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Paris had been a disaster. A full-stop, second-round, "pack your bags," tail-between-your-legs, disaster.
Carlos hadn't even been back in Spain for thirty-six hours, the sting of the loss still fresh, like a blister he couldn't stop poking. His jaw ached from clenching, his leg bounced restlessly, a frantic energy buzzing under his skin.
He was supposed to be disconnecting. Juanki had said so to him, over and over again: "Turn off the phone, Carlos. Go for a run. Relax."
He'd tried. He really had. He’d lasted almost a full day. He’d gone for a punishing run, he’d eaten lunch with his parents, he’d played video games with his brothers. But the entire time, an anxious energy thrummed under his skin.
He kept replaying everything that went wrong during the match against Norrie, how speechless his team were afterwards.
He knew, without checking, that Jannik had won his opening match yesterday. He could feel it. He could picture the precise, brutal efficiency of his rival's game on the indoor court, a court that had just spit Carlos out like he was nothing.
Now, it was late morning, the house was quiet, and he was on the couch, thumb moving in that familiar, mindless scroll.
He was dutifully avoiding Twitter (he didn't need to see the "Path back to No. 1" graphics that now all had Jannik's face on them).
Instagram was supposed to be safer. Pictures of his friends' dogs, something about golf, or maybe some good football highlights.
And then he saw it. The post was only sixteen minutes old.
It was Jannik. But it wasn't his Jannik. Not the one in sweaty, clinging Nike gear, sweat dripping down the slope of his nose, face pinched in concentration.
This was... something else.
The post was a carousel. janniksin. A photoshoot for Gucci.
"Joder," Carlos breathed, his voice too loud in the empty room.
The first photo hit him like a physical blow. Jannik was on a mountaintop, leaning against a wall of pure white snow. He was wearing some kind of impossibly expensive-looking ski jacket and pants, covered in the brown Gucci pattern. The jacket was unzipped over a simple white tee. His ski goggles were pushed up into that stupid, beautiful, coppery hair.
He was staring directly into the camera. His pale skin was flushed (from the cold, or from makeup, Carlos couldn't tell), and his expression was that perfect, infuriating, calm-before-the-storm look. The one that said I am not impressed.
He looked like royalty. Like a model, ready to walk the runaway during the Milan Fashion Week.
Carlos's thumb hovered over the 'like' button. He couldn't. He couldn't. Liking his rival's high-fashion modeling post, while said rival was still in the tournament Carlos had just bombed out of, was weak. It was pathetic.
He swiped left.
This one was worse. So much worse. It was a close-up. All in white. A sleek, high-necked zip-up turtleneck that looked softer than anything Carlos had ever owned. His hair was a chaotic mess of curls, and he was wearing these futuristic, silver-mirrored shades. It made him look less like a model and more like... just Jannik. An impossibly beautiful, otherworldly version of him.
He swiped again.
A profile shot. Same white turtleneck. The sharp line of his nose. His lips slightly parted.
He swiped again.
This one was all in black. A sleek jacket, sleek pants. Jannik was walking through the snow, sunglasses on, looking down. He looked impossibly long. All legs. The fit of the suit was... fitting. Carlos's eyes snagged on the line from his hip to his knee, and he felt a sudden, unwelcome jolt low in his stomach.
It was unfair. It was so unfair.
How dare he? How dare Jannik be in Paris, winning his opening match with ease, and also be this... this... Roman statue. This perfect, untouchable, work of art.
Carlos locked his phone, tossing it onto the cushion beside him as if it had burned him. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms into his sockets.
Venga, Carlos. Focus. The loss. Think about the loss. What went wrong with… everything?
But his brain didn't conjure an image of the court at La Défense. It conjured Jannik's face, framed by snow. The flush on his cheeks. The way his hair looked like a crackling fire against the ice.
He grabbed the phone. He was only human.
He opened the post again, his heart doing that stupid little thump-thump against his ribs it always did when Jannik was involved. He went back to the first photo.
The patterned suit. He zoomed in. First on the eyes. Then, shamefully, on the mouth. Then on the visible skin of his neck.
He was sick. He needed to get out of the house and run until his legs couldn’t take it anymore.
He scrolled through the comments, a new wave of irritation washing over him. Red hearts after red hearts.
Carlos scoffed, a bitter taste in his mouth. He clicked on the post again, intending to go back to the white turtleneck picture, the one that made his stomach flip, and his thumb fumbled as he tried to zoom.
He double-tapped.
The red heart appeared.
Carlos’s blood went cold. Then hot. Then cold again.
"Mierda, joder, no–" His fingers flew, fumbling, tapping the heart again. It vanished.
But it had been a full second. Maybe two.
Jannik would see it. Or his team would. He'd get a screenshot. The notification was already sent.
Carlos threw his phone across the room. It hit the armchair and clattered to the floor. He didn't care.
He buried his face in his hands, his skin burning. He needed to think about his recovery. About the ATP Finals in Turin. About winning to keep the number one spot.
Instead, the only thing in his entire, stupid, obsessed brain was Jannik Sinner in the snow.
He sat there, stewing in his own humiliation, for ten full minutes. The phone lay on the rug, face down, mocking him.
He had to pick it up. He had to know. Maybe it was fine. Maybe Jannik was practicing. Maybe he was still sleeping. Maybe he wouldn't see it.
He crawled off the couch and snatched the phone, his hands clammy.
He opened it. No new notifications.
He let out a long, shaky breath. Okay. Safe. He didn't see. It's fine.
He was just about to text Juanki, Going for another run, when his screen lit up.
One new WhatsApp message.
Jannik Sinner
Carlos’s stomach dropped. He stared at the name, his heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest.
He slid his thumb over the notification.
You're fast.
Carlos stared at the three words. His brain short-circuited. Fast at what? Fast at losing? Fast at running away from Paris?
He typed, his thumbs shaking. fast at what.
The three dots appeared instantly. Jannik was typing.
On Instagram.
Carlos let his head fall back against the couch with a dull thud. He was going to die. He was going to die of humiliation, right there in his parents' living room.
He had to play it cool. what do you mean? Yeah, so cool Carlos.
The typing dots returned.
The post. You liked it. Then you unliked it. I got the notification.
Why was he like this? He was relentless. On the court, off the court. A machine.
Carlos's mind raced. Deflect. it was an accident, my thumb slipped
Sure. So you weren't looking at the post.
Carlos could feel the smirk in that text. That calm, knowing little half-smile Jannik got when he'd hit a perfect and absurd shot.
no i wasnt 🙄
The dots again. A longer pause this time. Carlos held his breath.
Which one did you like?
Carlos read the text. He read it again. Which one? What did he mean, which one? He opened Instagram, his hands no longer shaking, just numb. He looked at the carousel. The patterned suit. The black suit. The white turtleneck.
Carlos felt that hot-red flush crawl up his neck all over again. This was worse than losing a match against Cam fucking Norrie.
cmon jan…
I like the second one.
Carlos's heart did that stupid, painful lurch. The white one. The one that had made him stop breathing. Of course Jannik preferred that one. It was softer. It was more real.
He was being teased. Mercilessly. By a man who was probably sitting in his hotel room in Paris, gloating, not a care in the world.
Carlos couldn't give him the satisfaction. He had to take the power back.
it looked cold
Real smooth, Carlos.
The dots. It was. Freezing.
Carlos took a deep breath. He typed, deleted, typed again. He hit send.
i’m going to beat you in turin
The reply was almost instant.
You have to get past the group stage first.
Carlos actually laughed. A short, sharp, surprised sound. The bastard.
i will
The three dots appeared one last time.
See you there, Carlos.
Carlos locked his phone and dropped it on his chest. The buzzing under his skin hadn't gone away, but it had changed. It wasn't the bitter sting of a loss anymore. It was anticipation.
He picked up the phone, opened Instagram, and went back to the post. He stared at the white turtleneck photo for a long, long time.
This time, he liked it. And he didn't take it back.