Archive of Our Own

Come as you are

As you were

As I want you to be

As a friend

As a friend

As an old enemy

The first time Juan Carlos feels that something is wrong with the boy is just after the Australian Open. 

The phone call comes suddenly. The monotonous ringtone pierces the silence, stirring him up from his afternoon siesta by the pool. Although it’s winter, the weather in Spain is still mild and what could be nicer than taking a nap just after lunch with a reassuring view of a flat, still body of water reflecting the sun's rays?

It's all so beautiful and peaceful that it almost makes him forget the pain that sometimes still haunts his newly fixed-up knee - it’s giving him some trouble since the day of the surgery, but no big deal - and that other pain, duller and deeper even though less defined, which envelops his heart and always brings him back to tennis and to that world he would just like to keep away sometimes to prevent it from hurting. 

When his phone rings, Juan Carlos immediately knows that it’s tennis calling. He gets that sort of premonition every time – he has developed it over the years. 

Without looking, he reaches out towards the small table next to the deckchair on which he is comfortably lying, his operated knee stretched out in front of himself, his ankle sunk on a soft pillow. He’s wearing some shorts and a T-shirt on his lean body and the ever-present sunglasses on his bony face to prevent the light from blinding him; the bronze shade of his skin says a lot about how he’s spending the days of  his convalescence at his Academy in Villena. Since he can't strain his body, he enjoys sunbathing at least.

A quick glance at the screen confirms his intuition: it’s tennis - in the form of "Charlie", as he saved him in his phone book - looking for him. 

Just what I thought.

Poor Juanki. He is very far from imagining the hurricane that is about to hit him with full force. 

“Charlie! Hey, boy, how you doing?"

A long silence at the other end of the line. Then a voice murmurs hesitantly: “Hey. I’m fine. What about you?"

Carlos' voice sounds mechanical - sort of jammed. As they exchange a few pleasantries, Juan Carlos almost has to pull the words out of him one by one, which is very unusual. As he shifts his weight on his hips, settling in the deckchair, he patiently waits for the boy to slowly approach the heart of the problem. Giving Carlos time is what he’s always done, after all - since the day they met. They say he’s a patient man, and patience is the greatest virtue for a coach.

"Sorry I didn't answer your calls," Carlos says. "I thought many times I should call you back, but..."

"It's all right, Charlie. A Grand Slam is a Grand Slam, you needed all of your concentration. I know that very well."

"Yes, that and..." Carlos hesitates. A broken sigh at the other end of the line. "I would have needed you by my side, above all. Your advice, your support."

A grip tightens around Juan Carlos' heart - a lump in his throat and he almost feels short of breath. He reaches up and mechanically takes off his sunglasses; he squints at the sun rays glaring on the pool water for a few seconds of silence. He wishes he could find the words to console Carlos - to console himself - but they just don't come. 

"I know," he finally lets out. "I wish I could have been there with you in Melbourne, Charlie. Damn knee. That was the last thing that I needed."

"Maybe I would have lost anyway. Even if you had been there with me, I mean… Sasha was too strong."

"Sasha played like a god," Juan Carlos says. "But... hey, you're still you, Charlie. You're the Wimbledon winner, you were just a little bit under the weather. You can't expect to be constantly in top form."

He hears Carlos laughing bitterly on the phone. "Wimbledon must have brought me bad luck. I couldn't win anything else after that. The media already say that my star has set... that I was just a meteor like many others..."

"Let them say what they want," Juan Carlos interrupts him in a harsh voice, frowning. “The media are like that, they just love to provoke. But you, you must never lose confidence in yourself, you get me?"

"But what if it’s true?" Carlos whispers, and this time his voice vibrates at the highest with tension and fear. "What if they were right? What if Wimbledon was the best I could aspire to and now I had nothing left ahead of me but a downhill road to a pile of rubble?"

Juan Carlos falls silent again, at a loss for words. He is struck by the powerful image of desolation that Carlos has pictured in his mind, something unnatural for a young man in his early twenties at the dawn of his success. Only then, perhaps, does he fully realize how much his fundamental support was missing in that very delicate phase of Carlos' career. The boy, despite being sufficiently mature and mentally solid for his age, is still just a boy, indeed. 

He could be his son by age – the thought gives him chills.

"Carlos," he says, calling him for the first time not with the usual affectionate diminutive, "I promise you that Wimbledon will not be the last trophy you will lift in your life. There will be others, many others. I will personally commit myself to ensuring that you get them. I will do it, I will do everything for-" He trails off abruptly.

He hears Carlos holding his breath, caught off guard by his unusual vehemence. "For me? You were going to say that you would do anything for me?… Really?"

The hint of hope fluttering in the boy's voice is so tender that Juan Carlos feels his heart melt into an unspeakable sweetness. 

"Yes. I was going to say that," he admits in a whisper, and swallows loudly, his mouth suddenly dry. “I’ve never seen such a great talent as yours, maybe only Rafa at your age. I will not allow it to go to waste."

Carlos sniffs. He remains silent for perhaps a whole minute. Juan Carlos imagines the gears turning at a fast pace in the boy’s head as the words swirl in his mind - the praise came unexpectedly, since Juan Carlos is always so sparing in giving them.

"Can I come over?" Carlos suddenly blurts out. “I'll be back in Spain in two days. I’ll swing by my parents in Murcia; it doesn't take long to reach Villena from there… Can I, Juanki?”

The pleading tone in his voice makes it all milk and honey, and Juan Carlos doesn't have the courage to say no. He knows how much the defeat in Australia is burning, and it will for a long time to come. Carlos needs him right now, and he can’t - and doesn’t want to - deny it to him.

"Yes, of course you can." 

He can't see it, yet he can feel the full-lipped smile in Carlos' voice when he breathes: “Thank you” before hanging up.

*

A few days later, as promised, Carlos pops in - Juan Carlos will later remember the date because that’s when the boy tells him about Novak for the first time.

Before then, he’s still blissfully unaware of what is awaiting him - yet he feels a strange restlessness rising in him as the moment of Carlos’ arrival approaches. He would usually drive it out by grinding miles of running, but his convalescent knee doesn’t allow him. He is forced to rest - and his thoughts pierce through him like the arrows through St. Sebastian’s body.  

He doesn't know why the thought of seeing Carlos arouses that tightness in the pit of his stomach this time. It's been barely a month since they last met — too little time to justify such a greedy impatience. Maybe - he tells himself - maybe, after Carlos admitted his late despair to him, now he can't wait to look the boy in the face and make sure to chase away the shadows from his eyes, bringing the smile back to his cheerful and generous lips. And maybe hug him, too - why not?, they hugged countless times before. So, why does he feel a hint of guilt dripping into his soul now, slipping behind all the other emotions?

I was supposed to be with him in Australia. 

But how could he? Postponing knee surgery any longer would have been too risky - and he had already neglected his own health too much to keep up with his protégé’s practice. 

Yet, he can still hear his own sense of guilt talking over the voice of reason - and it’s almost deafening.  

Juan Carlos waits. The day passes slowly. The thoughts are too many.

They pause – his mind stops working completely, actually, like a wheel going off-axis – only when he hears Carlos' voice from a distance. He's waving hello, probably to someone playing on one of the countless tennis courts of the academy. A moment later Juan Carlos sees the boy coming towards him, crossing the lawn on the other side of the main building, getting closer to the pool near which Juan Carlos is chilling out.

From his privileged position on the deckchair, Juan Carlos has all the time to enjoy the view. He watches Carlos come closer with the agile fluency of a goat tripping on mountain rocks; he wonders, with some dismay, since when the boy's shoulders became so broad, shaping him into the adult that he’s not yet.

He doesn't have time to try to pull himself up from the deckchair because Carlos literally pounces on him, in a whirl of strong arms, white smiles and warm cheeks, slightly rough with a shadow of stubble that rub against his when Carlos squeezes him in a rough embrace that almost leaves him breathless.

“Easy, easy! Have mercy on an old man!" Juan Carlos protests jokingly when Carlos pulls back, giving him a break. "I'm recovering from surgery, I remind you!"

"Old man… you?" Carlos laughs, giving him a look that says 'I don't buy it at all'. “How’s your knee, by the way? Can you walk?"

“With some caution, yes.” Juan Carlos follows the boy's gaze shifting on the brace wrapped around his joint. "Not much, by the way: I only take a few steps at a time. Joking aside, the doctors said that recovery is physiologically slower at my age and it's better not to rush things."

Carlos glances at him from below up. “You look good, anyway." He tilts his head slightly over his shoulder, smiling. “Gosh, you have a tan to envy!" 

Juan Carlos chuckles - he tries to ignore the shiver that runs down his spine every time Carlos' eyes linger on his arms and neck and every inch of skin left uncovered by the T-shirt. The boy’s gaze wanders over his torso almost absentmindedly, yet he feels that weigh on him like hot bricks. 

Actually, Juan Carlos is a little surprised - almost disappointed - to find himself in front of the usual jolly and high-spirited Carlos. He had sounded like the ghost of himself last time on the phone. Or did Juan Carlos just imagine it, as an excuse to draw the boy to himself? 

"Want a drink?" he asks, buying time - he doesn't know how to defend himself from his own thoughts as well as from the boy’s frank look, asking for things that Juan Carlos is not really ready to give. As for a drink… well, it’s the only thing he can give him right now without feeling like he is dying.

“Why not. Since my season is over, I would say that there are no particular diet problems," Carlos says, shrugging. Only then, mentioning his late defeat, does a veil of bitterness darken his gaze; the corners of his fleshy mouth bend imperceptibly downwards.

As if by an automatic reflex, Juan Carlos immediately straightens up from the deckchair and leans forward to grab Carlos’ shoulder, searching for his eyes.

"Over? Don't even say that as a joke. Buenos Aires is waiting for you, Charlie. Or did you think you were going to slack off by taking advantage of me being out of the way for a while?" Juan Carlos grins, trying to spur the boy’s fighting spirit.

Carlos grimaces. "Slack off? I don't know what that means. Since Sasha took me down I've been  going to the gym every day, working out to death. You probably didn't notice it, but I swear..."

Oh, Juan Carlos did notice it, actually - he noticed it very much. It's not just Carlos’ shoulders, he notices, glancing at him. His arms also seem more shapely, and his abdomen tauter. His legs stronger. And his...

"So, this drink?" Carlos' voice shakes him from his dangerous reverie. "I'm dying of thirst. Or were you just kidding?"

"Not at all," Juan Carlos says. "Hand me those crutches, please."

“There’s no need," Carlos says with a broad smile, stretching his hand out. “You can lean on me. I will be your crutch."

Juan Carlos stares at his hand: he would like to find an excuse to avoid any unnecessary contact with Carlos' skin, which is strangely hot at any time of the year. Come to think of it, Juan Carlos has never seen him get cold. The only goose pimples he remembers ever being on Carlos’ arms were of excitement after winning a tough match. 

After a few seconds of impasse he grabs Carlos' hand and cautiously pulls himself up, avoiding sudden movements. He staggers for a moment, all his weight crushing down on his healthy leg, but then a solid body moves to his left, wedging himself perfectly into the hollow of his side. One arm grabs his, the other wraps naturally around his back, holding him up. Carlos’ body heat feels almost unbearable. 

“You okay?" the boy asks. He’s too close; his breath brushes against Juan Carlos’ ear, and Juan Carlos stumbles again as he places his left foot a little too abruptly on the ground. A twinge pierces his knee, drawing a grimace on his face. 

“Mmh, kind of… I guess I need to take it easy."

“We will," Carlos says reassuringly. "We'll take it very easy." 

Those words echo ominously in Juan Carlos' mind. He is more and more dismayed with each passing minute - and ashamed of himself. He would like to run away and lock himself in some hidden place and simply let time pass - wait, and finally go out when everything is over, when Carlos is at least ten years older, and wanting him is less wrong. 

“But now let's go get this drink.” Again, Carlos’ words stir him from his thoughts.

The boy walks him to the shady coolness of the inside of the house, to a room used as a kitchen-bar where there is a long counter against one wall and, opposite to it, two comfortable leather-covered armchairs and a sofa, positioned in front of a huge TV. 

"Make yourself comfortable, I got it from here, ok?” Carlos says. 

Juan Carlos can do nothing but obey, so he lets himself down on the sofa, looking helplessly at the boy who has slipped behind the counter. 

"You sure you know how to make a cocktail?" he asks, arching an eyebrow. "Don't they usually come to you ready-made?”

Carlos looks up, shaking his bangs off his forehead with a flick of his head. "Yes, but I like to watch the bartenders prepare them. I've watched them a lot. It's like tennis, isn't it? You learn by emulation. If not, why would you make me watch all those matches between Rafa and Roger since I was fifteen?"  

“Well, uhm… maybe,” Juan Carlos mumbles skeptically. He’s not sure the comparison works: he comes up with a lot of things that one does not just watch and learn how to do, but he gives up further explanations. He leans back in his seat, his knee stretched out in front of himself, crosses his hands in his lap and stares at Carlos as he moves back and forth between the fridge and the counter searching for ingredients and assembling them on the shelf. 

Watching him doing plain things gives Juan Carlos a sense of peace - totally different from the feeling he gets when he looks at the boy flying after a ball on a tennis court. In those moments Juan Carlos fills up with an exaggerated adrenaline and, even if from the outside no one would say that Juan Carlos Ferrero is nervous, he is. Seeing Carlos play has this effect on him: whether he is winning or losing, it quickens his pulse and pauses his thoughts. And Juan Carlos is one who usually thinks, perhaps even thinks too much - that's why Carlos is both his ruin and his salvation.

Carlos, of course, doesn’t know a thing about this. Juan Carlos knows (almost) everything about the boy’s private life, but the boy knows nothing about his coach’s. Given the professional relationship between them, it's fine as it is. 

"I have to tell you something," Carlos says, after a few minutes of hustle and bustle and stifled curses behind the counter, “but first try this.” 

He cautiously approaches Juan Carlos, holding a cocktail glass that’s bubbling deep green with a mint scent. 

“Yes," Juan Carlos says, glancing at it. "But what is this supposed to be?"

Carlos laughs at his distrustful and resigned expression. "Mojito, of course."

"It's not very clever of you to try to poison me with witnesses around."

Carlos stops laughing only to wink at him. "No, it's not. But, in case you didn’t notice, there is no one around right now. We are alone."

Juan Carlos forces himself to keeps his eyes on the glass and breathe. Sometimes Carlos - this kid - says stuff, and you can never know if he really means the subtext in his own words or if he just throws them out randomly, without thinking about the effects they may have on others. On him, for example. 

Juan Carlos swirls the straw inside the glass several times - first in one direction, then in the other. He tastes a sip, swallows, then puts it back down. The end of the straw dangles over the rim of the glass, like a little sad head.

Carlos' gaze is fixed on him, open and direct - unescapable. 

"Well, it does taste like Mojito," Juan Carlos hears his own voice say, as it came from very afar.

Carlos nods - barely a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I want to tell you something," he repeats, this time a little more fiercely than before.

“Let me guess," Juan Carlos interjects, before taking a second sip. His heart beats frantically, because he knows he can’t play for time forever. ”It’s either Australia or Jannik."

Carlos looks puzzled this time. 

“Neither," he says. "I wanted to talk to you about Novak, actually." 

Juan Carlos stares at him. 

“…Djokovic?” 

Well, he’s the only Novak he knows, isn’t he? Good Lord, what does he have to do with the boy now? 

Suddenly Juan Carlos tastes too little alcohol in his Mojito. He needs more. 

“I-I think he’s just… incredible,” Carlos murmurs, eyes down. 

Silence. The boy slowly looks up and meets Juan Carlos’ gaze. 

That’s when Juan Carlos realizes that the catastrophe has just begun. 

*

By the beginning of Roland Garros, Juan Carlos' knee is back to working properly and he himself is back in his place by Carlos’ side. But his mind is not - on the contrary, it has been particularly troubled since the beginning of the year, and that’s because of Carlos, obviously. 

Yet, there is good news. In fact, despite the defeats in Miami and Madrid, Carlos seems to have overcome his post-Wimbledon and Australian Open blues and is now back on track, ready to ride the wave again. His roaring laughter now fills the ears of Juan Carlos and everyone around him, and it's a pleasure to hear him chatting almost non-stop at breakfast when everyone else is still too sleepy to tell him to cut it out already.

Juan Carlos, whose sensitive antennae can detect the slightest change in Carlitos' aura before anyone else can, has taken note of his mood swing with detachment, like a true professional, without giving too much to joy or self-satisfaction - even if he knows he has played a fundamental role in it, through daily encouragements and hard work. 

The real challenge, now, is to try to make it last through the summer, dragging it from the Parisian clay to the grass courts in London. It won't be easy - it never is - but Juan Carlos trusts his boy.

And his trust seems to be well placed. 

Carlos wins Roland Garros and Wimbledon - and that’s as good as it gets. Juan Carlos breathes out a deep sigh of relief. The anxiety and the doubts he’s had about Carlos’ emotional stability since the beginning of the year start to fade away. Maybe he really worried over nothing. He’s starting to think that the problem is another, that he expects too much of the boy and that is no good. Hence, every time he’s afraid he’s putting too much pressure on Carlos, he forces himself to take a step back and wait.

Give him time, give him space. 

To him, Carlos is like a seedling that needs the right amount of sunlight and water to sprout. Every day is a struggle to find the balance between excessive care and the risk of neglecting his basic needs. Juan Carlos is good at this, actually - a true master at keeping himself at the right distance, not to suffocate him with his attentions, but never to ignore his distress signals.  

But this balance is far from being solid: in reality, it began to break the day Carlos dropped by in Villena after the disaster in Australia and made that confession about Novak Djokovic. Juan Carlos cannot honestly ignore what Carlos told him; so, the relationship between them has changed imperceptibly since then. He can recall that his antennae immediately raised at the mere mention of Djokovic’s name, and rightly so: in fact, you can smell imminent danger around Novak wherever he wanders.

Juan Carlos feels appalled - and also a little betrayed. Carlos used to trust him and his words, especially those about Novak Djokovic, and obediently stayed away from the Serb for a very long time, but more and more in the last year the two have inexplicably become closer and finally bonded. Carlos basically has removed himself from the protective orbit of his coach to delve into the Serb’s self-destructive one. Juan Carlos believes that something must have happened to make him change his mind so radically about Novak, but Carlos does not say a word about it, and Juan Carlos is left with only hypotheses and inferences - one more horrible than the other. In addition, the fierceness with which Carlitos stands up for Novak when they talk about him means that every time it happens the tones heat up and the discussion almost ends up in a quarrel.

"You're prejudiced against him, that’s it,” Carlos says one of those times, frowning at Juan Carlos' icy reaction to yet another casual mention of Novak. "He's not that bad as you think. He just wants to win more than anything else... Is this necessarily a bad thing?"

Juan Carlos stares at him deadly serious. "Make no mistake, Charlie. What you think you know about Novak Djokovic is not the truth."

“Prejudice is not the truth either," Carlos blurts out, gloomy.

"Prejudice arises from knowledge of the facts," Juan Carlos retorts. "I was personally there when Novak said and did things that-"

"We can all make mistakes, though," Carlos jumps in, lighting up. "Especially when you are very young. You tell me yourself all the time. These things you talk about... they happened years ago, didn't they? Maybe he has changed. Why still judge him for things that are long dead and gone?"

Because people don't change, damn it! Juan Carlos would like to yell, but he bites back the words.  It’s not his job, on the other hand, to shape Carlos' opinion on Djokovic or whoever for him. But his task is certainly to warn the boy of the risk he runs. 

After all, everybody knows the truth about Novak.

Juan Carlos’ heart bleeds to know what big trouble Carlos is getting into, and that nothing he can do could make a real difference. No way: Carlitos just won’t listen to him - all of Juan Carlos' warnings only risk annoying him instead. He can’t save the boy. 

And then his heart also bleeds for himself - he won’t hide it, he feels breathless with jealousy. Because watching the wonder in Carlos' eyes and voice, mixed with admiration, mixed with something else, while he was talking about Novak, simply darkened the sky of Juan Carlos’ thoughts with stormy clouds. Now, every match between Carlos and Novak is a thorn in Juan Carlos' side for more than one reason, an excruciating pain that takes his breath away for a moment - at least until he remembers how to do it properly and slowly starts again. 

*

Since all his efforts so far have been in vain, Juan Carlos has to think of a different strategy - something else, anything, to keep Carlos away from Novak. 

He racks his brains every day over it - sometimes even at night. He becomes stricter with Carlos,  makes him train more than ever - perhaps he hopes that, by doing so, the boy will be too tired in the end to keep letting his own thoughts revolve around their new baleful center. 

Novak seems to attract Carlos even more than Jannik does. And while Juan Carlos immediately welcomed the chemistry between Carlitos and the Italian kid as a nice thing, he just can't do the same with Novak. Maybe because he knows him, he knows him well - therefore, he can't be under any illusions about him. 

Prejudice arises from knowledge of the facts.

People don't change.

Juan Carlos counts on Jannik to keep Carlos distracted. It seems to work for a while: the two are more close-knit than ever, they look for each other, find each other, love to spend time together. Although the challenges on court are more heated than ever, the rivalry does not seem to affect the solidity of their relationship; it reminds Juan Carlos a bit of what happened between Roger and Rafa - he sincerely hopes, however, that it will end very differently from Roger and Rafa’s story: two different marriages, two different families and a life spent trying to keep their distance and never being able to be far enough away from each other. 

Juan Carlos keeps watching over Carlos - without ever interfering in his life. Like a person of interest but not an accomplice, nor an antagonist. He lets him do what he wants, secretly crossing his fingers. 

But it’s not the right time, apparently, for young love. Something seems to be holding Jannik back and Carlos is frustrated by not getting enough from him. Incompatibility of character, perhaps. Juan Carlos does not investigate further - Carlos does not want to talk about it. He only knows that his protégé's obsession with Novak returns stronger than ever, after a few months in which it seemed to have subsided.

In reality, the “Novak danger" has always been there, lurking in the shadows. He’s just like the bad seeds, Juan Carlos thinks, the ones that never die - he thinks so without any sense of guilt.

When not even Jannik card works - and Ibiza doesn't work, and neither do the discos or the compliments on social media or the thousand people he introduces to Carlos; when not even tennis is enough to keep Carlitos' mind away - Juan Carlos loses his temper. The situation is more serious than expected. What is this kind of magic that Carlos can't stay away from Novak? He talks about Novak all the time,  calls him up, looks for any of his updates on social media and everywhere. 

A curse. This unhealthy, malevolent thing can only be a curse, since it seems to be so unbreakable. 

It’s happened more than once that Juan Carlos woke up in the middle of the night and found Carlos awake too, in front of the tv, watching Grand Slam matches played by Novak, one after the other in a row, for hours at end. Not only the ones Novak played against his two historical rivals, but also against Murray, and Del Potro, and pretty much anybody else. Wherever the name Djokovic is, Carlos is there too. He’s catching up with everything, at a portentous speed, with frightening hunger. He seems to want to fill the time between his own birth and the moment he met Novak in person, like someone who studies the enemy before making their move. Except that his attitude - blundering veneration and all - is more that of a lover than that of a rival. 

Juan Carlos is desperate. It no longer seems just a harmless crush, by now. The boy completely lost his mind. And Juan Carlos risks losing it too - out of worry and jealousy. 

And it would be terrible just the way it is because, like any love upheaval, it draws Carlos’ energy and attention from what should be the most important thing to him - tennis, and winning. But it's even worse than that - it’s even tragic because this isn’t about Jannik Sinner, or Sasha Zverev. This is about Novak Djokovic.

At one point Juan Carlos thinks of turning to Rafa for help. 

Turning to Rafa really means laying it all on the line. 

"You know I can't do that,” Rafa says. “I can’t go to Novak and tell him to stop.”

Yes, Juan Carlos knows very well that he can’t -  as well as he can't ask Rafa for something like that in the first place. So he slightly changes his request. 

“Carlos trusts you blindly, you are his idol. If you tell him to stay away from Novak, he will. Only if you tell him." 

"You must love the kid very much if you’re asking me this," Rafa muses aloud, smiling a little tense smile.

"That's true," Juan Carlos says. "I love him very much. Why can't you do that?"

He knows the answer, but asks anyway.

Rafa reflects for a few seconds. "Because it wouldn't be fair," he says finally. "I can't do what you expect of me, Juanki. I will not talk to Carlos, I will not speak against Novak. I would’ve had a lot of opportunities in life, you know, but there's a reason why I never did."

"Yes," Juan Carlos says, with a bitter smile. "I thought so, but I'm stunned anyway. No one can really understand you, Rafa.” After a brief pause, he continues: “Does Novak know that you are his most unsuspected, unexpected ally?"

Rafa laughs, shakes his head. "If you want to call me that..."

"You should tell him, seriously. He would like to know."

"No," Rafa replies, with the resigned wisdom of someone who’s known better all along. "He wouldn't like it. It would just piss him off. Because it's not enough for him. Not if it comes from me."

Juan Carlos slowly and quietly absorbs the subtle implications in Rafa's words, then sighs, shaking his head in turn. 

"It's all a big mess..."

“Yes, it's all a big mess.”

They fall silent. Actually, Juan Carlos understands Rafa a little: it is difficult - almost impossible - for an honest person to speak ill of someone who they know loves them. That's why Rafa will never say anything mean about Novak - he prefers to keep quiet, rather than lie (or tell the truth, depending on the point of view). He prefers not to answer questions about him. No one has ever heard him utter a single word against the Serb, even at those times when the world was raging against him.

Juan Carlos never delved into what really happened, behind the scenes, between Rafa and Novak and Roger - starting in the roaring times when his own star was beginning to decline to make way for their rise - but the overall picture does not escape him. He is an attentive one. He speaks little, observes a lot. As quick in his wits as he was on the court - Mosquito, they called him, for his lean physique and great agility. 

"Trust the boy," is Rafa's last piece of advice. "Let him fend for himself. In my opinion, he can do it." 

Juan Carlos remains silent, pondering, his face still overshadowed. It's not that he doesn't trust Carlos or his mental and emotional resources – it's Novak he doesn't trust. 

He will break Carlos’ heart.

Rafa seems to read his mind. "He's not going to break his heart," he says, shaking his head energetically.

How can he be so sure? 

"Because he knows what it means, to be heartbroken," Rafa says, and his voice barely flickers. 

Juan Carlos looks away from Rafa’s face - which has become too naked, too exposed. He respectfully keeps at distance from that unwanted, unexpected vulnerability.

"Don't do to others what you wouldn't want done to yourself," Juan Carlos murmurs, almost to himself, staring into space. "Do you think it applies to Novak too? Do you trust him?" 

"I know him," Rafa simply says. "I could be wrong, of course, you can always be wrong when it comes to Novak. But I'm pretty sure his goal isn't to make Carlos suffer. Not voluntarily, at least."

Juan Carlos doesn't know what makes him feel less comforted about all this story - the "not voluntarily", perhaps, is the worst thing of all. 

“So you’re basically saying that I just have to sit and watch," he says, a little harshly. He clears his throat. "Easy to say."

“And hard to do, I know. But there's really not much else you can do, right?"

Juan Carlos sighs. He puts his hands in his pockets, straightens his shoulders and slowly, very slowly, turns to meet Rafa's gaze which is now relieved of feelings of guilt.

Who doesn’t have those, Juan Carlos suddenly thinks, looking at him. He, Rafa, Roger - they all experienced that emotion. It’s human nature. Perhaps, if someone squeezed Novak’s soul, they might even get a few drops of guilt out of him. But, in Novak's case, Juan Carlos reserves the right to doubt. To Juan Carlos, Novak is always guilty until proven otherwise. Whatever Rafa says. 

"I'll try to follow your advice," Juan Carlos says, interrupting his own train of thought. "You know Novak better than I do, for sure. As for Carlos, he is a hard head, but he is not stupid. I suppose as soon as he realizes he’s not getting what he wants, he will choose himself over Novak. That's what I hope, at least." He remains silent for a moment, then smiles. "He reminds me a bit of you, sometimes, you know? When you popped up out of nowhere, twenty years ago, and claimed the dominion of clay. I tolerated it just because you were Spanish like me."

Rafa laughs, the crinkles around his eyes getting deeper as they do every time he is sincerely amused. “I remember. It was not easy for me, anyway. However, in my opinion, Carlos and I are quite different, contrary to what people say." 

"The problem is that the two of you are still similar enough for someone, apparently,” Juan Carlos says softly. 

The two men exchange a glance. Rafa is the first to look away. "You haven't changed a bit, Juanki. Even twenty years ago, you were the one who understood everything immediately but kept quiet, only to explode into point-blank phrases when no one was expecting you to."

"You haven't changed either, Rafa," Juan Carlos says. "You're always an awfully decent guy."

"I've heard that too," Rafa says, with a slight smile. "It seems to be my worst flaw, according to many."

"Well, someone has to be the good guy in this story, right?" 

It’s a complicated story, and Juan Carlos is only happy to play a marginal role in it, to leave to others - to Roger and Rafa and Novak and soon Carlos too - the task of writing the most important chapters. He’s not attention-seeking, and he’s never aspired to anything bigger.

Yet, ever since he met Carlos, Juan Carlos has been afraid to find out how the story ends.

*

When Carlos loses the Olympic gold to Novak, Juan Carlos prepares to deal with a second upsurge of despair from the boy. It arrives, predictably, but vanishes extraordinarily soon. 

Carlos refuses to tell him in detail how Novak’s victory party was, but Juan Carlos' famous antennas can’t be fooled. Something must have happened there, because Carlos has been acting increasingly strange since the party - plus, he’s being more and more obsessed with Novak. 

Juan Carlos will never blame himself enough for listening to Ferrer and staying with him instead of going with Carlos to Novak’s party. He did that essentially to get back at Novak - only that spiting Novak generally seems, for that sort of usual mysterious curse, to backfire on those who do it. Juan Carlos has a suspicion that, among the many things Novak knows, there may also be black magic, or voodoo. He can easily picture the Serb as pinning dolls with his own photo stuck on their face. 

Every time he realizes he’s lingering in hollow superstitions, he snaps out of it and calls himself an hopeless idiot.

He doesn’t stop testing the waters with Carlos, anyway. From time to time, he keeps on pretending to ask him random questions about the famous party evening. The only thing he manages to elicit from Carlos is that he came home after the party at the crack of dawn and went to bed right away, completely worn out. 

Since parties are thrown to let people have a blast all night long, there’s nothing weird about that. A little weirder, though, is the mysterious evasiveness with which Carlos replies in monosyllables to Juan Carlos’ messages throughout the next day.

Juan Carlos justifies him by telling himself that the boy is tired, has hardly slept and has certainly gotten drunk, because those are the things that boys usually do at parties.

Ferrer and the others Spaniards agree with him; they even tell Juan Carlos to loosen his grip on Carlos a little, because in recent times he has become more of a strict father confessor than a coach to him. Juan Carlos doesn’t deny them.  

When Carlos shows up for practice, two days after the party, Juan Carlos spots something different at the bottom of his eyes, but quickly dismisses it as just the result of his own suggestions and distrust.

In the following days, Carlos slowly returns to being what he has always been - but without ever being completely back to his true self.

Juan Carlos' antennae quiver. For him, the worst agony of all is feeling that something is wrong and not knowing what it is.

He waits until the end of the Grand Slam season to settle the doubt once and for all. Until then, every time Juan Carlos brings it up, Carlos is quick to change the subject. It seems that Juan Carlos has lost the power to extort the truth from the boy with a single glance of his own, or a mix of well-thought-out words. A wall seems to have risen between them in one day. Behind that wall, Carlos is less and less reachable, less and less knowable to him.

Juan Carlos is losing the boy, he's losing his Charlie - he doesn’t want this, but he also doesn’t know how to stop it.

One evening - they are talking on the phone - Carlos suddenly interrupts him.

"I'm going out in a few minutes," he says. "I'm going to Novak’s."

The dead silence at the other end of the line is more eloquent than a thousand words. 

Carlos sighs. “Listen, I know you don't like that I meet him, Juanki, but… I don’t want to tell you any more lies when you ask me about my plans for the evening.” After a moment of silence he adds in a whisper: “Forgive me."

Juan Carlos is still holding his breath, his eyes closed, his fist tapping softly, silently, against his forehead.

"Juanki? Are you still there?"

He has to make a great effort not to go to pieces all at once. ”Thanks for your honesty, Charlie,” he says finally. He goes through and discards, one by one, all the words that spring to his mind. "Only text me when you get home, okay?"

“Uhm… O-okay…" Carlos' voice betrays his surprise. 

Trust him, Rafa said. 

Give him time. Hold on. Be patient. That's what you've always done, isn't it? That’s the thing you do best… Well, I’m worse at what I do best, I suppose.

Nonetheless, Juan Carlos waits. He sits down and drinks tequila all evening. It’s a rather cold evening, maybe it would snow. His phone remains stubbornly silent. A truly heartbreak.

He watches one film after another on the TV. First an old French black and white movie - a tear-jerking story, incomprehensible even if he was in normal conditions - then a mediocre kind of thriller where he guesses who the killer is after the first half hour. Finally, after flipping through the channels obsessively for almost twenty minutes, he stops on a documentary about Komodo dragons. 

At this point he picks up his phone and writes to Novak - which he carefully avoided doing for months. 

“Is Carlos with you?”

Novak’s answer comes after a while - late enough to let Juan Carlos guess what kept him busy for most of the evening. He feels his bowels twist up in knots at the thought.

Carlos is fine, according to Novak. 

But is he really okay? Juan Carlos is doubtful. 

His reply, though, is cold and aseptic. He just reminds him of the following morning's appointment, nothing more. Isn’t he always like that? The one who understands everything and keeps silent, as he secretly sharpens the blade. 

He can’t sleep that night. A trill on his phone reaches him - eyes wide open, motionless as a live embalmed man under the sheets - at eight-thirteen the morning after. 

"I didn’t forget about today’s training. Nine o’clock. I’ll be there."

Juan Carlos doesn't know if he wants to hug the boy or slap him.

The first glance they exchange when they meet is the most unbearable one. They both immediately look away. Awareness and tension weigh down the air between them. Juan Carlos is too clever not to know that he has no right to say anything, to complain about anything. Worry - rather than jealousy or his own personal pain - chokes him at the moment. 

He asks no questions about the dark circles around Carlos' eyes, or the fact that he has no socks on and has to borrow them from someone before changing his shoes. Instead, he points out the dry cough that Carlos can’t hold back from time to time. 

"Do you want me to drop by the pharmacy to get you a cough syrup?"

Carlos looks at him in dismay, gasping as if Juan Carlos had just commanded him to go and be flayed alive. “Cough syrup? No, no, I'm fine." 

Juan Carlos pretends to believe him. 

They don’t talk until the end of practice. 

* 

Juan Carlos has always been one who does not fear the truth. He shares that tendency with Rafa and Ferrer - for that reason they are good friends as well as compatriots and fellow sportsmen.

When he realizes that truth won’t easily get to him, he decides he will be the one to get to the truth. He will climb over the wall and look for answers on the other side. Directly in the enemy's cave, in the lions' den. 

“You're a son of a bitch and I don't know how you dare to do what you do.”

Delete. 

“You just couldn't help yourself, could you?… He's just a boy!” 

Delete. 

“I would like to talk to you face-to-face.” 

Here, this will do. Socially acceptable, to use one of his own favorite expressions - one of those Carlos often makes fun of him about. 

This time Novak's reply is not long in coming. 

“Today I'm free around six.” 

Juan Carlos grimaces. Novak probably can’t wait to spill the beans.

“Fine. Where?”

Novak sends him the address of a bistro café that’s exactly halfway between their places. A wasted kindness, Juan Carlos sarcastically thinks. Despite his good intentions, his acrimony is sharpening minute by minute. 

By ten to six he’s already there. Novak is nowhere to be seen. Typical move. Juan Carlos smiles bitterly at himself. That’s not a challenge - and yet it is. With Novak, everything comes to that - every single time: a battle and a war. There is no way around. 

It’s like a game of chess, and it’s already begun. White goes first. 

Juan Carlos looks around. He looks at the few people sitting at the scattered tables in the cafe - looks at the white, nondescript sky outside the window. He orders a coffee and when the waiter leaves he sees Novak standing in front of the table. 

"I knew you would arrive early." 

Novak is just four minutes late. He calls the waiter back and orders a soy cappuccino. Only then does he get rid of his jacket and scarf and takes a seat on the other side of the table. Noticing Juan Carlos’ gaze fixed on him, his mouth twists mockingly. 

“I see that we can skip pleasantries… Very well. Staring at me won’t make me disappear from the face of the earth, you know?”

"I don't want you to disappear," Juan Carlos says coldly. Novak flashes him an ironic glance. "Not before you've answered my questions."

Novak rolls his eyes. He spreads his hands, then puts them on the tabletop and begins tapping his fingers on it. 

"I'll try to be exhaustive, I promise." 

Juan Carlos peers at him. There are no marks on Novak's face, no dark circles like the ones that frame Carlos' eyes. There are barely a few wrinkles, skimming the surface of his mask. Juan Carlos only stops scrutinizing him when his coffee arrives. The black liquid flickers slightly in the cup, exhaling a cloud of smoke that lazily vanishes into the air. 

"I would like to know," Juan Carlos begins, staring at his cup, "I would like to know what you are up to with Carlos."

Novak drinks his cappuccino without sugar. He turns the paddle into it to catch the thin layer of foam. "Why are you asking me and not him?" 

"You know why."

Novak snorts. "Don't start being passive-aggressive."

"Can you just answer?"

"I'm not up to anything with Carlos," Novak says flatly. "He and I, by common agreement, we are..." He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "We have a kind of… relationship, let’s call it that."

Juan Carlos is silent. 

"It's not really a relationship," Novak corrects himself. "We see each other, every now and then. We call each other up, mostly. Carlos often texts me."

"Do you reply?"

Novak looks at him almost surprised. "Of course I do. I am pleased to talk to him. He's a smart guy."

"Don't you think you're doing something wrong?" Juan Carlos' tone is icy. "Don't you feel guilty?"

Novak stares at him with wide eyes now - the quintessence of innocence.

"Guilty of what? We are both adults and aware of what we are doing. Neither of us is obliged to do anything we don't want to. Carlos is not a child, Juanki. No matter how much you don't want to admit it."

Juan Carlos ignores the personal attack. That’s another typical move by Novak. Christ, he certainly didn’t miss having to deal with him in recent years.

"Carlos is a good boy. And yes, in some respects, he can almost still be considered a child. Especially when it comes to feelings." Juan Carlos looks at his own cup, then Novak's, then finally Novak himself. "I think this infatuation he has with you has gone a little too far. And I think you know that too." 

Novak's green eyes return his gaze without blinking. "Do you think he’s in love with me?" He snorts, suppressing an incredulous chuckle. "You're wrong, Juanki. He has the hots for the redhead, not for me. With me he's just… passing the time. You can rest easy about that."

Juan Carlos' expression does not change one iota, as if Novak had not spoken at all.

"I know Carlos. He is not someone who simply passes the time." He pauses, looking for the words. "I love him, and I don't want him to suffer. That’s why I want you to stay away from him."

"You can't prevent people from suffering," Novak utters slowly. “Besides, I don't see what this has to do with me."

"If this thing between you two goes on, it will inevitably end up making him suffer. Come on, Novak," Juan Carlos suddenly bursts out, "you can bed anyone you want, just leave Carlos alone.” 

"I'm really flattered that you think so," Novak grins. “But it’s not like that. In fact, it's precisely because I can't bed who I want that-“

“I don't care about your reasons," Juan Carlos cuts him off, raising one hand. Novak's smirk deepens. "I only ask you not to ruin an innocent boy."

"He's less innocent than you think," Novak retorts. "I don't know where he learned to do certain things, but, man…"

Juan Carlos knows that is all part of Novak’ strategy - to provoke, to push him to make missteps and unforced errors. Novak's strategy is usually so effective because he guesses someone’s weaknesses at first glance and has no qualms about exploiting them. It doesn't matter if you are a saint, a martyr, the least sensitive, least proud or the most controlled person in the world - you'll end up giving in to his strategy in any case, sooner or later. 

"You're a son of a bitch, you know that, right?

Novak spreads his arms again. "What did you expect?"

Juan Carlos’ mouth twists. "Nothing, maybe just a minimum of decency on your part."

Novak looks at him intently, a smile flickering on his lips. "Don't tell me... Old Juanki is jealous, isn’t he?" 

Juan Carlos freezes. He bits his tongue, mentally reminding himself not to take the bait. He shouldn't have blurted out, anyway - by doing so, he’s just given Novak what he wanted.

“We’re not discussing my relationship with Carlos here,” he murmurs slowly. "The point is that you are taking advantage of a person who is romantically involved with you when you are not, that’s it.”

Novak rests his chin on his hand and stares at Juan Carlos. "So you think that, in this case, the one who is not romantically involved, or is less so, has the moral duty to leave and free the unlucky lover from their obsession?" 

“Yes, if they have any decency."

Novak smirks. “But this can only happen in your ideal world, Juanki. Not in the real one. In this one, we are just dirty human beings who fight each other for the last bite of bread, we are little miserable egoists who only want what makes us happy and nothing else."

Juan Carlos observes him with a vaguely disgusted expression. "Sometimes being happy means making someone else happy too."

"Instead of Mosquito, they should have nicknamed you the deacon, or Father Juanki."

"Christ, Novak, you speak like one who pretends never to have had feelings. Stop it, I don't believe it. I know the truth, anyway.” 

After all, everybody knows the truth about Novak.

"Of course you do," Novak says. He admits something only to change the subject immediately after. Flawless strategy. "So you expect me to give up on a funny, clever and passionate guy like Carlos just out of a sense of duty and moral ethics?… Forgive me but this seems to me quite a weak motivation."

Juan Carlos shakes his head. "I don't even know why I'm here talking to you. This conversation is ridiculous and completely useless. I knew it was useless from the beginning. It’s simply impossible to try to reason with you." 

"You should give this speech to Carlos, not to me. Explain to him that I am a beast and that he must keep away from me. I promise I won't do anything, anything at all, to hold him back. I'll let him be without objection, if that's what he wants." 

“But you're the older one. You’re supposed to know how things go. This is a completely new situation to him..."

"Well, it's time for him to learn, isn't it? To learn what it feels like to hit a wall and find your head broken. You can't protect him forever."

"No, I can't. But there’s no rule saying that what happened to you must happen to someone else too." 

Novak narrows his eyes imperceptibly. "How does the saying go? What does not kill you makes you stronger. I can't thank my past enough for making me who I am now. Maybe you should give Carlos the chance to grow up too, what do you think?"

"Don't sell it to me as if it were for Carlos’ good," Juan Carlos growls. "You don't care about anyone's good, least of all his."

“I care very much about Carlos, actually,” Novak says suddenly, with a gleam in his eye. "I like him and I respect him, unlike many others. I admire the purity that is in him. It is precisely because I care about him that I will not drive him away from me first. Do you think I have never wondered about that? Who would want a brat like him up their ass twenty-four hours a day? I absolutely don’t. But I know that if I push him away now, I will only fan the flames of his affection. He will see me as a challenge, something to be won back at all costs, and he will do everything to make me change my mind. On the other hand, if I give him enough time, he will understand by himself that I am not meant for him. He will get fed up and be the one to leave me, not the contrary. And this time with the certainty of not wanting back what he left behind. Do you understand?"

Juan Carlos, who has listened to him in silence throughout the speech, doesn’t answer immediately. But now there is something different in his gaze, wandering over Novak's face. Something quite unreadable, but undeniably different from what was there at the beginning of their conversation. 

"So you want me to believe that it's all a strategy, aimed at the lesser evil?" he says skeptically. "You are certainly a man of strategy, Novak, but I don't know whether to believe you or not. You could lie  in my face and have no remorse about it."

"And you're certainly not a man of faith, as far as I can see,” Novak grins. "I can't blame you for that, anyway."

“Well, I thought for a moment that if Rafa could believe you, so could I. But…” 

Novak tenses. Juan Carlos' thin lips betray not a smile, nothing at all. He lets the last sentence hang there. 

"You waited until the end to play Rafa card, didn't you?” Novak says, smiling dryly. 

Juan Carlos shrugs his shoulders. "I hoped it would be the winning one. It was the last chance left."

Novak drums his knuckles on the table. He shakes his head, vaguely amused. “So you told him. Why?" 

"Because I hoped he would talk some sense into the boy. But he wanted no part of it." Since Novak doesn’t say anything, Juan Carlos continues: "He also told me not to tell you. He said it would just piss you off.”

“He was right," Novak nods. "I'm just pissed off, right now.”

But his expression tells a different story. It takes Juan Carlos a while before he can give a name to what’s hiding under Novak’s wrath: he looks a little sad, down there, at the bottom of his soul, under all the layers that cover it. Bitter and sad. 

It’s not enough to fully convince Juan Carlos of Novak's sincerity, but it’s enough to move him to compassion. Until half an hour ago, he considered this man the worst being on the face of earth. Now he almost wants to console him, that’s why he lets out the first words that come to his mind. 

“You know, loyalty is a form of love." 

He’s the one who understands everything but keeps silent, only to explode into unexpected sentences that silence anyone else around.

Novak looks dumbfounded and speechless indeed, at least for a few seconds. Then his usual smile slowly crawls back on his face.

“Sure." He admits something only to change the subject immediately after. Proven tactic. "But loyalty can’t stand up to a good fuck, can it?” 

Checkmate.

Juan Carlos breathes heavily through his nose, his nostrils quivering. 

"I should have expected it from you."

"Honestly, I hope the boy gets tired of me as late as possible." 

“Oh, man, you really are the worst."

Novak stands up from his chair. He looks mockingly at Juan Carlos as he leaves a bill on the table next to what’s left of his cappuccino. 

"It's all a matter of strategy," he says, tapping a finger on his temple. "And I'm one of the best, strategy-wise, right?" 

Juan Carlos is forced to admit to himself that yes, Novak is right - he’s definitely one of the best. 

He sits still in front of his untouched coffee, watching Novak put his jacket back on and wrap the scarf around his neck. “Loyalty is a form of love," Novak repeats thoughtfully, looking up at him with his gloves in one hand. “Nice one, I like it. I'll think about it, Juanki, I promise. But you promise me something else, now: when you see Rafa, tell him that I thank him for his loyalty, but that's not enough for me." 

"Why don't you go tell him yourself," Juan Carlos grumbles, but Novak is already gone. He slips through the door and leaves the cafe behind without looking back. Juan Carlos immediately loses sight of him in the comings and goings of people on the sidewalk. Suddenly the phone ring makes him jump on the chair, startled. 

It’s Ferrer. 

“Hey, where you at? Charlie is here looking for you, he wants to talk to you."

Seriously crappy timing.

"I'm playing a game," Juan Carlos says, absent-mindedly. "Just made my move and lost.”

Ferrer remains silent for a moment, as if uncertain about the interpretation to be given to Juan Carlos' words.

"Who are you playing against?" he inquires eventually. 

"Novak Djokovic.” 

"Oh, well," Ferrer says. "That explains everything."

Well, I swear that I don’t have a gun

No, I don’t have a gun 

No, I don’t have a gun

No, I don’t have a gun

End