#fritzgauff

“Bro. Why are you here?” Coco laughs, gesturing emphatically as they near one another, passing through a busy hall in the training complex. Taylor brightens as he spots her, and they both move to the side so as not to interrupt the flow of traffic of staff, players, and their teams. 

“What?” A smile creeps onto Taylor’s face as he reaches out to give Coco a side hug as she feigns annoyance at him. She leans into his torso for a moment before they part, his arm snug across her shoulders. She isn’t exactly sure how, but she thinks she forgot how tall Taylor is. 

To be fair, it’s been a while. Or, since January, which is actually quite a long time in tennis terms. They’d passed by one another at Indian Wells and Miami, exchanging small snippets of conversation and pleasantries on occasion. But for the most part both had been rather locked in, keeping their heads down and trying to keep focused among the noise. 

Taylor had sent her a message after her retirement, something short but genuine, giving her get well wishes, extending his sympathies and reminding her she’d be back stronger. 

She’d appreciated it, and the thought makes her chest tighten oddly for a second. They don’t ever really talk about injury. She has no need on her end, and she knows that she’s lucky for that. God, she’s twenty-two, why shouldn’t she be perfectly healthy? But there aren’t guarantees like that, not for everyone, and there certainly hadn’t been for Taylor. 

That said, Indian Wells had rattled her. The sudden pain in her arm was startling, and it had jolted her into facing a reality she wasn’t sure she was prepared for. The narrative around her is always polarized, oscillating between two wildly different ends: Coco Gauff is invincible; Coco Gauff is fragile, messy, and vulnerable. There’s always pressure and the latent compulsion to fit in whatever box the media is writing about her in the moment. Somewhere in that jumble are the beliefs she actually holds about herself. That was true, though, the belief that no matter where her head was at that she was always physically strong. If she didn’t have that… it was a scary thought.

Later, after it’s all over, when she was back on court in Miami, ready to chase after a win again, heart stirring with determination—albeit with altered expectations—she realized how lucky she was. It was temporary, and she’d done the right thing to be cautious over it. Now, her mind strays to how young she is. 

During United Cup, they hadn’t really talked about it. Granted, they’d both had a rather messy week, so it really wasn’t anyone’s fault either way. Sometimes, it was easier not to talk about it. Especially the big things. Instead, they’d talked about random things, Coco sometimes decompressing after her doubles matches, which seemed to equally enthuse him as much as it helped her de-stress. She’d needed that reset button at times, a way to shake off nerves before the next one. 

Sometimes, they wouldn’t talk at all. They’d just sit in silence, letting the big things hang heavily in the air, unspoken but not not uncomfortably so. Until eventually someone would crack—usually her—and she’d lean over to show him a random Tiktok on her phone, or she’d bump her knee against his gently and offer a smile, or say something stupid to make him laugh. 

She thinks Taylor appreciated that. He’d apologized a lot that week, and although for as many times he’d done it she’d wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to, wanting to forcibly stop him from blaming himself for both of their rocky results, she thinks maybe that was he needed. Just to be able to breathe, no expectation to offer anything unless he chose to. 

He’d been open about his struggles in press, not shying away from answering questions about the progress—or lack thereof—of his knee, and the press would prod until they were satisfied. He’d done the same post-match, and while she knows some would have advised he’d conceal some information about his condition, she didn’t think Taylor ever felt the need to, even to his own detriment. But she supposes it got tiring. 

She’d seen his tall figure slip away into secluded hallways where he’d had hushed conversations with his team and possibly multiple physical therapists. She noticed the unsaid preoccupations linger in his features at times, sensed his shoulders falling next to her, his frame slouching forwards, elbows meeting his knees. 

Maybe it was best when he didn’t have to talk about it. When they could just stay in the heft of the silence, saying nothing but both feeling the weight of it, knowing the other didn’t expect them to say anything else if they didn’t want to. Both of them sighing, unhappy with themselves while being ready to offer kindness to the other. 

Because what the hell were they doing? The two of them the number one players in their country, two consistent players known for their inability to quit, their resolve to handle pressure and buckle down when matches got tough. Here they were, losing, scraping by somehow when neither performed at their best. 

It was a weird week. Truthfully, in some ways, the entire season has felt like one long extension of that week, everything steeped in strangeness in some form. She hopes Roland Garros helps to right her course, but it’s probably wrong to wish for lightning to strike in the same place twice. 

Coco folds her hands across her chest, moving to stand across from him again. “Like, I knew you were coming, but I figured maybe you’d pull one of those last minute withdrawals like you always do now.”

“C’mon. Have you met me?” He places a hand at his hip, and the gesture amuses her.

“I have, actually, so I’m not sure why I thought that. You’re not exactly the kind of guy who misses a slam.”

Taylor’s always liked that about Coco. She so easily draws out how he’s feeling, or how he should be feeling, unafraid to assess the truth of any situation. He’s missed that, her bright presence that grounds him in reality just as readily. He smiles again. It’s been a while. 

“What the fuck else am I gonna do?” He quips. “It’s been two months. I don’t think I can handle more.” He shakes his head, biting back the light pull of a smile. 

“I don’t know. Be normal? Take care of yourself?”

“I did.”

“Yeah? How’s that going?” Coco doesn’t extract anything in particular, doesn’t even mention the knee issue by name. Taylor’s got a lot going on, and if they’re keeping with tradition, she’ll let him take the lead on what he wants to tell her and what he doesn’t. 

“Good. I mean, this is the test, yeah? We…” He taps his knee twice with his palm. “… will see. But good, I hope. Congrats on Miami, by the way. And Rome.” 

“I didn’t win, you know.”

“I know that. But I can congratulate you anyway. Two master’s finals is… hard to do.” He exhales long out of his nose, gaze centered momentarily on nothing in particular. 

He shouldn’t be thinking of it, but he does anyway. He’s only ever made the one final. But he won, so he supposes he can’t complain. 

“Be proud of yourself.” Taylor smiles at her, back within himself again. It’s probably the furthest thing from her mind right now, but he thinks if anyone can build from finals like that, it’s Coco. She’d made the matches go three in both finals and fought as best she could. They both get so caught up in the whirlwind of performance that it can be easy to stop feeling any pride whatsoever about making it that far. 

“Is that you now?” Her expression is light, joking, trying to test the waters with him after some time apart. She’s not sure why, but she’s always liked making fun of him, trading jokes and seeing if he’ll come back with any jabs of his own. He usually doesn’t, but he takes the ribbing like a champ, always chuckling, and it makes her laugh, too. “Someone who’s okay with not winning?”

“No, but… it’s hard to get there. You gotta remember that. Not everyone does what you do.”

Coco feels a bit sheepish now, because of course he’s right, and she knows that. But he’s not typically this earnest. Well, that’s sort of a lie. Both she and Taylor are rather earnest, but typically it isn’t this early in a conversation between them. Of course, she knows he’d always go to bat for her, but there’s still something strange and surprising about Taylor Fritz of all people reminding her to believe in herself in this straightforward way. He’s very full of contradictions, Coco thinks. 

Her shoulders pull up to her ears for a moment. “Thanks.” 

There is continued bustling in the hall, and it pauses their conversation for an extended moment as their gazes are drawn elsewhere. “You nervous?” 

He isn’t sure it’s the right question to ask in the moment, but he asks it anyway. 

He’s never been defending champion at a slam. He’d had Indian Wells, and he had finalist points to defend at USO last year; defending them had gone about as well as he expected. But he’d done his best, he has to remind himself, given his draw from hell that culminated in the form of an all-too-familiar Serbian player and a match he does his best not to remember. 

“I mean, of course. I’m trying not to think about it. You?” 

She thinks of how commentators refer to her, cite her having the memory of a goldfish in matches, praising her ability to keep looking forward and putting each prior point behind her. The truth is a lot more… muddy. 

Sometimes when Coco steps out on court, she’s full of clarity. Nothing weighs her down beyond her feet; her mind set with determination and her shoulders squared, ready for anything. She relishes in that. The echoing, peaceful calm that reverberates through her body, feeling as in tune with herself as she is with her racket, soft breezes brushing against her cheek and the feeling of clay in the grooves of her sneakers. 

Sometimes, it’s rough. Her hands too tight around the grip of her racket, forehands that go long, or wide, or both, squeaking out a set in a tiebreak that didn’t need to be a tiebreak. But she’d breathe, get that knotted up feeling in her chest loose enough to knock free and get a win. A tight win, sure, but a win nonetheless. 

Sometimes, she doesn’t know who she is. The pressure feels insurmountable, and she collapses under it. 

Right now, she’s impressionable. She isn’t sure what to expect, but she’s trying to remain optimistic, daring to possibly be hopeful. 

“I dunno. Expectations are pretty low, I have absolutely no points to defend… I’d say it’s a toss-up.”

She bites back a smile, she can’t help it. It’s funny to imagine. “Hey, next season’s clay swing? You never know.”

Taylor doesn’t respond, he just looks at her skeptically, blinking. Me and clay. Yeah, sure.

“You feel rusty?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Don’t ask me that.” 

What even was Geneva? He wasn’t very sure. Whatever. Rust and all that. He’d never be Andre Agassi, and this he knew well. 

Coco puts her hands up in mock defense, raising her eyebrows. 

“So… what is this?” Coco sways slightly, bouncing her weight from one foot to another. “Trial run before grass?”

Taylor chuckles nervously, sputtering out a small laugh. “Don’t get my hopes up.” 

Maybe after the tournament is over he’ll actually inquire about how Coco handles her nerves in a place like this, with all the pressure on her back to find that magic again. It’s crazy impressive, and it’s crazier to think that it’s commonplace for her. 

For now, though, it’s one foot in front of the other. Taylor doesn’t envy her, doesn’t envy her mountain of expectations and his lack thereof. He’s playing with house money here, and he thinks that’s good given what’s on the horizon. Next month they will virtually trade places.

“Whatever.” Coco rolls her eyes and then her face softens. “It’s cool to have you back.”

Taylor twins her expression and nods encouragingly. “Thanks. And you’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”