Chapter Text
Jack was used to keeping himself in check. Tennis had taught him that — how to control his breathing, his steps, his emotions, even when everything inside was boiling. He wasn’t the type to lose his head, not the type to let something — or someone — throw him off balance.
Jannik was just a part of his world — no closer, no farther than necessary. They crossed paths on the courts, traded jokes in the locker rooms, occasionally texted — nothing special, just a buddy you could easily get along with.
Jack knew Jannik wasn’t the talkative sort: he said little, but always to the point, with that calm half-smile that made the freckles on his nose seem a bit brighter. It wasn’t a friendship for the ages, but Jack valued those moments — rare, yet warm, like a fleeting glance across the court or a short chuckle over something dumb.
When Sinner got slapped with a three-month ban for doping in February, Jack brushed the news off with his usual indifference.
«Three months is nothing» — he told himself, tossing his racket into his bag before practice. He wasn’t about to swoop in with support — Jannik wasn’t the type who needed pity, and Jack didn’t want to come off like he gave a damn. But somewhere on the edge of his mind, a shadow flickered — not worry, but something softer, almost intangible.
Jack had grown used to Jannik being around: his lanky figure on the next court over, that reserved «Good shot» he’d toss out after a solid practice, the way he wrinkled his nose when he laughed. They were small things — so simple, so familiar, that he’d never really thought about them. And now, without them, it was like his world was missing a light — faint, but the kind that quietly warms you.
«Come on, it’s just a habit» — he’d snap at himself, clenching his fist as if he could squeeze the thought out of his head.
He wasn’t the type to pine. And definitely not for Sinner. That would be ridiculous.
---
After the Qatar Open in February, Jack felt as though someone had drained every ounce of strength from him, leaving nothing but a hollow shell.
The final against Andrey Rublev had wrung him dry — three sets, each one a separate war, where his nerves stretched to the breaking point and his body protested with every step. His right hip ached, the adductor stabbing with sharp pain at every lunge toward the net, and Jack, gritting his teeth, pushed himself forward, though his legs trembled from exhaustion.
Doha pressed down on him with dry wind and scorching sun that blinded his eyes, bouncing off the court, while the air smelled of sand and sizzling asphalt. He stood at the baseline, sweat dripping down his temples, the crowd’s hum fading somewhere beyond his awareness.
Rublev took the match — 7-5, 5-7, 6-1 — and Jack, collapsing onto the bench after the handshake, stared at his racket lying beside him, coated in a thin layer of Qatari dust.
In the locker room, he sat in silence as steam from the shower rose to the ceiling, and the cold tiles beneath his feet slowly cooled his skin. He was spent — not just physically, but as if someone had switched off the light inside him.
The next day, he announced he was pulling out of Dubai. The decision came easily — his body screamed for rest, and his mind agreed without a fight. He posted something neutral on social media:
«After a great week in Qatar, I’ve decided to take a break to recover»
But behind those words lay a truth he didn’t voice: he could barely walk without pain, every step echoing in his hip, and fatigue draped over him like a heavy, waterlogged cloak.
Acapulco fell by the wayside too — Jack returned to London, where February’s chill cut to the bone, and the grey sky hung low, as if pressing the city down.
Recovery days dragged on in a grey haze: he lay on the physio’s table while the therapist kneaded his muscles with menthol ointment, or walked along the Thames, bundled in a jacket, as the wind tousled his hair and flicked tiny raindrops into his face.
He spent hours alone — sipping coffee in a small café near his place, where the barista with a tired smile called him «Jake» or watching old matches on his laptop, sprawled on the sofa with a pillow under his head. The screen’s light reflected in his dark eyes, while rain pattered outside, streaking the glass.
Sometimes, he caught himself thinking about Jannik — not on purpose, but as if he just drifted into his mind, like a shadow at the edge of his vision.
How’s he doing up there in his Alps? Probably sitting on a terrace with a view of snow-capped peaks, cradling that ridiculous mug of herbal tea, red hair falling over his forehead because he’s clearly given up on haircuts.
In those moments, Jack shook his head, chasing the image away, and cranked up the music in his headphones — sharp beats drowning out the silence and the thoughts, but… not entirely.
«What a load of nonsense» — he muttered, rubbing his neck. But something quietly scratched at his chest, and he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
---
And then came Indian Wells.
March stormed into his life with the dry desert wind that swept sand across the courts and left a thin, salty film on his skin. Jack stepped onto California soil, squinting against the sun that glared into his eyes, bouncing off the white stands and searing asphalt. The air smelled of heat and something faintly sweet — maybe the blooming orange trees growing somewhere beyond the arena.
He’d come here with one goal: to take the title, and for the first time in weeks, he felt his body respond without protest: the adductor no longer whined, his legs moved freely, and a hunger burned in his chest — not just to win, but to prove himself. His racket bag thumped heavily against his shoulder as he walked to the practice court, surrounded by the buzz of voices — players, staff, early spectators milling about in search of shade.
The tournament started with deceptive ease. He breezed through the first rounds, barely breaking a sweat — the ball landed exactly where he aimed, and his opponents melted under his pressure, like shadows beneath the midday sun. But the semifinal against Carlos Alcaraz turned into a proper grinder. Three sets — 6:1, 0:6, 6:4 — each one a battle of its own: first, Jack smeared the Spaniard across the court, then crumbled under his ferocious counterattack.
In the deciding set, he clawed out the win with his teeth, sweat flooding his eyes, his heart pounding in his throat. After the final point, Jack dropped onto his back, arms flung wide — his soaked shirt clung to his skin, and the crowd roared so loud it sent a shiver down his spine. He lay there, staring at the cloudless sky, and for the first time in ages, he smiled — not for the cameras, but just for himself.
The final against Holger Rune was different — clean, almost surgically precise. 6:2, 6:2 — and that was it. Jack moved across the court like a machine, every shot hitting its mark, while the Dane just shook his head, unable to keep up with his rhythm.
When the ball sailed out on match point, Jack clenched his fist, exhaled, and lifted his gaze to the stands. The sun was setting, painting the sky crimson, and the wind tugged at his dark, sweat-matted hair. He took the trophy, cold and heavy, and hoisted it overhead — cameras flashed, the crowd screamed, and he stood there, feeling this moment was his alone. His first Masters 1000. His triumph.
---
But that evening, when the noise died down and the adrenaline burned out, the euphoria began to dissolve, like smoke in the wind.
Jack sat on the edge of the bed in his room, staring at the trophy he’d triumphantly plonked on the nightstand — its metallic edges glinting dully in the glow of the table lamp. Outside, the air conditioner hummed, pumping cool air into the room, while somewhere in the distance, birds screeched, their calls mingling with the rustle of palm trees swayed by the night breeze. He could still smell the court — a mix of sweat and rubber — clinging to his skin despite the shower. His shirt, tossed over the chair’s back, hung crookedly, and in the corner, the green light of his charger blinked, casting faint flickers on the wall.
He picked up his phone, fingers sliding across the screen, leaving barely noticeable smudges. Messages poured in one after another — from his mum, short and warm: «So proud of you, darling»; from his brother, with a dumb meme about winners; from Andy Murray, curt but genuine: «Well done, mate».
Jack scrolled through them, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smile, but his gaze froze when the screen flashed with a new notification.
From Jannik.
Short, like a gunshot: «Grande, Jack. Proud of you».
And that damn winking emoji Sinner always threw in, trying to seem simpler than he really was.
Jack stilled, feeling warmth spread somewhere beneath his ribs — not sharp, but slow, like ripples on water from a dropped stone. He stared at those words, so simple, so familiar, and couldn’t grasp why they hit harder than they should. His fingers tightened around the phone, and an image flashed in his mind — Jannik, somewhere in his Alps, sprawled on a couch with a mug of herbal tea, long legs stretched out, red hair falling in waves over his forehead. Those light eyes, calm but piercing, fixed on the screen as he typed that message.
Jack exhaled through his nose, almost angrily, and flopped back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling — white, smooth, with a faint shadow from the fan lazily spinning overhead.
«What’s wrong with you, Draper?» — he thought, rubbing his face with his palms. This wasn’t it. He wasn’t missing him. He wasn’t in love, damn it. It was just habit, just an emptiness where a familiar voice, a familiar look used to be. But his heart thumped a little louder than it should, and he hated himself for it.
The phone lay beside him, its screen dark, but Jannik’s words still glowed in his memory, like embers that refused to die. Jack rolled onto his side, pulling his knees up, and shut his eyes, trying to banish that feeling — faint, barely there, but stubborn, like a splinter under his skin.
---
Miami greeted him with a humid heat that settled over him like a soft but insistent veil the moment he stepped from the plane’s cool interior into Florida’s thick air. Jack had arrived just a couple of days after his triumph at Indian Wells, the echo of victory still thrumming through his body, mingling with the weariness of the flight. He strode through the terminal briskly, brushing past the bustle around him — voices blending into a drone, snippets of conversation dissolving into the clatter of footsteps. A team car waited at the exit — a black SUV with tinted windows — and Jack sank into the back seat, letting his head fall against the headrest. The air conditioning blasted cold air, soothing his flushed skin, while outside, the silhouettes of palm trees and distant glints of the bay flickered in the twilight.
Ten minutes later, the car slowed, caught in traffic, and Jack lazily turned his head toward the window. Through the dense stream of headlights and honks, a scene unfolded — a sunset hung over the bay, thick and heavy like oil on canvas: the sky blazed crimson, bleeding into deep purple, and the water below mirrored the fire, splintering into thousands of golden shards with the gentle breeze. A thin strip of clouds hovered on the horizon, lit from beneath as if someone had brushed a stroke along the world’s edge. The palm trees lining the road swayed, their leaves rustling as they caught the last rays, and there was something alive in it, almost tangible.
Jack watched, and something stirred inside — vague, nearly weightless, but persistent, like a faint nudge beneath his ribs. He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering over the screen, and for a moment, a thought flashed: «Why?»
It was stupid, petty even — sending it out of the blue, without words, as if Jannik gave a damn about a Miami sunset.
But he snapped the photo anyway, a quick motion capturing that crimson light and the water’s shimmer, and hit «send» — no caption, no meaning, just an impulse.
The screen flashed: «Read»
Silence hung in response, like the pause before a strike. Jack huffed, almost mockingly, but something like irritation caught in his throat. «Idiot» — he thought, shoving the phone into his pocket and turning back to the window, where the highway lights now flowed more freely as the car finally moved forward.
---
In the hotel, Jack stepped into his room and, without turning on the light, sank onto the bed, feeling exhaustion gently press his body into the mattress. Beyond the panoramic windows, Miami’s lights twinkled — distant, slightly blurred, as if veiled by a haze — while the room held a silence broken only by the steady hum of the air conditioner. He kicked off his sneakers, leaving them by the door, and lay back, arms spread across the cool bedspread that soothed his skin after the day’s heat.
His eyes were already drooping, lids growing heavy, when his phone pinged softly, yanking him from the edge of sleep. Jack reached for the nightstand, wincing at the screen’s harsh light, and opened the message.
From Jannik.
A photo: the Alps — jagged peaks piercing a pale blue sky, a dark strip of forest at their base dissolving into a soft mist.
No words, no caption — just that image.
Jack stared at it, and something inside shifted — not sharply, but quietly, like a faint sigh. He turned off the screen, leaving the phone resting on his chest, and closed his eyes, feeling a smile creep across his face beyond his control.
---
His first practice in Miami began two days before his opening match. Jack stood at the net, rolling his shoulders, while the air still carried the morning’s coolness, mingling with the scent of freshly cut grass beyond the court. The sun was rising, casting long shadows from the palms onto the empty stands, and dew glistened on the court, making it slightly slick under his sneakers. He gripped the ball in his hand, half-listening as the coach mumbled something about the schedule, his voice fading into the wind’s rustle. Jack nodded, mostly to himself, and glanced at the neighboring court — empty, save for a scrap of tape the breeze sent skittering across it. And there it was again, that damn habit — scanning for someone who couldn’t be there.
He shook his head, squeezed the ball tighter, and stepped to the baseline.
«Focus» — he snapped at himself internally, irritation mixing with something else — faint, barely there, nestled somewhere beneath his ribs.
This wasn’t about him. This wasn’t about them.
He struck the ball — hard, with a sharp exhale, and it slammed into the corner. The coach shouted something, but Jack didn’t tune in. His gaze drifted back to the stands, to the empty seats, and for a split second, he pictured Jannik there — with that lazy smirk, clapping too loudly, the way he used to after their joint practices.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut, banishing the image, and hit again, pouring more force into it than necessary.
It was supposed to be just a habit. Nothing more.
But a spark flickered inside — thin, almost invisible, one he wasn’t ready to acknowledge yet.
---
March 22 became his first test in Miami. The match against Jakub Mensik kicked off at noon on the Grandstand court, under a sun that scorched his neck and dazzled his eyes. Jack stepped onto the court, already feeling sweat pooling under his cap, the air shimmering with heat. He started strong — a break in the first game, two clean aces, not a single point gifted to his opponent. The echo of Indian Wells still carried him: precision, drive, control. But Mensik, a young Czech with sharp eyes and a cannon of a serve, wouldn’t fold. He leveled the score, and the first set slipped into a tiebreak. Jack faltered — a long shot out, a flub at the net, and 7-6(2) slipped through his fingers.
The second set felt like running through quicksand. Jack fended off break points, clung to his serve, but something inside was off — not his rhythm, but something deeper. At 4-3, the stands erupted: Brazilian fans, waiting for Fonseca’s match, learned of a reschedule and surged toward the exits, shouting and shoving. The game halted for five minutes. Jack stood at the net, wiping sweat from his face with a towel, watching the chaos settle. «What a mess» — he muttered, glancing at the umpire, who just shrugged. Play resumed, and he dug deep — but not deep enough. Another tiebreak: a double fault, a shot into the net, and 7-6(3).
Defeat.
He left the court, gripping his racket so hard his knuckles whitened, a bitter lump of frustration lodged in his throat, impossible to swallow.
The locker room greeted him with cold tiles and the sting of bleach; the shower washed away the sweat but not the tension, and the talk with his coach was jagged — words falling into a void, like stones down a well. Jack nodded, mumbled a reply, and stepped out, but his feet didn’t carry him back to the hotel.
The sun was just tipping toward the horizon, around seven in the evening, and the stadium still buzzed with the day’s fading chaos, but he veered toward a side court where no spectators lingered — just empty stands, a few scattered water bottles, and a light breeze pushing bits of trash across the ground: a crumpled program, a scrap of foil. In the distance, the ocean murmured low, blending with the hum of the highway. The court lay quiet before him, bathed in the soft glow of sunset, casting long, trembling shadows across the concrete.
Jack dropped onto a bench at the court’s edge, hands clasped behind his head, and lifted his gaze to the sky — deep, with a warm orange glow at the horizon where the first stars hadn’t yet emerged but were faintly hinted at in the heights. The loss still burned, stinging somewhere beneath his ribs, but his thoughts drifted beyond that pain. In his pocket, his phone sat heavy, and he knew a message from Jannik waited there — «Tough one. You’ll get it next time» — short as ever, but somehow alive. Jack closed his eyes and caught himself wanting to hear it out loud: with that slight accent, that calm voice that always sounded like nothing was ever too bad. He pictured Jannik — not here, not on the court, but far off in the Alps, among cold peaks and silence, with those light eyes that saw deeper than he was ready to admit.
And then something shifted. «Maybe I miss him» — the thought flickered, not loud, not insistent, but quiet, like a whisper on the breeze. He froze, feeling his heart beat a little harder — not from nerves, but from a soft kind of surprise. It wasn’t a confession, wasn’t a bold «yes» — just a shadow of truth he wasn’t ready to touch yet.
Jack exhaled, slow and deliberate, as if letting something go, and opened his eyes to the sunset. Footsteps sounded from the side — unhurried, confident, with a faint rhythm honed by years on the court. Jack turned his head and, in the soft glow of dusk, saw Andy Murray. He’d lingered at the stadium — after Novak’s practice, they’d sat with the team in the analysis room, reviewing rival footage, hashing out tactics for the next match, and only now were they heading out. Andy walked along the court, his movements steady, free of the old stiffness — his body long adapted to its scars. He spotted Jack, slowed his pace, and stopped, tilting his head as if listening to something.
— Jack? — Andy’s voice was low, with a warm rasp that carried more than detachment, something deeper, familiar to Jack from their earliest talks. He stepped closer, leaned against the court railing, and looked down at the empty expanse before shifting his gaze to Draper — not with curiosity, but with that quiet attentiveness forged through years of highs and lows.
— What are you doing sitting here alone?
Jack shrugged, forcing a weak smile that came out crooked and unconvincing.
— Just… you know... — he mumbled, staring off at the empty seats where the breeze lazily nudged a crumpled program. Andy squinted but didn’t press — he sat on a nearby bench, stretching out his legs and resting his hands on his knees. The silence between them was soft, unintrusive — as it always was with Andy, who knew how to wait without prodding. But after a minute, he spoke again, his voice gentler.
— The match still eating at you? Mensik played tough, but you know it’s not the end of the world.
— It’s not about the match. — The words slipped out quieter than Jack intended, hanging in the air, light but honest. He regretted it instantly, but Andy didn’t pounce on it like a hook. Instead, he just nodded, as if recognizing something familiar, and looked at him a bit closer, without pushing.
— Then what? You’re not yourself today, mate. I can see it — sitting here like you’ve lost something.
Jack pressed his lips together, feeling everything inside twist and tighten, as if trying to shove the truth out, but he wasn’t ready. Saying Jannik’s name aloud would be like stepping onto thin ice that might crack beneath him. He dropped his gaze, fingers unconsciously gripping the edge of the bench, and after a long pause, he forced out, almost a whisper:
— Andy, when you had all those injuries, the surgeries… when you were off the tour… did you ever want someone there with you? Or did you just want everyone to leave you alone?
Andy leaned back slightly, his eyes widening for a moment before he masked the surprise with a thoughtful look. He rubbed his neck, staring out at the sunset over the court, and fell silent, as if sifting through memories. Then he spoke, slow, with pauses, like pulling words from somewhere deep.
— Honestly? I thought I wanted to be alone. After the surgeries, when my whole body hurt, when I didn’t know if I’d see a court again… I told myself: I don’t want to see anyone, don’t want to talk, just let me get through this. Lock myself away and wait. But… — he hesitated, a faint smile touching his lips, warm and a little sad — There was someone who didn’t ask what I wanted. He was just there. Didn’t pry, didn’t drag me into talking — just stayed with me. Sometimes quiet, sometimes saying something simple but real. And only later, looking back, I realized that the silence I thought I craved would’ve been unbearable if he hadn’t been there.
Jack listened, and each of Andy’s words settled into him softly but heavily, like pebbles in water, leaving ripples. He stared at the darkened court, at the faint glimmers of sunset, and felt something inside slowly piecing itself together. Jannik. It wasn’t just a habit, not just an emptiness from his absence — it was something more, something he’d carried without noticing until Andy handed him the missing piece. He missed him — not the messages, not the chance encounters, but the sheer fact of Jannik being near, with his calm, with his gaze that always saw beyond words. It wasn’t a loud revelation, but a quiet, almost imperceptible one, pressing down with its clarity.
Andy caught the flicker of change on his face — didn’t say a word, but his eyes softened, and he placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder, warm and steady.
— If someone matters, Jack, don’t hold it in too long. We sometimes think we’re better off alone, but that’s rarely true. Give yourself a chance to figure out what you’re really missing.
A voice came from the side — low, with a soft, almost homely tease.
— Andy, where’d you disappear to? How long am I supposed to wait? — Novak stood at the court’s exit, his silhouette sharp against the sunset, his tone carrying something warm, personal. Andy smiled, a bit wider than usual, and shot Jack a quick glance.
— Coming, coming. — Murray replied, his voice noticeably lighter. He stood and gave Jack a parting nod.
— Don’t sit here too long. — he added quietly, almost a whisper, before heading toward Novak, leaving Draper in this new, living silence.
Jack stared at the empty court, where sunset shadows softly spilled across the concrete, and felt Andy’s words still echoing in his head — not loud, but quiet and persistent, like a reverberation. He pulled his phone from his pocket, fingers pausing for a moment over the screen as he opened his chat with Jannik. The message — «Tough one. You’ll get it next time» — sat there, short, familiar, but now it tugged at something bigger. He exhaled, almost inaudibly, and hesitated. It had worked once — just a photo with no words, and Jannik had replied. Maybe it would again?
Jack turned, framing himself with the empty stands in the background — crumpled programs, scraps of foil scattered by the breeze — and typed:
«Good thing you didn’t come. They don’t even clean up the trash here»
A dumb joke, a small thing, but he hoped it might hook Sinner, draw out something more than a dry response. He sent it, not expecting anything right away — in Europe, wherever Jannik was, it was past midnight, and Jack knew how much he valued sleep when there were no tournaments.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, reached for the soda sitting beside him — fizzy, cold, the kind his coach would throttle him for — and took a sip. But before he could finish, the phone pinged, and Jack nearly choked, blinking in surprise. Jannik had replied. A photo — dark, slightly blurry, but it was him: sprawled on a bed, in a plain t-shirt, with that awkward smile that always seemed a little unsure. His eyes were half-closed — if he wasn’t asleep, he was damn close. Jack stared at the picture, and something warm, almost tangible, spread through his chest, like someone had pressed a heating pad straight to his heart. He didn’t quite get why it hit him like that, but his fingers were already typing:
«Why aren’t you asleep? Watching matches or something?» — he wrote playfully, masking that odd warmth with another quip.
The reply came fast, and Jack froze, staring at the screen. Jannik had written — no trace of a joke, dead serious:
«No, just yours»
Jack stilled, eyes locked on the screen, and felt his breath hitch — not dramatically, just unevenly, like he’d climbed stairs too quick. He reread those three words — simple, unadorned — and frowned, not grasping why they gripped him so hard. It wasn’t like they melted him, no, he wasn’t ready to dig that deep into himself, but something in his chest stirred, light and inexplicable, like a breeze brushing through leaves.
Jack huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk, and he typed:
«If I’d known you were watching, maybe I wouldn’t have blown it»
The joke slipped out naturally, a bit clumsy, but with a hint — not serious, just enough to test what Jannik might say. He sent it, leaned back on the bench, and took another sip of soda, the cold bubbles tingling on his tongue.
The phone pinged again, sooner than he’d expected. Jannik replied:
«Then play better next time. I’ll see it anyway»
The text was short, with that calm directness of his, but at the end sat a smirk emoji — lopsided, like Jannik had chuckled at his own line. Jack stared at the screen, and that smirk — even in pixels — somehow made him smile back, though he rolled his eyes. That warmth stirred in his chest again, and this time, he didn’t bother denying it.
---
A couple of days passed, and Jack sat in his hotel room in Miami, staring at the suitcase that should’ve already been packed for the flight to London. Training awaited him there, prep for the Monte-Carlo Masters, the usual rhythm — court, gym, a plan to get back in shape. But something gnawed at him, quiet but relentless, like a splinter he couldn’t pull out. Expectations — his own, the team’s, everyone who’d seen him as a new champion after Indian Wells — seemed to have crumbled under the weight of this loss. The racket, so recently an extension of his hand, now felt impossibly heavy, every swing in practice echoing with bone-deep fatigue. Injuries, triumph, then this quick exit — it all tangled into a thick knot he couldn’t swallow. The coach had tossed out something sharp that morning — not yelling, but words about «focus» and «responsibility» that layered on another weight. Jack nodded, stayed silent, but inside, everything clenched.
He leaned back in the chair, gazing at the panoramic windows of the room, where the crimson of sunset melted into the warm glow of Miami’s lights. He wanted to shut down, turn off his phone, hide from everyone — from voices, plans, demands.
And then, like a flash, a thought struck: Jannik. He must’ve felt something like this — all that noise around the doping scandals, the stares, the questions, the pressure. Jack had seen how he carried himself, but now he wondered: what did Sinner feel inside? Suddenly, he wanted to ask, to know how he’d handled it. He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering over the screen, and typed something simple, almost casual:
«How did you deal when everything piled up?» — straightforward, no frills, but with a faint hint he hadn’t fully clocked himself.
The reply came fast again. Jannik wrote:
«You okay?» — short, but there was something sharp, piercing in that question, like he saw more than Draper had let on.
Jack froze for a couple of beats, as if something locked up inside him. Normally, he’d crack a joke, duck behind another jab, but right now, he didn’t have the energy. He exhaled and typed:
«Honestly, tired. Just fed up with it all»
It wasn’t a whine, wasn’t a shout — just a quiet admission, the first he’d let slip.
Jannik didn’t dig, didn’t pry with questions or advice. But a minute later, a response came:
«Skiing helped me in moments like that. Or the mountains. Just get away and switch off»
Calm, no preaching — like he was offering a hand but not pulling him along. Jack smirked, feeling the tension ease just a bit, and wrote:
«Never been on skis in my life. Coach says no one’d survive teaching me»
The joke came out a bit awkward, but there was something real in it.
Jannik replied almost instantly:
«I could manage it. You’re not hopeless»
A light jab, wrapped in a quip, with no hint of a serious invite — just words tossed into the air. Jack read it, and a smile crept onto his lips, but something inside twitched. He typed:
«I’d actually like to try, if I’m honest»
The playful tone lingered, but a truth peeked through, one he immediately feared showing, yet he sent it anyway.
Ten minutes of silence. Jack stared at the screen, his throat tightening at the thought he’d overstepped, that Jannik had just turned off his phone and gone to bed. He’d finished the water from the bottle on the table when the phone pinged. Jannik wrote:
«Heading to Italy to ski the day after tomorrow»
Short, crisp, like a shot left on the other side of the court. It wasn’t an invitation — or was it? — just a fact Jack could pick up or let slide.
He froze, staring at those words. Reply? Say nothing? He didn’t know what to do with it, but his fingers typed on their own:
«From Nice?»
A brief question, almost offhand, but inside, everything clenched in anticipation. The reply came a second later:
«Yeah»
And Jack felt something in his chest tighten — not hard, but noticeably, like a taut string.
He was supposed to fly to London tomorrow. Supposed to think about his form, the court, how to claw his way out of this rut. But instead, he opened a ticket site, fingers moving fast, almost on autopilot. The next flight to Nice — six hours from now, with two ridiculous layovers, but it was there. Jack stared at the screen, feeling exhaustion give way to something new — vague, but alive. He hit «buy» without giving himself time to doubt. The confirmation flashed, and he switched off the phone, leaning back in the chair.
Tomorrow he’d deal with the team, hear out the coach, say he needed a couple of days.
But right now — right now, he needed to get to Nice.