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“When I think about Carlos, I think of love.”
The whole crowd is looking at him carefully, like somehow the world hangs at the tip of his tongue. Jannik should be used to it by now. Things have been this way for longer than he can even remember, for decades at least.
Jannik has always been a prodigy. When he was still a child who couldn’t choose between tennis and skiing, his dad used to always say that he would bring an Olympic medal home, whether it be from the Summer or the Winter Games. They had watched the Games in Vancouver, and Jannik remembers telling his cousins that he would be the next Giulano Razzoli, the only Italian gold medallist, and them mocking him though they all knew that it could be true. Two years earlier, when his mom allowed him to skip practice to watch the Beijing Olympics tennis final, Jannik had sworn he would be the first Italian player of the century to bring home an Olympic medal. His mom had agreed.
People have always put their trust in him, knowing that he would accomplish great things, and because people have always known he was good – better than anyone else, to be fair – people have always looked at him the way they are now.
And yet, it’s making him nervous.
“Love?” Jack asks, his eyebrow furrowing a bit. “When asked about Carlos, all you can think about is… love..? Not rivalry or competition or, frankly, a fucking pain in the ass that kept you from breaking all existing records of this sport but… love… really?”
Jannik stays silent for a bit. His mind wanders, the way it always does when things are getting serious or weird or uncomfortable. He doesn't know what's the right word to qualify the moment. However, what he knows is that Jack has let his grey hair grow out, that there are wrinkles around his eyes, that his blue shirt suits him. He might even be sexier than he was twenty years ago.
Flavio used to always make fun of the silly crushes that Jannik had on certain players. He kept repeating that the only way you could beat the redhead was if he miraculously had a crush on you, then, even if you played your worst tennis, if you did it while looking sexy, Jannik would panic and lose.
Jack had been one of those guys who could distract Jannik by just looking at him a bit too long. His veiny arms and the grunts he let out when hitting the ball made him so hard he dreaded the day they’d meet on court. The list had been pretty long actually. Tommy, when he came back on tour with a pornstar mustache. Lorenzo, when he did the cover of La Repubblica – but this one had been very brief for Jannik was gently reminded by Flavio that Lorenzo was a father to two kids. Henrique, during that one French Open where he looked like a Greek god with his tanned skin and his hair longer than usual. Valentin, when Jannik saw him in Paris after that crazy run in Shanghai and felt flustered by the brightness of his smile. Grigor, for very obvious reasons.
“Well, yeah, obviously, all of these apply. Especially a pain in the ass. That he really is. But I think, it would be downplaying our relation to deny its positive aspects. Carlos was my motivation to get back on court everyday. I just wanted to beat him, to erase that stupid smile off of his face, to make him feel like shit for once. And this fueled my love for the game. If it wasn’t for Carlos, I think I would’ve retired years before I actually did. But, yeah… I love tennis and because I love tennis, I can’t think about Carlos without associating it to love.”
Jack anchors his gaze into Jannik’s and the look on his face clearly questions his friend’s sanity. What the fuck are you saying, lad? is what he wants to ask but can’t because there are cameras and microphones and a whole crowd listening to them discussing their careers.
“I think it’s great you’re able to get some perspective on your relationship after all this time. I mean… who would’ve thought the guy you called a fucking moron on live television would become someone who reminds you of love.” Jack replies, looking so confused Jannik wonders for a minute if there’s something he’s missing. “Even though you seem to still have strong feelings towards him.”
Jannik doesn’t say anything, he simply smiles. It is true, he did tell the whole world Carlos was a fucking moron. And more. But what else could he have told that news anchor when asked about how he felt about losing a fourth Grand Slam final to Carlos when he’d been two sets down merely two hours ago?
Jannik can still picture the infuriating smile on Carlos’ face, his fist up in the air and the roar ripping out of him and dragging the crowd with it. He can still feel the clay sticking to his calves, orange powder staining the hideous Nike set he had to wear during this tournament. He had felt hyperconscious of everything, the way Carlos had chosen to speak Italian when they’d been in Paris – as if to make sure Jannik understood every bit of the humiliation – and all the Spanish flags floating in the air when there was no Tricolori to be seen.
And Carlos had been so kind in his speech, telling everyone that the only reason he’d played so well that day was because he had to face one of the greatest players of all time, that he was already looking up to the next time they’d meet on court and that there was no one else he would want to share such moments with.
And Carlos had looked so hot in his oh-so-tight black shorts, with his hair the perfect length – somewhat of a blessing after the catastrophic buzzcut era. And his eyes were so sparkling when he turned his head towards Jannik, it looked like he’d seen God himself.
And Carlos had smelled so good when they had hugged afterwards, even though they’d played for four hours under the worst heat they ever faced in Paris, that the softness of his skin against Jannik’s had felt unbearable.
So, yes, when the reporter asked him if he had a message for Carlos, Jannik had been too confused to think properly. He’d been angry at himself for losing to Carlos. And he’d been angry at himself because he’d realized that there was no one else he’d rather lose to. And that the list had one more contender now. So it’d been easier to insult Carlos than admit it. They would never truly be friends either way, might as well lean into the rivalry.
“You know what they say. The line between hate and love is very thin. I’ve hated Carlos for fifteen years, I think I can rest now. I’m at peace, I thank him for forcing me to get the best out of me.”
Jack sighs, visibly reassured Jannik seems to be coming back to himself. “Well, I don’t really know if Carlos would agree to this after everything you’ve been through, I’m glad for you.”
The aftermath of that interview had been immediate. When Jannik beat him in Wimbledon merely two months later, Carlos had refused to look at him and had done his speech in full Spanish without ever looking at his opponent once. There had been no more photos of the two of them flashing wide toothy smiles at the cameras, no more sweaty hugs. Their handshakes were nothing more than cordial, and it almost looked as if they were trying to not to puke from touching each other.
And then, Carlos – golden boy Carlos whom everyone loved, the one guy that wouldn’t hurt a fly – went on national television and looked straight at the camera to call Jannik a dickhead who had trouble dealing with the fact that someone was better than him when asked what was going on between the two of them.
Jannik had almost choked. He hadn’t been able to tell if he was angry or aroused.
“What’s the matter with Carlos, Jan’? What happened? Did you guys hook up and it was shit, is that why you’re suddenly shouting from the rooftops that you hate each other?” Flavio had asked him once and Jannik had known that he had read the online theories fans made to try to understand the downfall of “Sincaraz”.
Jannik represses a chuckle at the thought of one very specific night fourteen years ago. “Oh Jack… I wouldn’t be so sure Carlos hates me if I were you.”
The tension had been so thick in the small locker room that Jannik had felt like he might lack oxygen if Carlos kept looking at him with eyes so dark you could barely see his pupils.
“You called me a fucking moron, Jannik. On live television. What the fuck is wrong with you, joder?” Carlos asked out of the blue, and the worst of it all was that he wasn’t even mad about it.
Jannik took a minute to study the expression on his face and settled for sadness. It only made him feel worse. He would’ve wanted anger, disgust, disappointment, things that he could understand.
“That was two years ago, Carlos.”
“And yet, we haven’t had a proper conversation since. So, what did I do wrong, Jannik?”
Carlos looked at him attentively. The way he pronounced his name made Jannik feel weak in his knees. They were about to enter the stadium and try to ruin each other on court and the only thing Carlos was worried about was what he could do to fix their relationship. Jannik felt like crying.
“I can’t pretend that we’re friends when my stomach does this weird thing whenever I think about you. Butterflies or something, I don’t know. I don’t think I want to know,” he finally blurted out and somehow, the weight on his chest eased almost instantly.
The truth was out in the open. Carlos stayed silent for longer than Jannik could bear. He could feel his heart pumping in his head, his hands getting so sweaty he wondered if he’d be able to hold his racket. Outside the room, the speaker was hyping up the crowd, which meant they would be walking on court in a couple of minutes.
“So,” Carlos said after what felt like a lifetime, “you do not think that I am a fucking moron? At all?”
Jannik had closed his eyes. “No, Carlos. I don’t.”
“And you do not hate me? At all?”
“No, Carlos. I don’t. It’s quite the opposite.”
Carlos went quiet again for a bit. “Vale, that is good to know. Very good to know.” He paced around the room for a few seconds while Jannik stood there, unable to breathe. “I do not hate you either. As you said, it’s quite the opposite.”
The door opened. They had to go and face ten thousand people who had no idea of what had just unfolded in this tiny locker room. Carlos looked at him. He looked like he was about to add something. Instead, he just smiled.
[...]
When the cameras cut, Jack grabs Jannik by the shoulders.
“Dude, you had me worried you were going to spill out the whole truth on live television for a second!” he whispers.
“I’ve been keeping this secret for fourteen years, Jack. Trust me, I know when to shut up.” Jannik replies and he notices the crinkles around his friend’s eyes when he smiles back at him.
Backstage, someone hands him his phone.
from “he’s a fucking moron” to “when i think about carlos, i think of love” is a wild evolution.
quite the opposite, actually.
reads the text attached to a picture of Carlos spread out on a couch, wearing Jannik’s Olympic jacket like it’s his.
Jannik’s face lights up.
shut up.
he writes, and then,
i’m coming home.
When he presses send, his stomach does this weird thing again. Butterflies or something.