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Carlos isn't supposed to focus on anything except tennis.
He knows that if he wants to be the best, if he wants to win Grand Slams and cement his name in tennis history, the sport has to take up every inch of his mind. He has to spend his free time training. Anytime he's bored, he has to think about strategy. Nothing can be allowed to distract him.
(But, Jannik)
Always blurred in the edge of his vision. Always a brush of wind at the back of his neck. Always a force pulling him forwards when he wants to look back and backwards when he wants to look forwards. Always, always on Carlos' mind.
For him, Jannik Sinner is everywhere. When tournament draws are released, Carlos searches for how close their names are. When Juan Carlos talks to him about practice partners, Jannk is the very top of the list. If for some reason he ever decides to play doubles, there's only one partner he has in mind.
Carlos isn't quite sure when his feelings towards Jannik progressed from a crush of sorts to a full-blown obsession. Maybe it was under the fireworks at Umag. Maybe it was after that US Open quarterfinal, when Carlos saw the look on Jannik's face at the net and almost wished the Italian had won the match. Maybe it was Miami, some of the best tennis he had ever had the pleasure of playing. No, he can't pinpoint it. But he knows now that their warm meetings at the net send sparks shooting through his veins. And he knows just how distracted he is.
Still, Carlos does his best to not let it show. Unfortunately, his best isn't very good.
In every interview, he somehow finds a way to bring up Jannik. And when he brings up Jannik, he just can't help but talk about how great he is. His mind falls down the rabbit hole again and again, "I hope we play more" echoing in his ears. In those moments, tennis isn't just tennis anymore, it's tennis with Jannik. In terms of his professional life, this is absolutely awful.
He's been lucky this tournament; he can't meet Jannik until the final, meaning his head is clear and he can focus on his game. Yes, there's been the occasional attempted moving of courts for practice sessions and of course Carlos is checking how the other half of the draw unfolds, but overall, it's been a very non-Jannik week. As much as Carlos hates to admit it, that's good for him. Tennis has to come first.
(But, his messy red hair)
He's made the semifinals fairly easily, with only one of three matches going to three sets. His opponent is Casper Ruud - in Carlos' opinion, an exhausted-looking Casper Ruud. As he walks up to the net for the coin toss, he can see bags under the other man's eyes. How late, Carlos wonders, did his quarterfinal end? Carlos himself had gone to sleep before Casper's match even started.
He wins the coin toss and elects to serve.
From the very first point, Carlos is on fire. He can feel it as he moves effortlessly around the court, finding all the right shots at the perfect angles. It's a great feeling, when he's playing his best tennis. He's on top of the world, and nothing can bring him down. Nothing can distract him.
He takes the first set 6-3, feeling satisfied with himself as he sits down for the changeover. The noise of the crowd pushes his momentum forward. He isn't really sure if he'll ever be used to that: they came here to support him. They bought tickets because Carlos Alcaraz is playing, because they wanted to see him. They scream his name in between games, they applaud and cheer when he wins points. They keep him grounded on this court, their deafening roar stopping him from getting in his own head.
Carlos is relaxed. He's concentrated. He can take this in two sets.
Then, in the distance, fireworks go off.
(But, his eyes, the way the light shines in them)
If he wins this match, his opponent in the final will be Jannik. That's something Carlos hasn't allowed himself to think about that, but the fireworks, so very similar to the spectacle at Umag, bring the Italian to the forefront of Carlos' mind. He really, really wants to play him. He wants to be challenged, and no one can do that quite like Jannik. He wants to greet him at the net, smile, and pull him close as they congratulate each other on a well-fought match.
"Time."
Shit. He has to win this one first.
His game in the second set isn't nearly as good as the first. He makes sloppy errors, his shotmaking allows for Casper to make easy winners. The crowd screams, but it just isn't enough to push away that feeling in the back of his mind nor the butterflies making themselves at home in his stomach. It's not just playing for a spot in the final anymore. He's playing for a spot against Jannik.
6-6. Tiebreak.
Casper serves first, a fast-as-hell ball out wide that Carlos scrambles to receive and just barely manages to put over the net. The point is quickly closed out with an easy forehand approach by Casper.
Carlos responds with just as much vigor. His first service point escalates into a rally, but he comes out on top, his quick legs carrying him to both corners of the court as Casper tries to put the ball away. His second service point is an ace, streaking down the T and past Casper's outstretched racket.
And so it goes, neither of them breaking serve, on and on. Carlos has lost count of the amount of match points he's had.
During one of said match points, Carlos wonders if Jannik is watching. He subsequently misses an easy return.
At 13-12, match point yet again, Carlos knows he has to do something different.
As soon as he hits the return off of Casper's serve, Carlos makes a mad dash for the net, chasing his shot as far as he can go. He returns-and-volleys, essentially, but he never gets to the volley part. Casper's shot goes right into the net.
"Game, set, and match, Alcaraz."
If, a few hours after the match, one were to ask Carlos what he shouted upon the match's conclusion, he would say, "Vamos, of course." Because of course, what else would he say? How could he use anything but Spanish? Certainly not English, or any other language for that matter.
Especially not Italian.
(But, his voice, his accent)
Casper is looking at him strangely as they shake hands. He looks almost... amused? His eyebrows are raised so high that they almost disappear past his headband, and the corners of his lips are quirked in a strange grin.
"Good match," says Carlos. He means that; the second set was hard-fought, and he thought the tiebreak was never going to end.
"Excited for tomorrow?" Casper says as they walk towards the umpire's chair. There's something in his tone that makes the question sound far less innocent than it should be.
"Uh." He doesn't really know what to say. Does Casper know somehow, the way Jannik has been occupying his mind? "Sure."
The post-match interview is strange as well. After getting on with the usual pleasantries, "I feel good about how I played" and whatnot, the reporter gets this strange look in her eyes and asks: "Can you tell us what inspired your post-match celebration?"
"Well..." he scratches the back of his neck. Hadn't he just done his ordinary 'Vamos!'? He has no idea why everyone was acting so strange about it. "It was a really close second set and I was, ah, excited to win it."
When he finally makes it to the locker room, Carlos is a mess of confusion. He's beginning to realize that he said something else, but he can't remember what that something was. He had been so caught up in the heat of the moment that it just disappeared into crowd noise, drowned by his adrenaline.
He doesn't see Casper in the room - he must have made a quick exit. He does, however, see Tommy Paul frantically searching through lockers and under benches, swearing under his breath as he goes. Carlos recalls that he lost to Jannik in the first semifinal of the day.
"Hi?"
Tommy looks up and lets out a sigh. "Hey. This is so fucking stupid, but have you seen my headphones? The good ones?"
"I just got back from the court."
"Right," he says, shaking his head. "I caught the end of it. Lots of match points, huh? You were really... excited at the end."
That's it. Carlos can't take it anymore.
"What did I do after the match?" He demands. "Everyone's being weird about it, but no one will tell me."
Tommy raises his eyebrows in a way almost identical to Casper's during the handshake. He fishes his phone out of his pocket - he hasn't lost that, at least - and scrolls for a moment before finding what he needs. He hands the phone to Carlos, who finds himself staring at a Tennis TV video. It's short, only a few seconds long, frozen on a clip of him pre-shout.
Carlos plays the video, and from his own lips hears a loud and clear "Forza!"
"Oh," says Carlos.
Tommy winks at him. "'Oh' indeed."
The next day, just before the match, Carlos finds himself in that very same locker room, frozen on the bench after just having tied his shoes. He's all alone, and the room is silent, save for his whispers of "vamos, vamos, vamos" over and over again, as if he has to remind himself of his own language. The press had a field day with his Italian exclamation, and he doesn't even want to know what Jannik thinks.
Or does he?
Damn it. What the hell is he doing? Carlos is so frustrated with himself, so angry that he let his heart take over his head. He's a Grand Slam champion, not a schoolgirl with a stupid crush. If he wants to win, he needs to be focused. He can't let Jannik get in the way.
(But, his touch, his soft hands)
"Hey."
Carlos is sure he looks like a deer in headlights as he whips his head up far faster than he should, but in the moment he doesn't care. Because there he is, leaning against the doorframe, his mop of hair tucked under his cap but still managing to peek out. Eyes slightly crinkled with a smile.
"Hola." Oh, so now he remembers Spanish.
"I think they're calling us out soon," Jannik says. Carlos flushes and checks his watch - it's far past the time he meant to be in the tunnel. Yet another disaster to add to his rapidly-growing list.
"Thank you," Carlos says as he stands up, gathering his haphazardly strewn stuff and shoving it all into his bag. Part of him, the part always fixated on red curls and kind eyes, is desperate to know what Jannik is thinking, what his reaction is to this blushing, awkward version of him.
Bag slung over his shoulder, he jogs over to Jannik and offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile. The Italian grins right back, and Carlos might just melt at the sight of it. Suddenly, his earlier thoughts about his feelings for Jannik being such an extreme issue seem ridiculous. How could anything related to Jannik Sinner be anything but absolutely wonderful?
He has a match to play. A final, at that. So especially now, Carlos Alcaraz isn't supposed to focus on anything except tennis.
Jannik smiles, leans over, and whispers one sweet word in his ear: "Vamos."
(But, Jannik)