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Roger walked into the locker room, the adulation of the crowd still ringing in his ears. Sweat and dust clung to his skin, but he was buoyant, blood fizzing with excitement. Not his first semifinal win at Roland Garros, but definitely the most memorable.
He headed for the locker that bore Rafa's name, and shed the clothes that bore Rafa's logo. He couldn't help looking at his reflection in the mirror: Rafa's dark eyes blinked back at him, still faintly astonished and quizzical. He circled his bicep with one hand, or tried to: his fingers did not touch.
He was quick in the shower. Usually, he liked a long soak, especially after a tough match. And Novak had given him a fight to remember, drawing it out to five sets. But to linger when the body he was soaping and scrubbing was not his own, well, that seemed a little voyeuristic. So he stepped out from the pounding spray reluctantly after only five minutes, towelling dry his hair. It was longer than he was used to, tickling the base of his neck.
Rafa was waiting for him in the locker room. His expression radiated disapproval. Roger observed in fascination how his own face looked from the outside. Different in real life than on video, and different with Rafa animating it. Roger stared, attention riveted, at the crease of his forehead and the line of his mouth. It really looked severe. Then Rafa's gaze dropped a few feet, and his cheeks flushed. Roger became aware he was dripping and naked. Nothing that Rafa hadn't seen before, but okay, probably weird. Roger grabbed another towel and wrapped it around his waist. Modesty satisfied.
But Rafa still had that frown on his face. "What," Roger said lightly, "no congratulations?" It had been touch and go for a while; Roger was still learning this body's reach, its balance, its agility. A few days were not enough.
"You say, be careful," Rafa said accusingly. "You say, act normal until we fix this. So what was that?"
"I protected your ranking points for you?"
Rafa scowled. Usually it looked intimidating--the ferocious Spanish bull, ready to charge--but on Roger's face it just looked disgruntled. "You want I should remind you? Show you again?" He pulled out his phone--Roger's phone, and was that Real Madrid wallpaper?--and stabbed at the screen a few times.
But Roger didn't need to see the replay. He remembered very well. The end of the fourth set, frustrated at the wall Novak was putting up in front of him. He was down two sets to one. He had to hang on. He had to win this.
Then he had a thought. It was a little silly, but once it occurred to him, it was irresistible. Besides, he had learned to trust his own instincts.
When he came to the net, Novak was there to meet him. Roger said, "I know something you don't know." Novak looked at him, puzzled.
Roger tossed his racquet from his left hand to his right. And smiled like a devil.
The cameras cut from Novak's stunned face to a news desk, the commentators equally bemused. "An unexpected move from Nadal! What do you make of it, Susan?"
"Well, Bob, this is a surprise! It's well known that Nadal is actually right-handed, but trained to play tennis left-handed. It gives him an advantage against most players, especially Federer and his one-handed backhand…"
Rafa shut off the video. "Well?"
"It was an impulse," Roger confessed. That had been his response to all the reporters. But now he added, "Sorry. You'll probably be getting questions later. And Novak thinks you've been holding back all along."
Rafa sighed. "That was not very nice to do to him."
"No, I suppose not," Roger said. "Poor Novak."
Rafa had already won his semifinal against Andy. Roger had watched it. Seeing Rafa leap, his arm outstretched to heaven, his whole body arching, as his feet flew off the ground. Almost like he was floating, in slow motion. Then his racquet struck the ball, hard and precise, and time started again. He dropped to the court, landing gracefully, ready to make his next move. Roger had to catch his breath. Witnessing it from the outside was different. He had an inkling of how his opponents felt.
"How do you do it?" Rafa said.
"Do what?"
"Never show how you feel. You are tired, you are sore, you always keep going. You never show it. Always calm. Always perfect."
"I'm human, Rafa. It hurts, some days. But I like winning. I do my best. I'm not ready to stop. Not yet." Not while there were still realms unconquered. Not today. And not tomorrow.
In echo of his thoughts, Rafa said, "What happens if we can't change back before?" He meant the final. "What do we do?"
It would be easy for either of them to concede the match. Claim injury or exhaustion. It would not be far from the truth: maintaining this masquerade had taken its toll on them both. And how agonising would it be, to fight for a win, only to see another man's name engraved on the cup? To hear another man's name proclaimed as champion? Roger did not know what it meant if he won. What did it prove? Who was it a victory for?
In the fairy tales, curses were cast to teach someone a lesson. Something they must learn before the spell could be broken. What was the reason for this sudden and inexplicable switch? It had been days, and they had not figured it out.
"What do you want to do?" Roger said. Part challenge, part curiosity.
"What I always want. To play my best tennis, with you." Rafa reddened. "I mean, against you."
Roger smiled. "It's okay if you want both."
He had long dreamed of a win at Roland Garros, but especially a win against Rafa, who was king of this court. And now Roger was facing an opponent with all Roger's honed technique and Rafa's indomitable will, just as Rafa was facing someone with all Rafa's endless power and Roger's immaculate skill. It was, he realised, going to be the match of a lifetime.
Maybe it wasn't about proving anything at all. Maybe it was a chance to discover something new.
"Come on," Roger said. "We'll give them a show to remember."