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Alicante, 2019
Alcaraz Garfia d. Sinner 6-2 3-6 6-3
The worst thing about losing to a fifteen-year-old was, of course, losing. Now Jannik had to pack up all his things and clear out of his hotel room and debrief with his coach and somehow forget how losing (in the first round, on a fucking double fault, no less) felt in time for the next tournament, and he didn’t get to play tomorrow, which was the worst of all. But it was definitely also pretty bad that he’d specifically lost to a big dumb golden retriever of a kid who still had some puppy fat on him, and then that dumb puppy had the nerve to come up to him in the locker room and tell him, in Spanish that Jannik only mostly understood and with a big annoying puppy smile, how much he’d enjoyed playing him and looked forward to seeing him again on court soon.
So that was already not great, and it was taking a not-insignificant amount of his hard-won mental energy not to be a jerk to the Spanish kid who seemed perfectly nice and wasn’t really at fault for being fifteen, which maybe explained why he wasn’t paying all that much attention when the kid followed him into the showers, Jannik assumed to keep talking, and instead pinned him up against the wall and laid on him what was without a doubt the single worst kiss of Jannik’s entire seventeen years in existence. It was disgustingly wet. The kid appeared to have a prehensile tongue given how far he was attempting to shove it into Jannik’s mouth. His hands were in places that Jannik was not comfortable being touched by someone other than a trained physio.
He ducked away and said very politely, “No, gracias,” because while he didn't want to be drooled on it was pointless to get too angry at a dumb puppy for not knowing any better. The kid said, "Oh, okay! Sorry!" and they both got into the showers and by the end of the day Jannik had wiped it from his brain along with the rest of the loss. He hadn't been on the tour that long, but he already knew you always had to keep moving forward. You could never look back.
🎾 🎾 🎾
Paris, 2021
Alcaraz d. Sinner 7-6 7-5
Jannik had seen Alcaraz around the tour enough that he was no longer "the Spanish kid" in his mind -- in locker rooms, on practice courts, tagging along with older players to dinner, always in a crowd -- but for whatever quirk of the draw, they hadn't played each other since that Challenger in Alicante. Losing didn't feel any better the second time around, regardless of the surroundings.
"Good game," he said at the net, because it had been and he wasn't a dick. "I ask you something, after?"
"Yeah!" Alcaraz said, beaming that million-watt puppy smile, and they headed off the court to their respective destinations. Victors got to fumble through an interview on court, and losers got to go back to the locker room and reflect on everything that had gone wrong. It was just the way the routine went.
He was almost more nervous waiting in the locker room after his shower than he had been before the match, rehearsing what he wanted to say in his head. He had thought he'd put Alicante out of his mind, but obviously he hadn't quite succeeded yet. He just needed to exorcise this one last worry, and then he'd be able to move on.
"Hi, hello!" Alcaraz was by himself, which it hadn't even occurred to Jannik to worry about until now that he was thinking about how he never seemed to go anywhere without his entourage of staff and family.
"You wanna -- ?" Jannik said, gesturing to the shower. He hated being sweaty after a match for even a second longer than necessary. Alcaraz grinned and nodded and stripped off his top and then, instead of trotting off to the showers, leaned in as if for a kiss. "Whoa!" Jannik yelped, scrambling back so quickly he almost fell off the bench.
"Is okay, is nobody here," Alcaraz said, gesturing around the empty locker room, like that was the problem.
"I don't want to kiss," Jannik said firmly.
"Oh, okay." Alcaraz looked puzzled, but not discouraged. "You wanna fuck, though? Showers?" He made a gesture with his mouth and left hand that Jannik thought in horror might be meant to represent a blowjob.
"No, thank you," he managed. "I only want to say -- you don't worry, if I say to somebody about Alicante. I don't say nothing. I have, you know. Gay friends. I'm not gonna say nothing to press, the other guys, nobody."
"Oh!" Alcaraz smiled again, the brief storm of confusion passing quickly. "Is okay, you know. You say to somebody, they don't believe you anyway. But is nice, you worry about me. You sure you don't wanna fuck?"
"No, thank you," Jannik repeated. "I don't fuck guys on the tour."
Alcaraz shrugged and turned back to his locker, pulling off the rest of his clothes. The tan line under his shorts was so high it was nearly up to his ass, Jannik couldn't help noticing in some underutilized corner of his mind. He'd seen a lot of asses in lockers rooms over the years; Alcaraz had a nice one. "Your loss! I have lot of practice, last two years. Better than Alicante," he added with a wink as he turned around with his towel and body wash. "You change your mind, you let me know."
🎾 🎾 🎾
New York City, 2024
van de Zandschulp d. Alcaraz 6-1 7-5 6-4
In half a year of hell, there hadn't been a whole lot of upsides, but Jannik supposed that knowing which of your friends was ready to ride or die with you counted as a silver lining. Jack and Reilly had stuck the landing. He was grateful for that, and he didn't give a shit what an asshole like Nick Kyrgios wanted to say about him behind his back or to his face -- his real friends, the people who really knew him, believed him.
Carlitos hadn’t messaged him, but he hadn’t been a dick about it to the press, at least. Friendly rivalry and a cheerful willingness to pose for photo ops together and a sporadically renewed offer to trade handies in the shower weren’t the same thing as friendship, the kind where you would do something annoying or inconvenient because the other person needed you. He knew better than to expect that from what was, at best, a cordial work relationship.
He was pissed at himself to discover that knowing better didn’t mean he couldn’t be disappointed.
He hadn’t even checked the scores in the morning, until his team started strategizing over breakfast about the draw now that Carlitos was out. It was a weird shock, when he’d been counting on a guaranteed match — losing in the second round, in straights? At least he wouldn’t have to gracefully decline a post-match hookup yet again. Not that Carlitos would probably offer, now that the whole doping scandal was out in the open.
It was absolutely pointless to even think about it and Jannik couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d said no every single time Carlitos asked if he wanted to fuck, or kiss, or whatever that hand gesture had meant exactly. He’d kept saying no even as they’d talked more, gotten shoved together at the very pinnacle of their sport where nobody else really understood your life except the one guy you had to beat to make it all the way to the top, as Jannik had started to actually like him. He’d kept saying no even though he was sure it was pretty obvious he wanted to say yes and Carlitos took no for an answer with a smile every time, which paradoxically was the thing that made Jannik want to say yes the most. And now probably Carlitos would never ask again.
He was more angry with himself for getting worked up than he was really angry at Carlitos, but he was still angry enough to freeze up when they ran into each other on the US Open grounds. Carlitos didn’t even hesitate to say hello, the asshole. “Too bad, I don’t play you this year,” he said. “I have to play better!”
“What, because I cheated?” Jannik snapped before he could stuff the acid words back in his mouth.
“What?” Carlitos frowned until his forehead wrinkled up like a bulldog’s, pretending he had no idea what Jannik meant. Infuriating.
“What, what,” Jannik said, making his best and meanest attempt at imitating Carlitos’s accent. “That’s what you mean, yeah? Have to play better to beat me because I cheat?”
“I know you don’t cheat,” Carlitos said. "What you mean? Since fifteen years old I know you, of course I know you don't cheat."
It was stupid how fast the wind went out of Jannik. It was all he'd wanted for those six nightmarish months of knowing he hadn't cheated and not being believed and having to argue his case to people who didn't care about him, for hours sometimes until he was so tired of talking in circles that he started to wonder if he'd gaslit himself into this whole mess and maybe he had cheated, somehow: for someone to look at him and say of course he hadn't done it. "Oh," he said. "Um, sorry. Sorry for -- it's been. Bad couple months."
Carlitos looked at him more closely, his forehead wrinkling again in a concerned look. "I'm sorry also," he said. "I'm a little -- only pay attention to myself, this year. I'm sorry for not pay more attention. Things are -- " He made a gesture that attempted to encompass the season so far, which had of course been insane for him for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with Jannik having the worst several months of his life. "But I am a bad friend for not notice things are hard for you."
"You didn't do anything," Jannik insisted. "I shouldn't -- I was mean."
"Little bit," Carlitos said, shrugging. "Is okay. You make it up to me, try and win the whole thing. Next time I win it back."
"Sure," Jannik said, like it was that easy. "You can try. Next time you ask me again?"
Carlitos's eyebrows went up. "I ask you lots of time. Same answer every time. You want me to ask again?"
"Next time you ask me again," Jannik repeated. "Maybe next time the answer is different." He left it at that and headed off to practice with Carlitos's snort-laugh echoing down the hall behind him. The nightmare was over now, at least. He had a good feeling about the tournament ahead.