#jack draper

You were in love with your boss. 

Well, in love might be a stretch. And boss might be a bit of a stretch, too. Sure, Jannik paid you, and you did all your work for him and the team, and he was technically the one in charge of you all, but you’d never really thought about him as your boss before. So, really, you could say you had a crush on your team leader. 

But that didn’t convey the desperation of the situation. 

Of these past six months barrelling into you with the realisation that you loved Jannik Sinner, and the easy flow of your life was currently slipping through your fingers with each day that passed. You were really having to fight these feelings. You enjoyed your job far too much to give it up with a fractured confession you knew would never – could never – be reciprocated. So, you kept quiet, and you followed Jannik to his tournament. Because that was your job, and it was easier to do your job than think about just how pretty he looked when his ginger curls were all messed up from the plane. 

London stretched out through the windows of the private transfer you and the rest of the team crammed into with your luggage, a blurry haze of blue skies, and red buses, and cramped streets. You’d booked the transfer all the way back in May, halfway through Roland-Garros, when the idea of not having a car to drive you from the airport to your Airbnb woke you up in a cold sweat. Thankfully for you, the driver had been waiting with a sign that clearly read TEAM SINNER, and your job was safe for another tournament.

Would Jannik fire you just because you’d forgotten to book a taxi?

You’d hoped not, but he had just fired Marco and Ulises, and you still weren’t sure exactly why, and you were worried he was on a bit of a firing frenzy. Maybe the losses in Rome, Paris, and Halle after those three months at home just made him lose his cool a little with the team members more easily replaceable. Maybe he just really wanted Umberto back. You weren’t going to ask. All you had to do was make sure things were booked when they had to be, that Jannik made it to places on time. 

The seven-seater car rolled to a stop at a red light, and you kept your eyes on the scenery unfolding around you. The city that seemed never-ending. Bigger than you had ever imagined. The streets just kept on coming – tall buildings, too many shops, too many people. All of them were going about their days with the sense of urgency that only sweaty summer days could create, the heat made worse by the weird feeling that London had a roof right overhead, locking them all inside. You wondered if any of these people cared that their city was about to be flooded by tennis players. Most likely, they were too busy worrying about their own jobs. 

You pressed closer to the window, eyes dancing from tube station sign, to black taxi, to famous landmark as you passed through the city. You’d never been to London, but you’d imagined it the way most people had when they really, badly wanted something, daydreaming through rose-coloured glasses of high-rise buildings and telephone boxes and afternoon tea. London was a dream you’d never imagine you’d reach, but there it was, within touching distance. You’d known, when you’d taken on the job, that you’d get to go to London eventually, but it still didn’t quite feel real until the driver rolled to a stop in front of your rented home for the next fortnight. 

You’d scoured Airbnb for two hours one fateful night in early May, when Jannik was walking out onto that clay court in Rome to cheering crowds excited for his return, and you were too busy worrying about trying to find the perfect place to stay in London. You spoke to more hosts than you could remember, until eventually, you found this family home you were sure the rest of the team couldn’t argue about. Six bedrooms, three bathrooms, a back garden big enough for the boys to play football in the sun while you did literally anything else. You’d just gotten used to booking hotels with Team Sinner’s fancy credit card when Jannik had mentioned he wanted somewhere out of the way for London, somewhere quiet, somewhere his parents could stay if he made it far enough to warrant them coming all this way to watch. You’d caught him tapping the wooden cutting board in the kitchen when he told you that, but he didn’t even seem to notice doing it.

Superstitious to a fault. 

The driver helped you pull out all your bags. The suitcases, the backpacks, the racket bags, all lined up nicely in the paved driveway, and made sure that you, Darren, and Simone all had his phone number in case you ever needed him before his scheduled pick-ups. Then he was gone, zooming back into the city, leaving you alone with the big house and all the bags. You fumbled around the key hold, punching in the code while Jannik mumbled sleepily to Simone in Italian, still trying to wake himself up after his nap on the two-hour flight from Nice and again in the hour and a half transfer from Heathrow to your Airbnb. You led the way inside, and you all left your bags heaped by the front door with your shoes before you took a tour around, scouring out which bedrooms you wanted. 

Jannik already decided the bedroom on the ground floor was for his parents, with the painting of the Alps hanging from the blue-green wall above the bed. There was a small bathroom separating it from the office space you deemed your own as soon as you stepped inside, one of the walls made up of a beautiful bay window, while the other two that didn’t have the desk pushed up against it were for the crammed bookshelves you knew you’d spend too long perusing instead of working. The living room on the other side of the house had both a PlayStation 5 and an Xbox Series X that you knew Jannik would spend way too much time playing on. The double doors in the airy, bright kitchen/dining room led out into the garden, already set up with a kids' set of plastic goals that you could already picture the men playing around in. God, you could see it already. Darren in goals, Jannik versus Simone, someone falling and twisting their ankle, having to call the transfer just to take them to the hospital. 

You were going to have to create a no rough-housing rule. 

Just the thought of Jannik fucking up his entire Wimbledon run, all because of some silly football game,s was enough to send shivers down your spine. He chuckled, low and deep, beside you, his elbow catching on yours, leaning down enough so he could whisper in your ear while your eyes grazed the grassy garden. 

“Promise we won’t break anything.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

Jannik’s laughter followed you throughout the house, still a little thick from the sleepiness of travel but still him, still that warm sound that burrowed under your skin and settled in your chest. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t ignore the way one simple laugh was enough to send a blush careening over your cheeks. You just dropped your head and hoped he didn’t notice it. 

(Jannik noticed everything about you.)

Four of the bedrooms were on the second floor with a bathroom to share. You and Jannik took one side, and then Darren and Simone on the other side, separated by a small mezzanine that led to the bathroom you were most likely going to fight over, even though there were two more in the house. It meant the last bedroom, on the floor above, would go to Mark if he decided he wanted to watch his brother play at Wimbledon instead of staying at home to watch F1. 

“Neighbours, again,” Jannik joked as you lugged your luggage upstairs to your rooms. Almost every time, you and Jannik ended up staying in hotel rooms right next to each other. You liked it when the rooms had balconies, when you could both sit out late at night and talk in hushed whispers, like you were afraid to break the peacefulness of the ever-moving cities below you. 

“Unlucky. I get to hear you snore all night now.” 

“Hey!” Jannik leaned on the wall between your doors, mouth jutting out in a pretty pout that did nothing to soothe the terrible way your heart had been fluttering all day, since he showed up to the airport in grey sweatpants and leaned all of his tired bodyweight against you like it was nothing. Like this was all just casual. It stopped being casual when you woke up in the middle of the night because you couldn’t stop thinking about him wearing that black kit in Rome. 

Oh God, and now you were going to have to watch him walk out onto the grass courts in all white. The perfect little dichotomous angel. 

“You know I don’t snore as loud as Darren.” 

“But you do snore. Like a little cat.” 

Your laugh set off his, and, almost unconsciously, you ended up leaning closer, your shoulder pressing against his, his head so low you could almost feel his curls tickling the top of your head. You could have stayed like that forever, giggling away, watching the laughter shake his body, brightening his tired face, but he turned away, into his room, claiming you had no proof to pin on him. 

(He didn’t want you to know that the way you were looking at him made his skin turn pink.)

Your room was nicer than most hotels you had stayed in since travelling with Team Sinner. Large enough for a double bed, a window with a cushioned seat, a large wooden wardrobe and a set of drawers, and a round table with a strawberry red armchair by the window that you could so easily sink into. Sure, there was no mini-fridge to raid or a TV on the wall to peruse when you got bored, but the walls were a nice, homely shade of pale pink that reminded you of your childhood bedroom. And when you sat in the window seat, you could see right out into the garden and beyond, at the pretty brown brick walls lined up behind the house, at the park stretching beyond them. If you squinted, you might even have been able to see Henman Hill. 

You unpacked while you waited for your grocery order from Deliveroo to arrive, just enough to last the first week, just in case. You were worried about ordering too much, about it all arriving and making Jannik feel ill just to look at. Two weeks' worth of food when he might not even last that long. So, you ordered enough for this week and tried to keep a positive attitude. You’d have to order it all over again. Jannik was going to make it all the way to the end. You were sure of it – he made it all the way to the end at Roland-Garros, and he didn’t even like clay. Grass was a walk in the park. 

It had to be. 

Unpacking took barely any time at all, since you’d gotten better at packing the essentials rather than bringing half your wardrobe with you, and by the time the food arrived, you had just finished dropping off your toiletries in the bathroom. You carried the shopping bags to the kitchen, called out for help, and within minutes, the three men were barrelling down the stairs to help you unload the groceries.

Conversation flowed quickly and easily, the odd domesticity of figuring out where to put the pasta in a kitchen you’d never been in before, the closeness of being on the move with these people almost constantly. When Simone told Jannik off in Italian for trying to put the chocolate in the fridge, you and Darren shared an eyeroll over their heads. When you and Jannik reached for the milk at the same time, and your hands knocked, Darren said something to Simone that made him laugh so hard he had to put down the olive oil. The team was easy to be a part of. Always friendly even when working hard, always laughing, always competing somehow. You’d been a part of more card games with these three than you ever had in your life. 

That’s why you couldn’t be in love with Jannik. You couldn’t let yourself ruin this little family you had stumbled upon by accident. Even though you’d only started in December, uprooting your life to move to Monte Carlo on a whim that you might actually enjoy booking hotel rooms and airport transfers for a tennis player you knew nothing about, you’d settled into the team fairly quickly, and your initial shyness wore off sometime during Rome. You hated go-kart racing, which Jannik forgave you for – eventually. You always argued with Simone over who got the smaller bedroom. And when Marco was still around, you always convinced him to make Jannik spend a little longer on the exercise bike when he was being particularly annoying. 

You guessed that those three months bringing Jannik back to life helped you secure a spot in the team. 

(Jannik never would have gotten through the ban without you. Maybe that’s why he was in love with you, too.) 

This time last year, when you were unemployed and struggling, you never imagined you’d be travelling the world with a world-class tennis team. You had moved home when your life started fracturing. Back to your parents and their helicopter closeness, always right there, asking too many questions, knocking on your door with cups of tea when you were trying to rot in bed and pretend you were some top-notch cinephile with a Letterboxd review worth reading. You left home for university, for a stupid journalism degree you told yourself was going to lift you out of the mediocrity of your hometown and into a life worth living, and you ended up right back where you never wanted to be. In your childhood bed, with your parents hovering, with your internship deciding they could do better than you. 

Then, six months later, your dad’s friend from a rival PR firm mentioned a tennis team in desperate need of assistance, and your dad put your name forward without even asking you. You had an online interview, wearing your most professional blouse and a pair of fluffy pyjama bottoms that they couldn’t see. When Alex Vittur mentioned accommodation tied to the job in Monte Carlo, of all places, well, you hammed up just how good you were at keeping on top of timetables. Then, a couple of weeks later, you were all packed up and ready to get on with your life. Ready to be more than the NEET living off your parents' food and close-watched hospitality. 

And now, look at you – helping set the table while the World Number 1 tennis player makes you pasta. Someone looking in from outside your life would probably think this was some great feat, making the best male tennis player in the world cook for you, but for your team, it was an everyday occurrence. For you, it was an everyday occurrence. You’d gotten oddly used to Jannik’s cooking during the ban, forcing him into the kitchen to give him something to do while all he wanted was to rot away in his bed. You’d even forced him to make a Letterboxd account, but the only time he ever updated it was when you watched a movie together, and you reminded him to rate it. He was always far more generous than you. 

(He only watched movies because he liked watching you enjoy them.) 

Dinner was eaten through yawns and quiet conversations. You poured water and spilt some on the tablecloth, and nobody really seemed to notice. Jannik sat with his chin in his hand the entire time, though you knew his mother would scold him for having his elbow on the table if she were here. Simone and Darren rarely spoke, except to mention something about your upcoming busy schedule. All the practices, the matches, the media in between, you’d have to deal with. Your plane wasn’t exactly early this morning, but the travel took its toll eventually. The constant movement. The packing and unpacking. The carrying of bags from car to plane to car again. It was like a tide washing tiredness over you all, and after dinner, when seven o’clock started to roll around, and the sun didn’t even look close to setting, you all disappeared to your rooms to shut your blackout blinds and sleep.

Except, you were lucky if you ever got to sleep before eleven on a good night.

You lay on your new bed in the dark, your laptop playing a French romantic drama from your watchlist, when the knock came. Quiet but sharp, three raps in quick succession. A Jannik speciality. You huffed, heaved your exhausted limbs out of bed, and padded over the carpeted floor barefoot to twist open the door. His pyjamas were a hoodie and a pair of old sweatpants he probably should have thrown out months ago. 

“Are you watching a movie?” he asked between yawns, running a tired hand down his tired face, dragging the skin with him. His ginger curls were a mess from tossing and turning in the bed in the next room. He was used to different beds, used to hotels or Airbnbs, used to beds that didn’t feel anything like home. But, this time, the difference had felt too stark, and he’d tiptoed over to you like it was the middle of the night before a final, and he was going to be in big trouble if he was caught. 

“Yes. I thought you were tired.” 

Through his yawn, he spoke, “Y’am.” You rolled your eyes but moved out of the way to let him in, slipping into the still darkness of the room that felt paused with the movie. Stuck in a limbo of not quite sleep, but the heavy, heady exhaustion of travel on warm days. “What are you watching?” he asked as he followed you over to the bed, blinking at the transition scene you’d paused on. 

“Vie Privée – but you won’t like it, it’s French.” 

Jannik groaned lowly, and the sound caught the hairs on the back of your neck. You ignored it, pushed away the simmering heat in your belly, and crawled over the bed to sit against the headrest. He copied your movements, crawling over the bed, sitting so close you could feel his shoulder pressing against yours. It was so easy to sink into him. You tried not to. You tried to fight the whole being in love with your boss thing. You were failing. 

Jannik slid down the bed a little so he could rest his head on your shoulder. “I hate French movies. Too pretentious.” You ignored the way your heart somersaulted. 

“Big word for you.” 

“Ha ha. I speak three languages, and you speak…?” His words muffled in the fabric of the top you’d stolen from him once and quickly thrown into your pyjama cycle. You liked the way it hung off your body like a hug, some Nike thing he probably was never going to wear again, but that you couldn’t let him get rid of. Not when it smelled like a home you’d started getting used to. 

“Yes, yes, you are very smart, whatever. Wanna watch this or nah?” 

“Keep watching.” You could almost hear his eyes starting to slow shut. It was strange how much you could know someone after just six months. It was strange that you already knew he was going to fall asleep right here and, in a few hours when you were ready to go to sleep too, you would wake him up and send him back to his own bed. And, you’d mourn the loss of his warmth until tomorrow night when the exact same thing happened again, and again, and again. “I’m just gonna sleep right here.” 

“Not all night,” you warned, pressing play on your laptop. 

He smiled against your shoulder, and it felt like a kiss. You couldn’t ignore it. 

(He couldn’t tell you how badly he wanted to actually press a kiss there.)

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Hi! Welcome to our new Jannik fic! I've had such a lovely response to the teaser, and I'm so excited to read your thoughts as we go along. I'll be very busy over the next week with Christmas, but I couldn't wait to post, so there might be a little wait for chapter two 🤍

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