Chapter Text
It's been months since Carlos last spoke about Rafa.
Carlos and Novak still see each other - they get together, they have fun, then each goes back to their own lives. Nothing new under the sun.
Novak thinks he's gotten away with it and can start to breathe a sigh of relief.
But the thing is, there is undoubtedly something new - something different and unusual - about Carlos these days. Starting with his performance on court.
Carlos has always been hit-and-miss - much more than Jannik. He’s more emotional, more often prey to his own mood swings than the clinical Italian boy (who, according to some, is increasingly reminiscent of Novak, tennis-wise and mentally speaking - but Novak himself does not entirely agree on that).
Carlos happens to lose, for inexplicable reasons, matches that are well within his reach. Of course all tennis players are dead tired by that time of the year - they drag on, basically limping, at the end of the season - but Carlos seems thoroughly exhausted, the most exhausted of them all. There is no apparent reason to explain why he suddenly falls ill so often, he who has always been anything but in poor health in all his life. Something seems to be undermining him from within - and it's not bacteria, for sure.
The first one who suspects that there’s something more to it is Juan Carlos, of course. The one who, when Carlos happens to be at the Academy of Villena, is everything to him - his mother and father, his brother, friend, coach, his bodyguard and his confessor.
(Juan Carlos would die to be something more, for Carlos, but he can't - he knows he can’t).
It happens one day, after Carlos throws a forehand into the net - a very common mistake, nothing absurd or particularly demeaning, even more so since it’s just a friendly practice session against Pablo Martínez. After the mistake, however, Carlos truly overreacts. He lets out a scream towards the sky and then bends over and smashes his racket to the ground - two, three, four, seven times in a row, until the stringbed is dented and completely twisted. Then he straightens up and stands still, panting hard and staring at the racket handle in his hand, as if he had no idea what happened to it. When he looks up, in the silence that has suddenly fallen all around, Juan Carlos and Pablo are both staring at him dumbfounded and holding their breath. They look completely shocked.
Carlos meets Juan Carlos' gaze for a split second - he blinks it away and crouches down, sitting on his heels. Then, curling up on himself, he takes his head in his hands and bursts into tears.
“Por Dios," Juan Carlos hisses under his breath, temporarily paralyzed by a kind of premonitory terror. The towel he’s holding in his hand falls to the ground as he looks with bug eyes at the scene.
Meanwhile, Pablo is already rushing towards Carlos from the opposite side of the court.
"Charlie, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?"
Pablo grabs Carlos by the shoulder. He takes one of Carlos’ hands in his own, turns it upwards to examine first the palm, then the back. He does the same with Carlos’ other hand. It is natural that the first thing that comes to mind is that those are tears of physical pain.
But Carlos’ hands are just okay. Everything else isn’t.
And then, after a few seconds of shock, Juan Carlos is there, ready again to suit up in his armor and save the day - save the boy. Even if Carlos keeps his face downwards, as if he wanted to hide it from their gaze, the large tears dripping down his cheeks, extinguishing in the red clay under his feet, are more than eloquent. As soon as Juan Carlos approaches, Pablo steps back to make way for him.
Juan Carlos slowly kneels in front of Carlos - he grits his teeth as he tries to ignore the creaking sounds of his own knees - and cautiously puts a hand on Carlos’ shoulder.
"Charlie, hey," he whispers, leaning over to him and trying to peer at the boy’s face from below. "It's just a warm-up. It's your first unforced error in an hour. What's wrong with you?"
Carlos doesn't look up, he doesn't stop crying. It’s really awful to see him like that, with his arms around his knees, rocking desperately on his heels like a small child. Juan Carlos’ heart squeezes hard at the sight. He waves his hand to Pablo, asking him for some privacy, and the boy nods and walks away, shooting one last concerned glance at Carlos.
It’s all up to Juan Carlos, now. He knows what to do - it’s his job, after all.
So he lowers his voice to little more than a whisper - still squatting on his aching knees, he does nothing but coo soft words of encouragement and reassurance at the boy. One hand wrapped around his shoulder, he doesn’t rush Carlos to stop, he does nothing but, actually, wait.
Between sobs, the boy listens to Juan Carlos’ familiar voice soothing him. That has always been the voice of support and reason, the voice speaking of unconditional affection for him, even in anger. Carlos can't help but let that voice drip into him until he goes off, letting out his pent-up emotions.
"I'll never be like him, Juanki!” he finally spills out, shaking to the last fiber of his body. “I'll never be like him!”
Juan Carlos is left speechless for a moment - he can’t make sense of Carlos’ words, but the heartfelt pitch in the boy’s voice is making him feel more and more worried. After one second of absolute stillness, trying to figure out what Carlos means, he puts both hands on the boy’s shoulders and, shaking him firmly but not too hard, says: "What are you talking about, Charlie? Who are you talking about, damn it?”
“I’m talking about Rafa!" Carlos shouts, still sobbing and fleeing Juan Carlos’ gaze. "I've been breaking rackets for months, one after the other. While he... he has never broken even one, never! In more than twenty years of career! How did he do it, Juanki? How does he have such control? All I wanted was to be like him, but I'll never be like him. Never!"
Juan Carlos would find it hard to believe his ears if he didn't have Carlos right in front of him, saying those things out loud. The boy looks like he’s caught in the midst of a nervous breakdown, apparently inconsolable, and Juan Carlos just didn’t expect that. In fact, no matter how sensitive and perceptive he can be about the boy and everything that concerns him, and despite all his ability to line up and straighten things up when it comes to Carlos, Rafa is nonetheless the last person that Juan Carlos expects to be behind the boy's sudden breakdown.
Juan Carlos briefly thinks of Novak. Yes, it would be all too easy for him to blame Novak for anything bad happening to Carlos, given his relationship with the boy - and given what Novak is, actually. But things seem different this time.
"How did Rafa do it?” Carlos asks again, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyeballs and shaking his head. "How did he never lose control, even when things didn't go his way? What's the trick?"
Saying so, he drops his hands and raises his head - his red, swollen eyes stick like splinters into Juan Carlos’ eyes, leaving him short of breath because of the unintentional violence of that gaze. It is vaguely accusatory, indeed, as if to say “you’re my coach, why didn't you teach me that trick?".
A subtle voice starts digging its way inside Juan Carlos, suggesting that they may not be just talking about tennis, here. And this - this is also Juan Carlos’ job: reading between the lines.
“There’s no trick, Charlie," Juan Carlos slowly says. Carlos snorts and averts his eyes from him. Juan Carlos goes on. “Rafa got a very strict upbringing. You know all the stuff about Toni, don't you? Rafa developed a great ability to control himself and ignore his emotions on the court, especially the negative ones, as he believed that negative emotions served no purpose except to damage his game. And since he wanted to win, he kept them far away from his mind. So he didn't need to break rackets. A missing point, the very moment he missed it, was already very far from him, completely erased from his mind. That's how you do it, Charlie, I’ve already told you: you forget the last point, you focus on the next one."
Carlos is looking straight at Juanki, now. He has stopped crying. "But I feel so mad, sometimes. So frustrated. I'm such an idiot, I miss some very easy shots. I lose games, I can't be consistent..."
"Making mistakes is part of the process," Juan Carlos decrees. "You're not a machine, Charlie, you are a human being. Besides, you are still in your early twenties, you have plenty of time ahead to improve. What else are you expecting to do, in the next ten years of your career, if not improving?”
"Fifteen," Carlos corrects him. "Fifteen years of my carrier, at least - if I don't get injured, of course. Rafa retired at thirty-eight, after all. I’m not retiring myself any earlier.”
So saying, Carlos stands up, rubbing his hands to shake off the dirt. Juan Carlos looks up at him, still on his knees, squinting his eyes in the sun.
"Why all this competition with Rafa, all of a sudden? You never had it even during the last years of his career."
Juan Carlos gets up too. He feels his knees stiff with pain and a grimace of annoyance flashes on his face.
Carlos runs the back of his hand over his eyes, erasing the last tracks of his tears, and does not answer.
"It's not just about tennis, is it?" Juan Carlos insists. “It’s something personal.”
It’s not a question. Carlos almost feels like squirming away from Juan Carlos’ inquiring gaze, but it nails him to the spot.
Sometimes Carlos would like to have a coach who is less empathetic, less perceptive than Juan Carlos - a coach from whom he can hide his inner turmoils. He would like not to be an open book to him all the time, or feel constantly under scrutiny.
"No," the boy finally admits, reluctantly. "It's not just tennis.” Then he adds, blazingly: “And it's also your fault, Juanki, if you ask me."
Juan Carlos looks suddenly hurt - you can read it in his eyes. He is hurt and bewildered, so much so that he instinctively takes a half step back, while his angular face loses color for a moment.
"Do you remember when we had a fight, a few months ago?" Carlos continues, “and you said those things about Rafa and Novak? Well. Since then, I can't get those bloody words of yours out of my head."
Rafa and Novak? Juan Carlos quickly reviews in his mind the last quarrels he had with the boy - which are by no means few, especially after the last Olympics - and everything he may have said about Rafa and Novak. Only one can be the conversation in question, at least as far as he remembers.
“You mean," he begins, hesitantly, "that time when you were late again for training and I asked you for an explanation and you told me that you had been with Novak and I said..."
"And you said," Carlos recites, word for word, staring at him, "don't delude yourself, boy. Novak is only living a second youth with you, the one he would have liked to have with Rafa. In their day, they were much closer than anyone thought. Very close, if you know what I mean. And I mean - Novak loves him, it will always and only be Rafa for him.”
Juan Carlos blushes violently, his eyes bugging out with shock. He automatically takes off his cap and holds it in one hand, running the other through his hair while staring blankly at the ground.
"I shouldn't have told you," he says in an undertone, almost to himself. "At least, not that way… I’m sorry. It-it wasn't nice of me."
Carlos is staring at him with an unusually harsh expression on his face that makes him look more adult, almost intimidating - as if he were the coach and Juan Carlos the rebel pupil.
"You should have apologized months ago. If I hadn't brought this up again you wouldn't have said a word about it..."
"Of course I wouldn’t. I forgot about it the very moment I said it,” Juan Carlos retorts defensively. "And I believed you had done the same. I was pissed, and I didn’t think my words hurt you so much. However, it was not an uplifting thing to say for a coach, and for this I apologize again, okay?”
"Not only was it not uplifting, but it was also a fucking lie."
When Juan Carlos doesn't answer, Carlos takes a step towards him. For some reason, he looks angrier and angrier with each passing minute. Like someone who’s not getting what they really want.
"It's a lie, I know," he insists. "I asked Novak. He told me the whole story. Maybe there's a bit of a grudge on your part, Juanki, isn’t there?"
Juan Carlos narrows his eyes, bites his tongue. Here he goes - Carlos turning so quickly from being a helpless baby to bitching at Juan Carlos in a way that makes the man want to hit him, if only he wasn’t his pupil. Since he can’t do that, Juan Carlos abruptly turns on his heels and begins to walk briskly towards the locker room. He’s fuming with rage and bitterness.
After a few seconds, he hears the thud of Carlos' footsteps chasing him.
"Hey!", the boy calls after him. "What's wrong with you now? Juanki!”
Juan Carlos doesn’t stop. It’s hard to behave like a coach and not just like a man in maddening situations like that. If Juanki only listened to his own wrath right now, he would stop, turn around, grab the boy by the back of his neck and slap some sense into him. Vigorously and repeatedly.
Until he fucking knows his place again.
But that wouldn’t be appropriate, given Juan Carlos’ role. In any case, the right thing to do is not to run away either.
So Juan Carlos stops in his tracks and takes a breath, clenching his hands into fists. Only when he’s sure he can keep his emotions under check he slowly turns to Carlos, who has also stopped a few steps away and looks at him, puzzled but still angry.
"I don't know if it's a lie or not and I don't even care," Juan Carlos says softly, coldly. "In any case, I shouldn't have said it precisely because I know nothing about the relationship between Rafa and Novak or what Novak thinks. I don't talk to him and I don't even know him that well. It was really a foolish thing to say, I'm sorry. I totally lost it. You really make me lose it sometimes, Charlie, you know?”
Carlos lowers his gaze just for one second - just for one second he looks a bit regretful and shameful, but then he looks up again, peering at Juan Carlos’ face as if he were looking for a hint of lies on it. But he finds none.
Juan Carlos is sincere, indeed. He doesn't know where his own infamous words came from - he would just punch himself in the head now for saying them so lightly, without considering the possible consequences on Carlos’ feelings. Juan Carlos doesn't know exactly what happened between Rafa and Nole - no one ever spoke about it openly, not even in the locker room, especially with Roger involved, - but a certain instinct always drew him towards a conclusion that’s very similar to the one he unfortunately let slip with the boy.
However, he knows that he had no right to bring up that topic with Carlos. Absolutely no right.
As for Novak's intentions, however, and as Novak himself confessed the last time that he and Juan Carlos spoke face-to-face, there’s nothing good in sight for Carlos. But it's not up to Juan Carlos to tell the boy - as much as he loves Carlos as well as any of his children, he doesn't have that right either.
I can’t do a fucking thing, basically. Just stand here and listen to this kid spew insults at me while I’m just trying to protect him.
Juan Carlos doesn't expect Carlos to apologize for driving him crazy all the time - and, sometimes, for frankly disrespecting him, like he’s doing now.
You weren’t like that, once - before you met Novak. He changed you.
Again, Juan Carlos believes the Serb is a bad, bad influence on Carlos. That’s why he’s become so restless and annoying lately.
But even so, he doesn’t expect the boy to say, with a certain insolence, rubbing salt into the wound:
"You always told me that if you don't know the truth it's better to keep your mouth shut, Juanki. So, what is that? The old Do as I say, not as I do?”
Once again, Juan Carlos blushes at those words like a guilty child. This is definitely the worst version of Charlie boy he has experienced in a while. Carlos usually tends to get arrogant when he’s very angry - but since Juan Carlos no longer hides his own dislike for Novak, Carlos has even become ruthless with him. He seems he’s acting foolish just to provoke Juan Carlos and elicit some reaction from him. Juan Carlos’ patience is wearing thin - no wonder words betrayed him that time he told Carlos about Novak and Rafa.
“Anyway I'll tell you, it's a plain and simple lie, from beginning to end,” Carlos repeats, driving Juan Carlos’ attention back to their current conversation.
Juan Carlos has to hold his tongue again so as not to burst into a sarcastic, nasty laugh.
"Did Novak tell you that?"
"Yes." Carlos looks at him - openly and defiantly now. It’s in those moments that the child not-yet-an-adult comes out, the child hidden inside the body of a man, with the muscles and the strength of a man but not as much maturity. "Do you want to know what he said?"
"No," Juan Carlos says, shaking his head slowly. He’s again the adult between them two - resigned, aware, stoic. All the rage is gone. “What matters is that he reassured you."
"He did."
"So why did you have that breakdown, just now? It doesn't seem like Novak’s reassurances have done much, no?”
Juan Carlos couldn't resist baiting him - Carlos' naivety almost makes him angry, at times.
He sees the boy hesitate. It takes so little to demolish Carlos’ beliefs - Juan Carlos trembles with anger at the thought of how easy it could be for Novak to manipulate the boy, especially taking advantage of the sexual influence he has over him. When it’s about Carlos it’s always Novak’s fault, to Juanki - even when it’s not.
Carlos' parted lips tremble imperceptibly - a sign of an impending outburst. Oh, Juan Carlos knows him so well by now he can anticipate almost his every move.
"I wish I could believe him. I tried to, at first - it even seemed to work at the time. But then... I don't know, I don't know what happened to me. There was something that just didn't add up - in each of Rafa's silences about Novak, in their cautious keeping at a distance in recent times... I started watching their matches on tv again and again, looking for something between the glances, behind the words, the gestures. From the first match they played to their longest final, that of 2012 in Australia… The way Novak hugged Rafa at the net, even if only for a few seconds - and it’s Rafa the one who looked more detached between the two, the one who walked away first… And then I thought back to what Novak told me once - that only against Rafa he would not feel pain in defeat - and that is true, and that must mean something, given the type of bad loser he usually is. It's not just the rivalry. There’s something else between them, I know. ”
Carlos pauses - his eyes look haunted, as if he’s terrified by his own thoughts. He’s back to being the scared boy in need of reassurance. Juan Carlos has to make an effort to prevent himself from rushing to the boy, this time not to beat him up but just to hug him and let him rest his head on his shoulder.
"I tried not to think about it, Juanki," Carlos whispers, "but I can’t help it. I keep brooding over it every day. I don't let it show with Novak when he calls me, when we see each other - but I'm not okay. I am not fucking okay. I don't know if he has some hints, I think he’s just choosing not to ask me questions first. But it's your fault - it’s the fault of all of you who have always told me not to trust him. You have been repeating that to me since I played in the Juniores championship and you basically raised me on bread and mistrust. Again and again and again, I seem to hear the words even in my sleep now: don’t - trust - Novak - Djokovic.”
"We just tried to protect you, that's all," Juan Carlos says dully. "Or at least to warn you. But, apparently, it was of no use. It's true when they say that you have to go through some things firsthand to be able to understand how it feels."
"Did you say those words to hurt me?" Carlos' gaze digs a sore wound into Juanki's chest. "Did you say those things about Rafa and Novak just to take revenge on me, for not listening to you? Did you?”
Juan Carlos shakes his head, looking at him sadly and fondly. "No, absolutely, believe me. I never wanted to hurt you, I just wanted to open your eyes, Charlie. It was one last ditch attempt to make you realize what you were doing, but I failed. I admit. Charlie… what are you going to do now?"
Carlos looks at him - the hysteria and uncertainty seem to have suddenly disappeared from his face. Now he looks cold-blooded, and more determined than ever. His moods swings are so quick that Juan Carlos is at a loss for words.
"I want to know the truth,” Carlos says. "Novak may be lying to me, and you don't know a thing about what really happened. You’re just making speculations because you're jealous - and who knows what else."
Juan Carlos takes that last blow stoically, with barely a grimace on his face - but his legs are shaking.
"So? What do you want to do?"
"I want to talk to Rafa," Carlos says resolutely - there’s not even a shadow of indecision in his gaze now. "Can you help me get through to him, please?"
Juan Carlos looks at him with his mouth open. The boy is back to being what Juanki has not seen for a while - focused on the goal and relentless, his eyes dry and burning with anger. He does resemble now what everybody in the locker room generally calls him: the beast.
Juan Carlos wonders if what he has been waiting for and fearing all along is finally happening - if through obsession, pain and mistrust the sweet, gullible boy Carlos is becoming a tougher man. Growth is such a wondrous, worrying and yet inevitable process - a metamorphosis, and a risk. What was there at the beginning may no longer exist at the end.
Juan Carlos knows that he’s going to pay the price for that. But then again, he can do nothing but lay back and let everything happen.
I’m gonna miss your innocence, Carlos. And you’re gonna miss it too.
“Yes, I’ll call Rafa for you. Let’s see what he says.”
*
Jesus Christ, what a mess. I fucked up bigtime. And since it's my fault, now it's up to me to try to sort it out… Jesus Christ, how should I tell Rafa this? What do I tell him?!
Juan Carlos waited a whole week - one the hardest weeks of his life so far - before finally making up his mind and a few more days to muster the courage and finally make that call.
He’s now dialing Rafa’s number with shaky fingers. He waits, pressing the phone against his ear. He walks back and forth in his sun-drenched living room like a caged animal. He sent everyone away, telling them he wanted to be alone. Through the French window opened on the garden he hears the distant yet so familiar thuds of rackets hitting balls. He turns his back to the outside, bringing a hand to his left temple which is starting to hurt - he always gets migraine when he’s particularly stressed out.
Yes, he thinks - this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever gotten into.
He was an idiot, a perfect idiot - and now he is paying the consequences of his own foolishness. Carlos can really make him lose his mind, sometimes, but this cannot be a justification for his own thoughtlessness - not when he is the adult and responsible one, or at least he is supposed to be.
He thinks about that while the phone rings out. Juan Carlos doesn't even know where Rafa is right now. The media have lost sight of him for a while, after his retirement. Feli may know, and Moyà certainly will - but Juan Carlos hasn't spoken to them for a while, busy as he has been, in recent times, trying to keep an unrecognizable Carlos in line (and failing).
Juan Carlos supposes that Rafa is enjoying some well-deserved vacation with his family in some warm corner of the world, by the sea. And that the last thing he needs is to get a call from Villena from an old friend who has just played a dirty trick on him, even if unintentionally.
Juan Carlos would go nuts - more than usual - if that happened to him, so he just hopes that Rafa will be more understanding.
The phone rings and rings. Juan Carlos is almost relieved to receive no answer. He is currently in a roughly tough spot - there is no other way to describe it. He ponders a possible way to keep Carlos at bay without having to bring Rafa up, but the boy has been out of his mind lately - he wants to talk to Rafa at any cost, because he thinks that only Rafa will tell him the truth he wants to know. He can't think of anything else. When he goes into this mode, it is impossible to deny him something.
Yet, there must be a way to make him come around, Juan Carlos tells himself. The boy is just being very stubborn and obsessive - and that’s quite normal, because he’s damn scared of losing what he believes to be the love of his life.
Well, if only he knew how many loves like that - which is only the first but seems to be the only one to him for now - you’ll meet along the way...
Juan Carlos is not usually that cynical, but the aggressive words - the insults, and the barbs - that Carlos have been pouring down on him since the day of his nervous breakdown have hardened the inner part of him that is generally sympathetic and compassionate. He loves the boy, but fifteen days have passed, and his endurance is at a ragged edge.
Carlos not only picks on him, but he has also started skipping his training sessions more and more often. Sometimes he goes to practice alone, somewhere away from Villena, with his brother Alvaro and no one else. Juan Carlos fears for the imminent start of the hard court season. How does Carlos plans to be prepared for the Australian Open if he goes on being a maverick instead of focusing properly on tennis? He just doesn’t let Juan Carlos do his work - he barely speaks to him.
Maybe, Juan Carlos thinks bitterly, he’d better be ready to get a pink slip at any moment.
The thought of losing Carlos makes him feel like someone has pulled the rug out from under his feet. He’s terrified. Maybe he should-
Rafa picks up just when Juan Carlos is about to give in. His voice cuts off Juan Carlos’ thoughts.
"Hello?"
“Rafa! It’s Juanki. I hate to bother you…"
"Juanki, hello! No bother at all. Sorry, I didn’t hear my phone ring.” Juan Carlos listens to a distant lapping in the background. He was right, after all - Rafa must be somewhere by the sea. He envies him very much right now. “What’s going on in Villena? How you doing?"
"Uhm, fine," Juan Carlos says, evasively. “How about you? Is everything ok? How are you dealing with retirement?"
"Hmm..." Rafa hums. "I still dream of tennis. Sometimes I wake up thinking I have to rush to practice. Then I remember that I'm out of the game, and that I have nothing to do, nothing in my schedule, no deadline, all day."
"Well, sounds wonderful, doesn't it?"
"Yes... maybe." Rafa sounds a bit hesitant, actually. "When do you think I will stop having dreams about tennis? How long does it take to get it out of the system?"
"It took me years,” Juan Carlos says - pondering aloud. “But, in my case, it never completely got out of the system. I think it's because I never left tennis actually - I stayed as a coach."
"Yes, probably," Rafa mumbles, and his tone suddenly changes. "By the way, how’s it going with Carlos? I don't follow tennis as much as I used to, but I noticed that the boy seems more irritable than usual, on TV… Is his mental coach doing a good job with him?"
"Well, that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about..."
"I'm not good with psychological advice, you know..."
"I didn't want any psychological advice. The fact is..."
Juan Carlos pauses. The sound of the sea in the background distracts him. It also makes him feel a little guilty for having disrupted Rafa’s peaceful holiday routine - especially after all he had to go through before finally being able to enjoy it. However, the current issue is serious and urgent, so Juan Carlos has no alternative.
"There's a problem with Carlos," he starts. "And I'm calling you because it partly concerns you directly. My god, I feel so embarrassed..."
Rafa is silent for a few seconds, completely taken aback - more by the pretty unusual discomfort in Juan Carlos’ voice than by the words themselves.
“Ok. I'm listening," he says eventually.
Juan Carlos closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath and briefly summarizes the situation, without pausing to breathe and without omitting anything - from his own foolish words dictated by frustration to the latest stunts pulled by the young champion who seems to be giving a damn about tennis in recent times, to put it mildly.
"He insists he wants to talk to you," Juan Carlos concludes, running a trembling hand over his eyes. "He says he wants to have a heart-to-heart conversation with you, and I’m afraid nothing I can say or do will change his mind. But first, of course, I wanted to warn you and know what you think of all this.”
Juan Carlos finally stops wandering like a sad panda around the house. He comes to a halt in front of the large French window of the living room that overlooks the sunlit garden.
There is a long silence at the other end of the line - very long, this time. Juan Carlos feels oppressed.
"Rafa, you don't know how embarrassed and mortified I am," he adds, to break the silence. "I was really an idiot. Believe me, I don't know how to apologize for getting you into this mess. I didn't know what I was saying, I threw out words completely nonsense. I didn't want to cast a bad light on you, or harm you in any way. It's none of my business, your relationship with Novak and-”
"Don't worry about me, it’s okay,” Rafa says suddenly. Unbelievably, he doesn't sound upset. Juan Carlos imagines him shaking his head slowly, and the fact that Rafa is not yelling at him - threatening to sue him for slander, maybe - is enough to fill him with joy and relief. "We have to think about Carlos now. He risks throwing his career away for... nothing." Rafa pauses thoughtfully. "You said he talked to Novak?"
"Yes. But he doesn't trust him, he says. He entered a kind of conflictual loop within himself. He doesn't trust Novak, but he keeps-” Juan Carlos breaks off. “Well, you get the idea."
He keeps sleeping with him is echoing in the air as if he had spoken it out loud.
“Yeah, I get it," Rafa says. Calm, composed. Juan Carlos really thinks that Carlos is right, that Rafa’s self-control is sometimes superhuman, especially in the most awful situations. "Ok, if Carlos wants to talk to me, I'll talk to him, of course. No problem. But I have to talk to Novak first. We have to sort this out together, he and I, you know.”
"Thank you," Juan Carlos whispers - he’s now shaking with relief. He closes his eyes again for a moment, completely overwhelmed. His left temple pulsates with a dull, constant pain. "Thank you, Rafa. Also on behalf of tennis and Spain. You could save that kid and his career, you know?"
"You attach too much importance to me."
"And you too little. Will you call him?"
"No, I will come in person. Mery and I are back in Mallorca in five days."
"Oh, great,” Juan Carlos exclaims. And then an idea comes to his mind. "Hey, in exactly one week it will be the anniversary of the founding of the Academy. Every year I throw a party, you know. I’d be honored if you could join us.”
"Oh," Rafa says. “Yes, I recall, you've always invited me over the years but I've only come a few times. Most of the time I was trying to take a break from tennis - when I wasn't injured, of course. I really think that this year I have no excuse not to accept."
"Great," Juan Carlos says. “Charlie will be there too. You and he can talk safely and comfortably here in my Academy. No journalists, no photos. That’s the rule in my house. You will have all the privacy you need."
"Excellent. Thank you, Juanki."
Juan Carlos pauses hesitantly. "No, thanks to you, man. Seriously. I was desperate and you gave me a light of hope. I hope you can forgive me.”
“It’s okay,” Rafa repeats reassuringly. “Just… just promise me one thing, Juanki.” He pauses. “Don’t ever ask me about Novak, ok? Don’t talk about this ever again.”
Juan Carlos closes his eyes for the third time during that conversation. He inhales. “I won’t. Just like I never asked you about Roger. I promise.” He hears Rafa gasp in surprise when he mentions the name. Juan Carlos slowly lets the air out through his nose. “Sorry again for pulling you into this situation. I didn’t mean to.”
Rafa takes a while to answer - he is probably still processing the fact that Juan Carlos, despite not knowing anything, does know many more things than many others.
"Don't worry. I found myself in worse situations.”
Juan Carlos can picture Rafa shrugging as he says it - he can also picture him actually being in worse situations than that one.
There is a little silence on the line before Rafa resumes.
“Anyway, there is this small island in Greece that I recommend, if you happen to come around here…”
He begins to talk about how beautiful the blue sea is, caressed by the Aegean wind, and the low white houses under the sun, leaning against each other on the high coasts among the glittering leaves of the olive trees.
An involuntary but incoercible grin bends Juan Carlos' lips upwards as he listens to him, definitively dissolving the lump in his throat. He shakes his head incredulously, even though he knows that Rafa cannot see him.
"Retirement is doing you good,” he says, when Rafa falls silent. “I think."
"Yes, Roger said that too."
He can definitely hear the smile in Rafa’s voice this time.
*
When Novak reads the name on the screen of his phone - at first he grabbed it impatiently, since the beep of the incoming message interrupted his daily hour of meditation, but stupid him who forgot to put it on silent mode, - his heart misses a beat. All his irritation disappears, replaced by disbelief and something else. Then, slowly, that too goes away, and Novak returns lucid enough to concentrate on the text.
Juanki told me about Carlos, Rafa types. I know he wants to talk to me. But first I need to talk to you.
Novak pauses. He goes back and reads again from the beginning. It is completely unusual for Rafa to start without "hello" or "how are you?". Only something really serious can make him forget his innate politeness - and also break his promise to keep his distance from Novak and get him to call him.
Are you in Belgrade? I am still in Greece at the moment, I’m leaving in three days. Let me know before then, we might see each other halfway or wherever you want. Take care. Rafa.
When he finishes reading, Novak's eyebrows are so arched that they touch his hairline. His eyes linger on that "take care", followed by Rafa’s name. Every time Novak reads his name on the screen, the rhythm of his heart breaks. Sometimes he tells himself that he should delete Rafa’s number - after all, there are many more times when Novak has waited in vain for a message or call from Rafa than when he has actually received it - but every time he can't. Just like he can’t forget him.
Novak doesn’t text back immediately. He throws the phone on the bed and gets up, shaking his head. He looks around, tries to find useful things to do while his thoughts overlap in his mind. He just can't get back to meditation right now. For that day he is done with it.
He pauses, takes a deep breath from his nose, drops himself on the bed. The springs of the mattress squeak under his back, the white ceiling reflects the morning light.
He holds on until evening. It seems to him that a whole lifetime slips away - instead of just a few hours. He spends that time reflecting deeply, incessantly.
He waits until Jelena goes to bed before replying. With another question.
Would you come to Belgrade?
No "hello", no "how's it going" - and also no "fuck you, you only show up when it comes to someone else you care about.”
No, he’s clinical - aiming straight at the heart.
Novak has no intention of leaving his home field - this time he wants to play safe. If Rafa really wants to talk to him, he will come to him. For once, Novak wants to be treated like a king on his throne, he’s not going to make concessions.
As he waits for the answer, he is torn between excitement and a slight apprehension. He’s expecting a message in response, but his phone starts ringing instead, almost making him jump. Rafa can be much less predictable than one might think - and Novak doesn't have time to organize a full defense.
So, when he brings the phone to his ear, his head is completely empty of any thoughts. There is only the hammering of his heart.
“Hello?"
“Novak?… It’s me.”
Novak laughs. He cannot help it. He laughs out of nervous amusement - but also out of the true pleasure of hearing his voice.
"Very presumptuous of you to say ‘it's me’ as if we had just left yesterday or were in touch every day, don’t you think?”
On the other end of the line - silence.
Novak rolls his eyes. “Come on, man. I was joking.”
"I know," Rafa's voice promptly replies. "But you can do better. Of course you know who it is, you have my name in your phone book, remember?"
Novak doesn't tell him that he often thinks about deleting it - and that he can't. Maybe Rafa knows, or at least guesses it. However, it does not matter much.
"It's a pleasure to hear your voice, Rafa.” He loves to say his name - he does it the Spanish way, rolling the ‘r’ against the roof of his mouth.
"Too bad it's not the best circumstance of all,” Rafa mumbles.
"Had it been a good circumstance, you would never have called me."
Silence again. Novak guesses what Rafa must look like right now - he knows exactly the wrinkle that forms between his eyebrows when he's puzzled or nervous since he’s been watching it - silently worshipping it - for years.
"Regarding your request," Rafa says, dodging the last sentence as if it were a bullet, as deftly as ever, ”... I can come to Belgrade on Friday morning, but I can only stay a few hours. Then I have to leave."
"Sure."
Silence. Rafa sighs with a slight exasperation - and no, Novak has no intention of making things any easier for him.
"You know why I have to talk to you, Nole, right?"
Novak twists his lips in a grin. "Of course," he says. "I knew that kid was going to cause me trouble, sooner or later. It was only a matter of time."
"No more than we're causing him, probably," Rafa murmurs. "Anyway, we'll try to solve this like adults. We’ll fix it, somehow. Okay?"
Novak says nothing.
“Okay?… Novak? Nole.”
The problem with knowing someone for so long is that they know you too, Novak thinks.
"Somehow, yes,” he concedes, reluctantly.
He hears Rafa sigh again. “Good. So... See you on Friday."
He hangs up without waiting for any useless answer.
Novak stares into space for long moments, with his phone in his hand. Every conversation he has with Rafa leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth - every time he wishes for something more and every time he just can’t reach it. He should be used to that feeling by now, but he’s not.
Sometimes Novak wondered why, despite being a master of strategy, he just never actually managed to win with Rafa. Perhaps it’s because, unlike the vast majority of people who, when attacked, defend themselves by making far-fetched excuses and justifications or just hitting back, Rafa simply seems to have no problem admitting what he is, what he does, what he does wrong. To Novak that's crazy and disarming.
Or perhaps it’s just because of love - making people weak and easily hurt.
Novak’s thoughts slowly drift away. Now he absentmindedly wonders what to say to Jelena when he leaves her alone on Friday morning to meet Rafa.
But then again, Jelena certainly doesn't need to know about that. Just as she didn't need to know about Carlos all this time. Novak can rest easy on that. After all, their marriage lasted even longer than it was supposed to.
to be continued