UnforcedError

You can remember vividly the first time you met Jack Draper.

It was your first ever tennis tournament, and you were running through the grounds at Wimbledon, rushing for a match you were definitely running late for.

You knew separating from your friends was a bad idea; while they were well-versed with each corner of each court on the ATP tour, you were a relatively new tennis fan, and you were pretty sure you'd been going round in circles for the last half an hour.

Each minute that ticked by was a minute you were missing watching some of the greatest tennis players ever play live in front of your eyes, and with each minute, the frustration grew.

You were out of breath, exhausted and ready to give up. The heat was blaring down on you, and each time you lifted your head to look around, the crowds seemed to multiply.

Reaching for your phone, desperate to find a single bar of service, you were suddenly knocked off kilter.

You plummeted to the ground, bracing yourself for impact with the concrete below as an arm wrapped around your waist.

Tentatively, you looked up, your eyes finding those of a young guy, concern wracking his face with his eyebrows knitted together.

Before you had time to process the fall or the man who still kept his hand firmly around your waist, he spoke.

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you alright?" He finally pulled his hand from your waist as you found your balance on the ground.

You brushed yourself off, trying to regain any semblance of composure, then you turned your focus to him.

He was tall, towering a good head or two above you. But what caught your attention most was his outfit. The man who must have been your age was wearing a white tennis kit. A clear staple of a Wimbledon competitor.

Suddenly, your face flushed. You'd just knocked into a professional tennis player at one of the biggest competitions of the season.

"No, it's my bad, really. I'm looking for my friends, and I swear everything looks the same around here. I hope I haven't injured you, Jesus Christ, this is just my luck."

Your eyes darted everywhere but the man in front of you, but when they finally lifted to meet his gaze, his face was riddled with amusement.

"It's really okay. Let's just call it a mutual incident, deal?" he reached out his hand and smiled.

You nodded, letting the light-hearted tone from the Brit relax you. Your hand reached out and brushed his, sending the faintest shiver up your spine as you intertwined your hands and shook them.

"Fine, but this means you can't sue me if you lose your next match." The comment slipped out before you could stop yourself, but before you could take it back, the man let out a laugh.

"Damn, and to think I was already preparing the statement blaming the girl who assaulted me outside the courts."

"Assualted! I hardly think you running into me counts as assault."

"Maybe, but the media won't know that, will they?" You let out a playful scoff and lightly shoved his shoulder, his laugh once again meeting your ears.

"You are a problem..."

"Jack. Jack Draper."

"Nice to meet you, Jack. I'm Y/N."

You hadn't heard much about Jack Draper, but just a glance at the Brit told you he was young, and it must've been one of his first big tournaments like this.

However, before you could ask Jack anything else, your phone blared from your pocket, the ringtone of your friends filling the air.

"Shit, I'm so sorry - I need to take this."

You turned away from the Brit and picked up the call, your friend's voice wandering where you were from the other side of the line.

She embarked on a long-winded explanation of how to reach Centre Court, where they promised strawberries and cream were waiting for you.

Laughing, you made her swear not to eat them before you reached her and hung up. When you turned around, hoping to find Draper, he was gone.

Your only assumption being that he'd been called away to do his job.

Though you couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment, you quickly took your bearings and made a move towards your friends.

Finally, you found them tucked away in the stands of the court; you must've walked by about 50 times.

"What took you so long!" Your friends beamed when you finally took your seat. The instant relief of making the match before the start flooding through you.

The announcer began to talk about the loudspeakers, and you whispered to your friends, "I accidentally bumped into one of the players."

In unison, they both cried, "What?!"

But the music began to play, and any chance at explaining disappeared as the announcer began to introduce the players.

Novak Djokovic emerged from the tunnel first, waving to the crowd and the mix of cheers and boos that greeted him.

But nothing could've prepared you for the lanky Brit who appeared next, the same lanky Brit who had his arm wrapped around you moments before.

In his home territory, he was greeted with a sea of applause and cheers, with your friend leaning over to you, "This is his first ever Grand Slam appearance, pretty cool, right?"

You were trying not to laugh, or gasp or just immediately lose your mind.

"That's him!"

"Who?"

"The player I bumped into! It was Jack"

Their faces were aghast, but you couldn't help but burst into laughter, which soon set them off.

You must've looked crazy, three girls laughing in disbelief while the rest of the court settled into silence.

"We will be discussing this more after." You nodded, trying to feign seriousness as you watched Jack make his way to his end of the court.

Though you were excited to be sitting close to the court, you quickly became all too aware that if the Brit playing decided to look up, the chances of meeting your eyes were all too high.

And as if you spoke it into existence, you watched as Draper made his way back to his bench after the first game. He focused on his hands, taking deep, slow breaths.

Then he looked up. His eyes scanned quickly over the crowd, not expecting to see familiar faces until he reached the players' box. Yet then his gaze stopped.

His hazel eyes locked on yours, and you smiled. He tried not to make it obvious, but you watched the smirk pull at the corner of his mouth.

'Good luck,' you mouthed, giving the Brit a thumbs up. He couldn't hide as the smirk turned into a full smile, taking over his face as he directed his gaze to the ground, desperate not to draw attention to himself.

But after he regained his composure, he met your gaze once more, sent you a simple nod and stood to play.

...

Although Jack lost the match against Novak, he seemed to gain something much bigger.

You found each other online, the Brit inviting you to coffee, which turned into cinema trips and dinners whenever Draper was in the UK.

The first coffee meeting was marred by awkward smiles and polite conversations, but you quickly devolved into fits of laughter and shared embarrassing stories from your childhoods.

When Jack told you he wanted to hang out more, you beamed, watching his hazel eyes light up as you enthusiastically agreed.

You got on like a house on fire, and you kept counting down the days to when you'd see him next.

Though your friends teased you endlessly, determined to watch the innocent friendship become something more, you swore that was all it was. Innocent.

Despite the late nights and the walks through London, with his gentle laughter filling the air between you. No matter how many times your shoulders brushed or his fingers grazed against yours while you were walking, you knew you were just friends.

For him, it was a chance to be himself, away from all the growing media attention that came with his debut at Wimbledon. For you, he was a shoulder to cry on and someone to make you laugh.

The friendship was easy. Sitting in comfortable silence in his London flat, watching reruns of your favourite TV shows. There was never any pressure to be something other than yourself.

You'd make sure to watch all of his matches, trying to get to as many in person as you could.

No matter the result, you and Jack had settled into a routine. The morning after the match, you'd go grab coffee at the shop that was nearly exactly halfway between your flats, and you'd talk for hours.

If he were out of the country, you'd settle for a phone call as he packed his suitcase, ready for the next destination.

In the space of a few months, the young British tennis player had worked his way into your life in a way you couldn't escape, and you weren't sure you wanted to.

...

One night, almost a year into your friendship, you were on the phone with Draper, who was off somewhere in Europe competing in the clay court season.

"I think I want to quit my job."

Jack's eyebrows furrowed, his hand reached up to push his brown waves off his forehead as he sat up against the headboard of the hotel bed.

Through the small screen on your phone, you watched Brit clear his throat.

"What?"

You let a breathy laugh, the confusion from the brit coming much to your amusement as if you had spent every call for the last few months complaining about your frustrating boss and the work that you no longer loved.

"I just want to do something else, I can't keep doing this mind-numbing job that I swear I hate more and more every day."

"Okay, fair enough, but what else would you do?"

"Well..." You smiled, the secret you'd been keeping from the Brit tugging at you. His face morphed into one of suspicion, and you held back a giggle at the prying look across the screen.

"What are you not telling me?"

"What if I told you I already have a job offer?"

His face broke out into a smile, his hazel eyes lighting up as you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth. Nervously biting the skin.

"That's amazing, what is it? Will you still be able to come to Roland Garros?"

"The job may or may not be involved with tennis..." The Brit sat up straight, his mouth falling open as he moved his face ridiculously close to the screen.

"Oh my god, Y/N! How long have you been keeping this from me!"

"I swear, just a week, Jannik didn't want me to tell you until it was all agreed."

"Wait? Jannik, as in Jannik Sinner?"

"I'm joining his team to help with PR, which means I'll be on the tour with him and you, of course."

He shuffled on the other side of the call, finally closing his mouth and letting an all-consuming grin take over his face. He leaned his face against his hand, resting on his knees.

"You okay over there, Draper?" You tilted your head, sending the Brit a lopsided grin as he ran his hand over his face.

"I..." He laughed, looking down and lightly shaking his head, "I'm never going to get rid of you, am I?"

"Nope! Sorry, Draper, we're in it for the long haul."

You watched his eyes soften, despite a screen coming between you; the gaze you exchanged settled in your stomach and sent a fuzzy feeling through your spine.

You'd been so nervous when you'd first applied for the position with Jannik, out of nerves that you may not get it, of course. But also because you weren't sure how Jack would take it.

Of course, you were friends and had been for almost a year, but seeing each other only once a month at tennis tournaments and coffee in London would be an entirely different ball game from you working on the tour.

You'd spend most of the year together, in the same hotels, at the same practice courts, and at the same restaurants. Yet, watching the Brits' reaction, your concerns slipped away.

Draper even drew out a laugh from you when he immediately asked, "So when do you start?"

...

Not even two weeks later, you sat nervously at the airport waiting for the Brit to pick you up. Paris was looking grey, and the rain was torrential around the pickup area.

When you told Jack your arrival time, it took him all of about five minutes before he was warning you not to book a taxi because he'd pick you up.

You tried to argue, but the Brit insisted you wouldn't be travelling through Paris on your own.

So there you were, waiting in the rain for Jack to appear. Your clothes were slowly becoming sodden as you tried your best to stay out of the pellets hitting you.

Unfortunately, you hadn't planned for the rain with the best coat you had, which came in the form of a grey cardigan, currently dripping water onto the floor.

Just as you felt the water seemingly seeping beneath your skin and into your bones, you spotted the unmistakable figure of Jack Draper climbing out of his rental car and making his way towards you.

You couldn't help but feel that, despite the rain, your body began to warm when Draper closed the distance.

"Y/N!" He sped up his approach, his long legs closing the distance rapidly. His arms wrapped around your waist as he lifted you into the air and spun you around. Your hands slipped around his neck, and you dissolved into laughter.

He slowly placed your feet back on the ground, your hands remaining carefully on his neck as his lingered on your waist.

For a moment, you took in his appearance. His brown hair was tousled by the rain, with the airport lights hitting his skin in a way that made him look like an angel.

As your feet touched the ground, you looked up, your nose nearly brushing against the Brits. His eyes looked down at you with something you couldn't quite decipher, and you once again felt something settle in your stomach.

You were friends, just friends.

Yet once in a while, when his hands were on you like this, his fingers sliding under your shirt as he held you steady, leaving you feeling breathless despite standing still.

When he looked at you, the way he was right now, the glimpse of something in his eyes that made you feel like the two of you were the only ones in Paris, suddenly, you were questioning everything.

You cleared your throat, determined to avoid whatever was bubbling up inside you. His arms fell from your waist, and he flexed his hands before letting them settle at his sides.

"Hi stranger, let's get out of the rain?"

"Of course! Let me grab your bags."

He bent down, picking up the suitcase you'd struggled with the entire journey with ease. His arm slid to your lower back to direct you to the car. The gentle pressure pushed you forward as he opened the passenger's door for you.

"Your chariot awaits." You smiled, climbing out of the rain and into the car. Unable to hide the growing grin on your face. The Brit slid in next to you, turned the key, and allowed the car to roar to life.

"You ready?" He mused, a smirk overtook his slightly damp features.

"Born ready draper."

...

You settled in immediately, building quickly on the home you were beginning to find for yourself in the world of tennis.

Jannik was a dream; his team came with a sense of family that you hadn't felt in years.

The Italian himself became like a brother to you, constantly fighting against your ideas to make Sinner seem less like an 'emotionless robot'.

Team dinners after the match descended into laughter, and you got to watch as the Italian began to eagerly climb through the ranks. Carving out a place for himself as one of the players to watch.

All the while, your friendship with Jack deepened. For the first time, you got to do more than support him after a match; you were there for almost every single one.

Granted, sometimes you were situated in Jannik's player box, but every match, as he sat down on the bench before the start, he'd lift his head, his eyes meeting yours across the court as you shot him a thumbs up and mouthed 'good luck' just like the first time you watched him play.

For Jack, the following year was hard. Plagued with injuries, he fell from his 38th ranking to outside the top 100.

In your breaks between tournaments, you travelled to doctors' appointments with Jack, keeping him company when he was given strict orders to rest.

You moved around his kitchen like it was your home, making sure the Brit was well fed and on his way to recovery.

He would shake his head and beg you to go back home, but you'd refuse, peacefully settling on the sofa, draping your legs over him as you watched your favourite films.

However, what you failed to notice in the quiet of his London apartment as you tended to the wounded player was the way his gaze followed you.

Lingering on your figure a moment longer than fell in the category of 'just friends'. The way he smiled softly as you hummed while you cleaned, and the way he always seemed to sleep better with your head settled in his lap.

Jack kept every glaring thought under the surface, ignoring the way his heart ached when you laughed too hard at someone else's jokes, or the way he felt a tinge of jealousy when you sat in Jannik's box instead of his when they faced off on court.

The feeling came fast for Draper, unbeknownst to you.

However, a return to tennis made for the perfect distraction. In the closing stages of the 2023 season, he finally felt fit enough to get back on the court.

In November, he was due to return to court in Bulgaria, feeling better than ever.

You'd promised to be at his matches, this time in his box, wearing a shirt you'd made in your free time that comically read 'Jack Draper for president'.

You knew he was nervous for the match; you'd seen the way his hands shook and his leg bounced up and down as he sat in the locker room.

Sneaking in wasn't the most brilliant idea you'd ever had, but when you caught a glimpse of him, head falling to his hand, carefully watching his breathing, you knew you'd made the right decision.

"Jack?" At the sound of your voice, he lifted his head. You could see the tension knit into the lines on his forehead and the stiffness in his shoulders.

The crease between his eyebrows softened at your entrance, but he continued rubbing his hands, over and over, the stress undisguisable.

"What are you doing here?"

You stepped further into the room, "What? A girl can't come see her favourite tennis player before his big match?"

He smiled, but it was the type of smile that didn't reach his eyes. Half-hearted. You moved between the Brit's legs, kneeling down to reach his eye line.

Your hands settled on his face, your thumb lightly brushing his cheek.

"You're amazing. You're healthy, and you're going to be fantastic." Jack avoided your gaze, his trainers suddenly becoming the most interesting thing in the world.

"Jack, look at me." His hazel eyes met yours, and for a split second, the world stopped, and you became all too aware of your breathing.

"You're ready to get back out there and show everyone how amazing you are, okay?"

He placed his hand softly over yours, the gentle touch shooting goosebumps up your arm. His head leaned ever so slightly into your touch, and he nodded.

"I'm happy you're here, Y/N. I don't know if I could do this without you in the audience."

The vulnerability of his words struck you. His other hand settled on your neck as you felt his breath fan against your cheeks.

You were so close, you watched his eyelashes flutter against his skin as he blinked. For a second, you thought you saw his eyes shift to your lips. The distance closing with each passing moment.

Your heart raced and your body rushed with feelings you couldn't name, but just before the tension reached its peak, Jack's coach appeared, calling Jack's name from the tunnel, which had you jumping apart.

Your heart hadn't calmed down; in fact, it plummeted further into the pit of your stomach. Jack muttered a quick response, standing from the bench and pulling you into a hug.

You wished him luck and disappeared back into the crowds to find your seat, but your brain was working overtime.

Sure, your friends had teased you constantly about your friendship with Jack. For years, they'd insisted that there was something more there, and you had shrugged it off.

You'd had boyfriends alongside your friendship, and Jack had a parade of model-esque girlfriends. With Jack, it was deeper than some romantic connection or fling - it was understanding.

But in almost three years, there had never been any sign of something more than friendship. Had there?

As you fell into your seat in Jack's box, watching his figure walk onto the court, you suddenly found yourself running over every interaction you'd ever had.

Had you been completely blind to something more going on the entire time?

Jack sat down on his bench, eyes meeting yours. You smiled, raised your hand in a thumbs-up, and mouthed Good Luck. Draper smiled and shook his head lightly.

The routine settled you. You were overthinking it. This was you and Jack, comfortable and stable. Just friends.

...

After he reached the finals in Bulgaria, you and Jack had gone out clubbing in celebration.

You danced as Jack got drinks, and when a handsome stranger let his hands settle on your waist, you allowed yourself to indulge in the feeling.

For a while, you felt contented, the alcohol leaving you feeling fuzzy around the edges. Until you felt a cold absence and suddenly, when you glanced around, the Brit you'd come out with wasn't there.

He'd only gone to get drinks, and yet he hadn't returned. You pulled away from the mystery man, concern suddenly flooding through your body.

Your eyes darted around the room, looking for the tall brunette. Then you spotted him, and it was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over you.

There he was, your Jack, with his hands in some girl's hair as his lips met hers hungrily. Suddenly, you didn't feel like clubbing anymore, the alcohol slipping from your system.

You swallowed back the anger developing. You had no right; he was just your friend, and yet, here you were feeling something eerily similar to jealousy.

But it couldn't be. You were just friends.

You wanted to go back five minutes and pretend you hadn't seen this. Instead, you were greeted with a wave of nausea.

You'd gone home in silence, the Brit typing away on his phone with a drunk smile while you watched hopelessly out of the window.

The next day, he didn't text like usual to check in. Something shifted.

Jack continued to improve his tennis, climbing through the ranks as he closed quickly in on the title of British number one.

So did Jannik, with the Italian taking world number one not long after his Australian Open grand slam title.

You'd gotten busier than ever, with Jannik not slowing down on his journey to be the best.

However, though you were on the exact same tour, staying in the same hotels and passing each other in the hallways daily, you and Jack seemed a world apart.

The girl he was with in the club had become the Brit's girlfriend. A new permanent fixture on his team to hang off his arm from one event to another.

Your relationship with Jack shifted as a consequence. She didn't like you, and she especially didn't like the way you and Jack understood each other.

The weekly dinners became monthly, then bi-monthly, until you couldn't remember the last time you'd sat across from each other.

The nights in his apartment disappeared, and suddenly, you felt more like a colleague than a friend. At Wimbledon, you watched from afar as he warmed up.

Jannik was playing later and was practising on the courts next to Jack. The Italian noticed how you watched the Brit longingly, the consideration in your eyes.

In a break between exercises, he stopped behind you.

"You should just talk to him." You jumped, the Italian's appearance scaring you.

"I...it's not that easy."

"Why not?"

"I'd just be in the way. He doesn't need me anymore."

Jannik watched your shoulders deflate. He knew you both well, and he'd seen the way Jack had pined after you silently for three years.

You were different, harder to decipher. For years, Jannik believed the affection from you was platonic, but then something had shifted, and he wasn't even sure you'd realised.

"Don't be silly, Y/N, of course he needs you. He just doesn't know how to ask."

Jannik's words struck home with you, and as you made your way through the corridors of Wimbledon, you couldn't help but keep an eye out for the Brit.

Then you saw him, just his Coach and chatting to Cam Norrie, you took a deep breath, willing your feet forward.

When the Brit met your eyes and saw the determination swimming in them, he waved off the two men, focusing on you.

"Are you mad at me?" You stood in front of him, steadfast in your words and your feelings.

"What?'

"Ever since Bulgaria, you've been distant, and I don't know what I did, or what happened, but I feel like I can't reach you even when you're just there."

He clenched his jaw, his eyes darting to the floor as your voice settled into some kind of desperate beg.

"I just miss my friend, and I feel like I'm losing you." In your frustration, you missed the way his hands clenched at the word friend, the way he couldn't look you in the eyes.

Instead, all you were met with was his cold tone, "You aren't my girlfriend, you don't have to be with me every second."

It was a harsh tone you hadn't heard from the Brit before, his words causing you to recoil.

"I don't get why you're being like this."

He raised his voice slightly, "Like what, Y/N? What do you want from me? We're still friends, but I can't be at your beck and call."

You were left stunned, your heart shattering slightly in your chest. Jack's coach called for him, his head snapped behind him to tell him he'd be there in a minute.

You stood there, focusing on your breathing and trying to fight against the feeling of your throat closing.

"I have to go do my job, maybe you should get back to yours, and I'll see you around."

Without waiting for a response, Jack left, and before you had time to think, your feet were carrying you away. Off into the room they'd given Jannik and his team to rest.

When you saw no one was there, you slipped to the ground, your hand gripping your chest, where you felt as though Jack Draper had just ripped out your heart.

You let the tears fall. Jack had been your person for three years, and now suddenly he wanted nothing to do with you. Was it that night in Bulgaria? What went so horribly wrong?

Jannik slipped into the room without you noticing. He sat beside you, lifting your head from its position buried in your knees, and when he wrapped his long arm around you, you couldn't help but fall into the Italian, the waves of emotions hitting you again.

"What happened?"

"I spoke to Jack," you sniffed between words, trying to quiet the sobs enough to get through your sentence, "He says we're still friends, but the way he acted, it's not. He's not my jack anymore."

"Oh, Y/N," Jannik pulled you closer to his shoulder, finding a place for you to rest your head, "I'm so sorry, I'm sure he'll come back to you and you'll figure it out."

Jannik's words did little to fix the hole you felt in your stomach, the way it suddenly felt as though you were missing a limb. You and Jannik were great friends, and while you'd be upset not to see him, you couldn't imagine feeling this way.

This overwhelming feeling that something is entirely wrong. The absence of Jack's hazel eyes comforts you, leaving you longing for something you weren't sure if you were ready to admit.

"I think I love him."

"Of course you love him, he's been your closest friend for three years."

"No," You took a deep breath, the words you were about to say unlocking something you had buried deep within you. "I love him."

Your sobs subsided as you settled into that horrifying realisation.

Jannik looked as though he'd seen a ghost, his mind racing with every conversation he'd shared with Jack where the Brit had tried horribly to hide his feelings, convinced you could never feel the same way.

The Italian knew he needed to knock some sense into Draper as soon as possible.

"Fuck." The Italian muttered.

"Yep."

...

It felt like everyone was walking around you on eggshells through the entire tournament.

Every day, you got worn down further, tortured by the sight of Jack laughing and playing from a distance as if he were without a care in the world.

While you couldn't sleep, struggled to eat, and were beginning to wear your struggles openly.

The bags under your eyes were worsening each night of disrupted sleep, becoming more and more obvious.

Jannik was gentle and kind. Despite playing one of the biggest tournaments of his career, he made sure you were okay between matches and kept you company in the evenings.

Your relationship had morphed into something akin to siblings.

The lanky Italian would sling his arm over your shoulders, distract you from any thought of the Brit floating in your mind.

From Jack, there was radio silence. Any small semblance of contact that was floating between you two before had disappeared, with every buzz coming from your phone causing you to jump.

Each time it wasn't him, why would it be? He'd made it clear where he stood.

But it wasn't until Jack and Jannik were scheduled to practice together that it all felt so much more.

You'd arrived at court late, hoping to minimise the time you'd have to interact with the Brit as much as possible. But it didn't help when you snuck into the grandstands, slowly making your way down to the court, and you saw her.

The girl from the club, Jack's girlfriend. Running her long nails up his exposed arms as she leaned in close to him. His hand slipped around her waist in a way you knew intimately.

It's almost like you could feel his hand on the small of your back, his fingers slipping under your t-shirt as he held you steady.

Having that feeling memorised didn't make it real, and as you watched Jack kiss his girlfriend, you realised that no amount of imagining could help you feel that.

Fleeting touches that danced on the line between friendship and romance were all you had.

You paused, turning away briefly to 'look in your purse' while you blinked away the tears threatening to escape.

With every fibre of your being, you wished you could go back to before you opened the flood gates of your feelings for Jack.

But you took a deep breath and walked down the steps, taking your seat with Jannik's team.

You looked up and your eyes met Jack's, his face stoic and unreadable in a way you'd never had to suffer through. Normally, you were so used to seeing every thought with ease.

He paused, slightly, just for a moment. Then, just as he took a small step forward and looked as though he was going to open his mouth and say something, he was called away by his coach.

You observed carefully as Jannik and Jack began to practice, moving with fluidity around the court. Between points, they laughed and met each other at the net, chatting away.

You kept your eyes on your phone, only letting them flit up between points when you knew the Brit was busy.

In those moments, you let your gaze fall to his figure, the way he darted to the net, slamming the ball over to Jannik's side.

Your gaze also fell to the woman who had been glued to his side, ever smiling, taking photos and making sure the world knew what she was to Jack.

It was the complete opposite of the way your friendship had played out. Quiet and peaceful, never hidden from the public but private in the way you wanted to keep each moment to yourself instead of sharing it with the world.

Now, watching from the sidelines, it felt like those years and those moments were for nothing. With the weight of it all on your shoulders, a familiar uneasy feeling settled in your chest.

Luckily, just as the noise in your head reached a stage that was deafening, the boys began to finish up with Jannik calling you down off the side stands and onto the court.

You made your way onto the court and fought against the feeling of a certain Brit's brown eyes bearing down on you.

When you did, and your eyes met, you felt a jolt through you.

"Hi." Your voice came out meek, lacking your usual sure and strong sentiment.

Draper gave you a polite smile and nodded lightly, "Hi"

Tension undeniably filled the air as you both stood across from each other. Every instinct in your body wanted to fall into his arms and tell him about your day, and yet he was a million miles away.

He turned to his coaches, who were ready to leave, quickly muttering his goodbyes to Jannik. He turned to leave, his gaze flitting to you before he made his way off the court.

You watched his figure retreat, and only when he was out of sight completely did you let yourself breathe.

Jannik's concerned face appeared in your peripheral vision, his hand reaching for your arm.

"You alright?" He muttered to you.

"Yeah...yes."

...

The break between tournaments left you filling in the Jack Draper-sized hole in your life.

Not long ago you’d be sat on your sofa with a movie you’d both seen a thousand times over playing as a backing track to your laughter.

The glow of the TV hitting the Brit’s face in a way that sharpened his cheekbones and yet made him softer around the edges.

Less practiced and more…him.

Too many nights to count you’d fall asleep on the sofa, Jack’s head resting lazily on your lap and your fingers ran through his hair.

You felt foolish now looking back on the memory’s and not seeing what was staring right at you.

The way Jack’s hand was gently trace patterns on the back of your hand or the way he’d look up at you with his big caring hazel eyes while you pretended to focus on the movie.

You felt your body aching for his presence the way it would a phantom limb.

Yet in the darkness of your apartment, lit only by the glow of the TV you were barely watching, you couldn’t help but feel the emptiness in the room.

The way the breeze hit your arms slightly more without another body sat with you and how when you turned to comment on the movie, you were met with no one by your side.

As if by second nature you found yourself scrolling through your camera roll, sliding past pictures from the tournament in Bulgaria.

You scrolled and scrolled until something made you pause. It was a slightly grainy photo, taken by a fan or someone on jacks team.

You didn’t even remember the moment. It must’ve been before the match when you watching Jack warm up.

You were stood next to the tall Brit, towering over your figure while you spoke with his coach. You were laughing in the photo head titled back and a grin that split your face.

While your hand rested on Jack's arm, none of that was what caught your eye. Instead, it was the way Jack was turned towards you.

Looking at you in a way that you could never define as friendly. His perfect hazel eyes were watching you, while you could see the smile tugging at his lips in the image.

There was something in the way he looked at you. Something gentle that you had seen before and deemed indecipherable.

You couldn’t help but let yourself have a bubble of hope flit through you. Surely he hadn’t felt that way all this time.

You had to be misreading the situation. Yet, you couldn’t stop the excitement that was brewing.

Before you had time to change your mind your finger was hovering over the call button. It had been weeks since you’d even heard his voice.

But the picture, the way he looked at you, you had to know if all this time you’d been completely blind.

The phone rang out.

Once.

Then twice.

And again.

Until finally after the longest ring tone of your life he answered the phone.

“Jack, hi. I know we aren’t talking and I’m so sorry but I just need to tell you how I feel because I think you feel the same way.”

You took a deep breathe out and waiting for a response.

“Sorry, who is this?” A feminine voice rang out. You quickly glanced down, triple-checking you’d called the right person while running through every possibility.

But as his lopsided smile beamed back at you in your contact photo, a sad realisation settled in. He was with her, of course he was.

She was his girlfriend, and you were just his friend, and you didn't even know if you were that now.

"Hello?" the female voice rang out again. You sat there unable to string a sentence together.

From a distance, you heard the British accent that had been rattling around your mind. "Who is it?"

There was silence for another second, some shuffling on the other end as you began to feel foolish for even picking up the phone.

"Y/N? Are you okay? What's going on?" Your throat goes dry, the concern dripping from Jack's voice, your eyes watering as you focused on your breathing.

This was Jack, your Jack. God, how you had missed the sound of his voice when it wasn't laced with indifference or disdain.

"I-I'm sorry, Jack. I shouldn't have called." You choked back a quiet sob, "I'm sorry."

You felt so stupid. This entire situation was embarrassing; you were calling a man who had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with you. You ended the phone call despite Jack's pleas on the other side of the phone.

The silence loomed over you in your living room as you dropped your phone onto the sofa beside you, dropping your head into your hands. You felt like such a fool.

Yet, the ache in your chest didn't subside following this revelation, instead the awful feeling that you realised all too late how you felt about Jack was starting to flood in.

Your phone rang again, but you weren't watching the screen. Instead, you pulled your knees up to your chin and let the heartbreak overtake you.

It was hours before you garnered the strength to get up, leaving the sofa and getting ready to wallow in your bed. Your head was pounding, an unwelcome side effect from the constant flow of tears and lack of water drunk.

All you could think about was going to sleep and saying goodbye to this awful day.

Just as you finally ran your hands along you perfectly made sheets ready to disappear for the evening, a fervent knock came at the door.

It was urgent and harsh, snapping you out of the daze and waking you up. You moved quickly toward the door at a pace that matched the urgency of whoever was on the other side.

But nothing could've prepared you for Jack Draper to be on the otherside. Concern covered his face as he held his hand ready to knock again.

His hair was wet, and only then did it occur to you that it had been raining outside. Which meant Jack had travelled through the rain to get here to see you.

"Jack? What are you doing here?" His eyes searched your face for a sign of something wrong, no doubt looking for the heartbreak you let slip over the phone.

"I've been calling, are you okay? You sounded upset on the phone, and then you hung up" His hands reached for you, searching your arms for any sign of an injury or something amiss. "I've been so worried. I called back, but you didn't pick up. Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

He spoke at a mile a minute, his stress visibly showing as his hands made their way to your neck, sliding to your face, where he forced your eyes to meet.

You froze. This wasn't the first time you'd been that close to Jack. In fact, on many occasions throughout the friendship, you'd found yourself much closer.

Yet, this was the first time your heart felt as though it might leap out of your chest. Your breathing shallowed as your eyes met his, and as you let your gaze drop to his lips, you forced yourself to retreat from the moment.

He had a girlfriend. He wasn't yours.

You took a step back, putting enough distance between you so you could think straight.

"I'm okay." You risked meeting his gaze once again, the space helping you fight the urge to grab his hand. "I just.."

You thought about telling him the truth. That you thought maybe he had felt the same way. But looking at him, dishevelled and worried, his hazel eyes watching your every movement.

You just couldn't do it.

"I missed you." Relief flooded his face, his knitted eyebrow pulling apart as though someone had tugged on a loose thread. "I was looking back on old photos, and I just missed talking to you."

You shuffled awkwardly from one foot to another, watching the way his hand clenched and unclenched, desperate to avoid watching the pity on his face.

"Then your girlfriend picked up, and I got embarrassed, and you made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me, and I'm sorry for bothering you, I'm fine, and you can go home in peace." You blurted out each word before your brain could catch up and stop you.

"Y/N, " he spoke softly.

A tone you heard only in private between you two. Gone was the bopisterous confident Jack the media knows and loves. That tone was your Jack.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry. At Wimbledon, I was frustrated and stressed, and I said things I shouldn't have said, and I definitely didn't mean."

He went to move closer to you, but stopped himself.

"What I'm trying to say is, I miss you too. I've been an idiot and an asshole, and I'd understand if you tell me to piss off. But, I miss my friend."

Your heart clenched at the word 'friend', but with Jack standing in front of you for the first time in months, offering a reset. You wanted to take it.

"You were a jerk."

"A massive one."

"Of course, I'll be expecting an apology gesture..."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the back and forth between you coming back in small steps that warmed the brit.

"Lunch on me tomorrow?"

You grinned, nodding your head and wrapping your arms around Jack's neck. His hands quickly found your waist and back, pulling you into a hug that was months overdue.

His touch set your waist alight, and Jack's hand moved to your head, cradling you gently against him. He pressed his lips against the top of your head, and you could hear his smile as he spoke.

"How could I ever live without you as my friend?" You felt a tug in your chest as your smile fell. You buried your head in Jack's chest and let the disappointment wash over you.

Of course, Jack was your friend, and you were glad to have him back, but you weren't sure you could hide how you felt anymore. Not that you were going to be close to him again.

Not now that you had to field casual touches from the man you pined over from a distance for the past months, the man you realised, unceremoniously, you are, of course, in love with.

Jack pulled away, the smile even brighter on his gorgeous face if that was possible.

"So we'll have lunch tomorrow, and then I'll see you at the US Open?" Swallowing the internal fight raging inside your head, you smiled, though you felt Jack's gaze tighten as if scrutinising your acting.

"That sounds great. Are you nervous about the US?"

"Not if you're rooting for me." Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you desperately tried to force them down.

"Well, it depends on how good this lunch is." Jack let out a loud laugh, the sound melting in your ears as he pulled you closer a final time. You knew this hug was fleeting, but you weren't expecting his lips to meet your cheek as he pulled away.

"See you tomorrow." He stepped back and began to leave the threshold of your apartment.

"Goodbye, Jack."

You kept the tone light and the smile on your face until the door closed firmly and Jack was gone from your sight.

That's when you spun around, pressing your back against the door and your hand to your chest as you slid to the floor, finally letting out the raging sea of emotions from inside.

"Fuck. I'm absolutely fucked."

...

The quiet between tournaments didn't last long. Jannik was desperate for the US Open title, and the preparation came thick and fast.

The days blended together, and before you knew it, you were on a plane destined for New York. Jannik and his team sat around you, the individual pods being a welcome perk of flying with the world number 1 male tennis player.

Jannik was in the pod to your left, and the lanky ginger was already snoring away as the plane took off.

Instead of trying to rest and circumvent the impending jet lag, you watched the window or a film or turned your phone on and off as if you were waiting for a notification to come through your aeroplane mode.

You knew that Jack was already in the US, arriving a few days earlier to prepare himself. He could feel a good run coming on, and he wanted to be in the best health.

Which also meant calls before bed were cut short in favour of the Brit getting his 9 hours.

The landing was smooth, and Jannik stayed peacefully asleep until Darren nudged him as people stood and collected their bags. He laughed with his coaches as you tried to usher the boys off the plane and into the van waiting to take the team to the hotel.

The hotel was gorgeous as usual, though you knew as the week began that you'd rarely see the room and even less would you get to sleep in the extremely comfortable-looking bed.

Each day was the same schedule. Wake up early, watch Jannik practice, and go through media responsibilities with him. You had lunch on the court or in the gym, and you returned to the courts straight after.

Jannik was serious about winning this year, and he was taking that trophy or being dragged off the court trying.

He breezed through his early rounds. While you sat in his box, clapping at every point won, you couldn't help but keep an eye on Jack's scores.

He was doing well. Really well. Before you knew it, they were both playing in the quarter finals. Jannik was playing Medvedev, and Jack was playing de Minaur.

Jack's match was largely stress-free; you watched it on the screens in the gym while Jannik warmed up. As the second set went 7-5, you felt your heart pound and your blood rise. Each nerve stood to attention with each hit.

But as the Brit celebrated and secured the second set, you breathed a sigh of relief. The third set felt easy after that, and you smiled as you watched Jack's happiness as he secured himself a place in the semi-finals.

Jannik paused to watch the final moments, knowing that if he won his match, he'd be playing Jack.

The Italian smiled, his friendship with the Brit shining through in these moments. Although he knew the competition was fierce, he was equally excited to watch his friend succeed.

Jannik lost his second set to Medvedev 6-1. The way he rolled his wrist in between sets worried you as you nervously watched from the box. Darren had his head bowed deep in conversation with Jannik's physio.

The way he glanced up between points, the unease written on his face made your blood run cold. He wanted this so bad, and you know he'd beat himself up if an injury kept him out.

You watched in the break between the second and third set as Jannik bowed his head, his leg bouncing. When he got back off the bench, he was composed, calm and ready to play.

Flashes of discomfort passed through his features in tough moments, but he wasn't stopping. He took the next two sets 6-1 and 6-4, and the relief was evident through him as game, set, and match were called.

He was in the semis, and he'd be playing Jack.

...

The day was charged with energy. It was hot in the States, and the air was thick around Arthur Ashe Stadium.

You were waiting outside the gym for Jannik to finish warming up when you saw Jack lurking in the corridor, no doubt preparing to warm up too.

"Jack!" He turned his head and smiled as he caught your eye, heading towards you without a second thought.

"Y/N", He beamed at you, wrapping you in his arms for a brief but comforting hug. His touch made you calm, that feeling like coming home, but to a person rather than a place.

"Mr Draper, are you excited for your FIRST EVER SEMI-FINAL in a Grand Slam!" You jumped up and down, grabbing his hands in yours.

He let out a huge laugh, the Brit going along with your antics.

"That depends. Is there any way I can get my favourite girl out of my enemies' box and into mine instead?" Your heartstrings pulled at him, calling you his favourite girl.

Your smile faltering for a split second, you thought it was imperceptible. Draper reached his hand to brush your arm.

"Hey, I was joking." He smiled, though his gaze roamed your face, checking you were okay.

"I know, I know. Sorry, I'm just...a bit sad I won't get to openly cheer you on."

You met his gaze, his hazel eyes bearing into yours, and your skin was alight under his touch on your arm. You let a soft smile mirror his.

"How about, WHEN I win, we celebrate. Just you and me, the alcohol from the mini bar, and as many absolutely dog shite movies as we can find?"

You beamed at the brit you hand raised to his cheek, your thumb gently brushing his cheek. Leaning into his ear, you softly whispered, "IF you win, we'll talk about it."

You pulled away, and Jack's cheeks were flushed, the pinkish hue flooding his face. He took a quick breath in and regained his composure.

"IF? Are you a traitor to your favourite tennis player?" You laughed softly,

"Just dedicated to my work, Draper."

Jannik came out through the doors, separating you and Jack and defusing the tension in the air.

Jack pulled Jannik into a side hug before making a move into the gym. Just before he reached the doors, he turned to you and Jannik.

"See you out there, and let the best man win!"

Jannik beamed, "Oh, he will!"

...

The happy vibes didn't last long. Not even a set into the match, both Jannik and Jack were struggling.

The heat had gotten worse, the humidity suffocating the players and the audience. Jack was pale and sweating like crazy. Every time he stood from the bench, it looked like he might throw up.

Then he did.

Between every point, his head fell between his legs, his hands resting on his neck. You had a rock in your throat that fell into your stomach with every passing moment.

Jannik took the first set 7-5, and Jack used the break to change his shoes, hoping to ease the heat and gain some stability on the ground.

He let his motivation push him through, and when you caught his eyes between points, you tried to smile, but your concern was written on your face as he bent over the towel bin and threw up again.

Your team were happy, Jack was ill, and Jannik could win far easier, but Jannik was struggling too. His wrist issue was still playing up, and the heat was hurting him, too.

The second set went to a tie break, and you watched with bated breath as Jannik took point after point in front of the Arthur Ashe crowd.

Each point was like a physical his to Jack, and he ended the set a broken man.

It was like a switch had flipped.

Jack was utterly defeated. But not by Jannik. That was something Jack could handle. He was beaten by his own body. A history of injuries and issues meant that this blow would hurt Jack harder than any loss.

The final set went 6-2. The box around you erupted as Jannik was sent into the finals. You tried to smile, hugging his team around you. But your eyes found Jack packing his bag, shaking his head and looking exhausted.

He left the court with a half-hearted wave and disappeared into the tunnel.

You felt ill, and you couldn't imagine how Jack was feeling right now.

The crowds died out as the team began to make their way through the stadium. You sent Jannik to his post-match press conference and stood in the hall waiting.

You watched your phone screen, typing and deleting messages to Jack over and over again. You wanted to be there for him, but you didn't know what he needed. The past was creeping in and planting doubt in your mind.

The Italian appeared beside you, leaning his mop of ginger curls to your level.

"Go see him." You glanced up, Jannik's soft gaze making you smile.

"I can't, I have jobs here, with you...you know my boss."

"Well, your boss is telling you to go. My media duties are done, so you're off the clock." You pouted at Jannik's gesture, wrapping your arms around his neck,

"Thank you, Jan, you're the best." You released the Italian and began sprinting down the hallway.

"He's in room 311, go get him!" You could hear Jannik's voice carry you down the hallway and out of the stadium.

The ride back to the hotel was the longest of your life. You walked into the lobby and straight to the lift. Desperately trying to not look insane as your pulse quickened.

Then you were outside his door, lifting your hand to knock.

Suddenly, the hallway's silence swallowed you whole, and as you felt your heartbeat in your ears, you wondered if this was even a good idea. Would he even want to see you?

You forced yourself to knock, the hard wooden door echoing around you.

The few seconds you stood outside were the longest of your life. Just as you were ready to turn around and return to your room, the door opened.

Jack's hair was wet, and he was in fresh sweats. He was fresh out of the shower and looked dangerously handsome. As much as you wanted to take in his appearance, his face was drawn into something much sadder.

His eyes were red, and though he tried to smile as he took you in, it didn't reach his eyes.

"Hi." You watched him instinctively take a slight step towards you, "I thought you might want some company."

Wordlessly, he reached for your hand, pulling you into him and wrapping his arms around your waist. His head fell into your shoulder as you moved through the threshold into his room, the door closing behind you.

You slid your hands around his neck, your fingers running through his hair.

"Oh, Jack, it's okay." You felt an ache course through you. Jack was kind and hardworking, and he took losses like this hard.

"I don't want to talk about it, please." He buried his head further into you and pulled you tighter.

Your hands went to either side of his face, prying the brit from you. His forehead fell against yours, the closeness sending goosebumps across your skin.

"Go sit on the sofa, I'm going to order us the most unhealthy food ever, crack open that wine, and we're going to get shitfaced. Okay?"

He tried to smile, but he couldn't quite manage it. "What would I do without you?"

"Mope miserably around your hotel room." A breathy laugh escaped the Brit.

His hands reached up to yours, each touch fluttering in your stomach "You're the best," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead before parting from you. You suddenly felt cold without Jack's hands on yours.

You quickly spun around, facing the door and pulling out your phone to order food. You took a deep breath, pushing the feeling that seemed to bubble to the surface over and over again back down. "What are friends for?"

The words left a sour taste in your mouth, settling in your throat like a bad meal. You were so focused on distracting yourself that you didn't notice the way Jack's shoulders tensed, the way he froze.

You didn't notice as he ran his hand through his hair, rubbing his chest to suppress the tightness there. He paused for a moment. His hand twitched, and he turned around.

He watched as you messed with your phone, the way you tapped your foot on the floor. He watched the way your hair fell in a well that said you'd run your hands through it a thousand times.

He could remember the way you looked through the match, your eyebrows knitted close together as you leaned with your hand by your mouth. Every time he was struggling, he gave a quick glance up to his rival's box.

He wanted you to be in his box. He craved it. To know you were there, rooting for him and only him.

Then you said 'friends' and his mouth went dry. He couldn't help but feel disappointed. Couldn't help but want you as more than just a friend.

Then you spun around, a bright smile on your face. "All ordered, ready to set up a film." Your smile dropped when you saw his expression. Confusion painted across his face.

"Hey, what's up? Are you okay?" You moved towards him, closing the distance, and with every step you took, you broke down Jack's resolve further.

He reached his hand to grab yours, his fingers brushing yours, and then intertwining with them. The soft gesture caught your breath, a sharp gasp as he moved his hand up your arm.

"What if I don't want to be your friend?" You looked up at him, your heart racing as if it might burst out of your chest entirely. Every part of your arm his hand traced set alight, a trail of flames under his touch.

You tried to speak, but your voice got caught in your throat as Jack moved closer, his chest pressed against yours.

As his hand slipped around onto your waist, you finally managed to whisper, "What do you mean, Jack?"

He breathed out, shaking his head lightly, "I think you know what I mean." Your hand slid to the hem of his shirt, pulling at it softly.

"I need you to tell me Jack. I don’t want to misunderstand.”

His hand ran up to your arm to your neck as he leant down, his lips brushing your ear.

A shiver ran through your spine and a blush flooded up your neck and through your cheeks. His fingers threaded into the hair at the nap of your neck.

“Ever since I met you you’ve been stuck on my mind. I thought I could ignore it but it got worse, until I couldn’t sleep without finding you in my dreams.”

“Then you were there, at every match in the gym on the practice courts, with Jannik. You weren’t mine anymore, you were never mine, we were just friends. Then Bulgaria, god Bulgaria, I was going to tell you. Tell you how you tormented me, but you came and you were with…him.”

Your hand gripped into his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. Each word causing you to ache for him, to beg for him.

“I was a fool, and utter fool. I should’ve told you straight away but I thought having part of you was better than having none of you.”

He moved his forehead back to yours, his breath mingling with yours. Your hand trailed to his chest, you could feel his heart pounding through his shirt, the fast and hard pound that left your mouth dry.

“I was wrong. I want you, I want you to be sat in my box cheering me on as more than just a friend. I want you as more than friend.”

Every nerve in your body felt struck by lightning; you were scared to breathe, scared to move, as if any movement would turn everything into just a dream.

Your head was reeling, and you could drag together a sentence, couldn’t think of the worst to tell Jack everything he was saying was something you’d longed for, dreamt of.

"You have a girlfriend, Jack." Your tone was stern, a harsh reality seeping into the moment you wanted to let yourself drown in.

"I ended this after you called me, after we spoke. After I heard your voice. I can't believe I was ever dumb enough to think anyone could be you."

You couldn’t think of the words or how to respond. For months, he'd been single, waiting for this moment, and you'd never even noticed.

How could you not have noticed?

So you tilted your head, closing the gap between you and capturing his lips with yours.

He reacted instinctively, he was gentle, his hands cupping your face as he pulled you impossible close, your hands wrapped around his waist pulling his hard form against you.

The movements turned from gentle and soft to urgent, your lips moving in a way that reeked of desperation. The pure hunger of people who craved each other. This wasn’t months of tension it was year, built up in every interaction every word unsaid.

His hands moved down your spine, his hands slipping under your shirt drawing a gasp from you.

His mouth left your mouth trailing down your neck. Your hands pulled on the waves on his head. A groan murmured through his chest.

Each touch pushed you to want him more, you wanted him, you didn’t care about anything else.

But just as you tugged his shirt, wanting it off, wanting him closer. Your phone rang, cutting through the air and pulling you apart.

“Fuck it’s the food, shit.” You put your hand to your mouth, disbelief on what you’d done. You both looked at each other, and laughed. A gasping unbelieving laugh.

Jack straighten himself up, running his hands through his hair. He reached over grabbing the room key from where he’d left it on the side, slipping some trainers on.

“I’m going to get the food,” he moved toward you. His hand reaching your waist pulling you in. His lips met yours quickly, “I’m going to be doing that, a lot more.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

…

The sun beat down on the grass courts, the warm air of July broken by the soft breeze.

The crowds were already beginning to file into Wimbledon, the chatter filling the air.

The players were on the courts, the young desperate players looking to earn a place in the main draw. Surrounding them the experienced heads, watching on, practicing, searching for a grand slam.

You sat to the side of a court watching as the ball went over the net, once, twice, over and over until you lost count of each bounce and each slide.

You leaned back in your seat, letting the sun hit your cheeks as you closed your eyes. It felt wrong to be at a court when you should be soaking in the British summertime.

“Y/N! You’re supposed to be watching us not sunbathing!” Jacks voice met your ears like warm honey flowing through your and warming you from inside.

You beamed at the court, ready to retort before another voice interrupted,

“Your girlfriends saw your shocking first serve Draper, she couldn’t watch anymore.”

The Italian laughed as he teased Jack as he moved to the stands where you sat.

“Yet, she’ll be in my box and not yours Sinner and you pay her!”

The boys laughed, sitting on the benches either side of you.

“You both are exhausting.”

They beamed, “yet, you love us anyway.” Jack wrapped his arm around you placing a kiss on your cheek.

You turned your head to Jack your lips meeting his sweetly. You tapped his cheek gently before pushing him away with a lighthearted shove on his chest.

“Yes and everyday I regret that decision.”

Both boys clutched their chests in mock pain, and you burst out laughing at the antics or two supposedly world class tennis players.

But you smiled because you couldn’t imagine your life being spent without them.

—————————————————————————

Media day had gone slowly, and Carlos' mood had deteriorated as the day went on.

It felt as though every time you seemed to build some goodwill with the tennis player, it quickly faded away.

The second his last commitment ended, he'd disappeared and you'd been left to make your way back to the hotel alone.

Juan Carlos had confirmed the Spaniard had made his way back to his room, which was at least some kind of consolation. You weren't responsible for losing Carlos Alcaraz.

However, you felt restless, as if you had a deadline you'd forgotten about. Something loomed over your evening and into your sleep. Unable to find comfort in the soft bed.

Every time you got close to sleep, you found yourself too uncomfortable, an arm in an awkward position, or the noise from the city outside being too loud.

You turned to the window, your body rolling across the bed, ruffling the cold sheets beneath you. Your mind raced, and your body ached with each movement, with no relief from the constant flipping.

The soft cotton brushing across your stomach with every jerk and movement.

Finally fed up with the restless attempt to sleep, you sat up. Your forehead was sweating, your hair slick against it, and the breeze from the window sent a chill down your body.

You pushed away the remaining duvet, climbing out of the bed. Your clothes were strewn around the floor, your once-lost suitcase waiting for you in reception when you returned from media day.

Ripping through the suitcase, you searched for anything to ease your stress. Your shoulders were tight, and the tension from the past few days manifested as a pounding in your skull.

The dull throb faded like waves, with each wave crashing against the back of your eyes. You squinted, hoping the pain would subside with the darkness, but it was unsuccessful.

Instead, your hands caught the soft material of the yellow bikini you had shoved into the bag at the last minute.

You knew there was a rooftop pool, the welcoming water enticing you when you'd researched the hotel. It was late, but the thought of ice-cold relief seemed like heaven.

Before you knew it, you were pushing open the door to the roof and whispering words of praise under your breath when the door opened.

The pool was empty. The noise of the city seemed distant from the roof, and the stars were gleaming above you. You dropped your towel and phone at the side and plunged into the cool water.

Instantly, the relief flooded through your body, each stroke easing the pain splitting your head. The world muted with each time your head dipped beneath the water.

You had your head down, powering back and forth through for you had no idea how long.

With each glide, you felt your shoulders ease, the stretch burning across your back in pure relief.

The water lapped at your sides, each soft wave over your body cooling you, from the inside out.

You reached the far wall, pausing for a breath ready to dip back down the other end when a voice ripped you from your concentrated form.

"Sorry, I didn't know anyone was up here." Although the words were soft and polite, the Spanish accent that accompanied them was unmistakeable.

You turned and watched Alcaraz' warm demeanour shift, his shoulders tensing as he took a slight step back. "Oh."

He refused to meet your eyes, instead fixating them on the skyline above your head.

"You can get in if you want." Your sudden confidence shocked you, but you were tired of making allowances for him.

"Que?"

"It's a massive pool, and I'm not going to bite." You waited for a beat before you pushed away from the wall and resumed your laps, albeit at a slower pace than before.

After a few seconds, you heard a splash behind you, and when you reached the wall, the Spaniard was lapping alongside you.

You continued in this weird synchronicity for almost an hour before you pulled yourself to the side and stopped. While you rested, catching your breath, you found your eyes falling to the Spaniard's figure passing you, again and again.

You dove back into the water, trying to shake off the slight rush you felt run through you each time Alcaraz passed you. For a while, you were able to focus on each stride and length through the water.

Until you noticed an absence of movement on the other half of the pool. You paused, finding your footing in the shallow end and looking across the pool to meet the Spaniard's eyes.

His gaze was on you, each small movement under his deep scrutiny. You couldn't help but lift your arms to wrap around yourself, suddenly acutely aware of how revealing your swimsuit was.

The vast width was between you, but you couldn't avoid the palpable tension in his gaze. The silence stretched on, but not in an awkward way. In a way that had you both observing each other.

You watched the way he ran a hand over his recently buzzed head. Then he broke the quiet.

"Why did you sign me up for all that shit today?"

"I was annoyed."

Silence settled over you once again.

"I'm not sorry." A flash of irritation flashed through his features. "I mean, I promise I don't want to spend this entire tournament agitating you. I just want to do my job. But it was fun watching you squirm."

He let out a huff, as if he was trying to figure out whether that explanation and the sandwich had been enough for him to let you off the hook.

He wanted you gone, but he didn't necessarily need to make your life harder. But he didn't want to risk you staying if he let up, so he pressed forward.

"Why are you here?"

You scoffed, you were pretty certain Alcaraz couldn't be nice to you even if he was forcing himself to.

"It's available to all guests. I'm a guest." His eyebrows knitted together and his arms tensed as he rested them along the pool edge. The water rolled off his biceps, and you couldn't help but avert your eyes to calm the heat rising to your face.

"I didn't mean it like, I meant." He took a deep breath. "It's two am. You're swimming laps. Why?"

His sincerity caught you off guard; the softness in his tone was something you usually only heard when he was talking to his team or friends.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Why not?"

"Headache."

"Do you get them a lot?"

"More since I started working for you."

"Is it my fault?"

You paused. It was. It was entirely his fault. You'd spent the first few months of the job desperate to get on the Spaniard's good side, desperate to see the charming side of the player turned towards you.

In your first months, you stayed up all night, researching Alcaraz, watching old interviews eagerly trying to understand him and break through the frosty façade.

The lack of sleep and the constant barrage of disdain from the Spaniard had left you reeling, mentally but also physically, the stress appearing in the form of migraine that came and went alongside the tennis player.

And yet, as your gaze met his, and you were under the scrutiny of his brown eyes, you couldn't help but find yourself wanting to save the Spaniard from his feelings.

He moved off the wall and moved toward you. You could feel your heart rate picking up as he quickly closed the distance.

"Is it my fault?"

You paused briefly before you nodded faintly, watching his muscles tense as the water rippled over his tan skin, your gaze falling to his biceps as you tried to catch your breath.

Suddenly, your mouth felt dry as Carlos’s hands found purchase on the wall, either side of your frame.

As if the Spaniard could sense your unease, he grinned. The concern and glimpse of something you couldn’t quite grasp disappearing. Replaced with his usual egotistical attitude.

His mellifluous accent hitting your ears as his breath brushed your neck.

“Do I have that large of an effect on you? Do I frustrate you?” His tone was teasing, and you couldn’t help but feel your body's reaction to his words deep in the pit of your stomach.

Gone was the flash of concern you saw pass through him a moment ago, replaced with a smug nonchalance you hated.

You hated that he got this reaction from you, that he toyed and played with you, treating you more like one of his conquests than a colleague. More than anything, you hated that he found joy in ruining your life.

Every time he let you glimpse behind his usual disdain, it was like he felt like he needed to make it up by aggravating and teasing you.

A blaze of anger flooded through you as your hands met the Spaniard's toned chest catching him off guard as you shoved him away.

Without wasting a second you pulled yourself from the water, moving to your towel to wrap it around yourself.

“You’re such an asshole, Alcaraz. I can’t wait for this stupid tournament to be over." His grin had faded into a more complacent disdain, laughing dryly at your taunt.

“The feeling is mutual!” His voice carried to you as you stormed through the doors to the lift, catching a glimpse of him returning to his laps with renewed energy as the doors closed.

You hated him. You wished you’d never taken this job, becoming the only person who would prefer to deal with drivers and their endless Wag drama than the 'charming' grand slam champion.

…

The next morning brought tension so thick you felt like you were being suffocated. From the outside, it looked normal, Carlos joking with his team at breakfast while his PR Manager organised a plan for the day.

However, anyone looking closer could see the cold glances between The Spaniard and his PR Manager.

The way he moved past you as if you didn’t exist and somehow managed to get everyone a coffee except you.

You couldn't help but feel frustrated. Alcaraz was infuriating and petty, but this felt like a step worse.

Was he really that annoyed about you storming off the night before at the pool? Or was this all pent-up irritation from you forcing the Spaniard into Media Day?

You had hoped for complicit silence rather than him pretending you didn’t even exist.

It felt like every time you managed to make any progress with Alcaraz - whether getting through to him negatively or positively - he'd wake up in the morning and reset.

You tried calling his name at breakfast, but he was suddenly conveniently engrossed in conversation with another member of his team.

When you texted him later asking for him to tell you when he was free to film pre-practice content, you were left on delivered. A step even worse than his usual read.

Carlos had his first match in the evening, and with it came a long day of preparation, practice, and the Spaniard even more irritable than usual.

People were still muttering about Carlos’s comments in the press conference, his emotions left unchecked, and the discussion on whether the Olympics still consumed his mind.

The Olympics seemed like a different lifetime, with you joining the team shortly after the Spaniards' defeat and downturn in performance.

You'd seen how, tournament after tournament, he struggled to find his joy for the sport.

This first match was huge for the Spaniard.

The first of the season, a statement that last year was in the past, and he was taking steps forward, not backwards, like more and more articles seemed to claim.

Carlos seemed more anxious than usual on the practice courts. You watched his hands clench and release, the tension tighter than you remembered in his shoulders, him rolling them back over and over to no avail.

He moved with his usual liquidity across the court, yet you noticed the subtle hesitation.

The way he paused that second longer than normal - each hit becoming overthought instead of his typical second-nature style.

You were quiet in the stands, taking photos and observing. Alcaraz avoided looking at you, playing as if you weren't there.

He was running drills on his new serve, but something wasn't clicking; each ball either went wide or found the net.

As yet another ball failed to find its destination, he looked up, his eyes meeting yours. His gaze was filled with irritation, though for once, you could feel it wasn't directed at you so much as himself.

The moment didn't last long; he quickly turned away, flexing his hands as he marched back to the bench and let his head fall to his hands.

Juan Carlos made his way over, talking quick Spanish to his protégé that you couldn't make out even with all the Duolingo you'd been doing.

Something the older man said seemed to have an impact as Carlos softly nodded, took a deep breath and returned to the court.

As if a switch had been flipped, his serves came fast and accurately, each one landing in.

You remained quiet, the practice session continuing on at full force while you melted into the background.

As Carlos went through serves, backhands, and forehands, you watched, your eyes never leaving his figure.

Before long, he was walking back to the bench, sweaty, tired, but most importantly, confident. You watched as he moved his hands wildly, talking to his team, a smile beaming on his face.

You couldn't help but feel that twinge of disappointment that you would never be included in that group.

You had a few hours before his match in the evening, and as Carlos threw his head back in laughter with his team, you felt the urge to slip out of the court.

You found yourself wandering the grounds for a while. Finding a seat at one of the cafés, you settled in and watched the fans file around from one court to another, an array of outfits and support covering the wave of people.

It was the first time in a while you'd just sat, letting yourself forget the stress of working in the tennis world and just enjoying the beauty of it.

You felt the air get cooler as the sun began to set, but you were reluctant to return to the icy reception you knew would be waiting for you.

But then you heard the cheers coming from Margaret Court Arena, and you knew Carlos had likely stepped onto the court.

You glanced down at your phone, and a wave of nerves hit you.

You'd had missed calls from Jaun Carlos and a text wondering where you were from Albert and Samuel.

Of course, the rest of Carlos' team had always treated you with nothing but kindness, but they'd never all been so quick to wonder where you'd gone when you slipped away.

Either way, you rushed to the court, slipping through security and flashing your credentials.

You ran up the stairs and into the players' box, where you were waved over by Juan Carlos.

The seat beside him was empty, and for the first time, you sat in the front row for one of his matches.

"Thank god you're here, Carlos is about to start."

The Spaniard was on the court, jumping up and down, bringing his knees close to his chest each time.

"I'm sorry I didn't realise the time. How was he feeling?"

"Nervous, but he'll be feeling better now."

Just as you were about to ask Juanki what he meant, the umpire called for silence. Both players made their way to their ends of the court, ready for the start of the match.

Just before Shevchenko reached to serve, Carlos glanced over at the box, and while you couldn't be sure, you swore he looked at you.

Your eyes met for just a second, and you shot him a nervous smile before he took a deep breath, smiled, and crouched down ready to play.

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I'm officially back from the dead. I promise I won't make you wait five billion years for the next chapter. Let me know if you want to be on the taglist :)