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bronze_ribbonsTitle: The Second One Is Love (part 1 of 2)
Author:bronze_ribbons
Fandom: Tennis RPF
Primary characters: Roger, Rafa, Mirka
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~10,600 total
Disclaimer: No malice intended, no profit expected, and this fic be fictional -- although the gigglefit that starts it all really happened.
Notes: Written for the LJ fedal_slash comm's winter ficathon, and originally posted there January 29 and March 26. The prompt was "seven days in the life of Rafa and Roger...could be seven days over the course of a month or even years." Grateful thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
maribella008 for providing multiple, detailed beta readings and massive heaps of encouragement, as well as alerting me to the presence of a custom handcuff-crafter in Barcelona. The blame for clunkers and darlings remaining in the mix is mine alone.
Friday, November 20, 2009
When CNN Backstory airs the outtakes of his gigglefits during his session with Pedro Pinto, Roger is away from the television, reading aloud to Myla from a German car magazine. Later in the evening, when he gets around to viewing the footage, he dissolves into laughter all over again, especially when the anchor declares, "I found that you CAN crack the calm and collected Federer. All it takes it a little bit of humor and a little bit of Spanish as well." When he finally calms down, two glasses of water later, Mirka is smirking at him, waiting to hand him a BlackBerry.
It's the one dedicated to his Players' Council activities, acting as his in-box for texts and voicemails from his colleagues around the world. It ensures that their messages don't get lost within the haystack of fanmail and business offers his staff sifts through daily, and it allows him to claim that every ATP player -- any region, any ranking -- has direct access to him. He doesn't carry it with him or check it every single day -- it's not the phone that buzzes when it's Mirka, his parents, or Rafa trying to reach him -- but it is the number known to all the members of the Tour.
Including the members of the Spanish Armada. Roger accepts the BlackBerry with a cheerful grimace, bracing himself. Before long, he's howling into the sofa cushions: Lopez, Robredo, Ferrero, Moya, Ferrer -- they've each video-recorded themselves seductively undoing the top buttons of their polo shirts and murmuring sweet nothings in Spanish, and Roger understands just enough Spanish to make out what they're saying: Oh, Roger, you adorable beast, I'm going to crush you the next time we're on court. Roger, darling, just you wait until the next time we share a locker room. I'm gonna talk to you until you can't stand up. Rogelllllllio, you cruel, cruel man, what does Pedrito have that I don't have? and so on, except for Montanes, who for reasons known only to himself chooses to recite the roster of the Ocean Racing Technology team. It still sounds ridiculously sexy, as well as sexily ridiculous, and Myla is gurgling happily, the way she does whenever she somehow senses that someone's talking about cars, which renders Roger even more helpless with both adoration and mirth.
There are also messages with Spanish subject headers from Roddick and Djokovic. Once he regains his powers of speech, Roger points them out to Mirka, saying, "I think we better save those until after the girls are asleep, just in case." Mirka nods emphatically.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The morning brings more video spam from his peers. Marat doesn't even bother wearing a shirt, but simply mimes undoing a set of buttons while informing Roger of an exceptional custom handcuff-maker in Barcelona. Roger mutters, "TMI, Safin, TMI!" and moves on to Verdasco's offering -- which isn't a video, but a photo from a fashion magazine featuring Verdasco in a tux, with his tie undone, his shirt half-open, and a pair of handcuffs dangling from his left wrist. Mirka whistles appreciatively. Roger makes a face and forwards the picture to Marat.
In spite of himself, he's checked his private phone twice, and rechecked its settings to make sure he didn't somehow accidentally set it to "silent." There's been nothing from Rafa. Then again, why should there be? Rafa's in town for the same tournament Roger is -- they saw each other yesterday during the ATP photo shoot, and they're due to practice together in a few hours. Granted, Verdasco's also in London because of the Finals, but there's a world of difference between Number 2 and Number 8. No one's going to accuse Verdasco of underachieving if he goes home winless; there won't be rampant speculation about whether his career is already in its twilight.
Nor, come to think of it, is Verdasco spending the bulk of his waking hours with an older relative nearby. Roger tries to imagine Rafa videorecording any kind of pseudo-seductive message to him within potential earshot of Uncle Toni, jokey or not, and the sheer idea is so ludicrous that Roger mentally smacks himself for feeling disappointed in the first place. Of course he hasn't heard from Rafa.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
It's mid-afternoon. In a different wing of the players' posh hotel, Rafa's stretched out on his bed, keyboard in lap, mouth clamped around a new, not-yet-worn sock. He's learned to have one handy whenever he's about to open an e-mail from Mirka Federer: the woman has a wicked, sneaky sense of humor that shows up in, for example, her captions of the photographs she chooses to share with him.
It's been just over a year since she started sending them -- since Rafa's withdrawal from the previous Masters Cup, in fact. Her very first message had started out with, "Not dating, huh?" and Rafa bites down harder on the sock as he remembers the photos she attached to it: Roger on a hotel room bed, snuggling with a stuffed bull wearing a "RAFA" nametag.
There have been follow-up pictures: Roger sitting down to a candlelit dinner with the bull. Roger and the bull watching football together. Charlene trying to chomp on one of the bull's horns -- that time, Mirka's note had read, "Is she showing good taste? Or is she just waiting until she wins her own trophies to snack on?" That time, once he'd recovered, Rafa had picked up the phone and called her: "Mrs. Federer. You bother my stomach tear on purpose, no? For sure I laugh myself sick. I laugh too hard for stomach, your husband keeps Number 1. You are evil mastermind."
"You just now realized that?" Mirka had cheerfully replied. "The babies are a dead giveaway, you know. They are so obviously part of my grand scheme for world domination."
Affecting a solemn tone, Rafa had answered, "For sure I know that. You stop at nothing to make Roger Number One Brand of All Time. I tell Xisca, you good for her research."
"Rafa," Mirka had said, "all kidding aside. If Xisca ever does want my help with something, all she has to do is ask. I promise I won't be too busy for her. Got that?"
Rafa had hesitated, feeling suddenly out of his depth. "Ah. Okay, yes."
"Good," Mirka had said, ending the call with, "Take better care of yourself. Roger misses you."
Roger misses you. No longer laughing, Rafa pulls the sock out of his mouth and stares at his computer screen. He has a "Hi, I love London!" entry that he's agreed to draft and send to the Times, and he'd like to be done with it; he wants to watch the Group A singles later tonight, after reconnecting with his team for dinner; he's itching to give Fernando a hard time about the e-mail he's just read (Buddy, you call that bedroom talk? No wonder Ana dumped you).
More than any of these things, however, he wants to matter to Mirka and Roger as much as they matter to him. He wants to become the kind of friend close enough to be invited to the Federer children's weddings. The e-mails he receives from Mirka give him such hope -- she wouldn't be sending them if she didn't trust him. She wouldn't be staging pictures to make him laugh if she didn't like him. Forwarding him copies of all of the teasing Roger's received because of the Pedro Pinto interview -- that's something a sister would do, just for the satisfaction of teasing him, and the note Mirka sent with the zip file is exactly the kind of snark he would expect to get from an evil older sister:
Rereading the note for the sixteenth time since he received it, Rafa sighs. An evil older sister…who's married to the man he can't help wanting. On his more cynical days -- and lately, there have been more of those than before -- he figures he's been receiving the Mirka edition of Roger's famous "soft power." The get-well notes to Mario, James, and Sam; the words of encouragement to Ana and Sveta; the sweater to Serena, the shirt to Paul-Henri: over the years, Rafa's heard countless stories of Roger's acts of casual yet perfectly calibrated generosity -- many of those stories never reaching the ears of the media.
Rafa's aware of several cases that aren't even general knowledge among the other players, thanks to Mirka choosing to loop him in. Sometimes it's to nudge him into performing the kindness himself (always something he's happy to handle, once the suggestion's made), and sometimes he recognizes it as a strategic response to the chemistry simmering underneath his interactions with Roger: by deliberately cultivating a sibling-like dynamic between them -- by developing their own history of in-jokes and insights and off-the-radar collaborations -- Mirka's effectively maneuvered Rafa into the role of a kid brother, and a good kid brother wouldn't even dream of going to bed with his sister's husband.
Even so, Rafa can't help what he wants. On his less cynical days, though -- the days he feels more like himself -- he views Mirka's friendship as a gift. What's between them is more than he's had any right to expect -- just like the career he's enjoyed so far. He's well aware that his 2009 would have been a dream year for any tennis player other than himself or Roger. He won a Slam. He won four Masters titles. He won the decider in first round Davis Cup. He stayed ranked in the Top 3 all year long, and he's in the World Finals. Thousands of players train as hard as he does and never come anywhere near such trophies, let alone within a single year. Look at Julien, just a couple weeks ago, sobbing in joy upon beating Roger once. Look at Roddick, sinking to his knees in a Wimbledon stairwell. Look at the other six men in London, none of their records close to what he and Roger have accomplished so far.
And look at the archive of messages from Mirka Federer. I have so much. It doesn't feel like it right now, but look at what I have. Rafa sits up, determined to stop feeling sorry for himself. His friends are great, his job is great, and he's in one of his favorite cities. He opens the file for his Times blog entry, determined to sound as cheerful as he ought to be feeling. He types, I am really happy to be back here in London…
Monday, November 23, 2009
It's the middle of the evening, and Roger's standing at a window in his hotel suite, gazing out at the Thames. Since his arrival in London, every dream he's woken up from has featured the presence of water -- not surprising at all, considering that the hotel's right by the river, the stadium's on a peninsula, and the players are being ferried back and forth via motorboats. Nor is it surprising that every dream has included Rafael Nadal: what with the long photo shoot Friday, the practice session on Saturday, and riding together to the arena yesterday and today, he's seen more of Rafa over the past four days than he has in the past four months.
The problem is, the dreams are frightening him: in each one, Rafa ends up drowning. In each one, Roger fails to reach him in time. On one level, it makes no sense: Rafa's the one into boating and fishing and jet-skiing; his humble persona notwithstanding, Rafa's also stubborn as a camel and wily as a shark. If Roger had to bet on anyone surviving trouble on the water, it would be Rafa, and he's hardly the first person Rafa would turn to for help, at sea or on land.
But the dreams are so real and so horrible that Roger has been waking up in tears, and that's been waking up Mirka as well -- and that's not acceptable, considering how the twins already interrupt her sleep at least half a dozen times a night. He can't let his nightmares interfere with their lives like that, and on a deeper level, Roger knows exactly what they're about: Rafa is floundering, and Roger can't help feeling that the lifeline's in his hands. More important, and more damning, Roger knows that he wants to feel that way: he would love to matter that much to Rafa.
Roger stares out at the lights on the river: the sharp white contours of the Eye, the warm yellow glow bathing ancient bricks, the glittering Christmas-tree strands bedecking a nearby bridge. A half-hour earlier, he'd watched Rafa lose to Soderling, the electric blue of the arena bright on the high-definition television screen. Regardless of what Roger wants, he isn't at all certain he's what Rafa needs. If he tries to become anything more than just a friend, he's going to complicate Rafa's life. Possibly to an unforgivable degree.
Mirka's on the sofa, with Charlene on her lap. Myla's on the floor, her arms around a stuffed Volkswagen Beetle.
Roger says aloud to Mirka, "I don't want to screw him up. I don't want to screw us up."
Mirka matter-of-factly replies, "You know I won't let you screw us up. As for Rafa, whatever you do, you're not going to make his playing any worse. I still can't believe he didn't challenge that call."
"Yeah, I don't understand what happened there."
"What's to understand? He's fried and he doesn't trust his own judgment anymore. That wasn't the only point he failed to follow through on."
"But is it really my job to fix that? Shouldn't I, you know, leave that to Toni and the rest of his team?"
Charlene tugs on Mirka's sleeve. Mirka obliges by holding up a palm, which Charlene happily pushes her wee fist against. "I'm not looking out for Rafa, dear. If you don't do something about the nightmares, you're going to end up sleeping on this couch, and that won't be good for your back."
Roger walks over to the couch and pretends to inspect its construction. Mirka chuckles, Charlene gurgles, and Myla sleepily tightens her arms around her Beetle. "It's not a bad couch," Roger declares, seating himself on the floor next to Myla. "But yeah, sleeping on it, not so good for the tennis."
"The nightmares, not so good for the tennis," Mirka reminds him. She adds, gently, "Rafa playing like an oven mitt, not good for your tennis either."
"True," Roger says. He lifts Myla and her Beetle onto his own lap. As she resettles herself against his stomach, a contented grunt escapes from her, and the noise makes Roger grin like a fool.
"So wonderful," he says to Mirka. "She's so expressive. Even though she can't even speak a word of German yet."
"Takes after her father," Mirka says, deadpan. "You're cute when you're incoherent."
As if to prove her point, the only response Roger can manage is a splutter of laughter.
"Might be true of her Uncle Rafa, too," Mirka continues. Roger's grin disappears.
After a moment, he looks down at his feet. "People do seem to trust me..."
"We've both proved that we know how to keep secrets," Mirka points out. "And you understand Rafa-speak better than anyone else on the Tour."
"I wouldn't say that. Even Murray speaks better Spanish --"
"Roger. Stubborn is okay, stupid is not. Do I need to start calling you 'Drop-shot' again?"
"No, no, anything but that!" Roger holds his hands up in surrender. Mirka immediately scoops up a phone from the end-table next to her and slaps it into one of Roger's palms.
Roger's fingers automatically close around the phone before he realizes what's happened. When he registers that Mirka had been waiting all along for the right moment to hand it to him, he shoots a wry smile at her before turning his attention to the touchpad.
"There," he says, showing Mirka the screen. "A good start?"
She nods. "It'll do."
Roger punches the "send" key. After placing the phone out of Myla's reach, he leans back so that his cheek is resting against Mirka's knee.
"You really are the best wife ever," he murmurs against her skirt.
"I know," she serenely answers, stroking his hair. "As long as you never forget that, we're going to be fine."
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
It's a cloudy, chilly morning in London. Even inside, wholly dry and warm, Rafa feels an almost uncontrollable urge to shiver, and vicious irritation with himself for not being able to shake the sensation. Feeling affected by the cold -- it's as pointless as being afraid of the ocean, or the media, or sickness and death. Over-anticipating loss or discomfort is no way to live, and it doesn't win tennis matches, either.
It's all the more ridiculous considering he's in the middle of having breakfast with Roger Federer, in Roger's luxurious hotel room in a beautiful city overlooking a magnificent river. The food Rafa ordered for himself has been prepared perfectly, he's wearing a favorite t-shirt and an ancient pair of jeans, and Roger has been chatting with him about football, golf, cars, and motorcycles -- all topics dear to Rafa's heart, and Roger's adept enough at following his Spanglish that he doesn't have to exhaust himself trying to make himself understood. It is, in fact, a fantasy made real: if someone were to ask him to describe a perfect day, this would be right up there with all the possible ways to begin such a day.
But something's not right: Roger somehow looks as though he had a rough night, even though every hair is in place and his jaw immaculately shaved. He's paying close attention to everything Rafa says, his responses suitably engaged and appropriate, and yet Rafa can't shake the sense that Roger is somehow holding back, waiting for the right moment to drop a bombshell on him.
If Rafa's learned anything this year, it's how bad news can chew you up long before you find out for sure what it is. The hell with that, he thinks.
An instant later, he silently curses how the thought must have flashed across his face, because Roger stops right in the middle of a sentence, and then asks, "Rafa, you okay? Did I just say something wrong?"
When in doubt, serve to the backhand, Rafa reminds himself. "What are you waiting for me to know?" he blurts out.
"How --" Roger cuts himself off again, looking flustered and then rueful. "I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been able to read me better than anyone else on the Tour."
"Your tennis, yes. Your mind, no." It's all Rafa can do not to leap out of his chair and grab hold of Roger. Roger's rarely shy about saying what needs to be said; it's got to be something serious for him to approach the subject sideways instead of head-on. Rafa's stomach plummets as a possibility occurs to him. "Oh, no, no, no. You not about to tell me you retire?"
"No!" Roger utters the syllable as a sort of shocked laugh. "Far too early for me to call it a career, wouldn't you say?"
"I most definitely say." Rafa nods vigorously. "But if not retire, then what you not tell me?" Another horrible scenario makes his stomach flip. "You and Mirka -- everything okay?"
"Couldn't be better," Roger instantly answers. "She and the girls headed out to Covent Garden. She's meeting a friend at the car museum there."
Rafa can't tell if he imagined a hesitation before "a friend." He knows he's not imagining the tangle of relief and guilt he's feeling. Roger's studying him with an odd, tense expression on his face.
"What is it, then?" Rafa demands. "Murray grow balls to hit on you, and you too nice to say no?"
"No!" Another shocked laugh from Roger. "Unless you think 'round of tennis footie?' is Scottish code for 'fancy me naked?'?"
Rafa rolls his eyes. "Nothing code about it. I have no idea how Mirka copes with you."
"Hey!" Roger protests. "I'm amazingly low-maintenance, all things considered."
"Sure you are. Even before babies, you too much work for Mirka, I hear."
Roger flushes. "I did say 'all things considered.' "
"What does that even mean? Is dumb phrase. I could say, 'I'm playing pretty good, all things considered.' "
"Well," Roger begins, "all things considered, you weren't that bad last night." Rafa growls at him and looks around for something to throw.
Roger bats the plushie Beetle right back at him. "Okay, okay. I do see your point."
"Mirka is a saint," Rafa mutters. "I hope I'm as lucky as you someday."
Roger says, sharply, "Things not right between you and Xisca?"
"They're not bad," Rafa says.
" 'Not bad,' " Roger repeats, looking unconvinced. "You mean like, 'Not bad, all things considered' ?"
Rafa slumps back into his chair. "I do mean that."
"Can I ask what 'that' means, or would that be prying?"
Rafa sighs. "It means, things are okay. Xisca and me, we still have fun. Is good when we see each other. Everything is fine, everything is all right." He looks directly at Roger as he adds, "But everything is not enough, you know?"
Roger meets his stare. "For you, or for her?"
Trust Roger not to assume one or the other. "Yes. Is not enough for either of us." He gets up and goes to the window, looking out at the greys of the river and sky. "We talk, a lot, during my parents' breaking up. We ask each other, what about us, ten, twenty, thirty years from now? And we know, then, that we're not in each other's plans. No more than just friends would be." He pinches the hem of one of the curtains, his forefinger trailing along a tiny row of stitches. "Is not so sad. Is good to know this now. Is good to stay friends."
"You've been living with this since spring?" Roger says softly. "You are good with secrets."
Rafa's smile is bitter. "Is not a choice, no? Is not something I want to talk outside. Already always the questions about knees, about weight, about how more longer I can play. Is no their business if Xisca is girlfriend or just friend."
"Isn't mine, either. I'm sorry, Rafa."
"Don't be. I choose to tell you. I know you good with secrets too." Rafa drops the curtain and turns back to Roger, his expression hardening. "Sometimes too good. What is it you not saying to me? You think I can't take what you got?"
"It's not that at all!" Roger runs a hand through his hair, looking more tightly wound than Rafa's ever seen him. More tight than losing badly at Roland Garros, even.
"What the hell is it, then?" Rafa crosses back to Roger's chair, placing a hand on Roger's shoulder. "Fernando handcuffed to your bed and you lose the key?"
"No!" Roger's expression is both appalled and amused. "Do you really think I'd try anything like that without knowing how to pick locks?"
"Always with the preparation. Silly of me to forget. Well, then. Nike come up with stupid project and ask you to talk me into it?"
"I don't think they need my help when it comes to you. You realize those new shorts will make you look like you're wearing a waffle cone?"
"Is just clothes," Rafa says, enjoying Roger's instant recoil as he utters the heresy. "Designer say, with fruit-color shirt, women think me yummy."
"As if they needed any encouragement," Roger mutters.
"Not my fault you wear boring blue and brown."
"I get plenty of offers no matter what I wear, thank you very much."
"For sure," Rafa says, more brittle than he intended for it to sound. Roger's eyes widen.
Trying for the right tone, Rafa asks, "One of your groupies causing trouble? You gonna ask me to be, how do you say, decoy?"
"No! Good God, what kind of a guy do you think I am?"
"Right now, very frustrating one." Rafa bunches his hand into a fist and lightly punches Roger on the shoulder. "Serve it out already, Federer," he orders, noting Roger's odd flinch at hearing "Federer" instead of "Roger." "Over the net and at me: what is wrong with you?"
"It's nothing terrible," Roger mumbles. "Just incredibly stupid." He hauls in a deep breath and finally confesses, "I've been having bad dreams about you."
There's dead silence between them.
Rafa counts to ten as slowly as he can. Then he bursts out with, "That's it? That's all? How is me giving you nightmares any kind of news?"
"It shouldn't be!" Roger whips himself around and up, seizing Rafa by the shirt. "You're not supposed to matter to me this much! You've got plenty of people who love you -- who would go to hell and back for you. It's not my place to do that. It's not my place to want that. And yet, every time I fall asleep, it's you I'm trying to save. Not my wife, not my girls, not my parents or my sister, but you. And every time I fail, and you're gone for good, and there's no forgiveness in the world for that, and it'll be all my fault for wanting you too much."
Reeling, Rafa demands, "What does Mirka say?"
Roger cracks a watery smile. "She said I shouldn't ever assume how you'll react. Something about me getting it wrong 13 times out of 20."
"You married a very smart woman." Rafa grabs Roger's arms, as much to steady himself as to keep Roger from flying to pieces. "What took you so long to get to it?"
Rafa's grip on him notwithstanding, Roger manages a semblance of a shrug. "Not high on the list for either of us. I didn't expect to like it as much as I do." His smile fades as he tightens his hold on Rafa's shirt. "It's never been only me in her life. That wouldn't be good for her or me. There are parts of her life she doesn't share with me, like her friend she's meeting today. He's a good break from me, and yes, I admit it, way less work."
Rafa hoots at this, knowing it's precisely the reaction Roger hoped to draw from him. Roger continues, "It doesn't mean they aren't serious. She would do anything for him if he needed it. Just as she would for me, or the girls. Just as I would for you, and she knows that about me. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Rafa's head is spinning so hard that all of his English has deserted him. His mouth is so dry that he can barely get the words out even in Spanish. He finally manages, in Spanish, "You are saying she is fine with me and you like this?"
Great, Rafa, he thinks. Like that was coherent. But Roger seems to have understood what he meant, because he's leaning in, as if he's going to --
And then Roger lets go of him, bursting into laughter. For a heartstopping moment, Rafa thinks it's at him. Oh, Jesus, least funniest joke ever. Roger, I will end you for this.
But then he realizes that it's just Roger being the biggest dork ever. Probably dissolved into giggles when Mirka said yes. Rafa eases forward so that his lips brush against Roger's left ear. "Idiot," he whispers in Spanish. "Moron. Dolt. Dunce. Knucklehead." He calls Roger all the names he can think of in Spanish, and adds a few more he's learned from their French and Serbian colleagues. Roger giggles helplessly and apologetically through it all, squeaking out an "Ow!" at one of the nastier epithets but otherwise wholly incapable of speech. He continues to shake with laughter as Rafa steers him back into his chair and hands him a napkin to mop up the tears streaming down his face. Roger waves a hand in thanks, tries to calm down, and then doubles over anew when Rafa can't resist saying just one more thing in Spanish, starting with "You gonna be okay?" and "Should've brought my camera" and going on to "How in the hell did you beat me in Madrid?"
Roger reacts to the last with a sort of outraged yet happy squawk, and Rafa finally takes pity on him, shutting up and waiting out the last of Roger's convulsions of mirth.
"Sorry," Roger eventually manages. "A bit nervous."
"I think so, yes," Rafa replies, in English. "And also not sleeping good."
"Yeah, that."
Rafa glances at the clock, as does Roger. Rafa grimaces. "I think there is no time."
"No, there isn't," Roger confirms, reluctance writ all over his face. "I've got meetings and PR stuff and practice. And so do you." Roger leans forward and lightly pinches Rafa's cheek. "You're cute when you pout."
"Am not pouting."
"Are too."
"Am not. Am annoyed. Is different."
"Such a hardship, being a star," Roger theatrically intones, and Rafa laughs in spite of himself. What he wouldn't give to ignore the world for another hour: he feels like he's raced through the emotional wattage of a Grand Slam final since sitting down to breakfast. It's exhausting to feel this much, this deep, this fast -- and also exhilarating.
"No time," he says, trying to convince himself to leave.
"No." Roger gets to his feet and pulls Rafa up. "But later, we'll have time." Roger places his fingers against Rafa's mouth. "I don't even dare kiss you yet. I'm not sure I'd be able to stop."
"For sure, I couldn't," Rafa breathlessly agrees. He catches Roger's hand and presses a swift kiss against its knuckles. "Later, tonight?"
Roger nods. "I'll text you after my match, okay?"
Rafa squeezes Roger's hand, lets go of it, and leaves the suite before temptation gets the better of him. As the door clicks shut behind him, Rafa stands stock still, letting himself revel for just a moment in the way his lips and hands are tingling.
"WHOO!" he roars, pumping his fist. A low, incredulous, joyous laugh answers him from the other side of the door.
As he hurries to the exit by the stairs, Rafa thinks, Stupid, Rafa, stupid. What if someone else heard that?
It's a hotel, the rational part of his brain counters. Stray noises happen. No one's going to think anything of an odd, random shout.
Rafa shakes his head at himself as he runs down the stairs to the mezzanine. He can't afford to lose what's left of his calm -- at least not until the next time he gets to speak Spanish to Roger. By the time he slides into the chair across from his agent, he's wearing his polite celebrity face, ready to do business with the world.
Part 2
Author:
bronze_ribbonsFandom: Tennis RPF
Primary characters: Roger, Rafa, Mirka
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~10,600 total
Disclaimer: No malice intended, no profit expected, and this fic be fictional -- although the gigglefit that starts it all really happened.
Notes: Written for the LJ fedal_slash comm's winter ficathon, and originally posted there January 29 and March 26. The prompt was "seven days in the life of Rafa and Roger...could be seven days over the course of a month or even years." Grateful thanks to
maribella008 for providing multiple, detailed beta readings and massive heaps of encouragement, as well as alerting me to the presence of a custom handcuff-crafter in Barcelona. The blame for clunkers and darlings remaining in the mix is mine alone.A man has two reasons for things that he does
The first one is pride and the second one is love- Hüsker Dü
Friday, November 20, 2009
When CNN Backstory airs the outtakes of his gigglefits during his session with Pedro Pinto, Roger is away from the television, reading aloud to Myla from a German car magazine. Later in the evening, when he gets around to viewing the footage, he dissolves into laughter all over again, especially when the anchor declares, "I found that you CAN crack the calm and collected Federer. All it takes it a little bit of humor and a little bit of Spanish as well." When he finally calms down, two glasses of water later, Mirka is smirking at him, waiting to hand him a BlackBerry.
It's the one dedicated to his Players' Council activities, acting as his in-box for texts and voicemails from his colleagues around the world. It ensures that their messages don't get lost within the haystack of fanmail and business offers his staff sifts through daily, and it allows him to claim that every ATP player -- any region, any ranking -- has direct access to him. He doesn't carry it with him or check it every single day -- it's not the phone that buzzes when it's Mirka, his parents, or Rafa trying to reach him -- but it is the number known to all the members of the Tour.
Including the members of the Spanish Armada. Roger accepts the BlackBerry with a cheerful grimace, bracing himself. Before long, he's howling into the sofa cushions: Lopez, Robredo, Ferrero, Moya, Ferrer -- they've each video-recorded themselves seductively undoing the top buttons of their polo shirts and murmuring sweet nothings in Spanish, and Roger understands just enough Spanish to make out what they're saying: Oh, Roger, you adorable beast, I'm going to crush you the next time we're on court. Roger, darling, just you wait until the next time we share a locker room. I'm gonna talk to you until you can't stand up. Rogelllllllio, you cruel, cruel man, what does Pedrito have that I don't have? and so on, except for Montanes, who for reasons known only to himself chooses to recite the roster of the Ocean Racing Technology team. It still sounds ridiculously sexy, as well as sexily ridiculous, and Myla is gurgling happily, the way she does whenever she somehow senses that someone's talking about cars, which renders Roger even more helpless with both adoration and mirth.
There are also messages with Spanish subject headers from Roddick and Djokovic. Once he regains his powers of speech, Roger points them out to Mirka, saying, "I think we better save those until after the girls are asleep, just in case." Mirka nods emphatically.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The morning brings more video spam from his peers. Marat doesn't even bother wearing a shirt, but simply mimes undoing a set of buttons while informing Roger of an exceptional custom handcuff-maker in Barcelona. Roger mutters, "TMI, Safin, TMI!" and moves on to Verdasco's offering -- which isn't a video, but a photo from a fashion magazine featuring Verdasco in a tux, with his tie undone, his shirt half-open, and a pair of handcuffs dangling from his left wrist. Mirka whistles appreciatively. Roger makes a face and forwards the picture to Marat.
In spite of himself, he's checked his private phone twice, and rechecked its settings to make sure he didn't somehow accidentally set it to "silent." There's been nothing from Rafa. Then again, why should there be? Rafa's in town for the same tournament Roger is -- they saw each other yesterday during the ATP photo shoot, and they're due to practice together in a few hours. Granted, Verdasco's also in London because of the Finals, but there's a world of difference between Number 2 and Number 8. No one's going to accuse Verdasco of underachieving if he goes home winless; there won't be rampant speculation about whether his career is already in its twilight.
Nor, come to think of it, is Verdasco spending the bulk of his waking hours with an older relative nearby. Roger tries to imagine Rafa videorecording any kind of pseudo-seductive message to him within potential earshot of Uncle Toni, jokey or not, and the sheer idea is so ludicrous that Roger mentally smacks himself for feeling disappointed in the first place. Of course he hasn't heard from Rafa.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
It's mid-afternoon. In a different wing of the players' posh hotel, Rafa's stretched out on his bed, keyboard in lap, mouth clamped around a new, not-yet-worn sock. He's learned to have one handy whenever he's about to open an e-mail from Mirka Federer: the woman has a wicked, sneaky sense of humor that shows up in, for example, her captions of the photographs she chooses to share with him.
It's been just over a year since she started sending them -- since Rafa's withdrawal from the previous Masters Cup, in fact. Her very first message had started out with, "Not dating, huh?" and Rafa bites down harder on the sock as he remembers the photos she attached to it: Roger on a hotel room bed, snuggling with a stuffed bull wearing a "RAFA" nametag.
There have been follow-up pictures: Roger sitting down to a candlelit dinner with the bull. Roger and the bull watching football together. Charlene trying to chomp on one of the bull's horns -- that time, Mirka's note had read, "Is she showing good taste? Or is she just waiting until she wins her own trophies to snack on?" That time, once he'd recovered, Rafa had picked up the phone and called her: "Mrs. Federer. You bother my stomach tear on purpose, no? For sure I laugh myself sick. I laugh too hard for stomach, your husband keeps Number 1. You are evil mastermind."
"You just now realized that?" Mirka had cheerfully replied. "The babies are a dead giveaway, you know. They are so obviously part of my grand scheme for world domination."
Affecting a solemn tone, Rafa had answered, "For sure I know that. You stop at nothing to make Roger Number One Brand of All Time. I tell Xisca, you good for her research."
"Rafa," Mirka had said, "all kidding aside. If Xisca ever does want my help with something, all she has to do is ask. I promise I won't be too busy for her. Got that?"
Rafa had hesitated, feeling suddenly out of his depth. "Ah. Okay, yes."
"Good," Mirka had said, ending the call with, "Take better care of yourself. Roger misses you."
Roger misses you. No longer laughing, Rafa pulls the sock out of his mouth and stares at his computer screen. He has a "Hi, I love London!" entry that he's agreed to draft and send to the Times, and he'd like to be done with it; he wants to watch the Group A singles later tonight, after reconnecting with his team for dinner; he's itching to give Fernando a hard time about the e-mail he's just read (Buddy, you call that bedroom talk? No wonder Ana dumped you).
More than any of these things, however, he wants to matter to Mirka and Roger as much as they matter to him. He wants to become the kind of friend close enough to be invited to the Federer children's weddings. The e-mails he receives from Mirka give him such hope -- she wouldn't be sending them if she didn't trust him. She wouldn't be staging pictures to make him laugh if she didn't like him. Forwarding him copies of all of the teasing Roger's received because of the Pedro Pinto interview -- that's something a sister would do, just for the satisfaction of teasing him, and the note Mirka sent with the zip file is exactly the kind of snark he would expect to get from an evil older sister:
If all it takes is "a little bit of Spanish," why does it take you over four hours to beat him?
Rereading the note for the sixteenth time since he received it, Rafa sighs. An evil older sister…who's married to the man he can't help wanting. On his more cynical days -- and lately, there have been more of those than before -- he figures he's been receiving the Mirka edition of Roger's famous "soft power." The get-well notes to Mario, James, and Sam; the words of encouragement to Ana and Sveta; the sweater to Serena, the shirt to Paul-Henri: over the years, Rafa's heard countless stories of Roger's acts of casual yet perfectly calibrated generosity -- many of those stories never reaching the ears of the media.
Rafa's aware of several cases that aren't even general knowledge among the other players, thanks to Mirka choosing to loop him in. Sometimes it's to nudge him into performing the kindness himself (always something he's happy to handle, once the suggestion's made), and sometimes he recognizes it as a strategic response to the chemistry simmering underneath his interactions with Roger: by deliberately cultivating a sibling-like dynamic between them -- by developing their own history of in-jokes and insights and off-the-radar collaborations -- Mirka's effectively maneuvered Rafa into the role of a kid brother, and a good kid brother wouldn't even dream of going to bed with his sister's husband.
Even so, Rafa can't help what he wants. On his less cynical days, though -- the days he feels more like himself -- he views Mirka's friendship as a gift. What's between them is more than he's had any right to expect -- just like the career he's enjoyed so far. He's well aware that his 2009 would have been a dream year for any tennis player other than himself or Roger. He won a Slam. He won four Masters titles. He won the decider in first round Davis Cup. He stayed ranked in the Top 3 all year long, and he's in the World Finals. Thousands of players train as hard as he does and never come anywhere near such trophies, let alone within a single year. Look at Julien, just a couple weeks ago, sobbing in joy upon beating Roger once. Look at Roddick, sinking to his knees in a Wimbledon stairwell. Look at the other six men in London, none of their records close to what he and Roger have accomplished so far.
And look at the archive of messages from Mirka Federer. I have so much. It doesn't feel like it right now, but look at what I have. Rafa sits up, determined to stop feeling sorry for himself. His friends are great, his job is great, and he's in one of his favorite cities. He opens the file for his Times blog entry, determined to sound as cheerful as he ought to be feeling. He types, I am really happy to be back here in London…
Monday, November 23, 2009
It's the middle of the evening, and Roger's standing at a window in his hotel suite, gazing out at the Thames. Since his arrival in London, every dream he's woken up from has featured the presence of water -- not surprising at all, considering that the hotel's right by the river, the stadium's on a peninsula, and the players are being ferried back and forth via motorboats. Nor is it surprising that every dream has included Rafael Nadal: what with the long photo shoot Friday, the practice session on Saturday, and riding together to the arena yesterday and today, he's seen more of Rafa over the past four days than he has in the past four months.
The problem is, the dreams are frightening him: in each one, Rafa ends up drowning. In each one, Roger fails to reach him in time. On one level, it makes no sense: Rafa's the one into boating and fishing and jet-skiing; his humble persona notwithstanding, Rafa's also stubborn as a camel and wily as a shark. If Roger had to bet on anyone surviving trouble on the water, it would be Rafa, and he's hardly the first person Rafa would turn to for help, at sea or on land.
But the dreams are so real and so horrible that Roger has been waking up in tears, and that's been waking up Mirka as well -- and that's not acceptable, considering how the twins already interrupt her sleep at least half a dozen times a night. He can't let his nightmares interfere with their lives like that, and on a deeper level, Roger knows exactly what they're about: Rafa is floundering, and Roger can't help feeling that the lifeline's in his hands. More important, and more damning, Roger knows that he wants to feel that way: he would love to matter that much to Rafa.
Roger stares out at the lights on the river: the sharp white contours of the Eye, the warm yellow glow bathing ancient bricks, the glittering Christmas-tree strands bedecking a nearby bridge. A half-hour earlier, he'd watched Rafa lose to Soderling, the electric blue of the arena bright on the high-definition television screen. Regardless of what Roger wants, he isn't at all certain he's what Rafa needs. If he tries to become anything more than just a friend, he's going to complicate Rafa's life. Possibly to an unforgivable degree.
Mirka's on the sofa, with Charlene on her lap. Myla's on the floor, her arms around a stuffed Volkswagen Beetle.
Roger says aloud to Mirka, "I don't want to screw him up. I don't want to screw us up."
Mirka matter-of-factly replies, "You know I won't let you screw us up. As for Rafa, whatever you do, you're not going to make his playing any worse. I still can't believe he didn't challenge that call."
"Yeah, I don't understand what happened there."
"What's to understand? He's fried and he doesn't trust his own judgment anymore. That wasn't the only point he failed to follow through on."
"But is it really my job to fix that? Shouldn't I, you know, leave that to Toni and the rest of his team?"
Charlene tugs on Mirka's sleeve. Mirka obliges by holding up a palm, which Charlene happily pushes her wee fist against. "I'm not looking out for Rafa, dear. If you don't do something about the nightmares, you're going to end up sleeping on this couch, and that won't be good for your back."
Roger walks over to the couch and pretends to inspect its construction. Mirka chuckles, Charlene gurgles, and Myla sleepily tightens her arms around her Beetle. "It's not a bad couch," Roger declares, seating himself on the floor next to Myla. "But yeah, sleeping on it, not so good for the tennis."
"The nightmares, not so good for the tennis," Mirka reminds him. She adds, gently, "Rafa playing like an oven mitt, not good for your tennis either."
"True," Roger says. He lifts Myla and her Beetle onto his own lap. As she resettles herself against his stomach, a contented grunt escapes from her, and the noise makes Roger grin like a fool.
"So wonderful," he says to Mirka. "She's so expressive. Even though she can't even speak a word of German yet."
"Takes after her father," Mirka says, deadpan. "You're cute when you're incoherent."
As if to prove her point, the only response Roger can manage is a splutter of laughter.
"Might be true of her Uncle Rafa, too," Mirka continues. Roger's grin disappears.
After a moment, he looks down at his feet. "People do seem to trust me..."
"We've both proved that we know how to keep secrets," Mirka points out. "And you understand Rafa-speak better than anyone else on the Tour."
"I wouldn't say that. Even Murray speaks better Spanish --"
"Roger. Stubborn is okay, stupid is not. Do I need to start calling you 'Drop-shot' again?"
"No, no, anything but that!" Roger holds his hands up in surrender. Mirka immediately scoops up a phone from the end-table next to her and slaps it into one of Roger's palms.
Roger's fingers automatically close around the phone before he realizes what's happened. When he registers that Mirka had been waiting all along for the right moment to hand it to him, he shoots a wry smile at her before turning his attention to the touchpad.
Not your best day at the office. Meet for breakfast, my room?
"There," he says, showing Mirka the screen. "A good start?"
She nods. "It'll do."
Roger punches the "send" key. After placing the phone out of Myla's reach, he leans back so that his cheek is resting against Mirka's knee.
"You really are the best wife ever," he murmurs against her skirt.
"I know," she serenely answers, stroking his hair. "As long as you never forget that, we're going to be fine."
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
It's a cloudy, chilly morning in London. Even inside, wholly dry and warm, Rafa feels an almost uncontrollable urge to shiver, and vicious irritation with himself for not being able to shake the sensation. Feeling affected by the cold -- it's as pointless as being afraid of the ocean, or the media, or sickness and death. Over-anticipating loss or discomfort is no way to live, and it doesn't win tennis matches, either.
It's all the more ridiculous considering he's in the middle of having breakfast with Roger Federer, in Roger's luxurious hotel room in a beautiful city overlooking a magnificent river. The food Rafa ordered for himself has been prepared perfectly, he's wearing a favorite t-shirt and an ancient pair of jeans, and Roger has been chatting with him about football, golf, cars, and motorcycles -- all topics dear to Rafa's heart, and Roger's adept enough at following his Spanglish that he doesn't have to exhaust himself trying to make himself understood. It is, in fact, a fantasy made real: if someone were to ask him to describe a perfect day, this would be right up there with all the possible ways to begin such a day.
But something's not right: Roger somehow looks as though he had a rough night, even though every hair is in place and his jaw immaculately shaved. He's paying close attention to everything Rafa says, his responses suitably engaged and appropriate, and yet Rafa can't shake the sense that Roger is somehow holding back, waiting for the right moment to drop a bombshell on him.
If Rafa's learned anything this year, it's how bad news can chew you up long before you find out for sure what it is. The hell with that, he thinks.
An instant later, he silently curses how the thought must have flashed across his face, because Roger stops right in the middle of a sentence, and then asks, "Rafa, you okay? Did I just say something wrong?"
When in doubt, serve to the backhand, Rafa reminds himself. "What are you waiting for me to know?" he blurts out.
"How --" Roger cuts himself off again, looking flustered and then rueful. "I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been able to read me better than anyone else on the Tour."
"Your tennis, yes. Your mind, no." It's all Rafa can do not to leap out of his chair and grab hold of Roger. Roger's rarely shy about saying what needs to be said; it's got to be something serious for him to approach the subject sideways instead of head-on. Rafa's stomach plummets as a possibility occurs to him. "Oh, no, no, no. You not about to tell me you retire?"
"No!" Roger utters the syllable as a sort of shocked laugh. "Far too early for me to call it a career, wouldn't you say?"
"I most definitely say." Rafa nods vigorously. "But if not retire, then what you not tell me?" Another horrible scenario makes his stomach flip. "You and Mirka -- everything okay?"
"Couldn't be better," Roger instantly answers. "She and the girls headed out to Covent Garden. She's meeting a friend at the car museum there."
Rafa can't tell if he imagined a hesitation before "a friend." He knows he's not imagining the tangle of relief and guilt he's feeling. Roger's studying him with an odd, tense expression on his face.
"What is it, then?" Rafa demands. "Murray grow balls to hit on you, and you too nice to say no?"
"No!" Another shocked laugh from Roger. "Unless you think 'round of tennis footie?' is Scottish code for 'fancy me naked?'?"
Rafa rolls his eyes. "Nothing code about it. I have no idea how Mirka copes with you."
"Hey!" Roger protests. "I'm amazingly low-maintenance, all things considered."
"Sure you are. Even before babies, you too much work for Mirka, I hear."
Roger flushes. "I did say 'all things considered.' "
"What does that even mean? Is dumb phrase. I could say, 'I'm playing pretty good, all things considered.' "
"Well," Roger begins, "all things considered, you weren't that bad last night." Rafa growls at him and looks around for something to throw.
Roger bats the plushie Beetle right back at him. "Okay, okay. I do see your point."
"Mirka is a saint," Rafa mutters. "I hope I'm as lucky as you someday."
Roger says, sharply, "Things not right between you and Xisca?"
"They're not bad," Rafa says.
" 'Not bad,' " Roger repeats, looking unconvinced. "You mean like, 'Not bad, all things considered' ?"
Rafa slumps back into his chair. "I do mean that."
"Can I ask what 'that' means, or would that be prying?"
Rafa sighs. "It means, things are okay. Xisca and me, we still have fun. Is good when we see each other. Everything is fine, everything is all right." He looks directly at Roger as he adds, "But everything is not enough, you know?"
Roger meets his stare. "For you, or for her?"
Trust Roger not to assume one or the other. "Yes. Is not enough for either of us." He gets up and goes to the window, looking out at the greys of the river and sky. "We talk, a lot, during my parents' breaking up. We ask each other, what about us, ten, twenty, thirty years from now? And we know, then, that we're not in each other's plans. No more than just friends would be." He pinches the hem of one of the curtains, his forefinger trailing along a tiny row of stitches. "Is not so sad. Is good to know this now. Is good to stay friends."
"You've been living with this since spring?" Roger says softly. "You are good with secrets."
Rafa's smile is bitter. "Is not a choice, no? Is not something I want to talk outside. Already always the questions about knees, about weight, about how more longer I can play. Is no their business if Xisca is girlfriend or just friend."
"Isn't mine, either. I'm sorry, Rafa."
"Don't be. I choose to tell you. I know you good with secrets too." Rafa drops the curtain and turns back to Roger, his expression hardening. "Sometimes too good. What is it you not saying to me? You think I can't take what you got?"
"It's not that at all!" Roger runs a hand through his hair, looking more tightly wound than Rafa's ever seen him. More tight than losing badly at Roland Garros, even.
"What the hell is it, then?" Rafa crosses back to Roger's chair, placing a hand on Roger's shoulder. "Fernando handcuffed to your bed and you lose the key?"
"No!" Roger's expression is both appalled and amused. "Do you really think I'd try anything like that without knowing how to pick locks?"
"Always with the preparation. Silly of me to forget. Well, then. Nike come up with stupid project and ask you to talk me into it?"
"I don't think they need my help when it comes to you. You realize those new shorts will make you look like you're wearing a waffle cone?"
"Is just clothes," Rafa says, enjoying Roger's instant recoil as he utters the heresy. "Designer say, with fruit-color shirt, women think me yummy."
"As if they needed any encouragement," Roger mutters.
"Not my fault you wear boring blue and brown."
"I get plenty of offers no matter what I wear, thank you very much."
"For sure," Rafa says, more brittle than he intended for it to sound. Roger's eyes widen.
Trying for the right tone, Rafa asks, "One of your groupies causing trouble? You gonna ask me to be, how do you say, decoy?"
"No! Good God, what kind of a guy do you think I am?"
"Right now, very frustrating one." Rafa bunches his hand into a fist and lightly punches Roger on the shoulder. "Serve it out already, Federer," he orders, noting Roger's odd flinch at hearing "Federer" instead of "Roger." "Over the net and at me: what is wrong with you?"
"It's nothing terrible," Roger mumbles. "Just incredibly stupid." He hauls in a deep breath and finally confesses, "I've been having bad dreams about you."
There's dead silence between them.
Rafa counts to ten as slowly as he can. Then he bursts out with, "That's it? That's all? How is me giving you nightmares any kind of news?"
"It shouldn't be!" Roger whips himself around and up, seizing Rafa by the shirt. "You're not supposed to matter to me this much! You've got plenty of people who love you -- who would go to hell and back for you. It's not my place to do that. It's not my place to want that. And yet, every time I fall asleep, it's you I'm trying to save. Not my wife, not my girls, not my parents or my sister, but you. And every time I fail, and you're gone for good, and there's no forgiveness in the world for that, and it'll be all my fault for wanting you too much."
Reeling, Rafa demands, "What does Mirka say?"
Roger cracks a watery smile. "She said I shouldn't ever assume how you'll react. Something about me getting it wrong 13 times out of 20."
"You married a very smart woman." Rafa grabs Roger's arms, as much to steady himself as to keep Roger from flying to pieces. "What took you so long to get to it?"
Rafa's grip on him notwithstanding, Roger manages a semblance of a shrug. "Not high on the list for either of us. I didn't expect to like it as much as I do." His smile fades as he tightens his hold on Rafa's shirt. "It's never been only me in her life. That wouldn't be good for her or me. There are parts of her life she doesn't share with me, like her friend she's meeting today. He's a good break from me, and yes, I admit it, way less work."
Rafa hoots at this, knowing it's precisely the reaction Roger hoped to draw from him. Roger continues, "It doesn't mean they aren't serious. She would do anything for him if he needed it. Just as she would for me, or the girls. Just as I would for you, and she knows that about me. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Rafa's head is spinning so hard that all of his English has deserted him. His mouth is so dry that he can barely get the words out even in Spanish. He finally manages, in Spanish, "You are saying she is fine with me and you like this?"
Great, Rafa, he thinks. Like that was coherent. But Roger seems to have understood what he meant, because he's leaning in, as if he's going to --
And then Roger lets go of him, bursting into laughter. For a heartstopping moment, Rafa thinks it's at him. Oh, Jesus, least funniest joke ever. Roger, I will end you for this.
But then he realizes that it's just Roger being the biggest dork ever. Probably dissolved into giggles when Mirka said yes. Rafa eases forward so that his lips brush against Roger's left ear. "Idiot," he whispers in Spanish. "Moron. Dolt. Dunce. Knucklehead." He calls Roger all the names he can think of in Spanish, and adds a few more he's learned from their French and Serbian colleagues. Roger giggles helplessly and apologetically through it all, squeaking out an "Ow!" at one of the nastier epithets but otherwise wholly incapable of speech. He continues to shake with laughter as Rafa steers him back into his chair and hands him a napkin to mop up the tears streaming down his face. Roger waves a hand in thanks, tries to calm down, and then doubles over anew when Rafa can't resist saying just one more thing in Spanish, starting with "You gonna be okay?" and "Should've brought my camera" and going on to "How in the hell did you beat me in Madrid?"
Roger reacts to the last with a sort of outraged yet happy squawk, and Rafa finally takes pity on him, shutting up and waiting out the last of Roger's convulsions of mirth.
"Sorry," Roger eventually manages. "A bit nervous."
"I think so, yes," Rafa replies, in English. "And also not sleeping good."
"Yeah, that."
Rafa glances at the clock, as does Roger. Rafa grimaces. "I think there is no time."
"No, there isn't," Roger confirms, reluctance writ all over his face. "I've got meetings and PR stuff and practice. And so do you." Roger leans forward and lightly pinches Rafa's cheek. "You're cute when you pout."
"Am not pouting."
"Are too."
"Am not. Am annoyed. Is different."
"Such a hardship, being a star," Roger theatrically intones, and Rafa laughs in spite of himself. What he wouldn't give to ignore the world for another hour: he feels like he's raced through the emotional wattage of a Grand Slam final since sitting down to breakfast. It's exhausting to feel this much, this deep, this fast -- and also exhilarating.
"No time," he says, trying to convince himself to leave.
"No." Roger gets to his feet and pulls Rafa up. "But later, we'll have time." Roger places his fingers against Rafa's mouth. "I don't even dare kiss you yet. I'm not sure I'd be able to stop."
"For sure, I couldn't," Rafa breathlessly agrees. He catches Roger's hand and presses a swift kiss against its knuckles. "Later, tonight?"
Roger nods. "I'll text you after my match, okay?"
Rafa squeezes Roger's hand, lets go of it, and leaves the suite before temptation gets the better of him. As the door clicks shut behind him, Rafa stands stock still, letting himself revel for just a moment in the way his lips and hands are tingling.
"WHOO!" he roars, pumping his fist. A low, incredulous, joyous laugh answers him from the other side of the door.
As he hurries to the exit by the stairs, Rafa thinks, Stupid, Rafa, stupid. What if someone else heard that?
It's a hotel, the rational part of his brain counters. Stray noises happen. No one's going to think anything of an odd, random shout.
Rafa shakes his head at himself as he runs down the stairs to the mezzanine. He can't afford to lose what's left of his calm -- at least not until the next time he gets to speak Spanish to Roger. By the time he slides into the chair across from his agent, he's wearing his polite celebrity face, ready to do business with the world.
Part 2