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Entry tags:
Tennis RPS Fic: From the heart , Roger/Rafa, NC 17
Title: From the heart
Pairing: Roger/Rafa
Rating: NC 17
Word count: 10,003
Warnings: explicit m/m
Disclaimer: everything in here is completely fictional
Notes: this is written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
niennah's prompt: Sometime in the future, when they haven't met for some time (one or both have retired), Roger and Rafa meet and look at photos of their tennis days, reminiscing. Perhaps realising something they never realised before... ? I hope this is something along the lines of what you wanted! Thanks so much for emungere for beta and plot chewing, and to buckle_berry for beta and holding my clammy hands during the tennis. Eta: I made a bit of a booboo in the first version of this I uploaded, so this is v1.2.
Summary: Set at Wimbledon 2025. Their tennis careers are long over, but Rafa and Roger are bought together again as commentators. This leads to many realisations, and also some inept commentating.
"Can I just say how wonderful it is to be sharing this fortnight with two of the very best tennis players we've ever seen here at the All England Club. Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, a very warm Wimbledon welcome to you both, and here's looking forward to a wonderful fortnight of tennis."
"Thanks, Tim. It's great to be here, obviously."
"I know you come back every year, Roger, but never as a commentator."
"So don't mess it up, right? I might not be as good at this as tennis, you know."
"And Rafa, how does it feel to back after all this time?"
"Thank you very much. Is a great feeling. I have not been here since 13 years, so. Yeah. Very nice feeling. My accent-- hope it does not make it too hard for the viewers."
"It's the first time the two of you have met in the vicinity of a tennis court, since-- when was it, Roger?"
"Oh, well. I don't remember..."
"I bet Rafa can remember, can't you, Rafa?"
"Heh. Sure. It was French Open, round of sixteen, 2019. I won."
"Goodness me, Roger, that was a long time ago."
***
It's not entirely true. The last time they'd met on a tennis court was Roger's retirement ceremony at the US Open. Roger had cried, predictably. Mirka had cried too. The crowd had loved it.
They are taken out that night to a formal dinner in one of the better London restaurants. Roger and Rafa are seated on the same side of the table, with Jason Goodall between them. The Chairman of the recently reinvented Lawn Tennis Association is blunt and quite funny, except that Roger can see by the way Rafa's smiles slide too quickly from his lips that he's not really enjoying himself. Roger finds it hard to know what to say to Rafa after all these years.
"Do you think Fantin is going to be able to go the whole nine yards?" Jason asks Roger.
Luis Fantin is a young man, only 24, and with ten slams to his record - a tall, strong, athletic lefty from Brazil with a fierce competitive spirit and a light, elegant, precise movement. On court, he is fascinating. Off court, he is charming and well dressed. Privately, Roger thinks he is a perfect combination of Federer and Nadal, although he doesn't say that out loud. He'd spent some time with Fantin last year during the South American swing. The internet had made a big deal of it. It hadn't worked out, and anyway Roger doesn't want to coach anyone. He's got the kids to think about and, truthfully, it never does work out.
Everyone waits for Roger's answer. Rafa is watching him too, slowly spooning lemon sorbet into his mouth.
"Maybe. He's got the game." He glances at Rafa. "I like his style. Oh, and did you see that lob against Zayed last month? He has just spectacular technique. What wouldn't I give to be 25 again?" Everyone nods; they all know which lob he's talking about. Zayed is probably Fantin's main rival. They've met in slam finals five times. Mousa Zayed is brilliant and charismatic and frustratingly inconsistent. He's a product of the Qatari tennis hothouse that is just blooming into life.
Judy Murray has organised a post dinner party on the South Bank. There's music and the inevitable mingling. He's super aware of Rafa, even though it takes at least thirty minutes for them to spin into each other's orbit through the throng of tennis higher-ups and celebrity tennis fans.
"Hi," Roger says.
Rafa smiles, and they exchange a handshake as if they are meeting for the first time tonight. Hands clasped between them, it's like their ones at the net. He's very tanned and his hair is short, cropped close to his scalp. It suits him. He's dressed well, in a slim dark suit and a pale blue shirt with a crisp collar. "Hey, Roger."
"Are you ready for the gig?"
"No," Rafa says, laughing softly. "But I have been practising my English for six months, so." He shrugs, self effacing and charming. "How about you?"
"I'm pretty terrible. I usually forget what I'm going to say."
"You have done this before?"
"Yeah, some Swiss sports stuff from time to time."
"Fantin's good," Rafa says, doubtfully.
"You think Zayed is gonna win?"
Rafa makes a frowny sort of smile. "Maybe. Fantin; he's like the two of us, no? Mixed together?"
Roger blinks. "You think that too?"
"Is why I like to watch him so much."
"He is good."
There's an awkward little pause while Rafa sips his glass of white wine and fiddles with the stem. Roger wishes he knew better what to say, but it's been so long, and there's been so much—tennis between them. Their history trails behind them like a long grassy, clay, blue hardcourt strip.
"I am sorry to hear about you and Mirka," Rafa says. "Very sorry."
"Thanks." He's got past the really bad stage now. He can deal with it. "I don't recommend divorce for anyone," he says, then looks down at his feet in their shiny shoes. "But thanks. It was tough."
It's an open secret that Rafa sees men. Actually, Roger doesn't even know if it's a secret anymore. It used to be, around the time Rafa retired, but he hasn't seen Rafa for years and perhaps things have changed. Probably a lot of things have. They certainly never spoke of it. Rafa never came out publicly. He wishes they'd talked about it even once.
Rafa reaches out to give Roger's shoulder what Roger is sure is meant to be a commiserating stroke. Maybe it's because he's nervous, or because seeing Rafa again is just so strange, but Roger flinches away from his touch before he can help himself. Rafa looks surprised, then hurt, then pissed off, emotions falling onto his face like rain, and he lets his hand fall back to his side
He stares at Rafa, once such a familiar sight and now so different. The moment has thrown him and he can't think of anything to say. He wants to ask if Rafa has a nice partner, if he's happy, what he's doing now with his time, but none of it comes out. He's tongue tied and dumb, and it's too awkward to explain why he flinched, and Rafa is already looking away.
He didn't even mean to do it, and now he has, and he's made himself look like a giant homophobe, and ungrateful to boot, who thinks that being gay might be contagious.
"Hello, boys," Judy Murray says behind them, and Roger is relieved to hear her voice, although his heart sinks when he realises she has two young women in tow. "How are you getting along? I thought you'd like to meet Sophie and Laura. They're in Cats at the moment."
"Oh," Rafa says, perking up. "Great."
"How's Andy?" Roger asks.
"You can ask him yourself next month," Judy said, with a sharp smile.
"Oh, of course." There's going to be an ITF meeting in mid-July. He talks to Andy fairly often. They are friends, although Andy still has his awkward and prickly moments. It was the London Olympics where they really bonded.
He chats to Judy about his kids, watching Rafa discuss his favourite musicals.
***
He finds Rafa the next morning in the terrace café overlooking the Ourangi practise courts. Rafa gives him a nod. He is alone at one of the small round tables with a large leather folder, a pen, and a personal organiser that has a little blue screen. It's pleasantly cool in the shade, with a breeze relieving the hot sunshine. Rafa looks cool and relaxed in his simple white t-shirt. Roger takes his iced skinny decaf latte over and, as an afterthought, orders two strawberry scones.
"May I sit here?" he asks.
Rafa looks up, and nods, his upper lip disappearing beneath his lower one so that his jaw becomes mulish. "Okay. Sure." And he moves his folder to make room for Roger's coffee.
The waiter brings over the strawberry scones and puts them down. Rafa looks at them. Yesterday, Rafa had ignored Roger's attempts at any personal conversation. Roger had quickly given up and they'd talked exclusively about tennis. It hadn't been at all difficult. Rafa has a fantastic mind and gives some brilliant analysis of the players, but he won't look Roger in the eye.
"Look," Roger says. "Rafa. I didn't mean… I mean, I'm not being an idiot about it, honestly. I didn't mean to…. Well. I didn't mean anything."
Rafa is still looking at the scones. "You buy for me?"
"…I thought you might like one," Roger says.
"For me?"
"Yes, for you."
Rafa nods, then eats the scone in silence. Then: "You piss me off," Rafa says. He always was blunt.
"I'm not—" he looks around. There are a few sets of eyes looking their way, curious as ever. He lowers his voice. "I'm not—against that kind of thing."
"What kind of thing, Roger?" Rafa says, in a normal voice.
"Being gay," Roger mutters. "I have bisexual friends," he adds, feeling ridiculous. He just wants Rafa to look at him and smile like he means it.
Rafa looks at him, shakes his head and then does smile, one of the real ones that Roger remembers very well. His smile was always the thing that used to surprise Roger the most and it still does– so ready and so sweet in a face that otherwise seems set in a perpetual frown.
"Are those your notes for today's matches?" Roger asks, at last. He peers, curious to see what Rafa has written. Roger spent a few hours this morning revising today's players and their match stats. He has things he's eager to discuss with Rafa.
"Yeah." Rafa paws through them. "You wanna look over them with me?"
"Of course. I'd love to."
Rafa smiles at him again.
***
"Welcome back to day three of our live Wimbledon coverage. I'll tell you what's great; seeing two champs like Roger and Rafa getting along so well."
"Ah, yeah. Thanks, Tim. Well, we got along on tour so why not now? Nothing's changed, right? Tennis is a lot like commentating. Uh, a bit, anyway."
"And I no gonna beat you in finals anymore, no? So you can't get mad at me."
"I was never mad at you… "
"Hehehe. Well said, Rafa. What do you think, Roger? Are you and Rafa rivals now in the 'who's the best commentator?' stakes? It certainly sounds like it."
"Well, we could probably fight it out, you know? But I don't think we're rivals any more. And maybe I'll let Rafa win this one."
"Ahaha, Rafa looks like he's got more to say about that, but I'm afraid we have to leave you now, and go over to Elena with our coverage of the women's second round matches. Later on, join us for Luis Fantin's match on Centre Court. He's meeting the very talented youngster Bao Xing. It's sure to be a fascinating meeting between the two."
It is, it turns out. Rafa and Roger sit side by side in their shirts and smart suits. There's a little rim of sweat on Rafa's upper lip, and his hair is damp at the temples. Roger can smell the scent of his sweat. It's not unpleasant. It makes him think of locker rooms. It must be five degrees hotter in this little box than outside, where the sun is pouring down onto Centre Court. Fantin glides rather than runs. When they get a tiny one minute break, Rafa snorts and shakes his head.
"What?" Roger
"Is like seeing a ghost," he says, sliding a glance at Fantin, then at Roger. "Ghost of you. He is awesome."
"Better than me?" Roger asks. He knows instantly that it makes him sound as arrogant as people used to say he was. Rafa smiles and shrugs, perfectly noncommittal, and Roger sees Toni Nadal in that gesture. "No, not better. I dunno, no? Have to see how he grows up."
***
"Fantin is moving so well out there. Technically, for me he's one of the best guys around."
"Yeah, sure. I always think he moves like you, no? You spend how long working on that movement?"
"A long time. Years. I never stopped."
"Plus, with that crazy forehand."
"Oh—thanks. Um, I never did master your two handed backhand though."
"Your normal one was not bad. I watch you use the two hander in the exhibition last year. In Monte Carlo, no? With Marat."
"You saw that?"
"For sure. It was not very good from you, Roger, to tell the truth."
"You're right. I couldn't even get the ball in the court half the time."
"This is true."
"But enough about me, Rafa. We'd better concentrate on the match or they might take away our license to commentate, or something."
"You need a license?"
"That was a solid service game from Xing, but I don't think it's gonna be enough, do you? These numbers aren't adding up to a great match for him. His forehand's misfiring all over the place…"
"Looks to me like Fantin is gonna get to slam number eleven playing like this."
"That means he'll be level with you, Raf."
"Eh, I do not mind that! Many people match me. I just enjoy to watch him play."
"While you do that I'll tell the viewers at home some interesting stats… "
***
Fantin finishes off young Xing in straight sets, then there's a decent break until the next match. Roger wanders out of their small booth, half thinking he might go back to the hotel for a lie down and a sandwich, when Myla calls him. Rafa lingers for a moment, watching him, then lifts a hand in a wave and strolls off.
"You are Rafa and so funny, Dad." It's the first thing she says.
"I'm so glad I'm amusing you. How's school?"
"Fine. Lene passed her piano exam. Miss Poplat was, like, so excited. She's a big fan of yours and said to say hi."
"How's your mother?"
"Yeah, fine," Myla says. "She says to tell you your hair needs a trim because it's all in your eyes on camera. And that you should shave."
"My hair's fine."
"Whatever. Hey, Dad, are you, like, friends with Rafa?"
"I suppose I am. Sort of. Why?"
"I dunno. It just must be weird, that's all."
"Weird how?"
"He was important to you, all that tennis stuff, and now it's all in the past."
Myla always has had the knack of saying things that seem to rattle round his head for far longer than they should.
He decides not to go back to the hotel. It's more convenient to simply go up to the Centre Court terrace bar.
It's busy. Andy Roddick is there, chatting with Goodall. It doesn't take Roger very long to spot Rafa. He's over in one corner, speaking with Mousa Zayed, who is looking poised and elegant out of his tennis whites. Mousa Zayed touches Rafa's shoulder as they talk, their heads bent close together.
"Hey, Rog. Dickwad," Andy says, with a punch on the arm that may or may not be affection. He's never quite been able to tell with Andy.
"Hey, Andy, hi!" he says, and is embraced in a one-armed hug. "You're looking great. I didn't know you were here."
"I couldn't pass up coming to see the double act," Andy said. "You and Rafa, you crack me up. It's like JMac interbred with the Bryan brothers. Scary."
"What? God, we're nothing like the Bryan brothers. We're way better."
"What's going on up in that booth? It's like you're mindmelding. Freaks."
Rafa and Roger say the same things at the same time often enough for everyone to notice. It's because they've spent four days talking about nothing but tennis, and they share a lot of opinions, but it's starting to make Rafa laugh in his funny snorting way, a lot.
***
Rafa is in Ourangi again at breakfast, on the terrace in the shade, and he smiles when he sees Roger. The morning air is sweet with the scent of mown grass, overlaid with a whiff of petrol fumes from the road, and the ever present wafting coconut smell of sunscreen from the players.
Belinda Cournic is training below them. Her rhythmic low-pitched shrieks as she serves are almost restful.
"Hi. You have a good night's sleep?" Rafa asks, as Roger sits down with his coffee.
"Not bad."
"You still need half a day asleep?"
"No. Not since I stopped playing. Mirka cured me of that on the first day I retired. Said I had no reason to sleep so much." He stirs his coffee. "So I stopped."
"You miss her?" Rafa asks.
"Yeah," Roger says. "It's been a year, but I still do. How about you? Do you have… anyone?"
Rafa makes his noncommittal shrug, and his mouth turns into an upside down smile. "No," he says. "There was this one guy, you know, for a long time. But not any more." Rafa leans on his elbows and pokes at the sugar bowl. "Did not work out."
"It must've been hard on tour." Mirka had always been there for him, every day, to comfort him and give him a solid base. Since it's been over, he's realised how much she gave to him. Typical of him that he didn't bother taking notice until it was too late.
Rafa lifts a brow and doesn't quite look at him. "Nah, not so hard. My family, friends, and I was with Maria Francisca for a long time then, remember? But after, maybe at the end, in the last year I was playing. That was hard."
"I'm sorry," Roger says, and means it, even if he's not sure what he's sorry for.
They finish their breakfast, and go over to the media centre roof garden where they are filming with Tim. The tennis has already begun, the thwock thwock of balls on taut nylon floating in the warm air.
***
"It's day five, and here in the commentary box with me I've got none other than Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal."
"Hi, Tim."
"Yeah. Hola."
"So, Roger, what do you think of Ethan Brothwell's chances in the third round today against Zayed? He's our only Brit in the draw this year."
"That's an unlucky draw, basically. Zayed is in amazing form right now after his three month lay off. He can easily win this whole thing."
"I know that Zayed spent time training in Mallorca, Rafa, at your academy. How much do you think that's helped him come back from what looked to be almost a career-ending injury?"
"Well, I no his coach, but yeah. I know about how that feels, what you have to be doing to recover. We worked hard together. He has a great attitude, you know. Like Roger always did. Like myself. He makes the sacrifices to improve and win, and he is happy to do that. We all make sacrifices so we can go on and win."
***
"We've got a bit of a special moment now. Roger, Rafa, we're going to take the opportunity to embarrass you both a little with this compilation of your greatest moments—together."
“Oh, ahaha. Wow.”
“Aha. Eh. Great.”
***
The little film lasts about ten minutes. Rafa sits next to him on the sofa, legs crossed, gazing at the screen. It begins with their first ever match in Miami, then all the big matches in places like Monte Carlo, Hamburg, Roland Garros, Wimbledon, Australia – Roger remembers some of the matches as if they had only happened last week, but the images on screen reveal things he's forgotten, or was never aware of. There's a commentary, with someone talking about music and duets and beauty and passion.
They’re so young, both of them. Rafa seems barely more than a teenager in most of the shots. Rafa has his arms around him, Rafa pushes his head to Roger's, relief and joy on his face, Roger cries; the awful moment in Australia when he squirmed like a bug under the gaze of millions, and Rafa stood close and bumped their foreheads together and told him it wasn't so bad, and Roger tried not to get snot over everything. There's a shot of himself gazing at Rafa with something that looks a lot like love.
Roger can feel his throat tightening as he watches in a sort of panic. Then Rafa at that final US Open, watching with tears in his eyes as Roger gives his speech. Roger has never seen that before, and he looks at Rafa now. Rafa's profile is very still.
What he sees on screen is different to how he remembers it. Rafa was so physical with him; he stood so close. It looks like there was something there between them that Roger doesn't remember being there. But he always remembers how good it felt when Rafa touched him, how he felt almost… safe.
"This is a nice, film, no?" Rafa says, at the end. His voice is slightly husky. He smiles at Roger, a tentative sort of thing. "Nice memories for us. Thank you."
"I'd forgotten a lot of it," Roger says. It's true, he had. He literally can't think of anything else to say. He's hyper aware of Rafa next to him, and of how restless Rafa has suddenly become. Rafa bites his lower lip and sucks it into his mouth, then uncrosses his legs and begins to bite his thumbnail. Their eyes meet and dart away.
He's not great at speaking, but he wants to say something. He feels like he should, and that he wants to. He wants to say the right thing for once, to Rafa.
"Every player has someone who brings out the best in them, and for me it was always Rafa."
It hangs in the air, and he feels horribly vulnerable, but Tim nods and smiles like he understands, and Rafa nods too although he doesn't say anything, which Roger is glad about.
Tim smoothly ends the moment for them all by steering the conversation around to Djordje Djokovic, who at 30 is making what is likely to be his last challenge to the title, and who is playing later on today.
***
It's nearly 10pm, and they've only just been able to leave. Roger's lower back is complaining about sitting down for five hours, and his stomach is on edge from one too many cups of coffee. He wants something simple to eat and then he wants to sleep for a long time. In the morning, if he can get up early enough, he should have time for a practice on one of the courts.
It would be nice for the fans, he thinks. He doesn't see so many of them these days, although there is still a core out there who turn up to his charity events and public engagements wearing RF gear and carrying the old banners. It'd been hard to deal with around his mid thirties, when he'd finally realised he wasn't that special at anything apart from playing tennis.
He checks his phone as he sits in the back of his courtesy car. His inbox is full of messages. From Myla, from Charlene, from his mother, and a lot from the Swiss Olympics committee. He has a meeting in Zurich the Monday after the final. He sighs and remembers the exact smell and taste of the red clay under the heat of the Mediterranean sun. There's a message from Andy Murray, terse as usual, with dates for the ITF meeting, and saying he's booked a nice room for Roger.
There's a text from Novak: "Kick that little bastard's ass when you see him." Djordje had lost in a hard fought fifth set.
There are three from Charlene; pictures of her new haircut. It makes her look older. They'll be off to college in a year or so. They are strange, sophisticated creatures who want things like karaoke discos, plastic surgery and baffling games technology. Roger and Mirka both agree that they draw the line at plastic surgery. Roger doesn't remember being so complicated as a teenager.
Looking in his inbox, he realises that there's a message from Rafa that he's missed. It's from the night of that formal dinner, asking if Roger had wanted to meet up for a drink beforehand. On impulse, he calls the number. Rafa answers straight away.
"Hello?"
"It's Roger."
"Oh!" He sounds pleased to hear Roger's voice. "Where are you?"
"In my car on the way back to the hotel." He knows that Rafa has rented a house on Clifton Road. Roger wishes he had thought to do that too.
"Is something wrong?" Rafa asks.
"No, but I just saw that I missed your message on Saturday about meeting up. So that's why I didn't get back to you."
"You did not see it?"
"I-- I wanted you to know I wasn't being rude."
"That's nice, Roger. Thank you. But is no problem. I understand."
Roger pauses, wondering if Rafa thinks he's just lying to be polite. He can hear the TV in the background. It sounds like a film – there's swelling, dramatic music. It occurs to him to wonder if Rafa brought anyone with him. A partner. Or— or maybe— he thinks about Mousa Zayed. They looked close. Maybe Mousa is there with Rafa as more than a student of tennis—
"Do you want have dinner with me tomorrow night?" he blurts. Rafa is quiet for so long that Roger thinks the connection must've died. "Rafa?"
"I would like that very much. Now tell me who is gonna win this title. Fantin or Zayed? I cannot decide."
They talk all the way back to Roger's hotel, and through the lobby, and up in the elevator, and while Roger sits on the end of his bed and flicks unseeingly through the sports channels.
When they finally ring off it's 12.30, way past Roger's bedtime, and Roger falls asleep almost instantly.
***
It's the first Saturday. The courts are packed by 10am, and Roger decides that practising in public was probably not a sensible idea. He doesn't need twelve hours sleep these days, which he takes as a sign of getting old, but he's bleary. But the delighted shrieks he hears when people see him make him smile. He signs so many autographs that he's late getting back to the locker rooms, and has to run to get to the commentary booth on time.
Rafa is already there. He looks up from his notes as Roger enters the claustrophobic little box. "I decided. Fantin."
"Zayed," Roger replies, lowering himself into one of the awkward plastic chairs. At least the seat is padded. "There's no doubt in my mind."
"You sure?"
"I'm—pretty sure, yeah."
Rafa snorts. "If you so sure, we make a bet."
"Okay, what?"
"Zayed loses, you come to my school and teach for a week."
Roger ponders it. He's pretty convinced that Zayed can do this and if not it doesn't seem too much of a hardship to spend a week in Mallorca.
"It's a deal," Roger says, and Rafa laughs and clasps Roger's hand.
They settle down, and play begins. After the first match, they have a break. One of the assistants brings them cold drinks, and lingers for autographs. When she's gone, Roger asks:
"So, in Mallorca, will Mousa be there?" He's realises he's been dying to ask this for about an hour.
Rafa raises a brow. "No? Why would he be?"
"I thought you knew him well."
"Yeah, but he only come for one time, last year. Maybe he come back to train some other time, or… oh." Rafa stops, milkshake poised at his mouth. He has a small white moustache of it already. "You are asking is he my boyfriend?"
Roger fiddles with his notes. "I mean, is he?"
"No," Rafa says, with another snort. "He's a kid."
"You're not so old."
"38 is old compared to 22. Anyway, he is not gay."
Roger looks at Rafa's sun-lined face. He doesn't look his age, even with sun-induced crows' feet. When he laughs he still looks about 25, boyish and sweet. Roger picks up a paper napkin.
"Hold still," he says. "You have milkshake on your lip." He smoothes it off while Rafa holds very still, staring at him.
"Thank you," Rafa says, and his throat flexes as he swallows.
***
He waits for Rafa in the lobby of Claridges, where he's staying. It's taken him a long time to decide what to wear. In the end he decides on his new black jeans, a plain white shirt and a smart jacket. Rafa arrives exactly on time. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he's dressed pretty much exactly like Roger, except everything is more rumpled-looking, like he picked it up straight off the floor. His face lightens when he sees Roger.
"I booked us a table at Nobu," Roger says. "I remember you like their food."
Rafa looks so pleased, Roger's glad he took the trouble. Their shoulders bump as they walk out to the waiting car. Rafa's shoulders are still wide and muscled. He'll probably keep an athletic physique all his life, like Roger has kept his. Well, apart from a bit of a belly bulge that he's always promising to get rid of.
The restaurant is busy, but the manager is a tennis fan. Roger and Rafa are seated at one of the nicest tables.
"How's the school going?" Roger asks. He wants to know all about it, and Rafa seems eager to tell him. Toni is one of the directors, along with Toni Colom and Carlos Moya. Rafa spends his time coaching.
"I'm on court all day, every day. Is tiring, yes. Is good for me, otherwise I think I get fat, no? Apart from that, I go out on my boat."
"Fishing?"
"Fishing. Or pretending to fish. How are your daughters? Myla, she play some Futures events, no?"
"Yes, she's actually doing well for her age. But I don't want to push her. It's a difficult life."
Rafa looks wry, and gives him a look under his brows. "Is extremely difficult life, in some ways. Money, travel, excitement, yes. But I do not know if I would ever want it for a child of mine."
Roger pauses over his Kobe beef. Rafa's face is lit softly by candlelight. His eyes are dark and unreadable.
"Do you ever wish you had kids?" Roger asks.
Rafa pulls a face. "My sister already has four. Enough for us both, she says. Miguel is at my school. He is ten. He is very good, even so young."
"You think he wants to be a pro?"
"Maybe. He loves it, like I used to."
"Used to?"
"Well, still do love it." Rafa puts his chopsticks down and sips at his wine. It's red as rubies. "Do you miss it?" Rafa asks.
Roger doesn't even need to ask what he means. "Every day." He's never admitted it to anyone else.
Rafa meets his eyes. "You sound surprised."
"I never told anyone that before, Rafa."
Rafa gazes at him across the table. "I do not miss the travel and the training, but I miss…" he stops.
"What?"
"The competition. You know, it is the thing I loved most."
"I thought it'd be easier going back to being normal. But maybe I was never normal to begin with."
"Si."
They eat and talk about other things. Football, Mirka's jewellery business, the plastic surgery he won't let his kids have, the film about tennis that Rafa is writing with a Spanish director. Then, finally, inevitably, Zayed and Fantin.
"Do you think they're like us?" Roger says. His head is dizzy with wine. He can't help smiling when he says it, and at the way Rafa frowns intently while preparing to answer.
"No, impossible. Zayed is too short of slams."
"He has six. Luis has 10. That's kind of like us back in, uhh," he has to think for a moment, but only for a moment. "2007/8."
They have dessert. Rafa insists he shouldn't, but he gives in under Roger's insistence that they can share. They split a green tea ice-cream.
"Fantin," Rafa says, and it's obvious he's a little bit tipsy. "Luis Fantin is who our child would be like. If we could have one."
"He'd have better hair," Roger says, coolly.
Roger pays, even though Rafa complains and insists that it's not fair. Rafa capitulates after a couple of minutes, pulling a face. But Roger thinks he's pleased.
After dinner, they walk along to where the car is waiting. It's barely 10pm, and around them London is alive and wakeful and having fun. He notices when Rafa watches two young guys walk past.
Rafa bites his lip and leans on the car door. "You want to come back to my house?"
"Are you sure? Don't you need to sleep?"
"Tomorrow is Sunday. Day off, remember? There is no one else around at my place." Rafa runs a hand over his short hair. "I came over to England on my own," he says, simply. "I have a lot of football matches to watch. I got a Playstation 8 too."
"Okay," Roger says. He realises that he doesn't want to go back to his hotel and sit about like an old man, alone. "I'd like that."
Rafa's house is a tidy mansion about five minutes drive from the All England Club.
"Hey, isn't this the house I used to rent?" Roger says. It used to be owned by a family called Borg. No relation to Bjorn, although Roger had always found the coincidence funny.
"Yeah," Rafa says. "Was bad idea. Is much too big for one person."
The living room is different now, more austere that he remembers, with a pale wood floor and two white sofas, and a vast TV spread out over one wall. On the floor discs, Playstation, discarded tennis shoes and magazines are scattered like a trail of breadcrumbs to the sofa. On the low white wooden coffee table is a hardworn paperback – Slang and Idiom in Britain.
"Sorry for the mess," Rafa says, and kicks things aside. "You want a beer?"
"Thanks."
Instead of sitting on the sofa, Roger follows him into the large, sleek kitchen. Rafa looks over his shoulder and smiles at him, then hands him a slim dark bottle from the fridge. The label is in Spanish.
"Mallorcan beer?"
"Si. I import it all this way."
"Really?"
"No, no. I'm only joking."
Roger holds his bottle up and taps it to Rafa's. "Here's to a great Wimbledon final."
"And Fantin winning."
"Zayed winning."
They clink again, and laugh at themselves, and sip the cold sharp beer. Roger feels giddy, not physically, just his thoughts, that's all. He reaches out to put his hand on Rafa's shoulder. It's hard and warm. Rafa holds very still.
"What is it?" Rafa says.
"Are you happy?"
Rafa's mouth turns into an upside down smile again. "Is a strange time to ask me this."
"Sorry."
Rafa's hand closes over his, so warm. He puts his own beer down on the black shiny counter behind them, and takes Roger's too, and places them side by side. His calluses scuff Roger's skin. Rafa looks from Roger's eyes to his mouth. It seems to take a long time. They're standing very close, and Rafa smells good, some cologne that is expensive and subtle. Roger thinks of the advice he read once, in some copy of GQ, probably: it should only be detectable by someone who is close enough to kiss.
"Roger." He speaks Roger's name softly.
Roger looks down in surprise as his fingers tangle with Rafa's, seemingly without his say so. Rafa's palm is warm and slightly damp, his skin rough. He rubs his thumb across Rafa's palm. Rafa gasps.
"What are you doing?" Rafa says, gently.
"Did you like me back then?" Roger asks. It's a silly, teenage question but that's never stopped him before.
Rafa scowls like he doesn't understand. Under Roger's hand he's shivering slightly all over. "Like you? What? Of course."
"No, as… more than friends."
Rafa's knee bumps against his. Their thighs touch. "What do you think, Rog?"
"I—I don't know. I don't have a clue."
"Guess you were always—" and Rafa taps Roger's skull, just above his hairline at the front.
The touch turns into caress, and through it he can feel how tense Rafa is. He puts his hand on Rafa's waist, then moves it to the small of his back.
Rafa's eyes have gone dark. His hand slips to Roger's jaw, cupping it, and Roger only has time to think 'We're really going to do this' before Rafa kisses him.
All he can think of for several seconds is the intimate, slick, warm touch of Rafa's mouth to his, the lush softness of his lips and the hint of stubble against Roger's jaw, the sound of Rafa breathing in through his nose, and the incredible gentleness of his hand as it cradles one side of Roger's face. Rafa kisses him, then sighs, then kisses him again.
Roger's kissed Mirka in this kitchen. The thought jolts him, but it doesn't make him stop. Instead, he pushes his mouth against Rafa's, and lets Rafa's tongue slide into his mouth. They both shuffle back so Rafa is pressed between him and the counter, and Roger can feel all the hard angles and planes of his body.
"Did you?" he asks.
Rafa nods. "Yeah, I did. A lot. But that was a long time ago."
Rafa kisses him carefully, slowly. Roger didn't know what he was expecting – maybe some sort of onslaught the same way Rafa used to be on court. Instead he's careful, as if he's asking permission with every kiss. He settles his hand on Roger's hip and kisses him more deeply, and draws Roger to him.
Roger is so used to being wanted. He can't even count the number of offers he's turned down. There was always Mirka when he was younger, and he never wanted to stray, not seriously. After Mirka, he hadn't been able to think about anyone else. He wonders if he's thinking now.
Rafa breaks the kiss, finally, and they lean close together. Roger touches his waist, palm slipping on the smooth cotton of his shirt.
"I don't want to watch football," Roger says.
Rafa's laughter is no more than a breath. "You wanna come to bed with me?" he says. It's a proper question, spoken softly and carefully. The words have weight and meaning behind them, years of it.
Roger presses his forehead to Rafa's, quite hard. Rafa pushes back. "Yeah," Roger says. "I had sex with a guy once, a long time ago."
Rafa's arm tightens round his waist, then loosens to something more gentle. "Oh yeah?" he says, close and warm in Roger's ear.
"Just once. I didn't dare tell anyone. Didn't have the guts. I'm a coward."
"No," Rafa says softly, against his hair. "You are not that."
"I loved Mirka. But there was always that in the back of my mind. Wondering what I was missing."
"You were happy."
"Yeah, I was. Look, maybe I should go." He pushes Rafa back. "It's like I'm using you or something."
"How?"
"For… I don't know. Sex."
"You ever tell anyone this before, about the guy?"
"No."
"Is not easy to talk about. I know this." Rafa doesn't let go of him. In fact, his arms tighten. "Don't know what I feel." A soft self-deprecating laugh in Roger's ear. "Did not expect to be doing this. Is not what I sign up for, no? In the BBC contract."
Roger laughs. Rafa's hands move slowly up his back, stroking, soothing. Roger tries to imagine Rafa naked, next to him in bed. His mind sticks helplessly on the thought. Rafa shifts against him, fluid muscle and solidity, and then Roger wants him, so much that he could pull Rafa's clothes off right here in the kitchen.
"I want to," Roger says. "Go to bed with you."
"Okay," Rafa says, sounding choked. "Me too."
Rafa kisses him hard, tongue pressing into his mouth, hands on Roger's hips. "Upstairs," he says, pulling back.
Roger isn't used to having someone tell him what to do, and he gets a curiously dry mouth when he looks into Rafa's dark eyes. Rafa' directs him to a room on the second floor; the windows look out over a small concrete balcony, and beyond that the road and the golf course. The room has a bed, and that's essentially all he's aware of apart from Rafa, who's taking off his shirt. Roger goes to him and strokes his chest.
"You wanted me," he says.
"Still true," says Rafa, with a smile and a soft laugh, and then he makes a breathy moan when Roger slides his fingers down over Rafa's stomach, through coarse dark hair. He touches Roger's wrist and leans close, chin tilting, wanting to be kissed as obviously as if he'd asked out loud. He pulls open his belt and his jeans with his other hand, and Roger helps by pushing them down around his thighs as they kiss. The bulge in his underwear fills Roger's palm with heat. He squeezes, his own cock thickening, and Rafa moans again.
"Undress," Rafa says, thickly. He kisses Roger's collarbone, tugging aside his shirt to do it. "Please."
The sheets are cold under his naked back, but Rafa is hot on top of him, balanced on hands and knees above him. His cock is stiff, and the tip brushes against the hair on Roger's stomach as Rafa moves. Every small movement and touch makes Roger's skin tingle. He closes his hand around Rafa's erection, lets the heat soak into his skin, feels the weight of it in his palm, the silky skin and the damp slickness on his wrist. This is Rafa. It hits him hard, and he stares up into Rafa's eyes.
Rafa's cock jerks in his palm. Rafa bites his lip, watching him.
"Is good," Rafa says, ducking his head to kiss him. He thrusts into Roger's palm with a fluid motion, body tensed. "So good."
Roger tightens his fist, like he would for himself, and hooks his hand around Rafa's neck, bringing him close for another kiss. Rafa moans, sounding utterly seduced and needy. Roger pulls his hand away and slips three fingers into Rafa's mouth, and Rafa licks at them instantly, making soft sounds all the while. When they're slick, Roger takes them away and runs them along the length of Rafa's cock, then strokes him again, harder now that he's caught Rafa's rhythm. Rafa's mouth is wet against his, their tongues sliding together lazily as Rafa begins to fuck his hand.
"Oh, God," Roger says, pushing Rafa's hair from his face. "You look-- so incredible."
Rafa opens his mouth, but only small incoherent gasps emerge. He arches, every muscle taut, and comes in warm wet stripes across Roger's stomach. He lowers himself down onto Roger and lies still, breathing hard, his hip pressing against Roger's erection.
"That's sticky," Roger murmurs.
"Yeah," Rafa says, sounding really pleased, and he raises himself on his elbows and beams down.
They kiss, again, until Rafa pulls back and kneels up, kissing down along Roger's chest, fingers trailing through the sticky mess there until he's at Roger's waist.
"No, don't," Roger says, horribly self conscious of the unsightly pudge of his stomach. Rafa still has abs like warm smooth rock.
Rafa presses his mouth there and kisses. He's grinning, wide and sweet. "Is cute. I like it," he says, and then kisses lower, licking across Roger's hip, the top of his thigh, tracing the crease where it meets his leg, then he's sinking his lips down over the head of Roger's cock.
"Oh," Roger sighs. He stretches, arms above his head where Rafa left them, arching himself off the mattress at the touch of Rafa's mouth, so soft around him, so wet. He looks down, trembling, and sees Rafa has taken more than half of his length into his mouth.
"Rafa," he says. "Oh, Rafa." He reaches down to touch his hair. He needs to put his hand on Rafa's cheek, to feel the hollow and the dip, the way he's sucking, the flex of muscle as he dips his head up and down. They're both moaning, together.
They lie close together afterwards. Roger is almost asleep, turned on his side to face Rafa. Rafa snuggles closer, stroking one hand down over Roger's waist and hip.
"Hey, you know, I never sleep with anyone since Miguel," Rafa says.
"Miguel was your guy?"
"Yeah."
"Same here." Roger pokes Rafa in the side with his finger. "Mirka, in my case. You know what I mean."
Of all the things he didn't expect to be doing this fortnight in London, being in bed with Rafa was one of them. He wonders if something shows on his face because Rafa frowns.
"You okay?" Rafa asks. His thumb is tracing patterns on Roger's hip. Their feet are tangled together.
"Yeah. I'm good." He doesn't have any right to be, but he is.
***
Roger wakes up in the early dawn, when the light is still soft gold and pink. The only sound outside is birdsong. Rafa rolls out of bed and pads away, and Roger hears the sound of him pissing, and then the flush of the toilet. He comes back and gets into bed, lying close.
It's so strange, like looking at an optical illusion where he can see two things at the same time; the Rafael Nadal he played tennis with for ten years and the man he had sex with last night. The man.
"I need to sleep more," Roger says. "Do you mind?"
Rafa stretches and yawns and reaches with one hand to rub down Roger's stomach, fingers scratching through the hair there. "No, you sleep."
When he wakes up again it's 11am and he can hear Rafa talking somewhere in the house. It sounds like he's on the phone. He's loud and intense.
Roger finds towels in the bathroom, and has a shower. He finds a spare toothbrush and cleans his teeth, and thinks about Rafa coming on his stomach. He should probably leave soon. When he comes out Rafa is sitting on the edge of the bed, apparently waiting for him. He sucks on his lower lip and smiles when he sees Roger.
"I did not dream it after all," he says.
Roger clutches his towel. "No. Here I am."
Rafa stands and comes over.
"You look good," he says, softly, running fingers over Roger's bare shoulder. He puts his hands on the towel and tugs it away, and kisses Roger. He strokes his sides, and Roger puts his arms around Rafa's shoulders and kisses him back.
"Come back to bed," Rafa says. "I cancelled my lunch date."
"You cancelled it?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Is that a good idea?"
Rafa gives him a look like Roger might be a bit dim. "Yeah, it is okay. I can cancel what I want."
It's been decades since that single lonely instance of gay sex. Now, he has his palm on the hard curve of Rafa's ass. Sweat is prickling his skin and lust coils in his midriff.
"I want you," he stutters.
Rafa has nothing on under his jeans, just bare skin. Roger doesn't make it onto the bed, instead he gets on his knees while Rafa sits on the edge and stares down, breathing hard.
He strokes Rafa's thighs, pushing them wide with his palms, following the lines of muscle inwards with his fingers and his mouth, licking across salty skin to his balls, then up to his cock. Above him, Rafa gathers up soft handfuls of hair and he makes no sound as Roger sucks him, only short stuttery breaths.
Roger doesn't even dare touch himself in case he comes like this and gets it on the carpet.
Afterwards, Rafa drags him up close and stares at him. "You really think Zayed is gonna win this?"
It doesn't even seem weird that Rafa wants to talk about tennis at this moment. "Sure," he says. "Probably. But who knows, he might have a disaster."
"Oh, yeah." Rafa strokes Roger's jaw. "Disasters happen. Mousa, he's having a problem. I don't think he want this enough to win. Like, he might be scared of beating Fantin."
"I don't know him well enough to be able to tell."
"You should meet him, at my school."
"I don't know. Let's wait and see if he wins first."
Rafa nods. "Sure," he says, quietly.
"Why would he be afraid?" Roger asks. He's still hard, and it's pressing on Rafa's thigh. He doesn't feel in a hurry to do anything about it, but he knows he wants to fuck Rafa if Rafa wants that. His stomach flutters just thinking about it.
"Sometimes is hard," Rafa says. "When things change a lot."
Roger pulls Rafa down next to him, under the covers, and kisses him again. Rafa's eyes are beautiful – perfect.
Roger stays until early evening, and they don't get out of bed again till then. He hasn't had so much sex in years, and he has to leave because if he doesn't he's scared he won't be able to get up in the morning for his job.
***
"Did you two go out drinking or something?" Tim Henman says on Monday morning, looking from one to the other. "You both look rough as hell."
They're in the café. It's cooler today. The sky is pearl grey. It might rain, and Tim has been warning them of possible extended hours. Roger puts his shades on and smiles at Tim, and Rafa just gives Tim a look as if to question his brain power.
"Huh? No," Rafa says. "No drinking."
Under the table their feet touch, and Roger gets an electric jolt in the pit of his stomach. He has a flashback to Rafa naked, above him. He can't stop noticing Rafa's arms in his rolled up shirt sleeves. He crosses his legs and clears his throat, and straightens his piles of player stats.
"Let's get on with it, shall we?"
***
It's hard in the little booth, sometimes literally. Tim sits in with them this week. Roger wonders where all his mental focus went in the last few years. He can't stop his mind drifting right back to the weekend. It's left him wide-eyed with possibility, like he's a teenager again, and there are some moments when Rafa looks at him, and Roger's stomach flips with the intensity of it, and he gets hard.
"Stop doing that," he says.
Rafa just shrugs and smiles. "I not doing nothing, Rog."
They sit through the round of sixteen, then the quarter finals, and then it's the semis. Roger and Rafa begin to finish each other's sentences. Tim gives them odd looks from time to time, when they're arguing about Fantin and Zayed on the sofa on the roof garden.
They both go through to the final, of course. Roger expected nothing else.
Roger calls his friends in London and catches up with them. It seems important. He calls Myla and Charlene, and denies them plastic surgery yet again. Then he calls Mirka.
"Why are you calling? Is everything all right?" she asks.
"I'm fine."
"How's Wimbledon? You look good on camera."
"Thanks. It's fun. I'm having a nice time."
"Rafa looks good too. How is he?"
"Fine."
"You're getting along very well. I liked the little film they made of your special moments."
He can just tell from her voice that she's winding him up. She suspects something, he's sure. She has a forensic eye for detail in this kind of thing. Sharp as a knife, twice as cutting, but she loved him and supported him for a long time. He'll always love her. He owes it to her to tell her.
"How's the business, Mirka?"
"Good. We're going to open a new shop in Paris in the Spring."
"That's great." He pleased for her. He wants her to have success in this. "Listen, something happened."
"What?"
"No, nothing bad. You remember I told you about that time I went to Sicily when I was eighteen, and there was this guy, and we… you know. You remember? "
"Of course I remember," she says, softly.
"Mirka, something happened with Rafa and me."
"Uh huh. I see." She pauses, and he can hear something in her voice. She's probably clenching a fist in the air from being proved right. "That's not entirely unpredictable."
"It's not?"
"No."
"What do you mean?" Although he thinks he knows what she means. She was there in real life to see all those moments they'd put in the film.
"There was always something about the way he looked at you. It was always a bit much, to be honest."
"Was it? I didn't know."
"I know you didn't."
"Rafa invited me to Mallorca. To his academy."
"That's great," Mirka says. "Rogi. It is. I'm glad."
"You're okay?"
"I'm okay." She sighs though, like she's tired. "Are you going to talk to Myla and Charlene about it?"
"Um, maybe not right away. But, yeah, I'll come over when I'm back home. Monday or Tuesday."
"Good. So," she says, "Is Zayed going to beat Fantin this time?"
***
Luis Fantin's coach comes up to Roger in the player's lounge, while Roger is deep in a conversation about the structure of next year's tour.
"Juan?" he says, looking up. "How's your man doing?"
"He's good. He was, ahh, wondering if you'd like to hit with him."
"Uh, sure."
They haven't spoken since last year, when Roger decided that Luis was uncoachable, at least by Roger.
Luis Fantin has deep brown eyes, like Rafa, and his white tennis clothes sit perfectly on his tall, elegant frame. He squeezes Roger's hand very tightly, and says in his husky voice that it's an honour, that Roger is so kind, and that it's so good to see him again. Then he runs Roger around the court for forty five minutes, so that Roger is gasping for breath and feeling like he might want to lie down and faint. His shoulder screams from the heavy groundstrokes Fantin whacks at him, over and over.
Mousa Zayed is over on the next court, watching them. Rafa is there too, and he waves. Roger waves back, and they grin at each other while fans snap them with their cameras.
***
"Hello, everyone. It's the last Sunday, and we're in for what looks to be a memorable final. Maybe even as memorable as the one you both played in '08. Roger, Rafa, can you give us some insights into the rivalry that's developing between these two? How are they going to feel, walking out there?"
"You never forget the feeling. I can still remember everything. That match we played— you want to do your very best in the big moments."
"You wanna play your heart out, that's all, to the one that matters most."
***
Luis Fantin's game breaks down in the fifth set. Watching him struggle, his face almost grey with exhaustion, brings memories surging back. Roger's entire body is tensed, leaning forward in his chair, staring at the two players dressed in white as they dart about on the lush green grass.
There's not much talking in the booth; there doesn't need to be. Rafa's elbow is digging against his. Rafa is gripping the edge of the desk with his fingertips, and every few shots he makes an involuntary movement and a sound, like he wants to jump up and start waving his arms about. Below the desk, his foot is pressing tight to Roger's. Roger wonders if Rafa's even aware he's doing it, he's so lost in the moment.
There's the point when it ends. Zayed wins with a beautiful forehand that skims the line, a ball that Fantin is never going to reach, not in a million years, never mind how fast he runs. It's gone, and the match is over, and the crowd loses its collective mind. It's almost dark. The fifth set has gone to 9-7. Roger lets out a shaky breath. This could be 17 years ago.
He becomes aware that Tim is speaking, recapping the moment for the viewers.
"That could be us," Rafa says. "Is like a time warp, no?" he says, exactly matching Roger's thoughts. "A fantastic match."
"Mr Federer," a runner is saying, tapping him on the shoulder. "It's time. They're making the presentation in ten minutes." Roger takes his earpiece and microphone off and smoothes down his hair.
"I've got to go down there," he says, and he touches Rafa's shoulder. Tim's looking from one to the other, frowning.
"I gonna come with you," Rafa says. "We both can present it."
And he does, and the crowd goes wild.
***
They have no time alone until much later, after the Champions Dinner, where they are seated at the head table as special guests of honour. Roger has to give a speech, and when he glances at Rafa, sprawled in his chair with his chin on one fist, just gazing at him, his mouth dries up and he has to drink some water before he can go on. Mousa Zayed is gracious and charming, and clearly wants an early night.
Now, past midnight, they sit in Rafa's rented Kia outside Rafa's rented house. The engine ticks as it cools.
"I lost my bet, no?" Rafa says, with a wry smile. He's fidgeting at the steering wheel cover with his fingers. He's never still. Roger puts his hand over Rafa's.
"Yeah, but I'll still come. What? You think I'd pass up a free holiday in Mallorca?"
Rafa snorts, his smile brilliant. He moves across the seat until he's close enough to boldy put his arm across Roger's shoulders, like he has every right to, like Roger won't mind. "It's not gonna be free. You gonna have to work."
"I can work," Roger says, just before Rafa kisses him. He's gentle and slow, and it's like Roger is waking up after a long time asleep. Rafa strokes his hair, and Roger moves closer until they're pressed together, with his arm awkwardly wedged round Rafa's neck.
"You wanna come in?" Rafa says, slowly, drawing back. "Or-- I can drive you to the hotel."
"I have this meeting in Zurich tomorrow," Roger says, short of breath and with jeans that are too tight. "I'm flying out at 11am. It's all booked. I'm sorry."
Rafa shrugs, then he shakes his head and draws in a deep breath. He puts his hand on Roger's thigh. They both stare down at it.
"Stay here, tonight?" Rafa says. It's not often he sounds tentative, but he does now. "Leave early, I can drive you in the morning, no?"
"I don't know… I-- This is all new to me," Roger says. Some part of him still thinks he should be sensible. It's the same part that's afraid of all this.
"Yeah." Rafa squeezes his thigh. "Hey, you think Tim guesses we're fucking?" he says, and Roger bursts out laughing.
"If he's as dense as me, no."
Rafa smiles, sweet and amused, and winds a curl of Roger's hair round his forefinger. Rafa's eyes are bright with possibilities, ones that Roger has never bothered to see until now.
He unlocks his seat belt and gets out of the car, and waits for Rafa to catch up as he walks along the path to the door.
Pairing: Roger/Rafa
Rating: NC 17
Word count: 10,003
Warnings: explicit m/m
Disclaimer: everything in here is completely fictional
Notes: this is written for
niennah's prompt: Sometime in the future, when they haven't met for some time (one or both have retired), Roger and Rafa meet and look at photos of their tennis days, reminiscing. Perhaps realising something they never realised before... ? I hope this is something along the lines of what you wanted! Thanks so much for emungere for beta and plot chewing, and to buckle_berry for beta and holding my clammy hands during the tennis. Eta: I made a bit of a booboo in the first version of this I uploaded, so this is v1.2. Summary: Set at Wimbledon 2025. Their tennis careers are long over, but Rafa and Roger are bought together again as commentators. This leads to many realisations, and also some inept commentating.
"Can I just say how wonderful it is to be sharing this fortnight with two of the very best tennis players we've ever seen here at the All England Club. Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, a very warm Wimbledon welcome to you both, and here's looking forward to a wonderful fortnight of tennis."
"Thanks, Tim. It's great to be here, obviously."
"I know you come back every year, Roger, but never as a commentator."
"So don't mess it up, right? I might not be as good at this as tennis, you know."
"And Rafa, how does it feel to back after all this time?"
"Thank you very much. Is a great feeling. I have not been here since 13 years, so. Yeah. Very nice feeling. My accent-- hope it does not make it too hard for the viewers."
"It's the first time the two of you have met in the vicinity of a tennis court, since-- when was it, Roger?"
"Oh, well. I don't remember..."
"I bet Rafa can remember, can't you, Rafa?"
"Heh. Sure. It was French Open, round of sixteen, 2019. I won."
"Goodness me, Roger, that was a long time ago."
It's not entirely true. The last time they'd met on a tennis court was Roger's retirement ceremony at the US Open. Roger had cried, predictably. Mirka had cried too. The crowd had loved it.
They are taken out that night to a formal dinner in one of the better London restaurants. Roger and Rafa are seated on the same side of the table, with Jason Goodall between them. The Chairman of the recently reinvented Lawn Tennis Association is blunt and quite funny, except that Roger can see by the way Rafa's smiles slide too quickly from his lips that he's not really enjoying himself. Roger finds it hard to know what to say to Rafa after all these years.
"Do you think Fantin is going to be able to go the whole nine yards?" Jason asks Roger.
Luis Fantin is a young man, only 24, and with ten slams to his record - a tall, strong, athletic lefty from Brazil with a fierce competitive spirit and a light, elegant, precise movement. On court, he is fascinating. Off court, he is charming and well dressed. Privately, Roger thinks he is a perfect combination of Federer and Nadal, although he doesn't say that out loud. He'd spent some time with Fantin last year during the South American swing. The internet had made a big deal of it. It hadn't worked out, and anyway Roger doesn't want to coach anyone. He's got the kids to think about and, truthfully, it never does work out.
Everyone waits for Roger's answer. Rafa is watching him too, slowly spooning lemon sorbet into his mouth.
"Maybe. He's got the game." He glances at Rafa. "I like his style. Oh, and did you see that lob against Zayed last month? He has just spectacular technique. What wouldn't I give to be 25 again?" Everyone nods; they all know which lob he's talking about. Zayed is probably Fantin's main rival. They've met in slam finals five times. Mousa Zayed is brilliant and charismatic and frustratingly inconsistent. He's a product of the Qatari tennis hothouse that is just blooming into life.
Judy Murray has organised a post dinner party on the South Bank. There's music and the inevitable mingling. He's super aware of Rafa, even though it takes at least thirty minutes for them to spin into each other's orbit through the throng of tennis higher-ups and celebrity tennis fans.
"Hi," Roger says.
Rafa smiles, and they exchange a handshake as if they are meeting for the first time tonight. Hands clasped between them, it's like their ones at the net. He's very tanned and his hair is short, cropped close to his scalp. It suits him. He's dressed well, in a slim dark suit and a pale blue shirt with a crisp collar. "Hey, Roger."
"Are you ready for the gig?"
"No," Rafa says, laughing softly. "But I have been practising my English for six months, so." He shrugs, self effacing and charming. "How about you?"
"I'm pretty terrible. I usually forget what I'm going to say."
"You have done this before?"
"Yeah, some Swiss sports stuff from time to time."
"Fantin's good," Rafa says, doubtfully.
"You think Zayed is gonna win?"
Rafa makes a frowny sort of smile. "Maybe. Fantin; he's like the two of us, no? Mixed together?"
Roger blinks. "You think that too?"
"Is why I like to watch him so much."
"He is good."
There's an awkward little pause while Rafa sips his glass of white wine and fiddles with the stem. Roger wishes he knew better what to say, but it's been so long, and there's been so much—tennis between them. Their history trails behind them like a long grassy, clay, blue hardcourt strip.
"I am sorry to hear about you and Mirka," Rafa says. "Very sorry."
"Thanks." He's got past the really bad stage now. He can deal with it. "I don't recommend divorce for anyone," he says, then looks down at his feet in their shiny shoes. "But thanks. It was tough."
It's an open secret that Rafa sees men. Actually, Roger doesn't even know if it's a secret anymore. It used to be, around the time Rafa retired, but he hasn't seen Rafa for years and perhaps things have changed. Probably a lot of things have. They certainly never spoke of it. Rafa never came out publicly. He wishes they'd talked about it even once.
Rafa reaches out to give Roger's shoulder what Roger is sure is meant to be a commiserating stroke. Maybe it's because he's nervous, or because seeing Rafa again is just so strange, but Roger flinches away from his touch before he can help himself. Rafa looks surprised, then hurt, then pissed off, emotions falling onto his face like rain, and he lets his hand fall back to his side
He stares at Rafa, once such a familiar sight and now so different. The moment has thrown him and he can't think of anything to say. He wants to ask if Rafa has a nice partner, if he's happy, what he's doing now with his time, but none of it comes out. He's tongue tied and dumb, and it's too awkward to explain why he flinched, and Rafa is already looking away.
He didn't even mean to do it, and now he has, and he's made himself look like a giant homophobe, and ungrateful to boot, who thinks that being gay might be contagious.
"Hello, boys," Judy Murray says behind them, and Roger is relieved to hear her voice, although his heart sinks when he realises she has two young women in tow. "How are you getting along? I thought you'd like to meet Sophie and Laura. They're in Cats at the moment."
"Oh," Rafa says, perking up. "Great."
"How's Andy?" Roger asks.
"You can ask him yourself next month," Judy said, with a sharp smile.
"Oh, of course." There's going to be an ITF meeting in mid-July. He talks to Andy fairly often. They are friends, although Andy still has his awkward and prickly moments. It was the London Olympics where they really bonded.
He chats to Judy about his kids, watching Rafa discuss his favourite musicals.
***
He finds Rafa the next morning in the terrace café overlooking the Ourangi practise courts. Rafa gives him a nod. He is alone at one of the small round tables with a large leather folder, a pen, and a personal organiser that has a little blue screen. It's pleasantly cool in the shade, with a breeze relieving the hot sunshine. Rafa looks cool and relaxed in his simple white t-shirt. Roger takes his iced skinny decaf latte over and, as an afterthought, orders two strawberry scones.
"May I sit here?" he asks.
Rafa looks up, and nods, his upper lip disappearing beneath his lower one so that his jaw becomes mulish. "Okay. Sure." And he moves his folder to make room for Roger's coffee.
The waiter brings over the strawberry scones and puts them down. Rafa looks at them. Yesterday, Rafa had ignored Roger's attempts at any personal conversation. Roger had quickly given up and they'd talked exclusively about tennis. It hadn't been at all difficult. Rafa has a fantastic mind and gives some brilliant analysis of the players, but he won't look Roger in the eye.
"Look," Roger says. "Rafa. I didn't mean… I mean, I'm not being an idiot about it, honestly. I didn't mean to…. Well. I didn't mean anything."
Rafa is still looking at the scones. "You buy for me?"
"…I thought you might like one," Roger says.
"For me?"
"Yes, for you."
Rafa nods, then eats the scone in silence. Then: "You piss me off," Rafa says. He always was blunt.
"I'm not—" he looks around. There are a few sets of eyes looking their way, curious as ever. He lowers his voice. "I'm not—against that kind of thing."
"What kind of thing, Roger?" Rafa says, in a normal voice.
"Being gay," Roger mutters. "I have bisexual friends," he adds, feeling ridiculous. He just wants Rafa to look at him and smile like he means it.
Rafa looks at him, shakes his head and then does smile, one of the real ones that Roger remembers very well. His smile was always the thing that used to surprise Roger the most and it still does– so ready and so sweet in a face that otherwise seems set in a perpetual frown.
"Are those your notes for today's matches?" Roger asks, at last. He peers, curious to see what Rafa has written. Roger spent a few hours this morning revising today's players and their match stats. He has things he's eager to discuss with Rafa.
"Yeah." Rafa paws through them. "You wanna look over them with me?"
"Of course. I'd love to."
Rafa smiles at him again.
***
"Welcome back to day three of our live Wimbledon coverage. I'll tell you what's great; seeing two champs like Roger and Rafa getting along so well."
"Ah, yeah. Thanks, Tim. Well, we got along on tour so why not now? Nothing's changed, right? Tennis is a lot like commentating. Uh, a bit, anyway."
"And I no gonna beat you in finals anymore, no? So you can't get mad at me."
"I was never mad at you… "
"Hehehe. Well said, Rafa. What do you think, Roger? Are you and Rafa rivals now in the 'who's the best commentator?' stakes? It certainly sounds like it."
"Well, we could probably fight it out, you know? But I don't think we're rivals any more. And maybe I'll let Rafa win this one."
"Ahaha, Rafa looks like he's got more to say about that, but I'm afraid we have to leave you now, and go over to Elena with our coverage of the women's second round matches. Later on, join us for Luis Fantin's match on Centre Court. He's meeting the very talented youngster Bao Xing. It's sure to be a fascinating meeting between the two."
It is, it turns out. Rafa and Roger sit side by side in their shirts and smart suits. There's a little rim of sweat on Rafa's upper lip, and his hair is damp at the temples. Roger can smell the scent of his sweat. It's not unpleasant. It makes him think of locker rooms. It must be five degrees hotter in this little box than outside, where the sun is pouring down onto Centre Court. Fantin glides rather than runs. When they get a tiny one minute break, Rafa snorts and shakes his head.
"What?" Roger
"Is like seeing a ghost," he says, sliding a glance at Fantin, then at Roger. "Ghost of you. He is awesome."
"Better than me?" Roger asks. He knows instantly that it makes him sound as arrogant as people used to say he was. Rafa smiles and shrugs, perfectly noncommittal, and Roger sees Toni Nadal in that gesture. "No, not better. I dunno, no? Have to see how he grows up."
***
"Fantin is moving so well out there. Technically, for me he's one of the best guys around."
"Yeah, sure. I always think he moves like you, no? You spend how long working on that movement?"
"A long time. Years. I never stopped."
"Plus, with that crazy forehand."
"Oh—thanks. Um, I never did master your two handed backhand though."
"Your normal one was not bad. I watch you use the two hander in the exhibition last year. In Monte Carlo, no? With Marat."
"You saw that?"
"For sure. It was not very good from you, Roger, to tell the truth."
"You're right. I couldn't even get the ball in the court half the time."
"This is true."
"But enough about me, Rafa. We'd better concentrate on the match or they might take away our license to commentate, or something."
"You need a license?"
"That was a solid service game from Xing, but I don't think it's gonna be enough, do you? These numbers aren't adding up to a great match for him. His forehand's misfiring all over the place…"
"Looks to me like Fantin is gonna get to slam number eleven playing like this."
"That means he'll be level with you, Raf."
"Eh, I do not mind that! Many people match me. I just enjoy to watch him play."
"While you do that I'll tell the viewers at home some interesting stats… "
***
Fantin finishes off young Xing in straight sets, then there's a decent break until the next match. Roger wanders out of their small booth, half thinking he might go back to the hotel for a lie down and a sandwich, when Myla calls him. Rafa lingers for a moment, watching him, then lifts a hand in a wave and strolls off.
"You are Rafa and so funny, Dad." It's the first thing she says.
"I'm so glad I'm amusing you. How's school?"
"Fine. Lene passed her piano exam. Miss Poplat was, like, so excited. She's a big fan of yours and said to say hi."
"How's your mother?"
"Yeah, fine," Myla says. "She says to tell you your hair needs a trim because it's all in your eyes on camera. And that you should shave."
"My hair's fine."
"Whatever. Hey, Dad, are you, like, friends with Rafa?"
"I suppose I am. Sort of. Why?"
"I dunno. It just must be weird, that's all."
"Weird how?"
"He was important to you, all that tennis stuff, and now it's all in the past."
Myla always has had the knack of saying things that seem to rattle round his head for far longer than they should.
He decides not to go back to the hotel. It's more convenient to simply go up to the Centre Court terrace bar.
It's busy. Andy Roddick is there, chatting with Goodall. It doesn't take Roger very long to spot Rafa. He's over in one corner, speaking with Mousa Zayed, who is looking poised and elegant out of his tennis whites. Mousa Zayed touches Rafa's shoulder as they talk, their heads bent close together.
"Hey, Rog. Dickwad," Andy says, with a punch on the arm that may or may not be affection. He's never quite been able to tell with Andy.
"Hey, Andy, hi!" he says, and is embraced in a one-armed hug. "You're looking great. I didn't know you were here."
"I couldn't pass up coming to see the double act," Andy said. "You and Rafa, you crack me up. It's like JMac interbred with the Bryan brothers. Scary."
"What? God, we're nothing like the Bryan brothers. We're way better."
"What's going on up in that booth? It's like you're mindmelding. Freaks."
Rafa and Roger say the same things at the same time often enough for everyone to notice. It's because they've spent four days talking about nothing but tennis, and they share a lot of opinions, but it's starting to make Rafa laugh in his funny snorting way, a lot.
***
Rafa is in Ourangi again at breakfast, on the terrace in the shade, and he smiles when he sees Roger. The morning air is sweet with the scent of mown grass, overlaid with a whiff of petrol fumes from the road, and the ever present wafting coconut smell of sunscreen from the players.
Belinda Cournic is training below them. Her rhythmic low-pitched shrieks as she serves are almost restful.
"Hi. You have a good night's sleep?" Rafa asks, as Roger sits down with his coffee.
"Not bad."
"You still need half a day asleep?"
"No. Not since I stopped playing. Mirka cured me of that on the first day I retired. Said I had no reason to sleep so much." He stirs his coffee. "So I stopped."
"You miss her?" Rafa asks.
"Yeah," Roger says. "It's been a year, but I still do. How about you? Do you have… anyone?"
Rafa makes his noncommittal shrug, and his mouth turns into an upside down smile. "No," he says. "There was this one guy, you know, for a long time. But not any more." Rafa leans on his elbows and pokes at the sugar bowl. "Did not work out."
"It must've been hard on tour." Mirka had always been there for him, every day, to comfort him and give him a solid base. Since it's been over, he's realised how much she gave to him. Typical of him that he didn't bother taking notice until it was too late.
Rafa lifts a brow and doesn't quite look at him. "Nah, not so hard. My family, friends, and I was with Maria Francisca for a long time then, remember? But after, maybe at the end, in the last year I was playing. That was hard."
"I'm sorry," Roger says, and means it, even if he's not sure what he's sorry for.
They finish their breakfast, and go over to the media centre roof garden where they are filming with Tim. The tennis has already begun, the thwock thwock of balls on taut nylon floating in the warm air.
***
"It's day five, and here in the commentary box with me I've got none other than Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal."
"Hi, Tim."
"Yeah. Hola."
"So, Roger, what do you think of Ethan Brothwell's chances in the third round today against Zayed? He's our only Brit in the draw this year."
"That's an unlucky draw, basically. Zayed is in amazing form right now after his three month lay off. He can easily win this whole thing."
"I know that Zayed spent time training in Mallorca, Rafa, at your academy. How much do you think that's helped him come back from what looked to be almost a career-ending injury?"
"Well, I no his coach, but yeah. I know about how that feels, what you have to be doing to recover. We worked hard together. He has a great attitude, you know. Like Roger always did. Like myself. He makes the sacrifices to improve and win, and he is happy to do that. We all make sacrifices so we can go on and win."
***
"We've got a bit of a special moment now. Roger, Rafa, we're going to take the opportunity to embarrass you both a little with this compilation of your greatest moments—together."
“Oh, ahaha. Wow.”
“Aha. Eh. Great.”
***
The little film lasts about ten minutes. Rafa sits next to him on the sofa, legs crossed, gazing at the screen. It begins with their first ever match in Miami, then all the big matches in places like Monte Carlo, Hamburg, Roland Garros, Wimbledon, Australia – Roger remembers some of the matches as if they had only happened last week, but the images on screen reveal things he's forgotten, or was never aware of. There's a commentary, with someone talking about music and duets and beauty and passion.
They’re so young, both of them. Rafa seems barely more than a teenager in most of the shots. Rafa has his arms around him, Rafa pushes his head to Roger's, relief and joy on his face, Roger cries; the awful moment in Australia when he squirmed like a bug under the gaze of millions, and Rafa stood close and bumped their foreheads together and told him it wasn't so bad, and Roger tried not to get snot over everything. There's a shot of himself gazing at Rafa with something that looks a lot like love.
Roger can feel his throat tightening as he watches in a sort of panic. Then Rafa at that final US Open, watching with tears in his eyes as Roger gives his speech. Roger has never seen that before, and he looks at Rafa now. Rafa's profile is very still.
What he sees on screen is different to how he remembers it. Rafa was so physical with him; he stood so close. It looks like there was something there between them that Roger doesn't remember being there. But he always remembers how good it felt when Rafa touched him, how he felt almost… safe.
"This is a nice, film, no?" Rafa says, at the end. His voice is slightly husky. He smiles at Roger, a tentative sort of thing. "Nice memories for us. Thank you."
"I'd forgotten a lot of it," Roger says. It's true, he had. He literally can't think of anything else to say. He's hyper aware of Rafa next to him, and of how restless Rafa has suddenly become. Rafa bites his lower lip and sucks it into his mouth, then uncrosses his legs and begins to bite his thumbnail. Their eyes meet and dart away.
He's not great at speaking, but he wants to say something. He feels like he should, and that he wants to. He wants to say the right thing for once, to Rafa.
"Every player has someone who brings out the best in them, and for me it was always Rafa."
It hangs in the air, and he feels horribly vulnerable, but Tim nods and smiles like he understands, and Rafa nods too although he doesn't say anything, which Roger is glad about.
Tim smoothly ends the moment for them all by steering the conversation around to Djordje Djokovic, who at 30 is making what is likely to be his last challenge to the title, and who is playing later on today.
***
It's nearly 10pm, and they've only just been able to leave. Roger's lower back is complaining about sitting down for five hours, and his stomach is on edge from one too many cups of coffee. He wants something simple to eat and then he wants to sleep for a long time. In the morning, if he can get up early enough, he should have time for a practice on one of the courts.
It would be nice for the fans, he thinks. He doesn't see so many of them these days, although there is still a core out there who turn up to his charity events and public engagements wearing RF gear and carrying the old banners. It'd been hard to deal with around his mid thirties, when he'd finally realised he wasn't that special at anything apart from playing tennis.
He checks his phone as he sits in the back of his courtesy car. His inbox is full of messages. From Myla, from Charlene, from his mother, and a lot from the Swiss Olympics committee. He has a meeting in Zurich the Monday after the final. He sighs and remembers the exact smell and taste of the red clay under the heat of the Mediterranean sun. There's a message from Andy Murray, terse as usual, with dates for the ITF meeting, and saying he's booked a nice room for Roger.
There's a text from Novak: "Kick that little bastard's ass when you see him." Djordje had lost in a hard fought fifth set.
There are three from Charlene; pictures of her new haircut. It makes her look older. They'll be off to college in a year or so. They are strange, sophisticated creatures who want things like karaoke discos, plastic surgery and baffling games technology. Roger and Mirka both agree that they draw the line at plastic surgery. Roger doesn't remember being so complicated as a teenager.
Looking in his inbox, he realises that there's a message from Rafa that he's missed. It's from the night of that formal dinner, asking if Roger had wanted to meet up for a drink beforehand. On impulse, he calls the number. Rafa answers straight away.
"Hello?"
"It's Roger."
"Oh!" He sounds pleased to hear Roger's voice. "Where are you?"
"In my car on the way back to the hotel." He knows that Rafa has rented a house on Clifton Road. Roger wishes he had thought to do that too.
"Is something wrong?" Rafa asks.
"No, but I just saw that I missed your message on Saturday about meeting up. So that's why I didn't get back to you."
"You did not see it?"
"I-- I wanted you to know I wasn't being rude."
"That's nice, Roger. Thank you. But is no problem. I understand."
Roger pauses, wondering if Rafa thinks he's just lying to be polite. He can hear the TV in the background. It sounds like a film – there's swelling, dramatic music. It occurs to him to wonder if Rafa brought anyone with him. A partner. Or— or maybe— he thinks about Mousa Zayed. They looked close. Maybe Mousa is there with Rafa as more than a student of tennis—
"Do you want have dinner with me tomorrow night?" he blurts. Rafa is quiet for so long that Roger thinks the connection must've died. "Rafa?"
"I would like that very much. Now tell me who is gonna win this title. Fantin or Zayed? I cannot decide."
They talk all the way back to Roger's hotel, and through the lobby, and up in the elevator, and while Roger sits on the end of his bed and flicks unseeingly through the sports channels.
When they finally ring off it's 12.30, way past Roger's bedtime, and Roger falls asleep almost instantly.
***
It's the first Saturday. The courts are packed by 10am, and Roger decides that practising in public was probably not a sensible idea. He doesn't need twelve hours sleep these days, which he takes as a sign of getting old, but he's bleary. But the delighted shrieks he hears when people see him make him smile. He signs so many autographs that he's late getting back to the locker rooms, and has to run to get to the commentary booth on time.
Rafa is already there. He looks up from his notes as Roger enters the claustrophobic little box. "I decided. Fantin."
"Zayed," Roger replies, lowering himself into one of the awkward plastic chairs. At least the seat is padded. "There's no doubt in my mind."
"You sure?"
"I'm—pretty sure, yeah."
Rafa snorts. "If you so sure, we make a bet."
"Okay, what?"
"Zayed loses, you come to my school and teach for a week."
Roger ponders it. He's pretty convinced that Zayed can do this and if not it doesn't seem too much of a hardship to spend a week in Mallorca.
"It's a deal," Roger says, and Rafa laughs and clasps Roger's hand.
They settle down, and play begins. After the first match, they have a break. One of the assistants brings them cold drinks, and lingers for autographs. When she's gone, Roger asks:
"So, in Mallorca, will Mousa be there?" He's realises he's been dying to ask this for about an hour.
Rafa raises a brow. "No? Why would he be?"
"I thought you knew him well."
"Yeah, but he only come for one time, last year. Maybe he come back to train some other time, or… oh." Rafa stops, milkshake poised at his mouth. He has a small white moustache of it already. "You are asking is he my boyfriend?"
Roger fiddles with his notes. "I mean, is he?"
"No," Rafa says, with another snort. "He's a kid."
"You're not so old."
"38 is old compared to 22. Anyway, he is not gay."
Roger looks at Rafa's sun-lined face. He doesn't look his age, even with sun-induced crows' feet. When he laughs he still looks about 25, boyish and sweet. Roger picks up a paper napkin.
"Hold still," he says. "You have milkshake on your lip." He smoothes it off while Rafa holds very still, staring at him.
"Thank you," Rafa says, and his throat flexes as he swallows.
***
He waits for Rafa in the lobby of Claridges, where he's staying. It's taken him a long time to decide what to wear. In the end he decides on his new black jeans, a plain white shirt and a smart jacket. Rafa arrives exactly on time. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he's dressed pretty much exactly like Roger, except everything is more rumpled-looking, like he picked it up straight off the floor. His face lightens when he sees Roger.
"I booked us a table at Nobu," Roger says. "I remember you like their food."
Rafa looks so pleased, Roger's glad he took the trouble. Their shoulders bump as they walk out to the waiting car. Rafa's shoulders are still wide and muscled. He'll probably keep an athletic physique all his life, like Roger has kept his. Well, apart from a bit of a belly bulge that he's always promising to get rid of.
The restaurant is busy, but the manager is a tennis fan. Roger and Rafa are seated at one of the nicest tables.
"How's the school going?" Roger asks. He wants to know all about it, and Rafa seems eager to tell him. Toni is one of the directors, along with Toni Colom and Carlos Moya. Rafa spends his time coaching.
"I'm on court all day, every day. Is tiring, yes. Is good for me, otherwise I think I get fat, no? Apart from that, I go out on my boat."
"Fishing?"
"Fishing. Or pretending to fish. How are your daughters? Myla, she play some Futures events, no?"
"Yes, she's actually doing well for her age. But I don't want to push her. It's a difficult life."
Rafa looks wry, and gives him a look under his brows. "Is extremely difficult life, in some ways. Money, travel, excitement, yes. But I do not know if I would ever want it for a child of mine."
Roger pauses over his Kobe beef. Rafa's face is lit softly by candlelight. His eyes are dark and unreadable.
"Do you ever wish you had kids?" Roger asks.
Rafa pulls a face. "My sister already has four. Enough for us both, she says. Miguel is at my school. He is ten. He is very good, even so young."
"You think he wants to be a pro?"
"Maybe. He loves it, like I used to."
"Used to?"
"Well, still do love it." Rafa puts his chopsticks down and sips at his wine. It's red as rubies. "Do you miss it?" Rafa asks.
Roger doesn't even need to ask what he means. "Every day." He's never admitted it to anyone else.
Rafa meets his eyes. "You sound surprised."
"I never told anyone that before, Rafa."
Rafa gazes at him across the table. "I do not miss the travel and the training, but I miss…" he stops.
"What?"
"The competition. You know, it is the thing I loved most."
"I thought it'd be easier going back to being normal. But maybe I was never normal to begin with."
"Si."
They eat and talk about other things. Football, Mirka's jewellery business, the plastic surgery he won't let his kids have, the film about tennis that Rafa is writing with a Spanish director. Then, finally, inevitably, Zayed and Fantin.
"Do you think they're like us?" Roger says. His head is dizzy with wine. He can't help smiling when he says it, and at the way Rafa frowns intently while preparing to answer.
"No, impossible. Zayed is too short of slams."
"He has six. Luis has 10. That's kind of like us back in, uhh," he has to think for a moment, but only for a moment. "2007/8."
They have dessert. Rafa insists he shouldn't, but he gives in under Roger's insistence that they can share. They split a green tea ice-cream.
"Fantin," Rafa says, and it's obvious he's a little bit tipsy. "Luis Fantin is who our child would be like. If we could have one."
"He'd have better hair," Roger says, coolly.
Roger pays, even though Rafa complains and insists that it's not fair. Rafa capitulates after a couple of minutes, pulling a face. But Roger thinks he's pleased.
After dinner, they walk along to where the car is waiting. It's barely 10pm, and around them London is alive and wakeful and having fun. He notices when Rafa watches two young guys walk past.
Rafa bites his lip and leans on the car door. "You want to come back to my house?"
"Are you sure? Don't you need to sleep?"
"Tomorrow is Sunday. Day off, remember? There is no one else around at my place." Rafa runs a hand over his short hair. "I came over to England on my own," he says, simply. "I have a lot of football matches to watch. I got a Playstation 8 too."
"Okay," Roger says. He realises that he doesn't want to go back to his hotel and sit about like an old man, alone. "I'd like that."
Rafa's house is a tidy mansion about five minutes drive from the All England Club.
"Hey, isn't this the house I used to rent?" Roger says. It used to be owned by a family called Borg. No relation to Bjorn, although Roger had always found the coincidence funny.
"Yeah," Rafa says. "Was bad idea. Is much too big for one person."
The living room is different now, more austere that he remembers, with a pale wood floor and two white sofas, and a vast TV spread out over one wall. On the floor discs, Playstation, discarded tennis shoes and magazines are scattered like a trail of breadcrumbs to the sofa. On the low white wooden coffee table is a hardworn paperback – Slang and Idiom in Britain.
"Sorry for the mess," Rafa says, and kicks things aside. "You want a beer?"
"Thanks."
Instead of sitting on the sofa, Roger follows him into the large, sleek kitchen. Rafa looks over his shoulder and smiles at him, then hands him a slim dark bottle from the fridge. The label is in Spanish.
"Mallorcan beer?"
"Si. I import it all this way."
"Really?"
"No, no. I'm only joking."
Roger holds his bottle up and taps it to Rafa's. "Here's to a great Wimbledon final."
"And Fantin winning."
"Zayed winning."
They clink again, and laugh at themselves, and sip the cold sharp beer. Roger feels giddy, not physically, just his thoughts, that's all. He reaches out to put his hand on Rafa's shoulder. It's hard and warm. Rafa holds very still.
"What is it?" Rafa says.
"Are you happy?"
Rafa's mouth turns into an upside down smile again. "Is a strange time to ask me this."
"Sorry."
Rafa's hand closes over his, so warm. He puts his own beer down on the black shiny counter behind them, and takes Roger's too, and places them side by side. His calluses scuff Roger's skin. Rafa looks from Roger's eyes to his mouth. It seems to take a long time. They're standing very close, and Rafa smells good, some cologne that is expensive and subtle. Roger thinks of the advice he read once, in some copy of GQ, probably: it should only be detectable by someone who is close enough to kiss.
"Roger." He speaks Roger's name softly.
Roger looks down in surprise as his fingers tangle with Rafa's, seemingly without his say so. Rafa's palm is warm and slightly damp, his skin rough. He rubs his thumb across Rafa's palm. Rafa gasps.
"What are you doing?" Rafa says, gently.
"Did you like me back then?" Roger asks. It's a silly, teenage question but that's never stopped him before.
Rafa scowls like he doesn't understand. Under Roger's hand he's shivering slightly all over. "Like you? What? Of course."
"No, as… more than friends."
Rafa's knee bumps against his. Their thighs touch. "What do you think, Rog?"
"I—I don't know. I don't have a clue."
"Guess you were always—" and Rafa taps Roger's skull, just above his hairline at the front.
The touch turns into caress, and through it he can feel how tense Rafa is. He puts his hand on Rafa's waist, then moves it to the small of his back.
Rafa's eyes have gone dark. His hand slips to Roger's jaw, cupping it, and Roger only has time to think 'We're really going to do this' before Rafa kisses him.
All he can think of for several seconds is the intimate, slick, warm touch of Rafa's mouth to his, the lush softness of his lips and the hint of stubble against Roger's jaw, the sound of Rafa breathing in through his nose, and the incredible gentleness of his hand as it cradles one side of Roger's face. Rafa kisses him, then sighs, then kisses him again.
Roger's kissed Mirka in this kitchen. The thought jolts him, but it doesn't make him stop. Instead, he pushes his mouth against Rafa's, and lets Rafa's tongue slide into his mouth. They both shuffle back so Rafa is pressed between him and the counter, and Roger can feel all the hard angles and planes of his body.
"Did you?" he asks.
Rafa nods. "Yeah, I did. A lot. But that was a long time ago."
Rafa kisses him carefully, slowly. Roger didn't know what he was expecting – maybe some sort of onslaught the same way Rafa used to be on court. Instead he's careful, as if he's asking permission with every kiss. He settles his hand on Roger's hip and kisses him more deeply, and draws Roger to him.
Roger is so used to being wanted. He can't even count the number of offers he's turned down. There was always Mirka when he was younger, and he never wanted to stray, not seriously. After Mirka, he hadn't been able to think about anyone else. He wonders if he's thinking now.
Rafa breaks the kiss, finally, and they lean close together. Roger touches his waist, palm slipping on the smooth cotton of his shirt.
"I don't want to watch football," Roger says.
Rafa's laughter is no more than a breath. "You wanna come to bed with me?" he says. It's a proper question, spoken softly and carefully. The words have weight and meaning behind them, years of it.
Roger presses his forehead to Rafa's, quite hard. Rafa pushes back. "Yeah," Roger says. "I had sex with a guy once, a long time ago."
Rafa's arm tightens round his waist, then loosens to something more gentle. "Oh yeah?" he says, close and warm in Roger's ear.
"Just once. I didn't dare tell anyone. Didn't have the guts. I'm a coward."
"No," Rafa says softly, against his hair. "You are not that."
"I loved Mirka. But there was always that in the back of my mind. Wondering what I was missing."
"You were happy."
"Yeah, I was. Look, maybe I should go." He pushes Rafa back. "It's like I'm using you or something."
"How?"
"For… I don't know. Sex."
"You ever tell anyone this before, about the guy?"
"No."
"Is not easy to talk about. I know this." Rafa doesn't let go of him. In fact, his arms tighten. "Don't know what I feel." A soft self-deprecating laugh in Roger's ear. "Did not expect to be doing this. Is not what I sign up for, no? In the BBC contract."
Roger laughs. Rafa's hands move slowly up his back, stroking, soothing. Roger tries to imagine Rafa naked, next to him in bed. His mind sticks helplessly on the thought. Rafa shifts against him, fluid muscle and solidity, and then Roger wants him, so much that he could pull Rafa's clothes off right here in the kitchen.
"I want to," Roger says. "Go to bed with you."
"Okay," Rafa says, sounding choked. "Me too."
Rafa kisses him hard, tongue pressing into his mouth, hands on Roger's hips. "Upstairs," he says, pulling back.
Roger isn't used to having someone tell him what to do, and he gets a curiously dry mouth when he looks into Rafa's dark eyes. Rafa' directs him to a room on the second floor; the windows look out over a small concrete balcony, and beyond that the road and the golf course. The room has a bed, and that's essentially all he's aware of apart from Rafa, who's taking off his shirt. Roger goes to him and strokes his chest.
"You wanted me," he says.
"Still true," says Rafa, with a smile and a soft laugh, and then he makes a breathy moan when Roger slides his fingers down over Rafa's stomach, through coarse dark hair. He touches Roger's wrist and leans close, chin tilting, wanting to be kissed as obviously as if he'd asked out loud. He pulls open his belt and his jeans with his other hand, and Roger helps by pushing them down around his thighs as they kiss. The bulge in his underwear fills Roger's palm with heat. He squeezes, his own cock thickening, and Rafa moans again.
"Undress," Rafa says, thickly. He kisses Roger's collarbone, tugging aside his shirt to do it. "Please."
The sheets are cold under his naked back, but Rafa is hot on top of him, balanced on hands and knees above him. His cock is stiff, and the tip brushes against the hair on Roger's stomach as Rafa moves. Every small movement and touch makes Roger's skin tingle. He closes his hand around Rafa's erection, lets the heat soak into his skin, feels the weight of it in his palm, the silky skin and the damp slickness on his wrist. This is Rafa. It hits him hard, and he stares up into Rafa's eyes.
Rafa's cock jerks in his palm. Rafa bites his lip, watching him.
"Is good," Rafa says, ducking his head to kiss him. He thrusts into Roger's palm with a fluid motion, body tensed. "So good."
Roger tightens his fist, like he would for himself, and hooks his hand around Rafa's neck, bringing him close for another kiss. Rafa moans, sounding utterly seduced and needy. Roger pulls his hand away and slips three fingers into Rafa's mouth, and Rafa licks at them instantly, making soft sounds all the while. When they're slick, Roger takes them away and runs them along the length of Rafa's cock, then strokes him again, harder now that he's caught Rafa's rhythm. Rafa's mouth is wet against his, their tongues sliding together lazily as Rafa begins to fuck his hand.
"Oh, God," Roger says, pushing Rafa's hair from his face. "You look-- so incredible."
Rafa opens his mouth, but only small incoherent gasps emerge. He arches, every muscle taut, and comes in warm wet stripes across Roger's stomach. He lowers himself down onto Roger and lies still, breathing hard, his hip pressing against Roger's erection.
"That's sticky," Roger murmurs.
"Yeah," Rafa says, sounding really pleased, and he raises himself on his elbows and beams down.
They kiss, again, until Rafa pulls back and kneels up, kissing down along Roger's chest, fingers trailing through the sticky mess there until he's at Roger's waist.
"No, don't," Roger says, horribly self conscious of the unsightly pudge of his stomach. Rafa still has abs like warm smooth rock.
Rafa presses his mouth there and kisses. He's grinning, wide and sweet. "Is cute. I like it," he says, and then kisses lower, licking across Roger's hip, the top of his thigh, tracing the crease where it meets his leg, then he's sinking his lips down over the head of Roger's cock.
"Oh," Roger sighs. He stretches, arms above his head where Rafa left them, arching himself off the mattress at the touch of Rafa's mouth, so soft around him, so wet. He looks down, trembling, and sees Rafa has taken more than half of his length into his mouth.
"Rafa," he says. "Oh, Rafa." He reaches down to touch his hair. He needs to put his hand on Rafa's cheek, to feel the hollow and the dip, the way he's sucking, the flex of muscle as he dips his head up and down. They're both moaning, together.
They lie close together afterwards. Roger is almost asleep, turned on his side to face Rafa. Rafa snuggles closer, stroking one hand down over Roger's waist and hip.
"Hey, you know, I never sleep with anyone since Miguel," Rafa says.
"Miguel was your guy?"
"Yeah."
"Same here." Roger pokes Rafa in the side with his finger. "Mirka, in my case. You know what I mean."
Of all the things he didn't expect to be doing this fortnight in London, being in bed with Rafa was one of them. He wonders if something shows on his face because Rafa frowns.
"You okay?" Rafa asks. His thumb is tracing patterns on Roger's hip. Their feet are tangled together.
"Yeah. I'm good." He doesn't have any right to be, but he is.
***
Roger wakes up in the early dawn, when the light is still soft gold and pink. The only sound outside is birdsong. Rafa rolls out of bed and pads away, and Roger hears the sound of him pissing, and then the flush of the toilet. He comes back and gets into bed, lying close.
It's so strange, like looking at an optical illusion where he can see two things at the same time; the Rafael Nadal he played tennis with for ten years and the man he had sex with last night. The man.
"I need to sleep more," Roger says. "Do you mind?"
Rafa stretches and yawns and reaches with one hand to rub down Roger's stomach, fingers scratching through the hair there. "No, you sleep."
When he wakes up again it's 11am and he can hear Rafa talking somewhere in the house. It sounds like he's on the phone. He's loud and intense.
Roger finds towels in the bathroom, and has a shower. He finds a spare toothbrush and cleans his teeth, and thinks about Rafa coming on his stomach. He should probably leave soon. When he comes out Rafa is sitting on the edge of the bed, apparently waiting for him. He sucks on his lower lip and smiles when he sees Roger.
"I did not dream it after all," he says.
Roger clutches his towel. "No. Here I am."
Rafa stands and comes over.
"You look good," he says, softly, running fingers over Roger's bare shoulder. He puts his hands on the towel and tugs it away, and kisses Roger. He strokes his sides, and Roger puts his arms around Rafa's shoulders and kisses him back.
"Come back to bed," Rafa says. "I cancelled my lunch date."
"You cancelled it?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Is that a good idea?"
Rafa gives him a look like Roger might be a bit dim. "Yeah, it is okay. I can cancel what I want."
It's been decades since that single lonely instance of gay sex. Now, he has his palm on the hard curve of Rafa's ass. Sweat is prickling his skin and lust coils in his midriff.
"I want you," he stutters.
Rafa has nothing on under his jeans, just bare skin. Roger doesn't make it onto the bed, instead he gets on his knees while Rafa sits on the edge and stares down, breathing hard.
He strokes Rafa's thighs, pushing them wide with his palms, following the lines of muscle inwards with his fingers and his mouth, licking across salty skin to his balls, then up to his cock. Above him, Rafa gathers up soft handfuls of hair and he makes no sound as Roger sucks him, only short stuttery breaths.
Roger doesn't even dare touch himself in case he comes like this and gets it on the carpet.
Afterwards, Rafa drags him up close and stares at him. "You really think Zayed is gonna win this?"
It doesn't even seem weird that Rafa wants to talk about tennis at this moment. "Sure," he says. "Probably. But who knows, he might have a disaster."
"Oh, yeah." Rafa strokes Roger's jaw. "Disasters happen. Mousa, he's having a problem. I don't think he want this enough to win. Like, he might be scared of beating Fantin."
"I don't know him well enough to be able to tell."
"You should meet him, at my school."
"I don't know. Let's wait and see if he wins first."
Rafa nods. "Sure," he says, quietly.
"Why would he be afraid?" Roger asks. He's still hard, and it's pressing on Rafa's thigh. He doesn't feel in a hurry to do anything about it, but he knows he wants to fuck Rafa if Rafa wants that. His stomach flutters just thinking about it.
"Sometimes is hard," Rafa says. "When things change a lot."
Roger pulls Rafa down next to him, under the covers, and kisses him again. Rafa's eyes are beautiful – perfect.
Roger stays until early evening, and they don't get out of bed again till then. He hasn't had so much sex in years, and he has to leave because if he doesn't he's scared he won't be able to get up in the morning for his job.
***
"Did you two go out drinking or something?" Tim Henman says on Monday morning, looking from one to the other. "You both look rough as hell."
They're in the café. It's cooler today. The sky is pearl grey. It might rain, and Tim has been warning them of possible extended hours. Roger puts his shades on and smiles at Tim, and Rafa just gives Tim a look as if to question his brain power.
"Huh? No," Rafa says. "No drinking."
Under the table their feet touch, and Roger gets an electric jolt in the pit of his stomach. He has a flashback to Rafa naked, above him. He can't stop noticing Rafa's arms in his rolled up shirt sleeves. He crosses his legs and clears his throat, and straightens his piles of player stats.
"Let's get on with it, shall we?"
***
It's hard in the little booth, sometimes literally. Tim sits in with them this week. Roger wonders where all his mental focus went in the last few years. He can't stop his mind drifting right back to the weekend. It's left him wide-eyed with possibility, like he's a teenager again, and there are some moments when Rafa looks at him, and Roger's stomach flips with the intensity of it, and he gets hard.
"Stop doing that," he says.
Rafa just shrugs and smiles. "I not doing nothing, Rog."
They sit through the round of sixteen, then the quarter finals, and then it's the semis. Roger and Rafa begin to finish each other's sentences. Tim gives them odd looks from time to time, when they're arguing about Fantin and Zayed on the sofa on the roof garden.
They both go through to the final, of course. Roger expected nothing else.
Roger calls his friends in London and catches up with them. It seems important. He calls Myla and Charlene, and denies them plastic surgery yet again. Then he calls Mirka.
"Why are you calling? Is everything all right?" she asks.
"I'm fine."
"How's Wimbledon? You look good on camera."
"Thanks. It's fun. I'm having a nice time."
"Rafa looks good too. How is he?"
"Fine."
"You're getting along very well. I liked the little film they made of your special moments."
He can just tell from her voice that she's winding him up. She suspects something, he's sure. She has a forensic eye for detail in this kind of thing. Sharp as a knife, twice as cutting, but she loved him and supported him for a long time. He'll always love her. He owes it to her to tell her.
"How's the business, Mirka?"
"Good. We're going to open a new shop in Paris in the Spring."
"That's great." He pleased for her. He wants her to have success in this. "Listen, something happened."
"What?"
"No, nothing bad. You remember I told you about that time I went to Sicily when I was eighteen, and there was this guy, and we… you know. You remember? "
"Of course I remember," she says, softly.
"Mirka, something happened with Rafa and me."
"Uh huh. I see." She pauses, and he can hear something in her voice. She's probably clenching a fist in the air from being proved right. "That's not entirely unpredictable."
"It's not?"
"No."
"What do you mean?" Although he thinks he knows what she means. She was there in real life to see all those moments they'd put in the film.
"There was always something about the way he looked at you. It was always a bit much, to be honest."
"Was it? I didn't know."
"I know you didn't."
"Rafa invited me to Mallorca. To his academy."
"That's great," Mirka says. "Rogi. It is. I'm glad."
"You're okay?"
"I'm okay." She sighs though, like she's tired. "Are you going to talk to Myla and Charlene about it?"
"Um, maybe not right away. But, yeah, I'll come over when I'm back home. Monday or Tuesday."
"Good. So," she says, "Is Zayed going to beat Fantin this time?"
***
Luis Fantin's coach comes up to Roger in the player's lounge, while Roger is deep in a conversation about the structure of next year's tour.
"Juan?" he says, looking up. "How's your man doing?"
"He's good. He was, ahh, wondering if you'd like to hit with him."
"Uh, sure."
They haven't spoken since last year, when Roger decided that Luis was uncoachable, at least by Roger.
Luis Fantin has deep brown eyes, like Rafa, and his white tennis clothes sit perfectly on his tall, elegant frame. He squeezes Roger's hand very tightly, and says in his husky voice that it's an honour, that Roger is so kind, and that it's so good to see him again. Then he runs Roger around the court for forty five minutes, so that Roger is gasping for breath and feeling like he might want to lie down and faint. His shoulder screams from the heavy groundstrokes Fantin whacks at him, over and over.
Mousa Zayed is over on the next court, watching them. Rafa is there too, and he waves. Roger waves back, and they grin at each other while fans snap them with their cameras.
***
"Hello, everyone. It's the last Sunday, and we're in for what looks to be a memorable final. Maybe even as memorable as the one you both played in '08. Roger, Rafa, can you give us some insights into the rivalry that's developing between these two? How are they going to feel, walking out there?"
"You never forget the feeling. I can still remember everything. That match we played— you want to do your very best in the big moments."
"You wanna play your heart out, that's all, to the one that matters most."
***
Luis Fantin's game breaks down in the fifth set. Watching him struggle, his face almost grey with exhaustion, brings memories surging back. Roger's entire body is tensed, leaning forward in his chair, staring at the two players dressed in white as they dart about on the lush green grass.
There's not much talking in the booth; there doesn't need to be. Rafa's elbow is digging against his. Rafa is gripping the edge of the desk with his fingertips, and every few shots he makes an involuntary movement and a sound, like he wants to jump up and start waving his arms about. Below the desk, his foot is pressing tight to Roger's. Roger wonders if Rafa's even aware he's doing it, he's so lost in the moment.
There's the point when it ends. Zayed wins with a beautiful forehand that skims the line, a ball that Fantin is never going to reach, not in a million years, never mind how fast he runs. It's gone, and the match is over, and the crowd loses its collective mind. It's almost dark. The fifth set has gone to 9-7. Roger lets out a shaky breath. This could be 17 years ago.
He becomes aware that Tim is speaking, recapping the moment for the viewers.
"That could be us," Rafa says. "Is like a time warp, no?" he says, exactly matching Roger's thoughts. "A fantastic match."
"Mr Federer," a runner is saying, tapping him on the shoulder. "It's time. They're making the presentation in ten minutes." Roger takes his earpiece and microphone off and smoothes down his hair.
"I've got to go down there," he says, and he touches Rafa's shoulder. Tim's looking from one to the other, frowning.
"I gonna come with you," Rafa says. "We both can present it."
And he does, and the crowd goes wild.
***
They have no time alone until much later, after the Champions Dinner, where they are seated at the head table as special guests of honour. Roger has to give a speech, and when he glances at Rafa, sprawled in his chair with his chin on one fist, just gazing at him, his mouth dries up and he has to drink some water before he can go on. Mousa Zayed is gracious and charming, and clearly wants an early night.
Now, past midnight, they sit in Rafa's rented Kia outside Rafa's rented house. The engine ticks as it cools.
"I lost my bet, no?" Rafa says, with a wry smile. He's fidgeting at the steering wheel cover with his fingers. He's never still. Roger puts his hand over Rafa's.
"Yeah, but I'll still come. What? You think I'd pass up a free holiday in Mallorca?"
Rafa snorts, his smile brilliant. He moves across the seat until he's close enough to boldy put his arm across Roger's shoulders, like he has every right to, like Roger won't mind. "It's not gonna be free. You gonna have to work."
"I can work," Roger says, just before Rafa kisses him. He's gentle and slow, and it's like Roger is waking up after a long time asleep. Rafa strokes his hair, and Roger moves closer until they're pressed together, with his arm awkwardly wedged round Rafa's neck.
"You wanna come in?" Rafa says, slowly, drawing back. "Or-- I can drive you to the hotel."
"I have this meeting in Zurich tomorrow," Roger says, short of breath and with jeans that are too tight. "I'm flying out at 11am. It's all booked. I'm sorry."
Rafa shrugs, then he shakes his head and draws in a deep breath. He puts his hand on Roger's thigh. They both stare down at it.
"Stay here, tonight?" Rafa says. It's not often he sounds tentative, but he does now. "Leave early, I can drive you in the morning, no?"
"I don't know… I-- This is all new to me," Roger says. Some part of him still thinks he should be sensible. It's the same part that's afraid of all this.
"Yeah." Rafa squeezes his thigh. "Hey, you think Tim guesses we're fucking?" he says, and Roger bursts out laughing.
"If he's as dense as me, no."
Rafa smiles, sweet and amused, and winds a curl of Roger's hair round his forefinger. Rafa's eyes are bright with possibilities, ones that Roger has never bothered to see until now.
He unlocks his seat belt and gets out of the car, and waits for Rafa to catch up as he walks along the path to the door.
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