hands, to his face, then back to those hips again. “Indeed you are. How’s the golf?”
“You want to talk about golf.” The way Rafa said it, golf was actually being swallowed. Roger could picture the white ball disappearing behind full lips and hollowed cheeks.
“Not really.” Roger looked back up. “But you look well.” Roger noticed how well-pressed the dark suit was—how form-fitting, with the white dress shirt relaxed underneath.
“I was talking to Leonardo Dicaprio. For my foundation.” The way Rafa said it, he seemed to be airing grievances. “He is charming.”
Roger shrugged. “Not really my type, but you know—you do you.”
Roger tried a chuckle, but Rafa was staring at him like an arrow piercing an apple, and all he could manage was a small gulp.
“For my foundation, Roger.” And when Rafa crossed his arms, it finally occurred to Roger that Rafa might be pissed at him.
“I could go to your benefits,” Roger said, his fingertips lightly touching a menu on the hotel dresser, trying to angle it perfectly. “Not that I’m as charming as Leo, I imagine.”
“Roger.” And now Rafa sounded pained—which Roger had not intended at all, and in fact felt like a buzzkill—”You always do this. Not sure what I expected.”
But instead of walking out, Rafa walked over to a chair to deposit the duffel bag and to take off his suit jacket. As Roger noticed the broad plain of his back and the undershirt outlined underneath, Rafa was rolling up his sleeves with short, curt movements.
Maybe Rafa was going to punch him. That could be fun.
“You didn’t have to come—” Roger started to say, but then Rafa spun quickly, leaning into his space.
“No, we finish this.” Rafa took a step closer and said lowly, “You take my Australia, you take my Miami, you take my Shanghai, you take my Australia again—”
Roger shrugged. “It was close, though.”
“—And now you take my number one.” Rafa held up a finger, and that was all the space left between them. “This how it goes: You win tomorrow, and then—” he leaned in to whisper into Roger’s ear, “we come back here and I get to fuck you.”
It was so out of left field that Roger jerked backwards, trying to ignore the tingling in his spine. “What?”
Rafa jerked his chin up. “You heard me. You play around? You touch me all the time, you invite me to Laver cup—”
Roger was not used to being speechless, but he sputtered out, “Yeah, but—”
“And now your family is not here.” Rafa looked him straight in the eye as he mocked in a higher key, “‘Oh, I’m so lonely, maybe Raf should come here and keep me company—’”
Roger squared his shoulders. “I see. You’re fucking with me.”
Rafa shrugged as he unbuttoned the top of his white dress shirt, the planes of his chest peeking underneath. “No. But I want to.”
Rafa kept unbuttoning his shirt, turning around to dig into the duffle bag. It was if Rafa intended to stay, knew what the answer would be, thought things would happen—
Well, Roger’s brain was still stuttering on I get to fuck you. His thighs felt a heavy weight; his hips too self-aware. He could imagine big hands gripping them, a warm body along his back.
Have fun with your new love affair.
Rafa was shirtless now, and Roger could barely say with a straight face, “I was just messing with you.”
“Maybe,” Rafa said, walking back to him, “but not anymore.” And with that, strong and calloused hands were on the sides of Roger’s face, a thumb smoothing over a cheekbone.
It was not objectionable. Had it ever been objectionable? When Rafa had said, I don’t want to look like I’m gonna be his boyfriend, Roger had actually chuckled. Then had flirted with even more abandon in retaliation.
Rafa’s angry eyes had suddenly gone tender, as if waiting for Roger to pull away from him. “See, Rogi? You are not really fucking with me.”
The way Rafa said “fucking” was quickly becoming Roger’s favorite thing. “Maybe I was. A little.”
“A little,” Rafa murmured, then bent down to kiss him. And Roger wondered if Rafa’s eyes were closed, but Roger’s eyes were also closed—and it was so easy how Rafa got his lips to open, his tongue to delve inside. “No fucking anymore.”
“Maybe a little fucking,” Roger protested. He thought about how he had put his hand on Rafa’s thigh at Laver cup, first by accident—then second by design—and maybe Roger shouldn’t have been surprised that he was liking this. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
Rafa huffed a laugh. “Dicaprio would not give me attitude.”
“Does he do a little fucking too?” Roger started to say, but Rafa’s mouth was on his again. Shut up, Roger. Oh, he would if they could keep kissing like this—Rafa was crowding him, dominating him, not giving room for any shenanigans or fresh air.
Although a thought occurred to him: “Wait—does this mean that if you take back number one, I get to fuck you?” Roger was still unsure of Dubai, to be honest.
Rafa pulled away at that, seeming to actually contemplate it. He even took his time; with pursed lips and a tilt to his head. “That is fair, no?”
Roger grinned. “You’re still technically number one now.”
Rafa hummed. "I am?”
Good lord, he was delightful. “Now who’s fucking around?”
Rafa smiled. “Okay, maybe we do a little fucking.”
Well—Roger thought as he leaned in—when you are world number one, you do have to be the one to go over.