Chapter Text
Winter in Madrid was mild but treacherous. The cold slipped under clothing, clinging to the skin, while the sun, low and golden, deceptively promised warmth. Carlos stood on the threshold of his new home — an ancient villa on the outskirts of the city, where the noise of the streets dissolved into the silence of an upscale suburb. The house was far from the ostentatious luxury one might expect from a tennis player of his caliber. The villa’s walls, cracked by time, bore the marks of rain and sun. The wrought-iron gates, coated in rust, creaked even in the lightest breeze. The garden — a chaotic labyrinth of wild ivy, thorny roses, and dry branches — looked as though no human hand had touched it in decades. The empty pool in the courtyard, its bottom darkened with grime, resembled an abandoned well. Yet, there was something captivating in this imperfection. When Carlos first walked across the creaking floors and inhaled the scent of old wood mingled with fresh paint, he felt it: this house was his. Not just a place to live, but a space where he could piece himself back together.
The 2024 season had left behind a trail of contradictions. Roland Garros and Wimbledon had bowed to him, cementing his name in the pantheon of tennis, but the Olympic final in Paris against Novak Djokovic became a wound that wouldn’t heal. Carlos had given everything — his speed, his topspin, his fire — but Novak, with his inhuman endurance, broke him in two tiebreaks. That defeat didn’t anger him; it hollowed him out. It was as if he’d left a piece of himself on that court — the very piece that made him invincible. The rest of the season was a battle against that shadow: he won, but he didn’t feel like himself. Every match was like running in circles, the finish line always slipping away. He couldn’t pinpoint what had broken, and that uncertainty gnawed at him from within.
The winter break came as a salvation. After the ATP Finals in Turin, where he reached the semifinals, Carlos decided to pause. From November to mid-December, he chose not to play tournaments, dedicating his time to family and recovery. That was when he decided to buy a house. Not in Monaco, where many tennis players settled, nor in Miami, where he loved to train, but in Madrid — in his native Spain, where every corner smelled like home. His prize money meant he didn’t need to count costs. He chose this villa not for status, but for its soul. An old mansion with high ceilings, restored rooms, and a garden waiting for someone to breathe life into it. Carlos imagined fixing it up, repairing the pool, planting new trees. It wasn’t just a desire to settle into a home — it was a way to fill the void the season had left behind.
He moved in early December, a couple of days after the purchase. The first days were spent in aimless wanderings through the house: he opened heavy shutters, touched the rough walls, grew accustomed to the creak of the floorboards. The rooms smelled of fresh paint, but in the corners, the faint scent of old wood and dust lingered. Carlos roamed with a cup of coffee, pondering where to begin. He wanted a distraction, something to reignite his spark. But for now, he only gazed at the overgrown garden and thought that it would be a long journey.
On the third day after moving in, Carlos decided to explore the backyard. The morning was cool, the sky a grayish-blue with thin clouds spreading like smoke. He threw on an old gray hoodie, worn-out jeans, and sneakers, grabbed a cup of Americano, and stepped outside. The air smelled of damp earth and something sharp, like wilted roses. Dry leaves crunched underfoot, and a light, chilly breeze stirred the branches in the garden. Carlos passed by the pool, noting that its repair would cost a fortune: the bottom was cracked, and the walls were overgrown with moss. He stopped at the far corner of the yard, where the overgrowth was thicker and the ground uneven, as if someone had once dug here and abandoned the effort. Behind the branches, he glimpsed a rusty gate leading to a narrow path that wound toward the fields and a sparse grove nearby. It was slightly ajar, and a faint ray of morning light slipped through the gap.
And then he saw him.
By the gate stood a guy. Tall, lean, with red hair that glowed with a soft copper fire in the morning light. He wore a light beige, chunky-knit sweater, slightly loose, which made his frame almost weightless, and dark trousers, simple but neat. His skin was pale, almost marble-like, as if he rarely saw the sun, and his eyes — somewhere between gray and green — gazed at Carlos with quiet, unintrusive curiosity. He stood still, his head slightly tilted, and there was something soft, almost fragile, in his posture, yet undeniably magnetic. He seemed part of the morning itself — as calm as the clouds, as elusive as the breeze.
Carlos froze, feeling awkward under that gaze. The coffee in his hand had gone cold, but he still clutched the cup, as if it could lend him confidence. He cleared his throat, stepped closer, and tried to smile.
— Hey. — he said, aiming for a relaxed tone. — Who’re you?
The guy didn’t answer right away. His lips twitched in a faint, almost imperceptible smile that warmed his face but didn’t dispel the enigmatic aura. He looked at Carlos for another second, as if deciding whether to speak, then said:
— Jannik. — His voice was low, soft, with a slight accent Carlos couldn’t quite place — maybe German, maybe something else. — I live nearby. Saw the light in the house and… thought I’d check it out. This place has been empty for a long time.
Carlos nodded, studying him. Jannik was… unusual. His red hair, slightly tousled by the wind, fell across his forehead, and his sweater, soft and cozy, seemed designed to soften his sharp features. His paleness made him almost ethereal, yet there was something grounded about him — maybe in the slight slouch of his shoulders or the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. Carlos caught himself thinking that Jannik looked like a character from an old book — not quite a poet, not quite a ghost. He chuckled inwardly: «A ghost is a bit much». But he still couldn’t look away.
— I’m Carlos. — he said, extending his hand. — Just bought this house. Moved in a couple of days ago.
Jannik shook his hand. His palm was cool but not icy, and for a moment, Carlos thought he felt a faint warmth before Jannik pulled away. He nodded, as if committing the name to memory, and glanced at the villa. His eyes slid over the cracked walls, the ivy clinging to the windows, and lingered for a moment on the garden.
— It’s a beautiful place. — he said softly, almost in a whisper. — Old, but beautiful. Planning to fix it up?
Carlos laughed, scratching the back of his neck. The laugh came out a bit louder than necessary, but it eased the tension.
— Honestly, I have no clue where to start. — he admitted, waving a hand toward the yard. — The house is decent, but the garden… and that pool… It’s gonna be a whole saga.
Jannik gave a small smile but said nothing. He just looked at Carlos, and there was something in his eyes that made Carlos feel seen — not as a star, not as a tennis player, but as a person. It was strange and… nice. Carlos decided it was time to ask something back.
— So, what do you do? — He stepped closer, trying to sound casual. — Besides, you know, wandering around neighbors’ yards?
Jannik let out a quiet laugh — a sound as soft as rustling leaves, without a hint of mockery. He shrugged, looking off toward the garden.
— I wander. — he said, a trace of a smile in his voice. — Watch things change.
Carlos waited for him to say more, but Jannik fell silent. His answer was so evasive that Carlos didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. Instead of pressing further, he decided to share something about himself.
— I’m a tennis player. — he said simply, without extra details. — Play, run, all that stuff.
He said it almost offhandedly, but he watched Jannik’s reaction. And for a split second — just a fraction of a moment — a spark flickered in Jannik’s eyes. Not surprise, not recognition, but something else, as if the word «tennis» had struck a hidden chord. His eyebrows lifted slightly, his gaze sharpened, but just as quickly, like a switch flipping, he slipped back into his usual detachment. His face became calm again, almost serene.
— Tennis. — he repeated, as if tasting the word. — Sounds… intense.
Carlos chuckled. «Intense» was an understatement. He expected Jannik to ask something more — about tournaments, about titles — but he stayed silent, and that silence spoke louder than any question. Carlos realized: Jannik didn’t know who he was. And that was… liberating. In a world where his face flashed on magazine covers and fans shouted his name, meeting someone for whom he was just Carlos felt like taking a full, deep breath. He smiled, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease.
— Yeah, you could say that. — he agreed, looking at Jannik. — What about you? Do you play? Or maybe watch?
Jannik shook his head, his hair swaying slightly, catching the light.
— No. — he said softly. — But I know it takes… a lot. — He hesitated, as if searching for the right word, then added: — Soul.
Carlos blinked. That was unexpected. Not «strength», not «work», but «soul». He wanted to ask what Jannik meant, but something in his tone — gentle yet final — stopped him. Instead, he nodded, and they fell silent. The silence was comfortable, but there was something odd about it, as if Jannik knew more than he was letting on. Carlos studied him, trying to figure out who this person was. Jannik was like a puzzle missing half its pieces: soft yet enigmatic, open yet guarded. And that combination was magnetic.
— So, what’s your plan for this? — Jannik asked, nodding toward the garden. His voice was as calm as before, but there was genuine curiosity in it. — The garden, the pool… anything else?
Carlos shrugged, surveying the yard. The overgrowth, the dry leaves, the rusty gate — it all looked like a set from an old movie.
— I want to fix it up. — he said. — But I don’t know where to start yet. Maybe the pool. Or the garden. We’ll see.
Jannik nodded, his gaze drifting to the far corner of the yard, where the ground was uneven and the grass grew in patches. He took a step in that direction, his sweater swaying lightly in the breeze.
— There’s something there. — he said quietly, almost in a whisper. — Under the ground.
Carlos frowned, following his gaze. He stepped closer, peering at the spot. The earth did look strange — too compact, as if someone had filled it in hastily. He turned to Jannik, who stood with that same soft smile, but something flickered in his eyes — a secret, or perhaps a memory.
— What’s there? — Carlos asked, squinting. — Do you know?
Jannik shrugged, the movement so light it seemed he might dissolve into the air.
— A court. — he said simply, as if commenting on the weather. — A tennis court. They started building it but never finished. Covered it with earth.
Carlos blinked, hardly believing his ears. He looked at the ground, then at Jannik, then back at the ground.
— A court? — Carlos repeated, feeling curiosity ignite in his chest. — For real?
Jannik nodded, his smile widening slightly but still soft.
— Want to check it out? — he asked, gesturing toward the ground. — Dig a bit, and you’ll see.
Carlos froze, unsure if Jannik was joking. But something in his voice — calm yet certain — spurred him on. He dashed to the shed, where he found a rusty shovel with a wooden handle among the old tools, and returned to Jannik, who was waiting in the same spot. His figure, bathed in the morning sun, looked almost unreal: red hair, pale skin, soft sweater. Carlos caught himself thinking that Jannik resembled a character from an old book — elusive, with a gentle, almost poetic aura.
— Alright, let’s do this. — Jannik said, nodding at the ground. His voice was as quiet as before, but there was a faint spark in it, as if he, too, was intrigued.
Carlos drove the shovel into the soil, expecting soft earth, but the blade hit something hard almost immediately. He frowned, pressed harder, and started digging. The ground was dry but compact, and each strike of the shovel reverberated in his hands. After a couple of minutes, he cleared a small patch — and sure enough, beneath the layer of dirt and grass, a smooth surface emerged, resembling concrete. He ran his hand over it, feeling the rough texture, and looked at Jannik, who stood a little ways off, arms crossed over his chest.
— Is this… hard court? — Carlos asked, scarcely believing his eyes. — How did you know?
Jannik shrugged, his smile growing a touch more enigmatic. He looked at Carlos, but his gaze seemed to reach further, as if he saw not just this yard but something hidden by time.
— This house… it’s old. — Jannik said, his voice so soft it almost blended with the rustle of the breeze in the overgrowth. — It holds a lot of stories.
Carlos set the shovel aside, wiping his hands on his jeans. His pulse had quickened slightly — not from the digging, but from an inner thrill he couldn’t quite explain. He glanced at Jannik, trying to figure him out. This guy was like a book in an unfamiliar language: every word, every gesture hinted at something greater, but the meaning slipped away. His calmness, his evasive answers, even the way he stood with his head slightly tilted — it was all unusual, but not off-putting. Jannik seemed like someone living in his own world, where time flowed differently. And that was… captivating. Carlos caught himself wanting to know him better, though he didn’t quite understand why.
— Cool find. — he said, nodding at the exposed patch of concrete. His voice was light, but it carried genuine excitement. — My own court — that’d be something. Imagine training right here.
Jannik gave a small smile, and his eyes — light, with a barely perceptible greenish tint — gleamed in the morning light. He stepped closer to the unearthed spot, arms still crossed.
— Digging it up alone won’t be a walk in the park. — he remarked, a faint trace of mockery in his tone, so gentle it didn’t sting. — This isn’t like turning over a couple of garden beds.
Carlos grinned, planting his hands on his hips. His cheeks were slightly flushed from the morning chill and the spark of excitement growing inside him. Jannik doubting him? Well, that was a mistake.
— Come on. — he said, shrugging. — I’m basically on vacation right now. Getting my hands dirty isn’t that scary. This might even be useful.
Jannik raised an eyebrow, his smile widening slightly but remaining calm. There wasn’t a hint of malice in it, just a light, almost friendly teasing.
— Cocky. — he said, his voice as soft as ever. — You might regret taking it so lightly.
Carlos snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark eyes flashed, and he felt a spark ignite in his chest — not the kind that flared on the court before a decisive shot, but something close. He suddenly wanted to prove to this strange guy that he wasn’t just an athlete for show. If he could run around a court for four hours without a break, he could damn well handle a shovel.
— Regret it? — he echoed, grinning. — I’ll start tomorrow morning. We’ll see who’s regretting what.
Jannik laughed softly — the sound was light, without a trace of arrogance. He looked at Carlos, and for a moment, his gaze warmed slightly, as if he appreciated the enthusiasm.
— Alright. — he said, nodding. — I’ll swing by tomorrow, then. See how you’re holding up.
Carlos nodded, still smiling. He felt excitement mixing with something else — curiosity, maybe, or a desire to see Jannik again. This guy was unlike anyone he knew. Not a fan, not a journalist, not a friend from the tennis world. Just… Jannik. And that was enough to make him want to keep this conversation going.
— Deal. — Carlos said, watching as Jannik stepped back toward the gate. — Just don’t be late, or I’ll have half the court dug up already.
Jannik smiled, his red hair swaying as it caught a ray of sunlight. He raised a hand in a casual farewell, turned, and slipped through the gate leading to the path that wound toward the fields and the nearby grove. His figure — tall, in that light sweater — flashed among the overgrowth and vanished, leaving behind only the faint rustle of his steps.
Carlos stood there, gripping the shovel’s handle. He glanced at the patch of concrete beneath his feet, then at the gate where Jannik had just been. Something new stirred in his chest — not fire, not adrenaline, but a quiet, stubborn urge to keep going. This house, this buried court, this peculiar neighbor — it all felt like the start of a story he wanted to see through to the end. He took a deep breath of the cold air, his lungs filling with the scent of earth and roses, and thought that tomorrow would be an interesting day.