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After the loss to Norrie in Paris, Carlos refuses a trip to El Palmar to see his parents. Instead, he travels with the team right back to the academy. They fly back the day after the match and finally reach around midnight. Carlos goes to bed without a word.
“Let him sleep it off,” Juan Carlos says when Alberto and Juanjo look at him with concerned expressions. “He will be fine.”
The next morning, however, Juan Carlos steps out for his daily walk around the campus and hears the painful crack of a tennis ball encountering a Carlos Alcaraz forehand. If that’s not enough to confirm Juan Carlos’s suspicious, Carlos’s distinctive grunts when he hits those forehands are. Juan Carlos checks his watch: 6:45 in the morning, just before sunrise. When did Carlos start practicing?
He jogs over towards the courts. It’s so early that the flood lights are still on. Juan Carlos makes his way closer without making too much noise. It’s cold enough outside with Juan Carlos can see his breath fogging the air. He hopes Carlos is wearing something warm; he doesn’t need him catching a cold right before the ATP finals just like he did last year.
But when he arrives at the courts, he’s dismayed to see Carlos in shorts and a t-shirt that’s drenched with sweat to the point that it’s dripping onto the ground. The machine that Carlos is using spits out its last ball, and Carlos hits it back with such aggression that Juan Carlos has to fight the urge to recoil in fear. He watches from a distance as Carlos wipes the sweat from his face with his wristband, then methodically loads the balls back into the machine. When he retakes his position on the other side of the court, he’s met with Juan Carlos’s steely gaze.
“You have not warmed up properly, there is sweat all over the ground making it a slipping hazard, and you are soaking wet in the cold. You think this is how you will improve?”
Carlos’s jaw tenses. The machine starts spitting balls again and Carlos starts whipping forehands. “I’m not an idiot. I warmed up, and I already sweat through my hoodie.” Between balls, Carlos points his racket at a bench. Sure enough, his Nike hoodie and sweats are draped over the back. Accompanying the clothes, two broken rackets.
Juan Carlos swallows. “How long have you been practicing this morning?”
Another yell as Carlos hits a forehand. It’s a fearsome shot, something they’ve developed together over the years. It had failed him the day before yesterday in Paris against Norrie, but, as Juan Carlos had tried to reassure him, it was nothing they couldn’t fix. Why does Carlos put so much pressure on himself? Juan Carlos doesn’t—he always gives him the opposite message, that Carlos is still young, that growth is a slow, incremental thing. That this journey Carlos is on is not some old magic, but instead an intentional process for which there is no shortcut. Occasional losses are part of the package.
“Carlos.” Carlos, not Charly. It’s intentional.
“Fine. No point in lying to you.” Another forehand, cross court, sails clean over the net by a calibrated, intentionally low margin. Perfect. Carlos bounces on his feet to keep his body warmed up. Sweat continues to drip onto the ground at his feet. Juan Carlos wants to pin him down by force before he slips on that ankle that’s only just recovered. But something tells him doing that right now would be counterproductive.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Carlos admits. “Finally gave up around three in the morning, warmed up in the gym for a while, and I’ve been out here since then.”
“Stop immediately.”
Stubbornness rears its ugly head, and Carlos disobeys him with another beautiful passing shot.
“Did you hear me? I don’t need a player with a fucking busted arm. Go turn that machine off now.”
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Panic rises in Juan Carlos. It’s rare that Carlos defies him like this. A different approach, then. Juan Carlos looks around to make sure that no one else is up and about yet. Once he’s sure they’re alone, he moves in as close as he can without being in the way of Carlos’s racket. From here, Juan Carlos can see the tension in Carlos’s jaw, the hard set of his eyes, and the darkness beneath them.
“Please, baby,” Juan Carlos says, his voice softened now. “Give it a rest. Go shower and go to bed. If you still cannot fall asleep, I—I will drive you to your parents’ home, okay? You and me can take a little road trip, like old times. Don’t you think that would be nice Charly?”
It’s the same approach Juan Carlos had tried the night Carlos had lost the match. It’s okay, it really is, Juan Carlos had whispered to him as he sat next to him in his hotel room. He’d reached over and placed a hand on Carlos’s thigh, and cradled the boy’s face with the other. Gently, he’d traced Carlos’s sharp jawline and full lips with his fingertips—features that Carlos had grown into beautifully in recent years. Come on, Charly, hm? Can’t win ‘em all. Next time. He’d leaned in for a kiss, but the boy had turned his face away, out of Juan Carlos’s grasp. The string of rejection had pierced Juan Carlos’s heart, but he’d understood when he’d seen the look Carlos wore on his face; it was one of shame and disappointment in himself. Not tonight, please. I don’t deserve it. Carlos had been so hard on himself, harder than Juan Carlos would have ever been on him in that moment. Juan Carlos hadn’t known what to do.
Juan Carlos still doesn’t know what to do—Carlos is still disobeying him and putting himself in harm’s way. It has to stop.
Acting on an impulse, he stalks over to the other side of the court, far behind the baseline.
“Move out of the way, Juanki.”
The machine spits one more ball, and, at the exact moment that Carlos’s perfect forehand motion hits the point of no return, Juan Carlos dashes forward.
“No!”
Juan Carlos catches the ball in his bare hand. Pain blossoms across his palm. He clutches his hand to his chest, covers it with the other. A perfect forehand like that could have been as fast as eighty miles an hour.
“Juanki!”
Carlos’s racket drops to the ground. He races to Juan Carlos’s side. “Let me see your hand. Why did you do that? Let me see!”
“Turn it off. Wasting balls.”
“What?” It takes a moment for Carlos to understand what Juan Carlos is referring to. Then, against the backdrop of the early morning quiet, the sound of the machine still spitting balls out to the other side of the court seems to register. He dashes over to hit the kill switch and then rejoins Juan Carlos.
“There, it’s off. Now show me your hand. Why did you do that? I was fine. Oh god, I’m so sorry Juanki.”
His face has lost all its cold, hard determination from earlier. Now, his features have softened with boyish worry. Eyes wide open, brows furrowed. How sweet he is.
“I’m going to get my phone, going to call Juanjo.”
“No! Stay. I’m fine.” Juan Carlos forces himself to let go of his own hand. Takes a breath, then another. He lets his arm uncurl from where it was pressed into his chest. Carlos takes his hand immediately. He pries his fingers gently from the ball and removes it from Juan Carlos’s grasp, revealing a scraped, slightly bloodied palm. Carlos makes a choked sound of agony.
“Shh, shh. I caught it perfectly, like a proper baseball catcher, just without the mitt. None of the bones are hurt, do not worry. Just a scrape. It will heal quickly.” Juan Carlos says.
Carlos is shaking. Through his emotion, he can only get out a single word. “Why?”
“You were going to slip in a puddle of your own sweat. Or dislocate your shoulder. And there are bags under your eyes because you have not slept. This is not healthy. Besides, this is not the court you should be practicing on. Why are you not at your dad’s club’s indoor facility?”
Carlos shakes his head. But after turning over Juan Carlos’s hand in his own, he seems satisfied that no bones are broken and looks relieved. “Guess I was scared. Wait, one second. Come sit down.”
Juan Carlos follows Carlos over to the bench, cradling his bleeding hand. Carlos clears his things and holds his coach’s elbow as he helps him sit down. Next to his racket bag, there’s a backpack. Carlos rummages inside of it, tossing aside spare clothes, his phone, some water bottles, until he produces a first aid kid that Juanjo had shoved in there some weeks ago. He gets to work, first disinfecting his own hands, then unscrewing one of his water bottles and running water over Juan Carlos’s palm. Then he tenderly wipes the wounded flesh with alcohol pads. Juan Carlos sucks in a breath through his teeth when it stings. “Sorry, sorry,” Carlos murmurs. He is so careful as he dresses the wound with antibacterial ointment and bandages—he must have done this whole thing a million times with his younger brothers. Juan Carlos loves him so much.
“What were you scared of, my love?”
Carlos finishes bandaging Juan Carlos’s hand. He sits next to Juan Carlos on the bench, takes his good hand in his own and starts playing with it absentmindedly.
“Papa doesn’t—you know, he wants me to reach my potential. Just, sometimes, after a loss, he doesn’t understand that I need a minute before he starts lecturing me. Even if I tell him I know what I did wrong, and that we have a plan, he still has to tell me I’m not focused enough or that I don’t listen well enough. He’ll tell me for the millionth time that I have the potential to win this and that, and I’m just sick of hearing it.”
“Mhm.”
“And I don’t like when he blames you.”
“Still does that, does he?”
Carlos nods. He reaches down and grabs a spare, clean hoodie and puts it on. Juan Carlos wants to get them out of the cold, but now’s not the time.
“Sometimes. Well, I don’t think he’d do it right now, not after the year we’ve had. But it was awful when he wanted that, I hated it so much, and I didn’t like having to fight him, but I had to, for months, because I could never let you go. And I’m—God, Juanki, I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
Juan Carlos places his wounded hand on Carlos’s thigh, and with the other, he reaches over to cradle Carlos’s face, just like he did two nights ago in Paris. But unlike Paris, today Carlos closes his eyes and leans into the touch. The darkness under his eyes is pronounced. Nearly twenty-four hours since he last slept. “I still don’t deserve this. Not after—”
Juan Carlos cuts him off with a kiss. It’s uncharacteristic of him—he doesn’t like to do this outside at the academy where anyone could see them. But it’s still early, the first light only just beginning to brighten the sky, and Juan Carlos loves comforting and indulging the boy. Carlos, for his part, can’t help himself; he responds with enthusiasm, gets his hands on Juan Carlos’s waist and squeezes. His breath comes heavier between kisses and fogs the air in their midst. It’s too easy to get carried away kissing Carlos, to give himself over to the pure physical onslaught of Carlos’s mouth, of his hands winding their way around Juan Carlos’s body.
Juan Carlos responds in kind with his own hand sneaking up under the hem of Carlos’s hoodie. The skin of Carlos’s stomach is so warm. His hardened muscles undulate in response to the strokes of Juan Carlos’s fingertips, as if each individual muscle is trying to meet his touch. It is a stark reminder that Carlos’s whole body remains obedient to Juan Carlos’s command. The body may be that of a man’s now, but his mind is still that of the boy Juan Carlos met years ago, the boy who always aims to please him.
“You know how you can make it up to me?” Juan Carlos grins and presses his forehead to Carlos’s. He looks into his protege’s dark, tired eyes. “Go to bed, Charly. Go rest.”
“Come with me.” Carlos pleads. He knows he’s asking the impossible. Juan Carlos never, ever does anything other than talk with him in his dorm room on the academy campus. It’s too risky.
But Juan Carlos checks his watch. There’s nothing on the schedule for another two hours. The pain from his scraped palm is already lessening. He looks back up at Carlos and grins. “Fine. Just until you fall asleep.”
-
It’s been months since Juan Carlos has been in Carlos’s dorm. They’ve been on the road so much, and even when Juan Carlos has stayed behind and let Samu take the reigns, he’s been busy with other things.
But he’ll have to reacquaint himself with the room later, because as soon as they are inside of it, Carlos closes the door, locks it, and lays Juan Carlos out on his little twin bed. Juan Carlos hasn’t lain in one of these in years. It makes him feel like a teenager again, which, he thinks distantly, might be part of the appeal of all of this.
Carlos kisses him deeply, pouring emotion into each meeting of their lips. He rids Juan Carlos of his clothes, being especially careful of his bandaged hand.
“Does it still hurt?” Carlos asks as he kisses his way down Juan Carlos’s body.
“Only a little. It’s fine. You’re helping take my mind off it.”
“I texted Juanjo to tell him to come in today and take a look. He’ll be here by nine.”
“Alright,” Juan Carlos says, and then forgets how to speak when Carlos takes him in his mouth and puts a slick finger in him at the same time.
He grabs a pillow from under his head and bites down on it. He’s not going to survive this. It feels too good. He’s going to scream, and they’re going to be found out.
With his good hand, he reaches down and threads his fingers through Carlos’s short, platinum blonde hair. He wishes it was still long so he could really grasp it, but the boy had wanted to try this, and who was he to stop him? Carlos was all grown up now. His boy with the toothy grin and pimply cheeks was a man now, and he could decide that he wanted to bleach his hair, or take vacations with his friends, or date men, or fight his dad to keep his coach that he was in love with.
Carlos pulls his mouth off of Juan Carlos before too long. Juan Carlos’s heart pounds with anticipation as he watches Carlos roll a condom on. When he’d agreed to come back to his room with Carlos, he hadn’t anticipated that this is what Carlos had in mind. But he supposes they didn’t get to do this in Paris, because they weren’t there for long enough, and hotel rooms during tournaments were their usual chances for sex.
Juan Carlos’s body accepts Carlos easily when he pushes in. It’s bliss, really—there’s nothing else like it, being filled so completely. The stretch that straddles the line of pain and ecstasy is so fine as to be nonexistent. The sensations are separate until they are not and they blur together. Carlos moves inside him at a perfect steady rhythm. Juan Carlos is lost in all of it.
“Feels good Charly.”
Carlos buries his face in his neck. He wraps a hand around Juan Carlos and chases his own release, too.
“You feel perfect. I love doing this with you. I want you all the time. All the time.”
Another twist of Carlos’s hand, and Juan Carlos is gone. Every muscle in his body tightens, clenches as he achieves release. Carlos feels that tightness around him and it gets him over the edge, too. He groans into Juan Carlos’s skin and his hips stutter. He presses in one more time, deep inside, and finishes with a sigh.
Juan Carlos strokes Carlos’s hair as the boy comes down from his high. Minutes, or maybe hours pass like that, with the two of them just feeling each other’s embrace. Then, with the last of his strength, Carlos kisses Juan Carlos one more time, long and deep. He gets up to use the restroom and rinse off in the shower. While he does, Juan Carlos looks around the room. There are photos everywhere, polaroids and printouts of Carlos and his friends, his family, and, of course, his team, including Juan Carlos. They’re pinned to a cork board above the desk, and framed in picture frames that hang on the walls, and taped to his little notebooks strewn across the table. Juan Carlos makes a note to get him a nice camera for Christmas.
Carlos steps out of the bathroom, freshly showered. He makes his way back into the bed and curls into Juan Carlos’s side. He looks so, so tired.
“Ready for bed now? You must be exhausted.”
Carlos nods. “I’m sorry, again, for hurting you. And thank you for helping me.”
“So formal, Charly.”
Carlos laughs softly. “I think I’ll sleep well tonight. Or, today, I guess. Don’t let me sleep too long, okay? And don’t forget to get your hand checked.”
Juan Carlos smacks Carlos’s arm. “I’m not your alarm clock. You’ll get your own ass out of bed and to the gym on time. You don’t get a pass on cardio just because you acted out. Now go to sleep. I have to go soon.”
“Juan...ki…” Carlos trails off. He’s already halfway gone. “Love…you.”
Juan Carlos smiles to himself and then looks off to the side. In an ornate diptych frame on the boy’s desk, there are two photos. One shows Carlos as a seventeen-year old winning his first challenger tournament in 2020. He is standing with Juan Carlos, both of them wearing their masks and standing a few feet apart with the trophy in between them. The other is a photo of the two of them after Roland Garros this year, locked in a fierce embrace, Carlos’s lips on Juan Carlos’s neck. The memory of that moment makes Juan Carlos flush. He stares at the dual photographs for a few moments longer, reflecting on how both of them have changed in those five years, until he realizes that Carlos has finally fallen asleep. Gently, so as not to wake the boy, he rises from the bed.
There is still some time before Juan Carlos’s first meeting. As good a time as any to start watching the replay of Carlos’s loss to Norrie so he can draw up plans for a new training block. The boy may say he loves him now, but he’s going to hate him tomorrow, and then he’ll love him again that night. Juan Carlos is looking forward to all of it.