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The truth is, Jannik has never been very good with heat.
Jannik was built for the cold. For sharp air that filled his lungs like clarity, for snow that blanketed the world in silence. Heat doesn’t break him, but it chips away at him, gnaws at the edges, slows him half a beat behind his mind. March in Indian Wells is thick, stifling. 32°C already, and not even ten yet. By midday, the courts will shimmer, the deep purple Plexipave radiating heat like an open oven. That’s when he will train tomorrow.
His team has pushed for it. "Work on your physical," they say. He doesn’t argue. They both know why. Before he became Jannik Sinner, number one, the winning machine, he had a pattern. Five-set marathons, his body caving before his will. A race to exhaustion he couldn’t win. He hasn’t truly tested himself in this version yet. Now, he has four days. Four days to see if he still breaks.
And if there’s one player who has made him break before, it’s Carlos.
Last year, everything had been seamless—nineteen straight wins, two trophies already, his game clean, precise, untouchable. And then the Indian Wells semifinal. A cool afternoon, a rain delay, a first set tucked safely in his pocket. Until Carlos happened.
He should have seen it coming. Carlos, who never fades, never flinches, who makes five-setters feel like sprints. Who plays with something weightless, something reckless, like he’s never learned caution. Jannik had felt the shift before it happened—the moment Carlos locked in, the moment the court tilted beneath them.
He had held on, fought through the slow drag of fatigue pooling in his legs. But Carlos had been faster. Stronger. More alive. And the next day, it hadn’t been Jannik lifting the trophy.
Enough now. The real work starts tomorrow.
He pulls a towel from the cooler and drapes it around his neck, the cold burning against his skin. The relief is brief, already slipping away as he walks—shirt clinging, shorts damp, even the brim of his cap sodden and useless. He peels it off, runs a hand through his curls. They stick.
Inside. Past the practice courts, past the shaded benches where players cool down, through the tunnel leading to the locker room.
Shower. Ice bath. Recovery. Sleep. A pattern, as automatic as breathing.
Door. Turn right. Past the row where the Russian players usually stay, then the Americans. Two more rows until he reaches the Europeans.
It’s mostly empty—too early for anyone else to be here. Except for one.
A cropped head of dark hair, bent over a bag.
Jannik drops his own without thinking. The sound makes Novak turn.
"Ciao," Jannik says, voice low, one hand drifting to his shoulder, scratching lightly.
Novak looks up, eyes steady, unreadable. It tugs at something in Jannik’s memory—Herr Gasser in school, catching him whispering with Matteo Hofer, that sharp glance that made him straighten in his seat before he even knew why.
Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. A smooth smile, no teeth.
"Ciao, Jannik. Come stai?" His Italian is effortless, natural in a way Jannik’s never will be.
"I’m good, thank you." Automatic, flat. His hands move on their own, punching in the four-digit code. The locker clicks open.
Silence.
He hopes that’s it. That Novak will zip up his bag and leave. That his brain can empty itself of anything outside of recovery, training, the neatly laid-out schedule his team has crafted for him.
But Novak doesn’t leave.
"Congrats." Out of nowhere. A pause. "On winning the Australian Open. I don’t think I’ve said it in person."
Jannik keeps his head down, fingers closing on a clean shirt, stopping just briefly. Barely noticeable, but there.
"Uh—thanks." Mumbled, eyes still fixed on the locker. They both know he had wanted Sasha to win—he hadn’t exactly kept it to himself. He’d said it in press, let it slip in interviews, even posted about it without much thought.
But here, now, Novak says it like he means it. No cameras, no crowd. Just two people in an empty locker room. The words settle in his mind, too genuine to ignore. Jannik doesn’t know where to put them.
When he turns—arms full, a towel clenched between his teeth for lack of space—Novak is already standing tall.
Jannik glances up, just for a second. The overhead lights carve sharp lines across Novak’s face, the angles of his jaw and cheekbone. His posture is easy, composed. He looks like he belongs anywhere he stands, like he has never questioned it.
"Ci vediamo." A curt nod.
Jannik doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts his grip on his things. "Yes. See you."
He waits. The shuffle of movement. The swing of the door.
Only then does he exhale, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself back into motion. He hikes his bag higher, blinking himself back into the moment, into his body. Right—the shower. He turns and heads for it, like he’s just remembered why he came here at all.
⊱✿⊰✦⊱✿⊰✦⊱✿⊰
They meet again two days later.
Jannik supposes that’s just how it is when you share a racket sponsor and sit at the top of the rankings. Well, technically, Taylor Fritz is ahead of Novak in points, but who's denying a sponsorship opportunity to the greatest of all time? If not by sheer fan love, then at least by the numbers—24 Grand Slams, an Olympic gold, and more trophies than anyone can bother counting.
Anyway, they’re seated next to each other. Not too many cameras, at least. A glossy, heavily edited poster hangs just to Jannik’s right, featuring the two of them holding their Head rackets and staring at each other, dramatic and contrived. Jannik barely recognizes himself—he looks like a kid. His headshot must be from Rome 2022, judging by the kit he’s wearing.
A small voice cuts through the room.
“What’s your favorite dessert?”
Jannik looks up. A little girl with brown pigtails is gripping the mic stand, barely tall enough to reach it. Part of the sponsor event includes questions from local schoolkids—better than some media obligations, at least.
Novak gestures for Jannik to answer first. His smile is there, but it stays on his mouth, goes nowhere else.
Jannik scratches his neck. "Tiramisu, I guess. My dad makes it sometimes."
She blinks at him, nods uncertainly. Maybe not the answer she wanted. She turns quickly to Novak instead.
"And what’s your name?" Novak asks, already leaning in, already giving her his full attention.
Her face lights up. “Lisa!”
“Nice to meet you, Lisa! I’m Novak!” Laughter ripples through the room. As if the guy needs an introduction.
He waits a beat before adding, “I don’t usually eat dessert.”
Immediate gasps. A chorus of “Nooo!” from the kids.
“I know, I know! I’m sorry!” He lifts his hands, surrendering. “But when I win, I have a little bit of chocolate.”
Lisa perks up. “Chocolate is my favorite!”
Novak lowers his voice, playful. “Yeah? So should I win so I can have chocolate, then?”
She nods fervently, pigtails bouncing.
“Alright, I’ll win for you.”
The kids cheer. The adults laugh. Novak’s smirk lingers.
Jannik glances sideways, watching him pull the whole room in without trying.
Novak, the legend, the untouchable force Jannik grew up watching, the man who bent the sport to his will. He’s too big of a figure to pin down. And yet, there he is, talking to a child about chocolate.
Before the next kid steps up, Lisa clutches the mic again. “Oh! Can I ask another question? Pleeeeease!”
The room laughs again. They both nod.
“What was your best match ever?”
Jannik stills, just for a second. He could say Australia. His first Slam. Or Turin, when he beat Novak for the first time.
But his mind snags on something else instead. It slips out before he can think.
“Beijing. Last year. It was good, I think.”
A loss. To Carlos.
Maybe it’s nothing, but something in Novak’s expression sharpens, just slightly.
⊱✿⊰✦⊱✿⊰✦⊱✿⊰
Ten questions, a dozen autographs, and however many smiling nods later, they’re standing outside. Beyond the courts, past the low white buildings and neatly trimmed hedges, the desert spreads out, dry and artificial. The air holds the bite of burned asphalt.
Kevin, their designated escort, is already at the golf cart, one hand shielding his eyes against the glare. Indian Wells—Tennis Paradise, as they call it—has its ways. Some players walk, others take carts, weaving through the maze of practice courts and lounges. Head has assigned them a personal driver.
Novak slides into the passenger seat, leaving Jannik the open bench in the back—more space, an unspoken courtesy.
Jannik steps up, gripping the side of the cart as he angles his long legs into the narrow space, his knee knocking against the frame. Once settled, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his texts. He types a quick "Yes" to Alex—dinner at the usual hotel restaurant tonight. No need to change.
Kevin starts the engine. The cart rumbles, shifts forward an inch—then lurches, jerks, and dies.
Jannik glances up from his screen.
Kevin frowns. Twists the key again. A strained noise, something resisting movement. The cart shudders once, then stills.
Novak exhales, stretching his fingers. “That didn’t sound good.”
Kevin mutters something under his breath, then climbs out, phone already in hand.
“I’ll grab another from the transport hub,” he says, dialing. “Won’t take long. Sorry about that.”
Jannik watches him walk off, his figure shrinking against the glare.
The cart sits idle. A few players step off the outer courts in the distance. Jannik isn’t sure if he’s seen them before. Maybe qualifiers. He presses his thumb to his mouth, teeth catching on the nail before stopping himself.
Novak shifts slightly but says nothing.
They’re stuck.
Five minutes, maybe more. Jannik’s never been good at small talk. That’s what happens when you trade friends and a normal life for tennis at thirteen.
But he doesn’t have to think too much about it—Novak speaks first.
“You went home after Australia, right?” His voice is even.
Jannik tilts his head slightly, just enough to glance at him through the rearview mirror. Novak doesn’t turn, just meets his eyes in the reflection.
“Mhm. Just two days, yes.” A brief pause. Jannik wonders, not for the first time, how he always seems to know everything.
A beat.
"Did you ski?"
"Yes, I ski. Not much, no? I need to stay safe."
Jannik briefly considers if this is the longest conversation they’ve had in months. Maybe. Probably. The last real one was Wimbledon—before, well. Before a lot of things.
"We still need to organize." Novak stays facing forward, fingers drumming against his knee. He’s wearing a cap—he does that, Jannik knows. Not a fan of the heat either.
That smile again—there, but not quite.
Jannik nods. They’d talked about it before, skiing together. Back when conversation came easier. Before silence became normal.
Neither of them says anything more.
Jannik’s gaze moves absently over the practice courts, the heat bending shapes at the edges of his vision. The air hangs thick, stretched thin over the sun-bleached surfaces. And he sees him—
Carlos.
Near the entrance of one of the outer courts, he steps inside, two bags slung over his shoulders. A sleeveless shirt, shoulders easy, like the weight is nothing. He drops the bags without breaking stride, unzipping one mid-sentence, already laughing at something. Juanki stands beside him, Alvaro lingers a step behind—but Jannik barely registers them.
It’s Carlos he’s watching.
The way he rocks forward on the balls of his feet, like movement is his default state. The way his head tips back when he laughs, like the sound is too much to hold inside.
Jannik realizes he’s staring a second too late.
Novak doesn’t let it pass.
“Have you talked to him yet?”
His voice is level, but it still catches Jannik off guard. He flinches, just slightly.
He twists back, and this time, Novak is facing him—steady, unreadable. Like he’s been watching.
Jannik hesitates, just enough to make it noticeable. He hopes his voice comes out normal. “No. It’s busy, no? Lots of players, I don’t see him.”
One. Two. Three seconds of silence. Novak doesn’t look away.
“You should talk to him. I bet he’d like that.”
He’s switched to Italian. Jannik needs half a beat to adjust.
“I speak with everyone. I am friendly with all players.” He answers in kind.
Novak’s mouth turns down, something unreadable pulling at the corner. Disappointment?
“Not everyone is the same, though. Right?” A rhetorical question—he doesn’t leave Jannik space to answer before continuing. “Some people matter more.”
Jannik doesn’t know what to do with that.
Silence again.
Jannik exhales through his nose, picking at a nail. Like he’s searching for words that won’t come.
If Novak notices, he doesn’t press.
“What happens if losing hurts too much?” To him. He leaves that out, but it's implied.
He doesn’t know why he asks. Maybe because Novak has been watching, because Novak has always seen more than Jannik wants him to. Maybe because the words feel safer in Italian.
Novak tilts his head slightly. “You know,” he says finally, voice even, “you tell yourself rivalry is simple. That if you win, you take something from them. And if you lose, they take something from you.”
A pause. A long one.
Jannik stares at his knee, at a faint bruise there. He says nothing.
“But some people,” Novak continues, softer now, “even when you lose to them… they don’t leave you.”
Jannik’s jaw tightens.
He should argue. He should say, I respect all my opponents. I prepare for everyone the same.
But that would be a lie.
Instead, his eyes pull back—almost unconsciously—to where Carlos is.
Carlos, training his return. Knees low, body coiled, moving with that unshakable ease. Jannik watches in pieces, catching rhythms more than details—the weight shift, the brief suspension before impact, the way his toes barely skim the ground before he launches into the shot.
A brush of warmth against his shoulder—brief, barely there. Novak’s hand.
It feels foreign. It lasts just a second, then it’s gone.
Jannik doesn’t react. He just keeps watching.
Novak exhales, just audible.
“Not all losses feel the same.”
Jannik presses his lips together. He knows where this is going.
“I’ve lost plenty of matches.” His voice is quiet.
Novak hums in confirmation. Like he already expected that answer. Like it isn’t the point.
“Yeah.” Another pause. “But not plenty of people.”
Jannik feels it now—deep, something unspoken pressing in.
He swallows. Looks away. He could leave it at that. Let it dissolve.
But Novak doesn’t let him. Keeps pressing, like this is a match he’s already figured out, and Jannik is still searching for answers.
“Tell me something.” The words land carefully. Deliberately.
Jannik doesn’t look at him. But he hears it anyway.
“Is losing to him really worse than not having him at all?”
His chest tightens.
He should deny it. Maybe even be offended that Novak is suggesting what he’s suggesting.
But he’s thought about it for months. Years.
The way their friendship had unfolded into something bigger—rivalry, obsession, something unnamed. How watching Carlos, studying him, had become a habit. How Carlos never kept distance, always touching, leaning in, laughing too easily.
How Jannik let him.
And then last year, two heartbreaking losses. Fewer texts. More space between them. Less watching, less touching, less of everything.
Until Beijing. Until he lost again but left feeling full. Because Carlos had been waiting for him, just as bright, just as golden.
Back to messages, back to looking, back to reaching out without thinking.
Back to whatever they were.
Jannik lets out a slow breath.
His voice is low when he answers.
“No.”
Novak hums, thoughtful. He leans back—just enough for Jannik to feel it.
“Sometimes you think you have time,” he murmurs. “That you can lose someone, step away, and it will still be there when you return.”
Jannik blinks. He wonders—just for a moment—who Novak is thinking of.
Andy, maybe.
Novak exhales through his nose, a quiet kind of laugh. “You can find each other again, sure. But it’s never quite the same.”
Jannik blinks, eyes stinging.
Novak settles back, that same easy, unreadable calm returning.
“Talk to him.” His voice is even. Measured. “While you still can.”
The scratch of tires against the pavement pulls them back.
Kevin pulls up in a new cart, lifting a hand in greeting.
“Sorry, that took a while! With so many players training, I couldn’t find a free one sooner. I’ll get you back in no time.”
Novak makes most of the small talk on the way back—about the heat, about Kevin’s favorite taco filling, about the biggest celebrity he’s ever met.
Like they hadn’t just been talking about things that mattered. Like it was easy to switch. Maybe for him, it is.
Jannik barely listens.
When they pull up, he steps out quickly, mutters a “Thanks, Kevin,” and tosses a vague “Bye” over his shoulder.
He doesn’t look at Novak. There’s no parting words. But Jannik still feels his gaze on him.
⊱✿⊰✦⊱✿⊰✦⊱✿⊰
He's knocking on Carlos’ door two hours later
Sweat gathers under the cotton hoodie, damp at the collar, sleeves too warm. Hood up, curls slipping out at the front. It’s probably ridiculous to be wearing something this heavy in the desert heat, but it’s his disguise.
It should bother him, how easy it was. How quickly the answer came.
What room are you in?
Room 407.
No pause. No second-guessing.
The door opens on the second knock.
Carlos doesn’t say anything. Just shifts to the side, leaving space for him to step in.
The door clicks shut behind them.
Jannik lingers for a moment, taking in the room—mapping the differences, comparing it to his own. A narrow hallway, a sofa barely visible from the adjacent living area, a fruit bowl on the coffee table near the entrance. A service tray on the side, a couple of plates, some leftover food still there, waiting to be cleared. A late lunch, probably. Or an early dinner.
"You okay?"
Carlos' voice comes from behind, calm.
Jannik pulls his hood down before turning.
Carlos watches him now, expectant. He’s changed since the morning—another sleeveless shirt, a different color, but it fits the same. Bare, tanned shoulders.
"I don’t know."
Carlos’ brows pull together, forehead creasing the way it does on court when a point slips away—when he’s already working out how to adjust.
He steps forward, slow. Deliberate. Closer now, until the tips of their shoes almost touch.
"Why you come?"
Jannik exhales. It’s the clearest his mind has ever been.
"So I don't lose time."
A hitch in Carlos’ breath—small enough to miss. If Jannik weren’t this close, he would have.
Just a hesitation. A fraction of space still between them.
And then—hands.
Fingers brush, then thread together. He’s not sure who reaches first—only that neither of them lets go. Jannik glances down, watching the way their hands fit—his, pale and cool; Carlos’, golden and warm. They’ve held hands before—at the net, in passing, out of habit. But this isn’t that. This is something else.
He stares, caught in it, until Carlos’ other hand finds his face—fingertips at his jaw. Soft, like Jannik might break.
He looks up. He understands.
Carlos doesn’t want to lose time, either.
And when Carlos finally moves—closing the last inches between them—Jannik doesn’t pull away.
The End