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It has become an annual tradition. Like migrating birds, the Federer clan would fly south in the winter to spend several weeks in the mild climes of Mallorca and take over a rental house near the Academy. In the summer, during the break after the US Open, the whole Nadal clan flies north and descends upon the guest houses at the back of the Federer compound that Roger liked to call “the village.”
(“Ugh, it’s not a village, Papa, it’s your love shack for your part-time boyfriend.”
“Shush, don’t embarrass your father in front of his part-time boyfriend, Charlene.”
“Yes, Mama. At least Uncle Rafa doesn’t understand Swiss German, so it doesn’t matter.”
“No, but Uncle Toni understands German, so please don’t make him choke anymore.”)
The village/love shack is comprised of two spacious guest houses set a good distance back from the main house on their large plot on the banks of Lake Zurich, with spectacular views of the water and the mountains. Small hedges and a small garden separate the guest houses from the main house, providing some privacy, but a flagstone walkway connects all the buildings together.
It’s summer now, which means Roger, Mirka, and Robert drive three cars to the airport to pick up the Nadals. Rafa hugs Roger and Mirka warmly, and pats Robert heartily on the back. Mery, with glowing skin and a beautiful smile, greets them with hugs as well. Maribel, Sebastian, Ana Maria, Uncle Toni, little Rafa, and baby Ana all pack into the cars for the short drive home.
The days are filled with tennis, swimming, hiking, and outings with the children. Rafito, now nearly three, squawks in protest trying to keep up with the older Federer children, while Mery carries baby Ana in a sling. In the evenings, the two families usually eat together, whether at a restaurant or with Rafa or Mirka playing host, and the conversations go long into the night, with empty wine glasses or coffee mugs scattered about the living room or patio deck by the end.
Every other evening though, Roger will make up some ridiculous excuse to retire early, such as “Rafa has some old footage he found on his laptop he wants to show me” or “We’re going to go discuss Laver Cup stuff” or “Uhh, I have something I need to give Rafa, we’ll be back in a bit.”
(Mirka always enjoys hearing what excuses Roger comes up with and how they would get progressively thinner as he ran out of ideas toward the end of the visit.)
Regardless of what the excuse was, it usually kicked off a series of carefully choreographed events:
Mery would nod and say, “That sounds great, Roger. The kids and I will stay in the other guest house with Sebastian, Ana Maria, and the others so we don’t disturb you.”
Roger would glance at Mirka, who would nod and say, “If it gets late, just stay there. I put your overnight bag by the door.”
Robert and Lynette would sip their coffee serenely and wish their son goodnight. Ana Maria, Sebastian, Toni, and Maribel would wave, with only Maribel giggling under her breath.
Everyone would act like this was completely normal, except for Rafa, who would be red-faced and trying valiantly to hide his embarrassment the whole time and unable to meet anyone’s eyes while saying his farewells and following Roger's dignified stroll out.
Mirka has no doubt that Roger drops the dignified act as soon as they’re out the back door and giggles gleefully like a schoolboy sneaking out for mischief with his best friend.
“Rafa and I are just going to go hit a few balls down at the local court. We’ll be back before dinner.”
Mirka rolls her eyes affectionately. “Uh huh.”
“No, really, we are,” says Roger, bending to give her a quick kiss as she’s chopping onions. He’s dressed in tennis clothes and has his tennis bag slung over his shoulder.
“Of course,” she replies easily.
She pauses her dinner prep to hand him his overnight bag. “Take this with you.”
“I really am going to play tennis this time,” he says in protest.
Okay, so maybe last time the tennis turned into grabbing a snack together afterwards, which turned into Rafa mentioning a snack he used to make when he was a teenager, which turned into going to the grocery store and then back to the guest house so Rafa could make said snack for Roger, which turned into Roger wanting to taste Rafa too, and then Roger having to text Mirka afterward to let her know where he was five hours after he was supposed to come home.
“Just tennis, really,” he repeats, to show that he really means it.
Mirka kisses him and pats him on the ass.
"Bring some of that spicy pasta sauce he made last night back with you, the kids liked it," she says.
A moment later, when Roger is standing on the step of the guest house waiting for Rafa to grab his bag, he opens the overnight bag to find an empty Tupperware container—presumably for said pasta sauce—his toothbrush, toothpaste, clean underwear, and a new outfit for the next day neatly folded inside, because Mirka’s good with logistics and she’s got his back—no walk of shame in yesterday’s clothes across the lawn for him. He notices that she did not bother to pack him anything to sleep in.
There’s also lube. Lots of lube. Almost a comical amount.
His first thought is, did my wife just pimp me to Rafa in exchange for pasta sauce?
Of course, Roger has to go show Rafa this ridiculousness.
“Hey Rafa, look what Mirka packed in my bag.”
They’re at the local indoor practice court, so Rafa sets his tennis bag down and peers inside Roger’s. He picks up one of the half dozen clear bottles and quizzically lifts it up to the light.
“Eh, what is this?”
He squints closer. Roger is watching him with bright eyes and trying his best not to cackle. Not yet, anyway. A few giggles still manage to slip through.
Rafa throws him a wary look. “You get new sports gel for your knees, old man?”
Roger actually snorts out loud, he’s trying so hard to hold his laughter in.
“Oh my god,” he wheezes and waves a hand at Rafa. “No, it’s for you,” he chokes out, “Or me, I guess. Depends how we feel.”
Rafa turns back to the bottle. Roger can see the exact moment he realizes what he’s holding, and oh god, Roger’s going to die laughing. He’s going to keel over and die from laughter, and Tony will have to issue a press release, and that would be the most undignified ending ever, but it would be worth it because of Rafa’s face in this moment.
Of course, if you’re Rafael Nadal and you’re dealing with Roger “Cabron” Federer laughing at you for the umpteenth time in your decades-long relationship, the only choice is revenge.
Rafa looks like he’s about to throw the bottle at Roger but suddenly seems to think better of it. Instead, with an unholy gleam in his eyes, he flips open the cap and stalks forward. Roger, not sure what’s happening but sensing danger, hurriedly backs up. He’s only saved from a stream of lube to the face by the fact that it’s a new bottle and Rafa forgot to remove the foil across the top first. By the time Rafa does, Roger is on the other side of the court. Not to be discouraged, Rafa vaults over the net in one smooth motion, Roger’s eyes widen, and the ensuing chase around the court is something straight out of a Marx Brothers movie, complete with mad dashes, near collisions, and shoes skidding on streaks of lube.
At some point Roger makes it back to his bag and grabs his own weapon. He holds the bottle up with a manic grin. There’s a wet stripe down the side of his shorts, on his shirt, and the back of his left shoe. That one is slowly oozing down into his sock, but he doesn’t care.
Rafa, seeing the tables turned, quickly reverses course.
Tennis is a game of short sprints and quick direction changes, but not so much endurance running. Not like in football or other sports. That afternoon, by the time all six bottles are empty, the two of them have done more running on a tennis court than they probably have done in some official matches. Pierre would’ve been proud.
Mirka looks up in surprise as the kitchen door opens.
“Roger? Why are you back so….” She takes in the sheen on his face, the wet stains on his shirt, and how one section of his hair is strangely smoothed down, and narrows her eyes. “What happened to you?”
Roger shrugs and sets his bag down. “We couldn’t play. The court was too slippery.”
Mirka’s brows go up.
“Slippery?”
Roger busies himself with taking off his shoes and is in no way trying to avoid her gaze.
“Yeah, erm, they had to close the facilities for cleaning. It might be best if we go play at the court over in Jona or Ruti instead for a few days.”
“A few days? Why?”
“Oh, no reason. It’s good to switch things up every once in a while, don’t you think?”
He ducks below the counter, ostensibly to remove a sock, which makes an incriminating squelching sound as he does. Nope, he is definitely not hiding from his wife. Everything is normal.
Mirka crosses her arms, looking unimpressed.
“What’s that in your hair, Roger?”
Roger’s head pops up and he pats it with exaggerated motions. He is a terrible actor.
“Uh, hair gel?”
Mirka sighs and gives up.