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finelinefae · 11 months ago

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the game [tennisplayer!harry x tennisplayer!y/n]

synopsis: y/n's desperate to play tennis and who better to coach her than her rival

word count: 6.7k

contains: enemies to lovers, set at a boarding school, jealous h, slow burn, angst, tennis rivals

a/n: this is the very first part of a new series that i am soooooo beyond excited to be writing !! it will most likely have 4/5 parts <333 enjoy !!!

. . .

Crestwood Academy was a prestigious boarding school with a mission to cultivate excellence in its students, many of whom went on to achieve great success in their respective fields. Nestled amidst rolling hills and lush greenery, it welcomed only the most accomplished families into its esteemed halls.

Y/N had attended Crestwood Academy since she was five, thanks to her father, who owned a country club and could afford the tuition. Her parents, strict and focused on success, were determined to give her the best education possible so that she could be the very best. Her face was always buried in a book or spending her days in the library, right up until the very last minute of its opening hours.

It was her final year at Crestwood Academy before graduation. Y/N had been set on passing all of her exams at the top of her class so had been working extra hard. She studied English, maths, all three sciences, Latin, French and History as well as tennis.

Y/N's parents had always urged her to pursue a career in the top industries. Despite her efforts to feign interest in that direction, her heart had always belonged to tennis ever since she first took up the sport at Crestwood.

She had competed plenty, winning all the academy trophies and medals. Her parents would visit whenever she competed in finals and congratulated her on winning but saw it as nothing but a hobby to participate in when she wasn’t studying.

However, Y/N couldn’t deny herself the rush of playing knowing she’d have to part with the sport once she graduated. The career path of becoming a doctor was already laid out for her by her parents but she felt destined to follow a different path.

Despite the fact she had applied to dozens of schools to study medicine, she still had one more option that had nothing to do with science at all.

Every year, the academies hosted their own version of a grand slam in which the winning player received a scholarship and three years' worth of training from one of the top tennis academies in the world. Y/N longed to be at the top with the greats and she knew that this competition was the only way she could get there.

For the most part, Y/N had been self-taught. She watched videos online and took notes from the Wimbledon matches she’d see on the television. Crestwood only had one sports coach who focused most of their time on the football team so if she was going to win the scholarship, she needed the very best.

She sat on the bleachers, her book open in front of her, but her attention was drawn to the man on the court. The player’s movements were fluid and powerful, each action deliberate and precise. Yet, it was another man who held her gaze—a figure with an impassive expression, focused solely on his player.

When the match was over, Y/N slammed her book shut and walked towards the court after the players shook hands. Her eyes looked down at the limp in his step as he walked towards the cooler to grab a water bottle.

It had been a while since she had last seen him. She remembered the proud look on his parent’s faces when he was pulled out of Crestwood eighteen months ago and went on to win a grand slam in Australia. She could still feel the intense jealousy that filled her as she watched the match on television whilst studying for her chemistry test that he was also supposed to sit had he stayed.

Now he was here, back to his roots and maybe it had been fate because what she was about to ask him would determine her own path in the tennis career she longed for.

His hair was slightly longer now, his brunette, touseled curls were swept to the side in a loose, dishevelled manner. He wore sunglasses to cover his eyes from the sunlight and a navy tracksuit paired with white vans.

Seeing him brought back the once competitive emotions she had whenever she’d see him strut about the courts every lunchtime but she’d have to suppress those emotions, especially for what she was about to ask him.

“Excuse me, Harry?” Y/N called out.

He took a water bottle from the cooler and flicked off the cap before holding it to his lips and gulping it down. Y/N waited, crossing her arms as she did. “I’ve been waiting for you to show up.” Was the first thing he said.

Y/N didn’t know what to say. It was unexpected to know that he had been waiting to see her, “I didn’t know you were part of the furniture on these courts,” He smirks and Y/N’s jaw ticks. “And you still sit in the exact same spot on those bleachers, to what? Admire me?”

Y/N bristled at Harry's cocky remark, her irritation bubbling to the surface. "Hardly," she retorted, her tone sharp. "I have better things to do than waste my time watching you play."

Harry chuckled, his smirk widening as he leaned against the cooler. "Is that so? Then what brings you here?" he asked, his tone laced with curiosity. “Come to get an autograph?”

Y/N squared her shoulders, determined not to let his arrogance get under her skin. "I was actually hoping to talk to you about something," she replied, her voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in her stomach.

Harry raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Oh? And what might that be?" he inquired, his gaze piercing as he studied her intently.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N gathered her courage and suppressed her pride, "I want you to coach me," she blurted out, her words hanging in the air between them.

Harry made no effort to hide the surprise on his face but it quickly melted into a cocky smirk, “You want me to coach you? I thought you hated me?”

“I do,” She replies quickly. She’d hated him ever since he had humiliated her in a battle of the sexes tennis tournament when they were young despite the fact she had little chance of winning against him anyway. “But I don’t have to like you to recognise your talent and right now you're the best and only coach I can get if I’m going to win that scholarship,”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, “Your parents still want you to study medicine?” Something flickered in his eyes that Y/N couldn’t put her finger on.

Y/N wasn’t going to give him an answer even though it was obvious, “This is the only chance I get to escape it,” She mutters, “I wouldn’t ask unless I was desperate.”

He glanced around before taking a step forward. She was tempted to step back at the same time but she didn’t want to seem intimidated by him so stood her ground. From this proximity, she noticed how much taller he was compared to her - almost an entire foot.

“What’s in it for me?” He asked.

Y/N knew he’d ask which was why she spent so much time figuring out what she could tell him to make it worthwhile. “I know about your injury,” She says and he stills.

“Everyone knows about my injury.” He grumbles.

It had been a spectacle in the world of tennis. The new grand slam winner loses out on his second after a fatal injury at the French Open. Y/N remembered seeing him rolling on the ground, holding onto his leg as paramedics ran onto the court to aid him.

“People think you’re a one-hit wonder since you’re out for the season,” His jaw clenched as she spoke, “But if you coach me and get me to win, I guarantee you’ll be out on the court again - back where you belong,”

“You think an academy league game can get my back onto the court?”

“No, but it's a start and maybe I’ll be competing alongside you the next time you’re playing.”

There was a moment of silence as Harry absorbed her words, his gaze searching hers for any hint of insincerity. Finding none, he let out a heavy sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Fine," he relented, his voice tinged with resignation. "You want me to coach you? Prove you’re worth coaching.”

He walked over to the barrel of tennis rackets and picked one up. Y/N narrowed her eyes, remembering the last time they had played against each other and how embarrassed she was afterwards.

“But you’re-”

“One game won’t hurt,” He said before she could finish.

She followed, her steps purposeful as she reached for a racket, flipping it over in her hands as she strode to the other end of the court. Despite being clad in her school uniform—a pleated skirt, white shirt with the school crest, and loafers that threatened to slide off her feet—she was determined to prove herself. She'd show him she was worth his time, that she was a far better tennis player than he gave her credit for.

As they took their positions on opposite ends of the court, the tension between them crackled in the air. Y/N gripped her racket tightly, her focus sharp as she prepared to face off against Harry once again.

The first serve sliced through the air, the sound echoing as the ball hurtled towards Y/N. She moved with fluidly, her muscles tensing as she returned the serve.

Harry's response was swift, his movements confident as he returned the ball with a well-placed shot that left Y/N scrambling to keep up. Even with his injury, he still held the precision of a professional. But she refused to back down, her determination driving her to match him shot for shot, rally after rally.

The game intensified as they traded blows, each point reflecting their skills and determination. Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as she fought to keep pace with Harry, her mind focused solely on the ball. Both Y/N and Harry vocally exerted their energy through grunts and cries as they hit the ball with all their energy.

Despite her efforts, Harry seemed to anticipate her every move. But Y/N refused to be outdone, drawing on every ounce of strength and skill as she fought to gain the upper hand.

As the game progressed, Harry's skill and experience began to overthrow her. His shots were close to perfect and strategic, leaving Y/N struggling to keep up. Despite her determination, she found herself falling behind as Harry continued to dominate the match.

In the end, it was Harry who emerged victorious, his final shot landing just beyond Y/N's reach with a satisfying thud. As the ball bounced out of the court, Y/N knew that she had been outplayed.

She rested her hands on her knees, hunched over as she tried to regain her breath. She couldn’t help but feel disappointed that she’d lost despite the fact she was at a disadvantage anyway.

Harry’s shadow fell over her but she refused to look up just yet. He spoke anyway, “You’ve gotten better since the last time I saw you,” He spoke, holding a cold water bottle in front of her face.

She took it, the plastic crackling under her fingers, “You can just say you’re not going to do it,” She mumbled, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig of water.

“I’ll coach you,” He says, “Meet me here at 6 pm tomorrow.”

Y/N finally looked up, her mouth parted, only to find his back facing her as he walked away from the courts.

. . .

Harry had no idea what he had agreed to in coaching Y/N at tennis.

He sat in his luxurious apartment ten minutes away from Crestwood Academy, surrounded by furniture wrapped in plastic or still in cardboard boxes.

He sat on the couch with his feet resting on the coffee table in front of him and a glass of whiskey in his hand. The TV was playing quietly in front of him but his mind was on the girl he had spent the majority of his life competing with.

She had grown since the last time he had seen her before he graduated and left the country to compete in the Australian Open. Her long, tanned legs were on show beneath the grey school skirt she had been wearing. He couldn’t seem to get the image of the visible muscles in her calves out of his mind as she moved across the court to hit the ball during their impromptu tennis match.

Despite their personal differences, Harry couldn't resist her. There was an undeniable thrill in riling her up, in watching her reactions to the smallest digs. They had once been friends, back when Y/N would trail after him on the playground, eager to understand how to hit a ball with a tennis racket. But as she began competing in school competitions, she quickly learned that beating him was an impossible feat.

He wasn’t surprised to see her watching him on the court today, in fact, it amused him. Whether she liked it or not, he would always look out in the bleachers for her whenever he’d play during his time at the academy. Her reactions were what kept him going, some might even say made him better.

But, he couldn’t deny the fact that he was surprised to see her so brazenly asking him to coach her. He could tell by her reaction that it was killing her inside, to be coached by him when all she’d done was pick apart his technique, but it was clear she was desperate and Harry knew it was because of her parents.

Harry had had his fair dose of strict parentage. When he was told he could no longer play tennis for the season, his parents shipped him straight back to Crestwood to finish his final year since he never actually graduated.

He loathed them for it, barely saying a word to them as they paid the rent in cash for his apartment and left him with boxes to unpack on his own. He knew they were disappointed in him despite the fact the injury was no fault of his own, they could barely look at him as they left, closing the door behind them.

It was embarrassing. How could he have gone from being at the top of his game to the very bottom? Now he was back in the place he had turned his back on, feeling like he was back to square one all over again.

Harry’s thoughts were broken by the sound of his phone ringing. The name of his best friend since he was born lit up the screen.

“What?” Harry answered the call, his train of thought forming a particular level of intolerance in him.

“Hey, is that any way to talk to your best friend?” Mitch replied along with the sound of loud chattering in the background because he always had to be somewhere with someone.

“Sorry,” Harry huffed, “Long day.”

“Already? You’ve not even started classes yet,” Mitch chuckled.

“Don’t remind me,” Harry hadn’t even begun thinking about being back in classrooms and having to put up with kids his age berating him with questions he didn’t want to answer. Tomorrow would be his first day back and he was dreading it.

“C’mon now, don’t be too glum about it, haven’t you missed me?”

“No,” Harry lied.

“I know you well enough now to know when you’re lying.” Mitch laughed down the phone.

A hint of a smile grazed Harry’s lips, "Whatever," he replied, his tone gruff but lacking conviction. Despite his attempt to feign disinterest, a part of him couldn't deny the truth in Mitch's words. There had been many moments he had experienced after leaving school when he missed the company of people his own age. Everyone around him was older than he was and spoke to him as though he was some prized trophy that needed to be handled with caution. He’d spend evenings by the pool by himself, watching the sunset and wishing his friends were there to celebrate his win with him.

"I'll take that as a yes," Mitch teased, “I know the boys will be happy to have y’ back and I can introduce you to Sarah. I think Molly Brown still has a thing for you as well by the way, talks about you all the fuckin’ time.” Harry listened to his friend ramble about all the things he had missed in the last year or so but his mind seemed to travel elsewhere.

His eyes wandered around the room, his ear still pressed to his phone, until they landed on an open box with a picture frame resting on top. He recognized the photo immediately, even without picking it up, because he had kept it hidden in his old dorm desk. In the picture, a group of eight students—four boys and four girls—smiled at the camera, with Harry standing at the back and Y/N right beside him.

. . .

Y/N slammed the door of her locker shut after pulling out her workbooks for her next class. Students bustled down the hallways of Crestwood Academy, wearing their navy blazers and uniform for another week of school.

“Have you seen him yet?” Sarah, Y/N’s best friend, came out of nowhere and stood in front of her.

“Seen who?” Y/N remained indifferent even though she knew who Sarah was referring to.

Everyone had been talking about Harry since she had walked into school from her dorm room this morning. It was the main topic of conversation, everyone’s eyes darting around the hallways to try and find him.

“You know,” Sarah nudged her, “The boy you’ve spent most of your life in a one-sided rivalry with?”

“One-sided? It’s a mutual hatred,” Y/N argued.

Sarah gave her a look before continuing, “I texted Mitch twenty minutes ago but he hasn’t replied. I know I’ve met Harry before but this is the first time I’ll be meeting him as Mitch’s girlfriend and I don’t want it to change anything.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, “Sarah, just because he’s the winner of a grand slam doesn’t make his opinion of you any more important. Whether Harry likes you or not, everyone knows you and Mitch are perfect for each other.”

Y/N remembered the first time her friend had told her she was seeing Mitch. He had taken her out to dinner a few times and Sarah had come back to their shared dorm swooning and unable to stop herself from rambling the rest of the night about how romantic and funny he was.

Y/N had never experienced anything like that in her life, too busy focusing on tennis and academia to find herself in relationships, but she was happy her best friend was happy and that was all that mattered to her.

“I know but he’s important to Mitch. They’ve been best friends since infants and… that’s not all I’m worried about,” Sarah looked at Y/N pointedly.

“What?”

“Now that Mitch and I are together, that means we’ll be spending more time around each other which also means…” Sarah didn’t have to finish her sentence for Y/N to understand what she was trying to get at.

“Oh n-no! No way! Sarah, are you being serious right now?” Y/N whined, “You want me to get along with Harry just because you’re dating his best friend?”

“You don’t have to but it would be nice if you did,” Her voice trailed off at the end, her eyes looking at her pleadingly, “I’m not asking you to be best friends, I’m just asking you not to chew his head off when we’re all in the same room together.”

Y/N wanted to argue and tell her she wouldn’t be able to chew his head off anyway because she needed him to coach her for the scholarship but an arm slid around Sarah’s waist and interrupted their conversation.

Sarah grinned, turning to look up at her boyfriend who was now standing beside her, “Hey babe,” Mitch smiled.

“You’re here,” Sarah craned her neck to kiss his lips, “I texted you forever ago and you never replied.

Mitch scoffed, “It was twenty minutes ago and I didn’t have time to check my phone, too busy dragging this one through the front gates.”

Out of the corner of Y/N's eye, another figure appeared. She didn’t have to look to see who it was, the sudden surge of annoyance within her already gave them away. Her head tilted to the left to look up and see Harry.

He was wearing his school uniform, the same way he always did before he left for Australia. His shirt was untucked, and the top button was undone revealing a gold chain and a white vest underneath, his grey trousers were ironed with not a crinkle in sight and his navy blazer hung casually behind him, hooked by his middle finger.

Y/N’s eyes shifted behind him to find people whispering to each other and groups of girls giggling as they walked past. It was nothing new to see girls getting riled up over him but it had become more intensified now that he had gone abroad and made a name for himself. Despite his injury preventing him from playing, Y/N was certain that even if Harry had lost every game and embarrassed himself on live television, people would still adore him.

“Hey Harry,” Sarah offered a kind smile.

“Hi Sarah, nice to see you again. Glad to know Mitch was in good hands whilst I was away,” Harry clapped his friend on the shoulder before turning to Y/N.

“Only the very best,” Mitch pulled Sarah into his side before motioning to Y/N, “You remember Sarah’s best friend Y/N right?”

“Hmmm, aren’t you the one who lost the Junior tennis competition to me a few years ago?” Harry smirked.

Y/N's jaw clenched, but she managed to force a smile. "I could be, but aren’t you the one who they recorded rolling around on the floor like a big baby at the French Open last year?" Her retort was sharp, aimed directly at Harry.

Harry's eyes narrowed in response, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. Y/N felt a sense of satisfaction at having gotten such a reaction from him. "Welcome back to Crestwood," she added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Mitch and Sarah exchanged weary glances, sensing the tension between Y/N and Harry.

"Quite a welcome. I’ve already been asked to coach someone and I’ve only been back a week," Harry remarked, his gaze still fixed on Y/N, who met his stare with a glare of her own.

"You have?" Mitch frowned, his confusion evident.

"Who?" Sarah asked, equally perplexed.

Harry's eyes remained locked on Y/N, giving them their answer. "You asked him to coach you?" Sarah questioned her confusion mirroring Mitch's.

Y/N shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny, "Yeah, I did," she admitted reluctantly, her gaze flickering briefly to Harry before returning to Mitch and Sarah.

"Why would you ask him to coach you?" Sarah asked, her brow furrowing in confusion, “You argue all the time,”

Y/N hesitated, “I need to win the scholarship to the tennis academy in London and Harry’s the only person here who knows how to play the game.”

“Glad to know I was the pick of the bunch,” Harry’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“I thought you were applying to go to UCL?” Sarah frowned.

“I was but you know how much the game means to me and my parents refuse to believe it’s more than just a hobby. This is the only chance I’ll get to prove them wrong and the only option to get me out of studying medicine.” Y/N explained.

Sarah’s eyes softened, she too was no stranger to how strict Y/N’s parents could be. “Which is why she needs me,” Y/N felt the weight of his arm rest across her shoulders, “Right, love?”

Y/N spun around to face Harry, eyes sharp, “Don’t call me that,” She hissed, seeing the satisfied grin on his face.

He shrugged, “But I always call you that,”

Ever since they were teenagers, when the rivalry first began, Harry had opted to calling Y/N ‘love’ knowing how much it riled her up. To some, it was a term of endearment but in the world of tennis the word ‘love’ meant one thing.

‘Nil, ‘Zero’, ‘Loser’.

Y/N hated the way he spoke it too - accentuating each letter of the word to drag it out for as long as he could just to annoy her further.

She stepped forward, “Call me that one more time,” She threatened.

“Or what?” He tilted his head to the side.

“Guys seriously, break it up,” Sarah intervened, “Aren’t you supposed to be getting along if you’re going to be spending more time together.”

Y/N hated the thought of it but knew she was right. If she wanted Harry to coach her, she couldn’t go around screwing things up by arguing with him. If he was going to coach her at the sport, she’d have to coach herself in controlling her attitude around him.

“C’mon Sarah, let’s go to class,” Y/N hooked arms with her best friend, wanting to get as far away from him as possible.

“Oh okay, bye Mitch.” Sarah kissed her boyfriend before she was dragged down the hallway in a hurry.

Harry watched as Y/N practically sprinted down the hallway with Sarah in tow. He felt the need to call out of her for one last dig just so she would turn around and he’d see her face before she rounded the corner, “See you on the courts, love.” He called down to her.

As he had hoped, Y/N’s head whipped around to glare at him along with her middle finger, “Asshole!” She called back.

Harry chuckled to himself, “That face,” he murmured.

Mitch placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “You’ve got it in for yourself with that one, lad.” Mitch said.

“Tell me about it,” Harry replied, his eyes still on the place he’d last seen Y/N.

Maybe returning to Crestwood wouldn’t be so bad after all.

. . .

With Harry back, Y/N had suspected the day would be a drag with everyone constantly bringing him up in every conversation, but the first half of the day had gone well. Y/N was easily used to her classes by now and was still top of the class in all of them.

During lunch period, Y/N always sat with Sarah in the library where they’d catch up on what they missed out on each other’s lives or study during exam season. It was nice to have some reprieve during the school hours and whenever she was with Sarah, Y/N could talk for hours and hours.

Now that Sarah was dating Mitch, Y/N and Sarah would spend their lunch with his friends in the lunch hall. Y/N didn’t mind it so much having grown used to being around Mitch’s friends despite their loud and boisterous personalities.

However, today she was dreading the fact that now her lunchtimes would also include being around the person she wanted to spend as little amount of time with as possible.

“Can’t we just eat in the library today? Please?” Y/N pulled on the sleeve of her best friend's blazer as she begged her to turn back in the direction of the library. She could already picture Harry’s annoying smirk the closer they got to the entrance of the lunch hall.

“Y/N you’re being dramatic. It’s just an hour, I’m sure you can survive being around him that long.” Sarah continued to tug her down the hallway.

“Sarah I already have to spend enough time as it is,” Now that she asked him to be her coach. The more the day went by the more she was starting to regret her decision.

Sarah spun on her heel, “Think of this as practice then,” Her eyes looked past Y/N’s shoulder, “Look, there they are,” She moved past her and beelined towards their table where Y/N saw Mitch, Jake and Adam already sitting along with that head of brunette curls that Y/N just wanted to tear out every time she saw him.

Sighing, she followed Sarah and approached the table responding to everyone’s friendly greetings until she got to Harry, “You’re in my seat,” She spoke after realising all the seats were taken.��

Harry didn’t bother to look around, that stupid grin plastered to his face when he looked up at her, “Am I?”

Y/N gritted her teeth, “Yes,”

“Hmm,” He swivelled around to look at the back of the chair, “I don’t see your name anywhere.”

A wave of chuckles rippled around the table but Y/N had yet to find the amusement in it. “She does always sit there, H.” Mitch chuckles, “Just grab another chair from a different table.”

Harry leant back against the seat and crossed one leg over his thigh, “But I quite like this seat.”

“I’m not moving until you get out of my seat,” Y/N crossed her arms, refusing to give in to him.

“Well you’re going to be stood up for a long time and y’ need those legs for later,” Harry smirked, “Or you could just sit here,” He unfolded his legs and motioned towards his lap, “Still your seat.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched but before she could respond, Adam chuckled and stood up, “Here,” He picked another chair up from an empty table and set it down next to him, “Y’ can sit here Y/N.”

She was tempted to refuse and continue to nag Harry for the rest of lunch but decided against it, not wanting to waste her energy on him. Her eyes softened at Adam’s kindness, “Thanks, Adam.” She sat beside him.

Harry’s smirk seemed to falter when Y/N sat down, watching as Adam looked at Y/N even as she turned to face the others.

“Is that Molly Brown looking at y’ again Harry?” Jake, who Y/N considered the loudest one of Mitch’s friends, leant over the table to speak lowly to Harry even though it was impossible for him to ever be so quiet.

Harry forced himself to look away from Adam before he burnt holes into him. “She’s been after him since fifth year,” Mitch chuckled.

“Y’ think you’ll let her have it this year, H?” Jake takes a spoonful of his lunch and swallows it down.

“Have what?” Sarah frowned, confused.

“Nothing you need to know about, babe,” Mitch replies, opening her waterbottle for her after she silently handed it to him.

“I’ve never been interested in Molly,” Harry quickly replies but his ears prick when he hears Y/N laughing quietly with Adam.

“Mind if I take my chances then?” Jake asks, “I’ve always wanted to date a cheerleader,”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Harry shakes him off, “What about you Adam?” He gets the attention from both Y/N and Adam as they look up, “Don’t you have a thing for Molly?”

Adam furrows his brows, “Molly Brown? Maybe in like third year,” He chuckles, “I’m not interested in anyone at the moment.”

Harry wants to laugh in his face, “Y’ sure about that?”

Adam frowns but Y/N quickly interrupts them, “People are allowed to have other interests you know.”

Harry feels that rush of excitement when she speaks run through his body, “Is this a touchy subject for you?”

Y/N scowls, “No, I’m just saying Adam doesn’t need to be interested in girl’s all the time.”

“Well maybe Adam can speak for himself,” Harry quips.

“Lord save me,” Jake mumbles and Sarah laughs.

“Well what about you? Have you managed to sink your fangs into anyone?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Y/N gapes, “I’ve dated plenty of people,”

The image unsettles Harry but he takes the opportunity to tease Y/N further. "Plenty of people, huh?" he echoes.

Y/N's cheeks flush slightly, "I mean... well, not plenty, but a few," she stammers.

But Harry doesn't let up, "Oh, really?" he presses, "Care to share? I'm sure we'd all love to hear about the few men who you’ve tempted."

Y/N shoots him a glare, knowing full well that Harry was onto her. "I... uh, well," she stumbles over her words, searching for a way to change the subject.

But before she can respond, Adam jumps in. "Come on, Harry, give her a break," he glowers.

“Yeah, Y/N’s just waiting for the right guy and there’s nothing wrong with that,” Sarah pipes in, always one to have her best friend’s back.

Harry raises an eyebrow, his gaze flickering between Y/N and Adam before settling on Y/N, who shifts uncomfortably. Sensing the tension, Mitch swiftly changes the subject to something else.

. . .

After lunch, Y/N made her way to her next class with Adam walking alongside her. Out of all of Mitch’s friends, she got on the most with Adam to the point where Sarah was constantly pestering her over considering a date with him but Y/N didn’t see him as any more than a good friend. He was quiet and kept to himself for the most part, excelling in the arts and playing bass guitar in a band on weekends. Y/N enjoyed the calmness he brought to the group especially with the others being so loud all the time.

“What do you think?” Adam asked, holding the strap of his backpack in one hand as it hung over his right shoulder.

“What do I think about what?” Y/N frowned.

“You know, Harry being back. I know you two didn’t always get along,” He explained.

Y/N scoffed, “If it weren’t for the fact he’s coaching me for the Academy Slam, I would be praying to whatever God that’d listen to send him back to Australia,” Which was also the furthest possible country he could be away from her.

Adam chuckled, “He told us earlier he’d be coaching you,”

Y/N scowled, “I bet he couldn’t get enough of it,”

“Actually he seemed pretty happy about it. We haven’t seen him that happy since he got back from Australia.”

“Really? Maybe that injury did something to his head,”

“What makes you hate him so much anyway?” Adam asked.

Y/N sighed. It was a question she heard often but never had a solid answer for. She couldn't quite explain why she disliked Harry so much. Maybe it was because he had things she wanted, and jealousy often turned into hatred. But there was something more, something she couldn't quite pin down.

Despite her dislike, Y/N went to all of Harry's matches, and she watched them on TV too. Even when she tried to stay in her room, her legs seemed to move on their own, taking her to the courts to watch him play. She hated that part of her rooted for him, and she couldn't figure out why. Maybe it was because Harry had been the first person to teach her how to play and she felt some sense of loyalty to that but she had no perfect answer even though she wished for one.

“His face annoys me,” Y/N says.

“That’s it?” Adam snickers.

“I don’t know,” Y/N shrugs, “We’ve always had this rivalry that stemmed out of nowhere but I can’t even remember how it started.”

“You don’t have feelings for him do you?” The question came out of nowhere and took Y/N completely off-guard.

"What? No!" Y/N's response came out a little too quickly, and she hoped her cheeks hadn't betrayed her by turning red.

Adam shrugged. "Just making sure," he said casually. "You know, some people get them mixed up—love and hate."

Y/N furrowed her brow, genuinely puzzled. "How is that even possible?"

"Well, they're both intense emotions, aren't they?" He mused. "And sometimes, when you feel strongly about someone, whether it's love or hate, it can blur the lines between the two."

Y/N pondered his words, a sense of unease settling in her stomach, "No way," she replied firmly, shaking her head. "I may not like him, but there's definitely no love there."

Adam chuckled, sensing her defensiveness. "Alright, that’s good," he said with a grin.

Y/N felt a hint of a smile on her lips, “What does that mean? That’s good?”

Adam shrugged, still smiling, “Jus’ saying,” He spoke and Y/N laughed.

Her gaze flicked from Adam's to Harry, who stood in the hallway with Molly Brown, her brunette waves tied up in the perfect, slicked back ponytail. Hoping to slip by unnoticed, she quickened her pace, but it was too late. Harry's eyes locked onto hers, then shifted to Adam. She caught the subtle twitch of his jaw before he pushed off the wall, ignoring Molly, and strode toward them.

Adam must not have noticed Harry coming towards them because he quickly bid goodbye so he could rush to his literature class. Y/N picked up her pace but Harry was already by her side, “Do you like him?” Harry asked.

“Who Adam? Well let’s see, he’s nice and smart and doesn’t feel the need to open his mouth every five seconds unlike some people I know, so yeah I do like him.”

Harry scoffed, “He’s a little boring don’t you think?”

Y/N rolled her eyes at Harry's comment, a retort already forming on her lips. "Nice of you to say that about your own best friend," she quipped. "Makes me wonder what you say about me."

Before she could say anything more, she gasped in surprise as Harry tugged on her hand and swiftly spun her around until her back was against the row of lockers. Her heart raced as he stepped forward, blocking her in, and dipped his head closer to hers.

"I think we need some ground rules for this whole coaching thing," Harry murmured, his voice low. "If you're planning on winning, I recommend using your time more wisely instead of wasting it on nice boys."

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as she processed his words. "Is that a rule or are you asking me not to date anyone?" she managed to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Both," Harry replied, his tone unwavering.

Her mind raced, unsure how to respond, "What about you then?" she countered.

"Is that a personal request?" Harry's smirk widened, his gaze locking onto hers. "Because I'm the coach, and I set the ground rules so anything you ask me to do is because you want me to do it."

Y/N's heart pounded louder in her ears as Harry's proximity sent heat coursing through her, "It's only fair," she replied, her voice barely audible.

Harry chuckled softly. "Fine, if it makes you happy. But I’m not interested in dating nice girls or boys anyway," he remarked with a smirk.

Y/N swallowed, her curiosity piqued. "What are you interested in?"

He smirked, "The game," he replied cryptically.

With that, he moved away from her, his eyes lingering on her lips for a moment before he turned and walked down the hallway, “See you tonight, love.” He called back.

As the sound of his footsteps faded, Y/N stood there, stunned and unable to move. She was grateful that no one had witnessed the exchange as she pulled out her compact, trying to compose herself and hide the flush of embarrassment that coloured her cheeks.

As she hurried to class, already five minutes late, Y/N couldn't shake the intensity of her encounter with Harry. Sitting by the window, her mind wandered as the teacher lectured the class, her gaze drifting to the courts outside where she'd soon be training with him this evening.

This coach-student dynamic had unlocked a new territory between them, something unpredictable that Y/N had no choice but to delve into for the months ahead.

Yet, it was her only choice. Harry was the only way she could win and she’d push through whatever feelings she had to get what she wanted.

She’d play the game, just as he wanted her to.

1K notes · View notes

gamesetattach · 16 days ago

Text

Reps and Races

Jannik Sinner x F1 Academy Driver!Reader Gym crushes are the best crushes, especially when it's Jannik Sinner. Reader is his, too... on the low—he keeps up with her more than she might see... And it's somehow Oscar Piastri's loss In honor of the beginning of the 2025 Formula Season!!! Tried to make this non-F1 fan friendly as well, btw, so sorry if I over explained simple stuff or skimmed over niche things!

Your new, private gym in Monaco was exclusive, it came with this particular kind of hush, a haven for elite athletes and socialites who preferred to train away from prying eyes. No blaring music, no overcrowded machines—just the quiet hum of effort, the rhythmic clatter of weights meeting the floor, the occasional murmur of conversation between clients. A state of the art facility, it was designed to accommodate those who trained at the highest level—Formula 1 drivers, footballers, tennis players, the likes, even the occasional celebrity looking for discretion. It was where you had been coming every morning for weeks now, getting ready for your first F1 Academy race after transitioning away from rallying. Your routine at the tail-end of your off-season was precise, structured, and entirely focused—an essential discipline that came from years of preparing for the rough, unpredictable nature of rally stages.

You had been training here for weeks now, preparing for your first F1 Academy race after years spent wrangling cars through unpredictable terrain. The transition demanded flexibility, precision, an entirely different kind of endurance. Your mornings were spent sharpening your reflexes, reinforcing your core, strengthening the muscles that would keep you steady through high-speed corners. It was just you and your trainer, day in day out, pushing a familiar routine, the constant burn in your muscles.

And then, one morning, he was there.

Jannik Sinner walked in with his trainer, Marco, his presence quiet but unmistakable. He was taller than you expected, lean and coiled with the kind of strength you couldn’t quite see, but could feel in that stalky way he would walk. You knew who he was immediately—of course you did—but you reminded yourself that you were too professional to stare. He wasn’t the only high-profile athlete to train here, and you weren’t about to gawk like some wide-eyed spectator.

He didn’t seem to notice you, not at first. He moved through his drills with the same focus you had seen on the court, that quiet intensity. In between his sets though, somewhere between reps and exhaustion, you’d catch a boyish smile or a carefree laugh he’d exchange with his trainer.

For a while, you existed in parallel, your sessions overlapping but never intersecting. You caught glimpses—him adjusting his grip on a resistance band, the sharp exhale as he pushed through a set, the way he raked his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair between reps. And every so often, you felt his gaze flicker over to you, just for a second, just long enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.

The first time you really felt his eyes on you came when you were braced to carry out your neck exercises—not your most flattering state. You had looped the resistance band around your head, pressing against the strain of the taught elastic held by your trainer, the familiar burn settling into your muscles. It was a critical part of your training, one that separated racing drivers from other athletes. The forces your body endured inside a car were unique, relentless. Without this work, your neck would collapse under the sheer weight of the G-forces pressing you into the seat.

Sinner, taking a quick water break, wiped sweat from his brow as he watched you from afar. He gently waved for the attention of his trainer, tipping his chin toward you.

"È una pilota?” he murmured to Marco, keeping his voice low. A driver?

Marco followed his gaze, nodding slightly. "Eh, direi di sì. Con quegli esercizi al collo." Must be. With those neck exercises.

Sinner hummed in thought, his attention lingering just a fraction longer before he returned to his set. The moment passed quickly, but the curiosity was left to settle.

---

The next time you saw him at the gym, it had to have been the fifth day in a row and, yet, it was the first time you actually spoke.

You were mid-set, muscles burning through the last reps of an exercise when Marco and your own trainer strayed near one another. Marco caught his eye, gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before striking up casual conversation, trainer to trainer—glady exchanging trade secrets, built on years of shared spaces and common understanding. They talked recovery plans, upcoming schedules, the way their athletes were adjusting to routine.

They conversed around you and above you as you finished up an exercise. You were still tied to your set, bound to the mat, committed to finishing the last controlled movements when Sinner, finishing his own set first, made his way over. You faltered a little as he came close. He wiped his face with his towel, slung it around his neck, and drifted closer, slipping into the conversation of your trainers with a natural ease.

“You’re training for a professional sport, yeah?” Marco asked, nodding his head toward you as he spoke to your trainer.

Your trainer nodded, casting a quick glance in your direction. “Yeah. She’s a racing driver.”

“That’s cool,” Sinner said, his voice more open now, engaged. “We had a feeling—saw you making the neck exercises.”

You exhaled through the last rep before finally sitting up to join the conversation, flexing your fingers slightly before glancing toward him. His gaze was neutral, not probing, and even a little… interested.

“You know your stuff then,” you said, gesturing to your neck. “It’s a necessary evil. Are you a Formula fan?”

“Of course.” Marco cut in. “We are Italian.”

Jannik huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s true, I grew up watching Ferrari.” Then, a pause. “What series do you drive for?”

“F1 Academy,” you said, wiping the sweat from your palms. “Just made the switch from rallying, actually.”

That piqued his interest. “Rally?” His brows lifted slightly. “That’s a bit different, no?”

You shrugged, adjusting the wrap on your wrist. “Yeah, but racing is racing. Seemed like the right time to make a change.”

Your trainer nudged Sinner slightly. “She’s being modest,” they noted to him. “She’s had a great run in rally—Formula è dove girano i soldi.” Formula is where the money is.

Sinner’s gaze flickered back to you, you caught amusement and intrigue twinkling in his eyes. “I get that,” he said. “Still, that’s exciting for sure.”

You gave a small smile. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. Just have to train extra hard.” Then, getting up to stand, you extended a hand. “I’m [Your Name], by the way.”

His grip was firm, steady. “Jannik,” he said, though there was clearly no need to introduce himself.

You smirked slightly, dropping his hand. “No, I know.” Then, with a small nod, you admitted, “I don’t follow tennis so much, but I’d have to be living under a rock not to know who you are.”

Sinner smiled at that, easy and genuine.

The conversation carried on from there, shifting naturally between topics—training schedules, travel routines, the way Monaco had an uncanny way of crossing the paths of athletes from every odd discipline and feild. Marco and your trainer chimed in now and then, but they stuck to their own bubble; leaving you and Jannik to exchange necessary small talk, breaking the ice with the customary explanation of your careers and your lifestyles.

Then, a gym staff member approached and broke the conversation that had narrowed to just the two of you, all smiles and hopeful energy. “Hi, sorry to interrupt—would you two mind taking a quick photo for the gym’s socials? Just a quick one.”

You hesitated and glanced at Sinner, letting him call the shots. He met your gaze, before shrugging. “Sure, why not?”

The camera clicked. A blink-and-you-miss-it moment, one that would live online long after you both moved on. You nodded to him and returned to your workout after that, taking the photo as a catalyst to break you away from your extended introductions. He did the same.

But when he left a little while later, bag slung over his shoulder, he hesitated just before the door. Just enough to glance back. You think he even waited for a second so that he could catch his eyes, lifting a hand in a casual wave.

---

It didn’t take long for the photo to spread.

Apparently, that casual snapshot posted on the gym’s official Instagram was just the beginning. It was nothing overly produced or posed, you and Jannik standing side by side, post-workout, both a little flushed from exertion, him with a towel still draped around his neck and leaning down a bit in your direction, you with your arms relaxed at your sides. There was even a significant gap between you two—nothing awkward, just an appropriate distance for two, newly acquainted people. It wasn’t anything groundbreaking, just blip in athletes' routine.

But the internet saw anything but.

They took it and ran.

First, it was just tennis and motorsport fans recognizing two known athletes in the same frame. Then, it came the speculation—what were you talking about? Did you know each other? Were you training together? Supporting him through his ban? Him through your off-season?

And then, somewhere along the way, the internet collectively decided something else: that you and Jannik Sinner—in this totally unassuming, nonchalant gym photo—looked incredibly good together.

It didn’t help that the lighting was oddly flattering, that your mis-exercise glow read more like a happy flush than the result of hours of physical strain. Or that Jannik, with his usual mix of sharp angles and an effortlessly tousled look, had that kind of reserved presence that made the smallest expressions—like the barely-there smirk he was wearing in the photo—feel more deliberate than they actually were.

The quote tweets were relentless:

okay but why is this kinda a sports power couple?? i don’t even care about tennis or f1 but i CARE about this Formula for the fastest kid alive: they have compatible energies. athletes in their prime, locked in, looking like they’d make an unfairly attractive athletic dynasty.

It was amusing at first. You weren’t oblivious to the way social media latched onto things, how narratives formed out of nothing but a well-timed post. You’d seen it happen with other athletes, random friendships turned into sagas, the media deciding truths before the actual people involved even had a chance to weigh in. Still, you weren’t expecting this level of fixation.

The first time you scrolled through the posts, you snorted, shaking your head as you locked your phone and tossed it onto your bed. Ridiculous. It wasn’t like the two of you had even had a proper conversation beyond the introductions and a bit of light small talk. A photo wasn’t anything more than a photo.

And yet…

You opened Instagram again later, only to find that you had now been tagged in dozens of edits. A few of them were standard—gym recaps, Mclaren social media content, highlight reels. Others, though, leaned full tilt into the narrative people were spinning.

Side-by-side comparisons of your best race shots and his championship moments. Clips of your training overlaid with his on-court movement, the parallels drawn with surgical precision. Some even went as far as to slow zoom on the way he had turned toward you in the photo, like there was some hidden meaning in it, some undeniable chemistry.

Even mainstream sports pages had picked up on it. One account with millions of followers captioned it:

“Two generational athletes, one frame. Tennis x Motorsport crossover we didn’t know we needed.”

Another read:

“Rally on Rally Crime”

You stared at your screen, exhaling slowly, fingers hovering over your phone. There was something surreal about seeing yourself plastered across social media like this, turned into a narrative you had no hand in shaping. It wasn’t overwhelming, not yet, but it was definitely… something. You were new to the attention, the fresh face of Mclaren’s F1 Academy seat—rally races had never amassed as much attention as it deserved.

You flicked back to the original post, on the gym’s official account, scrolling through the comments again, rolling your eyes at some, laughing at others. It would pass, you told yourself. The internet was fickle. It would move on. But a part of you relished the commotion… that it was a connection to him.

So when you noticed something new, as you refreshed the post, you sat up a little straighter.

“Jannik liked!!”

Jannik had liked the post. He’d seen it.

You locked your phone immediately, setting it face-down on your nightstand. Don’t read into it. Don’t read into it, be chill.

You had no reason to believe he’d devolved into all the discussion and attention on the two of you like you had. He’d only interacted with the original post, and of course he had.

…Of course he had.

---

The gym felt the same as it always did—cool air humming from overhead vents, the scent of rubber mats and faint traces of sweat lingering in the quiet. No flashing cameras, no murmurs of speculation, no sign that the internet had turned one candid gym photo into an international talking point. It was just another training day.

At least, that’s what you had to tell yourself. But you couldn’t deny you had an easier time making it to the gym than usual, hopeful to have another run in…

You spotted Jannik almost immediately. He was mid-session, focused, his movements precise as he worked through a set. You caught the briefest flicker of recognition when he glanced up, a nod exchanged without hesitation before he refocused on his workout. His trainer gave you a wave as well. Completely normal. Casual. Just another morning at the gym.

Your own trainer, however, had other ideas.

As you passed by Jannik and Marco on your way to warm up, your trainer chuckled to themself before leaning in, voice just low enough for only you to hear. "Shouldn’t you kiss hello."

You shot them a glare before they could get any further. "Not a word."

They laughed but relented, though you could still feel their amusement in the way they shook their head as you both moved past. It should’ve been easy to shake off, you had media training for this. A stupid internet thing, a momentary obsession that would pass like everything else.

And yet, for the rest of your session, you couldn’t help but be even more aware of him than you had been before.

It wasn’t that you were watching him. Not exactly. But every time you caught sight of him in the mirror, your eyes lingered longer than necessary. The way his shirt clung to his back as he moved through a set, the way his fingers flexed between reps, the sharp lines of concentration in his face before the effort melted into something looser, more at ease. The way he’d lift his shirt to dab at sweat collecting on his nose, revealing the his torso for the briefest of seconds. It wasn’t that he was attractive—you weren’t that easily distracted, you weren’t gawking—but there was something engaging about watching someone that dedicated, that in control of every motion… that’s how you rationalized it.

And apparently, your "non-appraisal" wasn’t the most discreet.

“Eyes on your form. If you want to watch a tennis player, go to a match.” Your trainer quipped when you zoned out a beat too long before starting your next set.

You rolled your eyes, gripping the dumbbells tighter, determined to redirect your focus. It was nothing. Just heightened awareness. You were an athlete—you respected talent, recognized discipline when you saw it. That was all.

Jannik, on his end, wasn’t exactly faring much better. He wasn’t watching you—at least, not intentionally. But in the way athletes naturally kept tabs on their surroundings, his gaze found you more often than it should have. The way you braced before each set, the push of your muscles under strain, the quiet control in your movements. A few times, when he caught himself watching too long, he forced his focus back to his own workout, but it kept happening. And then, the mirror—

Your eyes met.

Brief, fleeting. Obvious.

You dropped your gaze first, pressing your lips together, exhaling lightly through your nose as you curled the dumbell. He played it off just as smooth, refocusing on his medicine ball. But the next time you risked a look, you thought you caught a smirk growing on his lips.

By the time Jannik finished his session, you were still deep in your workout, beads of sweat dotting your skin as you powered through another set. He and Marco passed by on their way out, offering another easy wave goodbye.

“See you later,” Jannik said, voice light and natural, and you nodded back in response.

But just as they passed, you caught Marco’s voice directed at Jannik, low and teasing. "Allora, quando la sposi?" So, when’s the wedding?

Jannik’s laugh was quiet, but unmistakable. As they stepped outside, just before the door swung shut behind them, he glanced back once more. Through the glass, his gaze flicked toward you before he replied, “Ah, dicono che sia già successo.” They say it's already happened.

You barely caught his remark through the muffle of the closing door, but his expression seemed to happily humor whatever offhand comment Marco had made. And you had your suspicions about what it may have been about—or you had your hopes, at least.

You turned to your trainer, who had lived in Monaco long enough to know some Italian. “Did you catch that? Please tell me you did.”

“If I tell you, you have to promise to push the next set until failure. For real, this time.”

“Last time was for real.” You threw a nearby foam roller at them. “Just tell me.”

“Something about marriage.”

“Okay… I knew it! I think I caught that—sposi.”

“Why ask then, if you know everything.” Your trainer retorted, smirking as they turned their back on you.

“For the love of—just finish. What’d he say back?” You grab their shoulders to spin them back toward you.

“He said…”

“I’ll kill you, I will.”

With another roll of their eyes, your trainer finally indulged you. “Something about how the wedding has allegedly already happened.”

“...Meaning he must have seen the tweets?”

“And the posts and the edits… Yeah, I think it’s safe to say he has.” They sent you an amused look as they handed you a kettle bell the next weight up.

“And he didn’t seem mad about it…”

“That, he did not—not at all.”

And, even while completing your final and most rigorous exercise of the day, you couldn’t stop the grin that slowly grew on your face.

---

The F1 season was on the cusp of beginning, and the next time you made your way to the gym would be the last for many months. Pre-season testing had wrapped, final preparations were being made. You were back in Monaco for a brief period before the first race of the F1 calendar would take place, just a handful of days away. Everything felt sharper, more electric—like the all things around you were bracing for competition.

Much to your luck, Jannik happened to be their during you last visit as well. He approached you during a short break in your workout, a casual but deliberate kind walk up to you. You’d caught him looking over quite a few times since you’d arrived, as if he’d thought about coming up for a while.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice as easy as ever. “I wanted to wish good luck before you leave.”

“Oh—thanks.” You looked up, slightly surprised but not displeased. “Feels like everything’s kind of kicking off all at once.”

He nodded, resting a hand on his towel-draped shoulder. “Melbourne’s always exciting. You can feel it even here in Monaco, the first race weekend energy is always something else.”

“Yeah, it’s chaos honestly. Fans everywhere, nerves, media running at full speed.” You huffed a small laugh, stretching out your arms. “You’re fairly familiar with Melbourne, aren’t you?

“Yes, yeah,” he smiled, a knowing glint in his eye at your allusion to his win streak. “It’s a special place—it’s also the first major of the season. So Australia is the beginning for us tennis players, too.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” You considered that, then gave a slight tilt of your head. “F1 Academy's start actually isn’t in Melbourne.”

It was a common misconception, many long-time F1 fans like Jannik weren’t familiar with the sporadic F1 Academy schedule that went in tandem with F1 itself, but he was quick to respond. Matter-of-fact and faultless, he quickly clarified for himself. “Aah, yes. It’s in Shanghai, no? The week after?”

“...Yes, actually.” His answer stopped you for a second, leaving you pleasantly surprised, your brows raising. “That’s exactly right.”

He shrugged, casual as ever. “I assume you will be traveling soon either way so I wanted to wish you luck before.”

“Well, thank you,” You hummed, smirking to yourself as you picked up your water bottle. “Seems like someone’s been looking into the F1 Academy schedule.”

Jannik didn’t skip a beat at the teasing. If anything, his reply was entirely diplomatic, if not a little sheepish. “No, I mean—honestly, I did not know much before,” he admitted. “But I’d like to.”

You shot him a look, playful and curious. “Yeah? Big F1 Academy fan now?”

“Trying to be,” he said, smiling. “I like all racing.”

“Good answer.”

You chatted a little more—about training, about how brutal long-haul flights could be when in-season travel ramped up, about the chaos of Melbourne when the events rolled into town. The conversation was easy, no need for overthinking. Just two people talking about their respective worlds, swapping stories of airports, media days, and all the ways professional sports altered the warped any sense of time zones.

And then, as you were about to part ways, he hesitated for just a second before speaking. “Hey,” he said, shifting slightly on his feet. “Mind if I get your number?”

You blinked once, processing. Athletes exchanged numbers all the time. Networking, staying in touch, all that. It wasn’t necessarily a move. It’s not a move.

Still, something about it caught you off guard, just for a second. You didn’t let it show. You nodded, and he was already unlocking your phone to hand to you. It’s not not a move.

You took his phone, fingers moving quickly to type in your number into the recipient part of a new message tab before hesitating for just a second over the text. Just your first? Full name? Something stupid and teasing? You settled on just his name, clean and simple—like you did this all the time, like you needed a reminder of who’s number it was this time—before passing it back.

But when you got back home and opened your phone to the text—Jannik Sinner—you had to school yourself before you jumped up and down in your apartment. Settling on only loving the message, the message you had sent from his phone, you bit back a smile as you saved his number to your contacts.

---

The Melbourne Grand Prix weekend buzzing with energy, you could even tell through the screen—fast cars, packed grandstands, and coverage in every direction. You had the pre-race media on in the background, half paying attention as you stretched out on your hotel room couch, scrolling through your phone between interviews and team meetings.

When the interviewer made their way to Oscar Piastri, you let your attention drift back to the screen and your long-time friend.

It was a casual pre-race chat about his off-season, his expectations, and how he spent his time away from the paddock; fielding predictable questions about his off-season and the new announcement of his multi-year contract.

“Spent a lot of time here in Australia—Watched a lot of cricket, some tennis. Just had time with my family and my girlfriend, but I’m happy to be back.” He finished the concise summary with his characteristic polite nod, lips pressed into a straight line of a smile.

"We all saw you at the Australian Open—I believe Mark Webber was also there."

"Yup,” Oscar nodded once more. “Mark was there, I was there with my girlfriend Lily. We got to watch Jannik Sinner play in the semi-finals, which was quite cool. He had a great run."

You exhaled a short laugh to yourself. It was no surprise that Oscar mentioned Jannik in his off-season recap, you were surprised he had to be prompted at all—even you knew of his online fixation on the tennis player. Not that you could claim to be much better.

The interviewer continued. "Speaking of Sinner—Did you see your fellow McLaren F1 Academy driver was spotted training at the same gym as him.”

You blinked, now fully alert. They were bringing that up?

Oscar smiled a little at that. “Yes, I did see this.”

Your eyes narrowed at the screen. Of course he did.

"How do you feel about that? That she’s potentially getting more face time with one of your favorite athletes than you are." The interviewer asked playfully.

"Hm, might have to switch gyms now." He deadpanned.

“For Sinner or for [Your Name]?”

"No, I already see enough of her—I mean, we're old friends.” Oscar made a face before huffing out a little laugh. Then, he glanced straight into the camera with a grimace, as if he was addressing you directly. "No offense."

Your jaw dropped slightly, amidst your smile, before a laugh bubbled up. The broadcast had even thrown up that gym photo in the corner of the screen, the very same one that had set the internet off not even a couple of weeks ago.

Grinning, you snapped a picture of the moment on your screen. Behind, the interview carried on as you scrolled through your text inbox to hover over his name. Jannik Sinner. This could be the perfect olive branch, the most organic opportunity you’d get to break the ice and to use his number.

You glance back up at the broadcast. If Oscar mentions Jannik once more, then I have to send it.

“Well, your new contract states that you can visit any sports event or game on McLaren’s dime.” The interviewer had seamlessly segwayed to the topic of Oscar’s newest career development.

Oh, god. You knew what was coming. You asked for this.

“Yes, I’m very grateful. I can catch all the cricket matches I want now…”

Here it comes—

Oscar continued, “Hopefully, I can catch a couple more games of Sinner's as well. Tennis tournaments overlap with race travel, but it’s definitely in my mind.”

And there it is. You should’ve known. You stared at Oscar’s face through the screen, not knowing whether to curse him or to thank him.

“Well, there’s one way you can get ahead of [Your Name].” The interviewer joked again, dropping your name once more. “Can’t have her winning Sinner over before you can.”

Great. Not only did you hang your source of encouragement to text on the actions of your biased friend on live TV hundreds of miles away, but you were also apparently in direct competition with him as well. According to the media, at least—and they were always right…

You quickly typed out a message to go with the image before you could second guess it again.

You Just so you know, you’ve officially stolen my long-time friend You I guess Oscar chose you over me

It took less than a few minutes after sending for your phone to buzz. You jumped to read it.

Jannik Sinner Ha just saw that

So he was watching. You hoped he didn’t cringe too hard at the interviewer’s antics, or at Oscar’s.

Another text came in.

Jannik Sinner His loss

You immediately shut the phone at that, pressing lips together as you fought back a smile. Take that Piastri.

---

Over the past week, you and Jannik had been consistently texting after your initial message. More often than you’d ever expected. It wasn’t anything too committed—just a kind of easy back-and-forth you got to when you could, and it made the monotony of travel days and training schedules feel a little lighter. Normally, you were awful at keeping up with messages. You’d leave people on read for days, sometimes even weeks, as a consequence of your busy schedule once the season picked up. But with him, you found yourself checking your phone more than usual, feeling a little thrill whenever his name popped up on the screen. It was just something new and exciting to keep your attention—that's what you reminded yourself.

As the first race weekend approached, even your text responses to him became fewer and farther between. It wasn’t intentional—you just had too much going on. Track walks, meetings, media, final car setup adjustments.

And then, after all the commotion and against all odds, you won your first F1 Academy race—as a rookie. Any hope you did have to catch up on your unread texts was wiped as you were surely bombarded with a flux of congratulatory messages, not that you didn’t have many other things to get out of the way first.

The Shanghai International Circuit had been as unforgiving as they say—fast, technical, and full of overtaking opportunities for those who dared. The race started under a clouded sky, humid air thick with the weight of expectations. You had lined up in third, gripping the wheel tightly as you lined up at your box.

The moment the lights went out, the roar of the engines swallowed everything else. The run down to the first turn was chaos—eighteen cars funnelling into a long, tightening right-hander, each driver hunting for space but wary of disaster. You’d held your ground, forcing the car ahead to the outside while defending from the driver behind. The grip felt solid, but you could already tell the track was evolving under the afternoon heat.

By turn six—the heavy braking zone at the end of a sweeping acceleration stretch—you had spotted an opportunity. The driver ahead hesitated, their rear tires twitching just slightly under braking. You took the chance, diving up the inside and committing fully to the move. Your car hugged the apex, and as you powered out, you saw your front wing edge ahead. And then the position was yours.

But that was just when the real fight began.

Shanghai’s layout demanded patience and precision. The long straights gave just enough tow for cars behind to keep pressure on, while the complex middle sector tested every inch of a driver’s technical ability. The car beneath you was strong but jumpy on the exit of Turn 11, forcing you to manage throttle input carefully as you prepared for the long arc of Turn 13 leading into the back straight. You could feel the tires slowly losing grip, the rear stepping out just slightly under acceleration. You’d adjusted, keeping the balance in check, knowing that every micro-movement could mean the difference between holding position and losing it.

With ten laps to go, you had one car left to pass. The race leader was smooth, disciplined, placing their car exactly where they needed to, making sure you never had an easy run. But you’d studied them—watched their tendencies, how they hesitated slightly under braking into Turn 14. It took more than a few laps of preparation, testing different lines, seeing where you could unsettle them. And then, with just a handful of laps left, you’d made your move.

Late braking into Turn 14. Just a fraction later than before. The front tires locked for a millisecond, but you had already committed, already slotted your car alongside theirs. Side by side on exit, wheel to wheel, throttle pinned. You’d kept your foot in it, knowing the next few corners would decide everything. The grip held. Your car edged ahead.

The final laps were pure adrenaline—every braking zone, every corner exit, every defensive maneuver was a test of nerve. But when the checkered flag waved, it was your car that crossed the line first.

Your first race victory.

The radio erupted with cheers from your team, their voices overlapping, a mess of excitement and disbelief. You barely had time to process it as you pulled into the pitlane, hands shaking slightly as you unclipped the wheel.

Then came the podium. The rush of stepping onto the top step, trophy in hand, the national anthem playing. Champagne sprayed across your suit as you laughed, blinking through the sting. Cameras flashing, faces blurred by the lights. It all felt distant, like a dream happening to someone else.

Only when you sat in an icebath, in the quiet at the back of McLaren’s garage, did it really start to hit.

A flood of congratulations came from everywhere, wherever you went—team strategists, social media admin, engineers, chefs, mechanics, rival drivers, and that onslaught of messages pinging your phone from people back home who had been watching. You’d tried to skim them, but still didn’t have a moment reply. You’d get to them later.

You still had to head to McLaren's motorhome for a post-race debrief. As soon as you stepped in, Lando Norris was already grinning up at you. "Look, here comes the race winner. Only took you one try."

"Yeah, mate, took the both of us at least a season." Oscar reached up to firmly clasp your hand and nodded in agreement, his voice warm by his standards. “Congratulations.”

You nodded, smiling at the gesture. "Well… some of us learn faster than others."

Lando clapped you on the back as you sat down. "Seriously, though—hell of a drive. That last overtake was insane."

Oscar leaned forward. "Yeah, we were watching from the garage, and even I flinched when you went for it."

“He jumped, [Your Name], he jumped.” Lando said, comically widening his eyes when you met his gaze.

You laughed at that. "Wow, I can’t even imagine. I broke Oscar Piastri’s mask."

The banter eventually settled, and then the debrief began. The purpose was clear, there wasn’t much time until the F1 race now—you had to provide all relevant insights for Lando, Oscar, and the engineers. The track conditions, tire performance, and any major takeaways they could apply to their own races.

The strategists pulled up detailed telemetry, analyzing how the track surface had evolved throughout the weekend. Shanghai’s long straights meant lower downforce setups were favored, and the heavy braking zones into Turn 6 and Turn 14 made front tire management crucial. You all discussed track temperature fluctuations and rubber buildup, and how the track evolution was steady but tight.

The strategists noted that teams who pitted early had struggled with graining, while those who extended stints found better traction toward the end.

"Your exits in Sector 2 were really strong," one of the strategists noted, highlighting how you had found better traction out of Turn 11 than most of the grid. "That’s probably what set you up so well for the final overtake."

Lando, with focus that always surprised you, leaned in. "Shanghai's such a weird track for braking. One lap it's fine, the next you're sliding through Turn 14 like it's a drift comp. Was the wind messing with you guys today?"

"Well see here? I lost a couple of tenths through Turn 9 in the earlier laps—could be setup-related, or an adjustment thing, but it felt like wind at the time."

Oscar hummed. "From the garage, it looked like a few people were getting caught out. Back straight was catching people late on the brakes—looked like one of those days where you think you’ve nailed it, and then suddenly, nope."

You nodded. "It wasn’t too bad early on, but by mid-race, it felt like the front end was getting lighter. I was imagining it at first, but it got trickier through the long corners. Something to keep in mind, for sure."

The discussion continued, touching on how the cooler temps had made the rears a bit sketchy toward the end and how some teams were struggling to keep heat in them. The strategists flagged possible drizzle in the afternoon, debating whether it would be light enough to just make the track greasy or if it might actually justify a switch to inters. And then the engineers gave final notes before wrapping up.

As everyone started filtering out, Oscar reached for the phone on the table—only to pause. He squinted at the screen, turning it over in his hand.

“This isn’t mine.”

You frowned, glancing at your own empty hands and patting at your pockers.

“Oh, it's mine,” you said, reaching for it.

Just as you did, the screen lit up with a new message.

From Jannik Sinner

Oscar raised his eyebrows, glancing between you and the phone before tilting it just out of reach. "What’s this?"

You huffed, narrowing your eyes. "Give it back."

But Oscar wasn’t done. He gave you a look after skimming the notification, and then deadpanned, "So, what kind of gym is this exactly?"

You rolled your eyes, making another grab for it, but he sidestepped easily. "Oscar—"

"Maybe I should look into it." He turned to Lando for support. "I’m seriously considering."

You finally snatched the phone from his grip, shaking your head as you unlocked it. "Sounds like someone’s jealous."

"Oh, I'm devastated," he said sarcastically, still smiling when he tried to look over your shoulder. "What’d he say?"

When you glanced down at the message, all your indignation melted into something a bit more bashful.

Jannik Sinner I’m sure you are busy Jannik Sinner But wanted to wish you a congratulations on the win Jannik Sinner First of many

Your lips pressed together, but you couldn’t fight the way your ears warmed slightly.

"That’s a face.” Oscar watched you for about half a second, exchanging a look with Lando who still hovered nearby. “What did he say?"

You exhaled through your nose, still smiling as you read it over again. "Just… 'Congratulations, first of many.’ That kind of thing.”

“Isn’t he in Monaco?” Lando made a thoughtful noise, then glanced at the time. "Because your race was at like… 3:30 in the morning there."

You blinked, looking up at him before looking back at Oscar. "He probably watched it later."

Oscar gave you a look, “Even if he only finished watching now… it’s still 6 AM there."

A wide grin settled on your face in realization, but you tried not to look too smug when you replied “...Well, he did say he was trying to get into it.”

Oscar folded his arms, rolling his eyes and patting your back as he walked away. "I think I might be further behind in this race for Sinner than I thought."

---

HOW did I get so carried away. You don't even want to know how much I wrote that I deleted... Sooo much unnecessary, technical stuff. Uh but here it is... Way later than I said, whoops

Also again with the texts and the tweets and the, you know. Still figuring out the best way to format that. Because it is an inevitable part of a modern romance, and so I must learn how to include it properly. And, if you think about it, the gym crush to number exchange to the fun texting arc is honestly a fucking rom com by todays standards... Most unrealistic part is that he triple texted to say congratulations after getting temporarily ghosted... So

Also I'm a rally-truther. It's objectively way more entertaining than F1, but we're not ready for that convo Also there aren't as many divas in rally, well there are but not itn the same way

Okay, anyways. It's here, it's out, it's proud. Happy, first race weekend!! Enjoy xx

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lxndonorris · 8 months ago

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heated challenge - Carlos Alcaraz

Y/N x Carlos Alcaraz Theme: Smutish, teasing, touching you're playing against Carlos in a friendly sparring match, which get heated fast x word count: 1290+ taglist: @game-set-canet open for requests (F1, Motogp, tennis, football etc)

The sun shines brightly overhead as you and Carlos walk onto the pitch of the private sports club. The court is pristine, the lines freshly painted, and the net taut.

You look down at yourself, feeling both excitement and a hint of anxiety. You are wearing Carlos' spare tennis gear—a white top and a pair of shorts that fit surprisingly well. It's been years since you last played, held a racket, and walked onto the pitch, and while you aren't a professional, you know you are decent.

Still, the thought of playing against Carlos, a tennis superstar, is both thrilling and intimidating.

Carlos looks incredible in his yellow tank top and black shorts. His clothes accentuate his physique perfectly, each muscle sculpted and defined.

You swallow hard as your eyes meet, and he gives you a reassuring smile that sends a wave of comfort through you.

"Ready?" He asks, his voice filled with warmth and encouragement.

You nod, a little anxious about embarrassing yourself, but his smile bolsters your confidence.

You take your places on the court, and it is your turn to serve.

You take a deep breath, toss the ball into the air, and strike it with your racket. Not a bad serve, you think, but Carlos manages it effortlessly.

You rally back and forth, and you can tell he is holding back, perhaps subconsciously. It is a sparring match, after all.

As you continue, you begin to get the hang of things again. Your shots become more accurate, your movements more fluid.

Carlos notices and smirks, unconsciously stroking his chest.

"You're doing good," he says before serving the ball again, this time with more power and speed, testing you.

You manage to return it quite well, causing his smirk to widen.

Still, he wins the set.

The two of you meet at the net, both of you sweating and breathing deeply. You can't help but admire how his muscles flex with every step he takes, and you know, by his eyes roaming all over you, that he feels the same.

"You're really good," he compliments, and you blush.

"I haven't played in years," you admit, your heart racing from the exertion and his proximity.

He chuckles, clearly enjoying the moment. "It doesn't show. You're doing great."

You can tell he is excited, his eyes sparkling with a competitive fire he can't hide.

The next set is even harder.

You manage to score a few points, but Carlos' athleticism and talent are too much for you in the end. He moves with grace and power, that leaves you in awe.

Once the set is done, you walk over to the bench for a drink. Before you can take a sip, Carlos comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. His touch is comforting, and you feel a rush of warmth as his chest presses gently against your back. He hums quietly, the sound vibrating through you and giving you goosebumps.

"You did so good," he whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

You lean back into him, embracing his body against yours. His hands are firmly on your waist, holding you close—gently but possessively. Turning around to face him, your eyes meet.

"Thank you," you say, giving the compliment back. "You were amazing out there."

Carlos smirks, his gaze roaming all over you. "It was hard to concentrate," he admits, "because you look so good."

You blush again, feeling the intensity of his eyes on you. Steadying yourself against his firm chest, you feel the heat radiating from his body and the muscles reacting underneath his shirt.

His hands tighten slightly on your waist, and you can sense the desire in his touch. When your eyes meet again, you know he is craving your touch, but you both understand it isn't the place or the time.

"What do you say? One last round?" Carlos teases, one hand on his chest, the other motioning toward the pitch.

"Sounds good," you agree, but before you can take your place on the court, Carlos takes his shirt off, showing off his toned body.

"I just need some space." He tilts his head playfully as a knowing smile plays on his lips.

In one swift motion, he strokes his chest and tummy before his hand gently brushes over his shorts, drawing attention to the desire and excitement building up inside him.

For a second, you're unable to take your eyes off him; the display both challenging and tantalizing.

You regain your composure and raise an eyebrow. "Suit yourself," you smirk back at him, and the two of you get back on to the court.

The next set begins with renewed intensity.

Carlos serves first, his powerful shot skimming the net and forcing you to scramble. You return it with a strong backhand, and he nods appreciatively before smashing it back to your side of the court. You lunge, barely managing to return it, and Carlos's grin widens as he volleys it again, this time out of your reach.

He wins the first points easily, but you are determined to make the match competitive.

You serve next, aiming for the far corner of the service box. Carlos darts to intercept, but your serve catches him off guard, giving you the first point. You feel a surge of confidence as you square off again.

The rallies are longer and more intense this time. Each point is hard-fought, with neither of you willing to give an inch. Your strokes are precise, your movements agile, but Carlos's pure skill is unmatched. He leaps and lunges with a fluidity that takes your breath away, his body a perfect instrument of the sport.

As you continue, the score remains tight. You are tied, and every point feels crucial.

You manage to outmaneuver him with a series of quick volleys, earning a few points in rapid succession. He responds with powerful serves that push you to your limits. The competitive fire in his eyes spurs you on, and you find yourself playing better than ever before.

Carlos serves again, the ball blazing over the net. You return it with a swift forehand, and you rally back and forth, each shot more intense than the last.

Sweat drips down your face, and you can see the same determination in Carlos's eyes. He is pushing you to the edge, and you are rising to the challenge.

Finally, it is match point.

Carlos serves with a power and precision that leave you scrambling. You manage to return the ball, but he is ready, smashing it down the line. You dive for it, your racket connecting just enough to send it back over the net.

Carlos sprints forward, and with a final, powerful stroke, he sends the ball sailing past you.

You collapse onto the ground, trying to catch your breath. Carlos lets out a low grunt of excitement, his face lighting up with a triumphant smile.

Carlos approaches you, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. One hand slides around your waist, pulling you close, while the other holds his rackett firmly.

Without a word, he kisses you passionately, his lips demanding and full of fire. You give in to him, your arms wrapping around his neck, savoring the intensity of the moment. His passion is intoxicating, and you adore every second of it.

You break apart, both of you smiling, the connection between you stronger than ever.

"That was amazing," you whisper, feeling breathless and exhilarated.

"It was," he agrees. His eyes lock onto yours with a mix of affection and desire. "We should do it again, soon."

You nod, leaning into him, your fingers tracing the contours of his muscles.

"Any time," you reply softly.

#carlos alcaraz x reader #carlos alcaraz imagine #carlos alcaraz fanfiction #carlos alcaraz fic #carlos alcaraz one shot #carlos alcaraz smutish #tennis rpf #tennis imagine #tennis x reader #carlos alcaraz rpf #tennis smut #tennis fic #tennis fanfiction

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fairie-bread · 5 days ago

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point of the tournament in my heart IDC!

#so gagged by this match like both of them played AMAZINGG #and joao’s commitment to this shot was insane but. that no-look smash was so personal to me #sad one of them had to lose 💔#tennis #kit speaks #miami open #alex de minaur #joao fonseca

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pedriache · 2 months ago

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Hello! Could i request a story about Pedri dating a tennis player, someone like Emma răducanu? If you do not like tennis, it's no problem if you don't want to write it. I like all your other Pedri stories 🤗

Breakfast of champions 𖦹 Pedri González !

summary. after you won a match and pedri had won a game on the same day, you both decided the next day you’d celebrate with the most elaborate of breakfasts. the only problem was—pedri was terrible at making waffles.

wc. 685+

disclaimers. fluff, established relationship, reader is a tennis player, ect !

notes. i know literally nothing abt tennis so i hope i did this justice.. its so barely there but i gen had no ideas what to write

The kitchen was filthy with flour and the sweet smell of Belgian waffles. Pedri was currently staring at the burnt—once fluffy and delicious, looking waffle. A line formed between his brows as he tried to figure out exactly where he went wrong.

You, standing a few feet away with a flour-splotched apron, stifled a laugh. “Baby.. How..” You start, but clamp your mouth shut when Pedri’s eyes snap to you with a warning look.

“Right. Okay, well, just.. put it in the trash. You can just start over. No big deal.” You smile lightly, striding over to his side and standing up on your tip toes, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Pedri sighed at the light touch before gripping the plate and moving toward the trash can.

Yesterday had been a whirlwind. You’d won your match at Wimbledon, which was a major accomplishment for you and many other tennis players alike. Pedri and his team had won the El Clásico.

So, today, you were celebrating with a breakfast fit for royalty—or they were supposed to at least. You forget that Pedri's kitchen skills were subpar at best.

You’d been put on bacon duty, which you gladly accepted. Easy to do, and made sure that you could keep your eye on the waffle maker since your boyfriend’s attention couldn’t seem to stay on it.

Instead, he’d attempt to drift toward you, hands sliding around your waist for about five seconds before you swatted at them and scolded him—

“Pedro. Get your ass back to the waffles.”

And now, he was facing the consequences of his actions.

Both of the waffles in it had burnt.

“I swear, I was watching this time!” Pedri groaned, running a hand through his dark hair. “Cariño..” He whines, setting the now-empty plate on the table. “Can you just.—“

Rubbing your temples, you rolled out your sore wrist. Your opponent had most definitely given you a run for your money yesterday. “Just go set the table.”

Pedri’s lips pulled into a small grin. “‘M sorry.” He mumbled against your hair, placing a quick kiss to the too of your head.

Tilting your head up, you rolled your eyes. A hint of amusement passes across your face as he tips his head, capturing your lips in a slow, warm kiss.

“It’s okayyy.” You murmur against his mouth, “just go set the table and start cleaning the dishes.” Nodding, he let go of you and walked to the cupboard.

While Pedri did the dishes and you made the waffles, conversation flowed between you, and by conversation.. well, it was mostly you complaining.

“In the beginning, I thought I was going to twist my ankle I was running back and forth so much. She had a strong ass wrist, babe. I literally have never had to put in so much effort.” You dramatized your words, which had your boyfriend chuckling.

“You ran track in high school, I’m sure you were fine.” He shakes his head in short laughter, setting a spatula into the dish washer.

Your head turns to face him, eyes narrowing. “Alright, that was like—nearly four years ago.”

“Well, couldn’t be me.” Pedri shrugs.

Okay, ego.

“Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe.”

“When our bodies aren’t dying, we’re so racing.”

Ping!

Waffles were done, everything set out… you and Pedri feasted.

When you both finished and exhaled long, dragged out breaths, leaning back into your seats, you met each other’s eyes. “Holy shit, I don’t think I can eat ever again.” Pedri grumbles, head tipping back as his hand rubbed his stomach as if to soothe the ache.

“Me neither.” You almost laugh, but couldn’t bring yourself to make the sound in fear of upsetting your stomach.“Let’s go back to bed and never leave.”

And with that, Pedri walked around the table, reaching out his hands for you to take before pulling you to your feet. Both of you glanced at your dirty plates and cups then to each other.

“We can put them away later.”

You nod and let him drag you to the bedroom.

likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future posts.

ᝰ.ᐟ tags @halfwayhearted @lechrts @joaoflms @sakashq @spidybaby @be11ingham @gadriezmannsgirl @unx100to @cececarmona17 @piastri-fvx @st4rgirl-ellie

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thegirlamongthestars · 7 months ago

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stolen glances - c. alcaraz

summary: a journalist’s professional facade crumbles when tennis star Carlos Alcaraz locks eyes with her, igniting an unexpected and thrilling connection

word count: 1.4k

warnings: none (maybe a little of light swearing); english is not my first language so sorry for any posible mistake

notes: feel free to make any Carlitos fic request 😌

The atmosphere at the court was ectic. As a journalist and as a tennis fan, of course, I’ve always loved Wimbledon. The grass, the people, the fashion and London itself were always a delight to witness. Covering the tournament final was definitely the biggest achievement of my career so far. When I was a little girl, I found tennis matches the most boring thing in the world. But when my father took me to a court and I could feel the rush through my veins I realized it would accompany me for life. Journalism has been my vocation since I can remember, so now being able to mix that and tennis was like living my life dream every day.

“Are you ready?” my colleague asked while checking everything. “They are about to come out”

“All set, Lucas”

The speaker started to announce Novak’s entrance and my fingers started playing with the lanyard of my press pass as a way to channel the nerves. It wasn’t my first time doing this but it always felt different when it involved him.

Carlos Alcaraz—the name that had become synonymous with raw talent and unyielding passion in the tennis world. I had followed his career closely (since I was in university), watching him evolve from a promising junior to a formidable force on the court. But it wasn’t just his skill that captivated me; it was the way he played with every ounce of his being, his intensity almost palpable even from the stands.

Did I have the most teenager-like stupid crush on Carlos? Maybe (actually resounding YES, but I would never admit it out loud)

The second his name was called, the stadium erupted. And then, there he was, striding onto the grass with that signature mix of confidence and focus, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the stands. My breath caught in my throat as I watched him wave to the crowd, one of his characteristic smiles playing on his lips.

“Remind me to bring a baby bib next time” Lucas started to mock me.

“Shut up!” I slapped his shoulder with all my force and he laughed looking at me as if he knew my little secret.

“It’s going to be a good one” he referred to the match changing the previous topic.

I nodded, trying to compose myself. “Definitely.”

But as much as I tried to focus on the task at hand, I just couldn’t do it. This wasn’t just another match; this was the final, and Carlos was one step away from his second Wimbledon title. And for some inexplicable reason, that fact made my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the excitement of the sport.

As both of them warmed up, I busied myself with checking my notes, adjusting my computer, anything to keep my mind from wandering too far. But it was no use. My gaze kept drifting back to Carlos, to the way he moved with such precision and grace, every muscle in his body flexing and looking irresistible.

There was a certain magnetism to him, something that drew me in despite my intention of keeping professionalism. I had been around athletes before, had interviewed a bunch of them, but Carlos was something else.

For being London it was a quite warm afternoon but what I didn’t know was that the heat won’t be the thing raising my heart rate wildly. As Carlos walked to his position on the baseline, his gaze landed on the press box and his eyes lingered on mine for the briefest of moments.

Electricity.

That’s what went through my body from head to toe. My breath hitched. It was a split second, but in that instant, it felt like the rest of the world faded away.

“What the hell was that”? Lucas whisper-shouted, nudging at me.

“Don’t know what you mean” I answered, trying to play it off, though my pulse was still thudding in my ears.

“He looked right at you,” he said, a knowing smirk on his face.

“It was probably just a coincidence,” I muttered, though even as I said it, I wasn’t sure I believed it.

But there was no time to dwell on it. The match was starting, and I had a job to do. I forced myself to focus on the game, on the back-and-forth of the rally, on the cheers and gasps of the crowd. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about that look, about the way his beautiful eyes had seemed to search for mine in that sea of faces.

The match ended with the result I was so heartedly waiting for. After the trophy ceremony, journalists had to go down the court to make some interviews in front of the whole crowd and Lucas was the one chosen for that task. We tossed a coin before the match and my luck was conspicuous by its absence once again.

When we arrived next to the players, I was a bundle of nerves and I wasn’t even the one interviewing them so I thanked the coin. The cameras were being set and our sound operator was about to put the microphone on Lucas.

“I’m not feeling well at all” he started to pull on his shirt collar trying to fan himself.

“Are you getting dizzy?” I grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him.

He looked at me with something like guilt on his gaze and pull me close to him to say “He’s all yours”

I wasn’t processing anything. I just saw Lucas winking at me and getting accompanied to the dressing room tunnel by a member of the staff.

Next thing I knew is that I was in front of the camera and that the crowd was cheering on Carlos as he approached me.

Electricity again.

He showed me one of his full smiles and grabbed the microphone that someone from my crew was handing him.

“Carlos, congratulations” I exclaimed truly thrilled while offering my hand. “Two-time Wimbledon champion. How does that feel?”

“Thank you” he replied, holding my hand for longer than expected. “It feels… pretty amazing, to be honest. Maybe even sweeter than the first.”

“Because you knew what to expect?”

“Exactly” he said, leaning closer. “The first time, it was all new—adrenaline, excitement, maybe a bit of shock. This time, I could really soak it in, enjoy the moment”

“It looked like you were enjoying it, even during those tense moments in the final set” I was trying to be as professional as the heat I was sensing right from him allowed me to. "How do you keep your cool when the pressure’s on?"

“Honestly? I just remind myself that it’s only a game” he said with a shrug, a relaxed grin playing on his lips. “And sometimes, a little bit of stubbornness helps.”

“Stubbornness?” I raised an eyebrow, totally getting captivated by his proximity.

“Yeah, I hate losing” he admitted and the crowd laughed with him. “But it’s also about enjoying the battle. I love the competition, the challenge. That’s what keeps me going.”

I nodded, noting that he seemed as much at ease as me. “And now that you’ve won here twice, what’s next? A well-deserved break?”

“A little bit, yeah. Maybe a beach somewhere” he said, his eyes lighting up. “But you know how it is—tennis doesn’t stop. And the Olympics are almost around the corner.”

I completely went out script with the following question but as a professional, I was feeling in such a safe environment that I had to let my impulses flow.

“Ever think about doing something completely different? Outside of tennis, I mean?” I raised my gaze to his face just to find out that he was already looking at me. Quiet intensely.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then flashed me a cheeky grin. My knees trembled a little.

“Well, I was thinking… maybe I should find more excuses to do interviews like this. They’re turning out to be more interesting than I expected.”

I felt a warmth spread through my chest at his words, catching the subtle, playful edge in his tone. And I couldn’t help but blush because of the reaction of the people on the stands, that was a mixture of surprise sounds and cheeky whistles.

“Interesting, huh? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Definitely meant as one”

#carlos alcaraz #carlos alcaraz x reader #carlos alcaraz x you #tennis #wimbledon #one shot #carlos alcaraz imagine #carlos alcaraz fanfiction #carlos alcaraz fic

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kaisersbestglazer · 3 months ago

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*+:｡.｡ Tennis On The Wii ｡.｡:+*

*+:｡.｡ a/n - Hi guys!! I wrote this little "one shot" after I got inspired by a song i used to listen to a really long time ago. It just reminded me of Nagi!! Don't worry i'm still in the process of writing "Four Leaf Clover" chapter two as well as some other very cool fics!! Once again I hope you enjoy and that this makes you giggle.

*+:｡.｡ word count - 322

*+:｡.｡ content - Nagi x gender neutral reader, playing wii sports, fluff, one shot

*+:｡.｡ synopsis - Nagi is quite competitive when it comes to video games but maybe he takes it a little too far sometimes.

♡ Nagi! Who is rather competitive when it comes to video games, which is surprising because you could have sworn he would have thought of it as a hassle.

♡ Nagi! Who tells you he will “go easy on you” as to avoiding breaking your heart when he beats you at your own game.

♡ Nagi! Who scoffs at you when you tell him you don’t need him to go easy on you, after all you’re playing to win nothing less.

♡ Nagi! Who picks up the controller grinning from ear to ear, refusing to put on the wirst strap.

♡ Nagi! Who when you question him about not wearing his wrist strap, says it will be fine because he has a good grip on the controller.

♡ Nagi! Who starts with the ball flinging the controller towards the screen.

♡ Nagi! Who goes back and forth with you, the game getting heated, ball moving from one side of the court to the other.

♡ Nagi! Who hits the imaginary ball a little too hard causing the controller to fly out of his hand and hit the tv, making a big crashing sound as it makes contact with the screen.

♡ Nagi! Who is stunned he can’t believe he just hit the tv with the wii remote…

♡ “NAGI I TOLD YOU TO WEAR THE WRIST STRAP” you shout the tv staring back at you both with a huge black spot and lines of green, red and blue.

♡ “who do you think won though??” Nagi asks with a more unserious tone in his voice, despite the fact he just broke your tv.

♡ “Obviously not you seishiro. You broke the tv, i think i should win by default” you say with a little cockiness in your voice.

♡ You definitely didn’t win that match it was nagi 4 to you 1. You both knew it but he just let it slide hoping you wouldnt give him any more trouble about the tv he just broke.

/)/)

( . .)

( づ♡ tag list - @appl3-0rchard

#blue lock #nagi x reader #nagi seishiro #blue lock x reader #blue lock x you #tennis #nintendo wii #fluff #one shot #1kaiserglazer

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bluespring864 · 2 months ago

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After coming back from two sets down, Daniil Medvedev loses and epic five set match in a fifth set tiebreak in round two of the 2025 Australian Open

I love you and I hate you, you insane man.

#me: if he wins boy do i have a post to make #that volley was in by the way. one of the most insane tennis shots i have ever seen.#me now: oh as long as i am making a post i am not pointlessly shouting and worrying the neighbours #daniil medvedev #tennis #australian open 2025 #my screenshots #the thing is... he could have made it far even after all that. the kid played amazing but i don't trust the kid to make it far. sigh.

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finelinefae · 4 months ago

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reaching out [tennisplayer!harry x tennisplayer!y/n]

synopsis: just one moment out of very many of tennis!h pining over y/n before they teamed up.

word count: 5.5k

contains: enemies to lovers, pining h, angst, abusive parents, mentions of physical abuse, tennis rivals, fluff

a/n: very first tennis!h blurb omggg - i missed my babies so much!! For those who don't know, this is a blurb for my tennis!h series which you can read here !!

. . .

Harry stretched his legs, working his calf muscles, as people settled into their seats in the stands. Today was a big day, one that had drawn a large crowd, but he paid them no mind. Performing in front of a big audience never shook Harry’s confidence. When it came to tennis, his focus was entirely on the game.

It was the county cup semi-final. Harry had competed in the same event last year, finishing in second place behind Henry Waver, who took home the gold before heading to rehab a month later for using performance-enhancing drugs. Harry had come a long way since then, and he was determined to make it to the final and claim first place.

Some might have thought Harry no longer needed to compete in these smaller events, given his path toward qualifying for the Olympics, but he couldn’t stay away. Maybe it was the rush of winning, or perhaps the quiet focus that settled over him when the game began—just him, his opponent, and the swift rhythm of the ball being hit back and forth between them.

He walked over to his bench, some people cheering as he walked onto the court. He was wearing all white, a towel around his shoulders and his racket bag hanging from his shoulder. He reached for his water bottle, pouring it into his mouth.

His eyes scanned the growing crowd, but there was no sign of his parents—not that he had expected anything different. He caught a glimpse of Mitch chatting with a few girls from their year group on the stairs, but Harry's focus shifted immediately to the center of the stands, only to find it empty.

A frown tugged at his lips, the first sign of emotion since this morning. He glanced around, searching for the one person his heart longed to see, but before he could spot her, his coach clapped him on the back.

"Remember what we worked on yesterday—don’t overstep the baseline and make sure to follow through," his coach muttered, his tone more routine than encouraging.

Harry barely registered the words. He shrugged off his coach’s hand, distracted. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he mumbled, his mind still preoccupied with trying to figure out why she hadn’t shown up yet.

The opposing crowd erupted into cheers as Lionel Boyce stepped onto the court, raising a hand to acknowledge their applause. Harry barely spared him a glance. He had crossed paths with Lionel plenty of times in his tennis journey and knew the truth behind the polished exterior—Lionel was an arrogant opportunist, desperate for sponsorship deals.

Harry took a swig of water, his grip tightening on the bottle as he set it down and reached for his racket. The game was drawing closer, but the empty seat in the center of the stands—the one he had been watching all afternoon—remained vacant. His chest tightened at the thought of someone else filling it. He wasn’t sure how he’d play with a stranger sitting there instead of the person he was hoping for.

The umpire climbed into his seat, and the announcement for the game’s start echoed across the court. Harry felt a firm pat on the back from his coach as he stepped forward.

“Go show him what you’re made of,” his coach said with a nod.

The crowd erupted as Harry walked onto the court. Most of the cheers came from the Crestwood supporters, and while it wasn’t the loudest reception, it was enough to steady his nerves.

Across the court, Lionel sauntered into position, basking in the applause. Harry couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling as Lionel flashed his best grin to the crowd. He didn’t miss the way a group of girls in the front row seemed to swoon, whispering excitedly among themselves.

The umpire adjusted the microphone and cleared his throat, his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, play shall begin. First set—Harry Styles to serve."

Harry stepped into position at the baseline, gripping his racket tightly. As always, he raised it and pointed toward the center of the crowd—a ritual that steadied his nerves and granted him good luck for the game.

But this time, his breath hitched.

There she was, sliding into the seat he’d been watching all afternoon. Y/N.

Her eyes found his almost instantly, and for a fleeting moment, the world around him fell away—the roaring crowd, the pressure of the match, even Lionel’s smug presence on the other side of the net. It was just her, sitting there with that familiar stoic expression.

A small smile tugged at Harry’s lips. She was always like this at his matches, focused and intense, watching every move with the same concentration as if she were playing herself. Her unwavering focus sent a spark of determination surging through him.

He adjusted his stance, exhaling slowly as he prepared to serve. With her gaze burning into him, he played to win the entire thing.

. . .

Mitch had thrown a party to celebrate Harry’s victory over Lionel, just as he always did whenever Harry won anything. It was a tradition Harry had grown fond of, even though he often found himself dreading the expectation to win every time he played. Victory wasn’t typically celebrated in his world—it was expected. But his friends? They always found a way to make a big deal out of it, and Harry appreciated that, even if the attention wasn’t his favorite part. Being around his friends was.

Harry stood in the kitchen, holding a cup of something he couldn’t identify. Mitch was across the room, chatting animatedly with Sarah. Harry was pretty sure Mitch had been infatuated with her ever since she’d transferred to Crestwood four years ago. Watching them, he wondered if Mitch would ever work up the courage to act on it.

He couldn’t help but glance around, hoping to spot someone else. He knew Sarah’s best friend and roommate might be here, too, but there was no guarantee. Unlike Sarah, who thrived on Crestwood’s social gatherings, her quieter counterpart was more selective about where she spent her evenings.

“Hi, Harry.” He turned to see Astrid approaching, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her skin glowing with a fresh tan from her recent holiday in the Maldives. He’d only known about it because his mother, after scrolling through Facebook, couldn’t resist mentioning it during their last phone call.

“Hey, Astrid,” Harry said with a polite smile. He didn’t mind her company, but unlike most of the guys in their year, he didn’t feel attracted to her in the same way they did. Sure, she was stunning—legs for days, an effortless smile—but their shared interests barely went beyond tennis and the fact their parents were friends. Friends who, annoyingly, had been dropping hints about the two of them dating for as long as Harry could remember.

“Congrats on the win. You were amazing out there,” she said, her voice smooth and practiced.

“Thanks. I heard you did well at the Championships the other week,” he replied. He hadn’t actually seen her match but knew through their coach that she’d won.

“Yeah, I’m hoping to qualify for the Australian Open,” she said, her grin widening.

Harry nodded, letting the conversation drift until his gaze caught something—or rather, someone—in the living room. His heart skipped a beat.

There she was.

Her smile lit up her face, radiant and warm, eclipsing even the moonlight streaming through the large windows. Her hair spilled to one side, leaving her neck bare, and she was wearing a sleek black maxi dress paired with chunky heels—an outfit so out of the ordinary for her that it was almost disarming. Harry’s eyes lingered on her longer than they should have, but he didn’t care. He’d been hoping she’d come.

His smile faltered when Adam appeared beside her. Harry’s stomach tightened at the sight. He knew Adam had a soft spot for her—he’d admitted as much—but assured everyone he wasn’t looking for a relationship. Still, seeing them together made something uneasy churn in Harry’s chest.

“Harry?” Astrid’s voice snapped him back to reality. He blinked, realizing he hadn’t heard a word she’d been saying. She followed his line of sight and spotted Y/N. Her tone shifted, tinged with something that wasn’t quite approval.

“Oh, Y/N’s here,” Astrid remarked flatly. “I’m surprised after…everything.”

Harry’s head whipped toward her, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t know?” Astrid asked, her surprise seeming genuine. “One of my friends was at the Country Club a couple of weekends ago. She got lost trying to find the bathroom near the pool and overheard her dad yelling at her—apparently for getting a bad grade on her report card. She said he slapped her.”

Harry’s stomach dropped, cold fury replacing the unease. “He what?”

Astrid shrugged, completely unbothered. “I’ve always thought her family was messed up. My dad had a horrible experience at their Country Club—almost sued them after Mom got food poisoning there.” She kept talking, but Harry wasn’t listening anymore.

His attention snapped back to Y/N, watching her closely. Something was different. To anyone else, she probably seemed the same, but Harry knew her too well. He noticed the way her fingers twisted together, fidgeting nervously. Her smile, though bright, didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her makeup seemed heavier than usual; she rarely wore much or applied it sparingly, but today, it looked as though she was trying to mask something—maybe a shadow or imperfection on her cheek, though he couldn’t be sure.

Harry’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. If what Astrid said was true, there was no doubt in his mind—he’d track down her father and make him regret it in ways that didn’t bear sunlight. But first, he needed to talk to her, to make sure she was okay. The problem was, Harry knew her well enough to realise she wouldn’t just open up if he asked. They weren’t even friends. In fact, Harry was pretty sure Y/N didn’t like him at all.

It wasn’t really a surprise, considering how they’d met—and the fact that he’d spent most of his days tormenting her just to get her attention. It was childish, he knew, but it was easier than admitting how much he actually cared. And he did care—more than he should, more than she probably realised. Beneath all the teasing and arguments, she mattered to him. So, if she was hurt, none of that other stuff mattered. He just needed to make sure she was okay.

When Harry saw Adam walk away, he seized the opportunity to sneak in. As if she could sense his presence, Y/N looked up, her smile immediately fading, and her jaw tightened. Harry couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction. There was something exhilarating about her reaction, the way she shifted from neutral to visibly irritated, even if it was driven by nothing but disdain for him.

“I’m surprised you were willing to show up, love,” he said, his voice carrying the familiar, mocking tone.

Y/N’s eyes flashed with irritation at the nickname, her posture stiffening even further. Harry had always loved calling her that—it was almost like a reflex, especially since she absolutely hated it. He relished in the way she bristled, every time.

“Not so willingly, as a matter of fact,” she shot back, her arms folding across her chest. “I’m only here because Sarah wanted me to come.” She still hadn’t taken a sip from her drink, Harry noticed, as if it were some kind of shield between them.

“Excuses, excuses.” He clicked his tongue with a grin, leaning casually against the edge of the table. “What did you think of the match?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by his question. “You care what I have to say?” she asked, a slight edge to her voice.

“No,” Yes. he replied, his eyes gleamed with a spark of challenge. “But I know you’ve got something to say anyway.”

She gave him a wry smile, the faintest hint of a laugh on her lips. “Well, it wasn’t one of your best, that’s for sure. Your tracking was terrible. You were lucky Lionel cared more about his appearance than his technique.”

Harry couldn’t suppress the chuckle that escaped him. He knew she wasn’t wrong—tracking had been off, and Lionel had certainly played a little too carefully. The dig was unsurprising to say the least but he took it all on board.

“You always have such charming critiques, don’t you?” Harry smirked. “Should I be worried about your career in commentary?”

Y/N’s replied, the sarcasm was back in full force. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just stick to calling it how I see it. You wouldn’t last five minutes with me in your corner, would you?”

Harry leaned in a little closer, their banter familiar and comfortable despite the tension. “You’d be too distracted by my charm to focus,” he said with a grin, savoring the challenge in her eyes.

Y/N scoffed but couldn’t entirely hide the small smile tugging at her lips. “Right. I think you’d find me too busy pointing out all the flaws you refuse to see.”

“Sounds like a good time,” he replied smoothly, his grin widening.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t look away, the intensity between them palpable in the silence that followed.

“So,” Harry started, the tone shifting slightly, more serious, “what else? What else did you think of the match?” He genuinely wanted to know—part of him knew her critique might actually help him. But the other part of him just liked the way she made him think.

Y/N seemed to hesitate for a split second, the walls she kept up around her cracking just enough for him to notice. “Your footwork was off, too. You were slow on some of your returns, and—”

Harry laughed, cutting her off. “I thought you said you weren’t a fan?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not. But I’ve watched enough matches to know when someone’s not giving it their all.” Her gaze flicked to his eyes, sharp and clear. “And I know you can do better.”

Harry’s smile faltered, something unspoken passing between them, something that felt almost like respect. He had a feeling she wasn’t just talking about the match anymore.

“Well,” he said after a beat, straightening up, “I guess I’ll have to show you just how much better I can be, then.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away, her lips pursed as if she were weighing her options. Finally, she shrugged, that same familiar look of defiance in her eyes. “We’ll see.”

Harry’s eyes lingered on her for longer than he intended, “What about you?” He took a sip of his drink.

She frowns, “What about me?”

“I haven’t seen you training recently,” He said.

Y/N’s expression faltered, her eyes flashing with something like hurt or fear. “I haven’t had time.”

“What do you mean? I don’t think I’ve spent a day where I haven’t seen you on the court.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry’s brows furrowed as he studied her. There was something about the way she shifted on her feet, the subtle way her fingers tightened around the cup in her hand. It wasn’t the first time he’d sensed something was off, but hearing her say she didn’t want to talk about it made his curiosity spike. It was rare for Y/N to hide anything, especially from him. He’d spent enough time observing her—dissecting her every reaction, every word—to know when something wasn’t right.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, leaning forward, his voice losing its usual teasing edge. “You know you can talk to me, right?” He almost regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Not because he didn’t mean them, but because he knew she wouldn’t believe it—not after everything.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, Harry thought she might brush him off entirely. Instead, she let out a soft, almost bitter laugh. “Yeah, right,” she muttered, not meeting his eyes. “Since when?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. She was right—he had never given her much reason to trust him. But right now, as much as it pissed him off that she was shutting him out, he couldn’t help but feel... protective. There was something going on with her, something more than she was letting on, and it was like a switch had flipped inside him.

“Y/N,” he repeated, his voice softer now, “I’m not gonna push you, but if something’s going on, you don’t have to go through it alone. You know that, right?”

Her eyes finally met his, and for a brief moment, Harry thought he saw a crack in her tough exterior—a flicker of vulnerability—but it was gone in an instant. She shook her head, her gaze hardening.

“I’m fine,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

Harry didn’t buy it, and he didn’t think she expected him to. He knew he was on dangerous territory—one misstep, and no doubt she would lash out at him for putting his nose into business that was nothing to do with him. But something in him refused to let this go. He couldn’t just sit there, watching her shut him out.

“Come with me,” he said, motioning for her to follow him, the command in his voice surprising even him.

Y/N glanced at him, confused, her arms still crossed defensively. “What?”

“I’m taking you outside,” Harry said, already standing and grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. He could tell she was about to protest, could see the hesitation in her eyes. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of something—determination, maybe, or a mix of things he couldn’t quite name. “You need a break. You’re tense as hell, and I don’t like seeing you like this.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Harry cut her off. “Trust me. It’ll be good for you.”

For a moment, Y/N seemed like she might just walk away, but then she sighed, as if giving in to the inevitable. “Fine. But don’t get any ideas.”

Harry smirked, fighting the urge to laugh. “No promises,” he teased, already walking toward the door.

Outside, the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the empty tennis courts. Harry tossed her a tennis racket, watching as she caught it awkwardly. He was doing this for her—for whatever was weighing on her, for whatever had her retreating behind that wall. He wasn’t sure if tennis was the right call, but it was something he knew they both shared, something that might bring down some of her defenses.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious about this?”

“Dead serious,” Harry replied, stepping onto the court. He grinned at her.

She hesitated before stepping onto the court, but when she did, Harry could see a flicker of something else in her—the tension in her shoulders loosening, just a bit. She wasn’t fully on board yet, but the corners of her lips twitched upward, and that was something.

They began to rally, hitting the ball back and forth with the kind of casual ease that came from years of practice. Y/N’s form was sharp, fluid, and Harry couldn't help but be impressed, as he always was. But it wasn’t just the way she played that had him captivated.

It was the way she laughed.

The sound was light, unguarded, a sound he hadn’t heard from her in so long. It was like the weight of everything had lifted for a moment, leaving behind only the carefree side of Y/N he rarely got to see. She had a natural smile, the kind that reached her eyes and made them sparkle with a mischievous glint. Harry couldn’t look away.

Her laughter filled the air, echoing across the empty courts, and for a fleeting second, everything felt right. Harry’s heart skipped in his chest as he watched her, the way her eyes shone with a genuine sense of freedom. It wasn’t just the way she looked in that moment—it was how she felt, and how much he wanted to be the reason she smiled like that.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest. He had always known he had a thing for her—he didn’t even try to deny it anymore. But this was different. He wasn’t just in awe of how she looked, or the way she challenged him to be better—he was infatuated with her.

The thought hit him hard, and he tried to push it aside, to focus on the game. But with every smile, every laugh, Harry found himself falling deeper, in a way that he couldn’t control. There was something about her—the way she made everything feel effortless, the way her presence seemed to fill up the space, making everything more vibrant. She was everything he wasn’t—bold, unafraid, untouchable in some ways. And Harry was starting to realize how much he wanted to be the one to reach her.

When Y/N hit a particularly good shot and spun around with that radiant smile, Harry felt a flutter in his chest. He swallowed, his throat tight, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he could handle being this close to her without completely falling apart.

“You’re not half bad,” she teased, breathless from the rally.

Harry grinned, the praise warming him in a way he hadn’t expected. “I know. You should be honored to play with me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite suppress the grin tugging at her lips. “You’re insufferable.”

And there it was again—her laugh, the way she made everything feel lighter. Harry caught himself smiling at her, not the cocky, playful smile he usually wore, but something more sincere. Something that spoke volumes of how much he was starting to feel for her—how much he had already felt.

They rallied for another few minutes, the sun dipping lower as the evening air turned cooler. But Harry wasn’t paying attention to the time, or the way the game was unfolding. All he could focus on was the way her hair caught the last of the sunlight, the way her eyes gleamed with happiness—and how damn beautiful she was.

“You’re good,” Harry finally said, his voice quieter than usual, almost like a confession.

Y/N gave him a curious look, then smirked. “You finally noticing?”

He wanted to say more, to tell her exactly what he was thinking—but it would only complicate things. Instead, he just nodded, watching her carefully, trying to keep his emotions in check. “I’ve always noticed,” he said, his voice a little too soft, betraying the quiet ache he felt inside.

Y/N paused, her expression softening for a brief moment before her usual mask of sarcasm slipped back into place. “Well, I’m glad you finally decided to admit it.”

The smile she gave him in return was genuine, full of warmth. And for a moment, Harry forgot about the rest of the world, just watching her, heart in his throat, wondering how he had gotten so lucky—and so lost in someone who would never even look at him the same way.

Y/N took a few steps back, wiping a hand across her forehead, trying to shake off the intensity of the game and the weight of the conversation that had been hanging between them. Harry still stood there, watching her, his breath a little heavier from the rally but his focus unwavering. It was as if he was waiting for something to break, for her to say the words he didn’t want to hear but somehow feared.

She didn’t look at him for a moment, her eyes scanning the ground like she was trying to find some way out. But then, when she spoke, her voice was softer than usual, almost reluctant. "You were right earlier... about me being tense," she said, barely above a whisper.

Harry tilted his head, unsure if he’d heard her correctly. His heart rate picked up, and he took a tentative step toward her. “What do you mean?”

Y/N hesitated, clearly at war with herself, as if saying the words out loud would somehow make them more real. But Harry could see the way her fingers curled tighter around her tennis racket, the way her shoulders were drawn up protectively.

“Something happened... with my dad,” she finally admitted, the words slipping out in a rush, like she couldn’t stop them once she started.

Harry’s chest tightened, but he kept his expression neutral, unwilling to push her too much. "What happened?"

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes redder than usual, her face more vulnerable than he'd ever seen it. "He... slapped me," she said, the words a simple admission but heavy enough to make the air around them thick with tension.

The air in Harry’s lungs seemed to stop for a moment. His chest tightened, fists clenching at his sides as the words echoed in his mind. Slapped her.

He was careful not to let the anger build, though it was hard. The thought of anyone hurting her—let alone her father—lit a fire of fury inside him, but he knew he couldn’t let it show. Not now. Not when she was looking at him like that, so fragile and raw.

“Y/N,” Harry said softly, stepping closer. His voice was low, almost as if he were afraid the words might break something inside her. “I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head, her lips trembling slightly. “You don’t have to apologize,” she murmured, her voice thick with something he couldn’t quite place. “I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m not pitying you,” Harry replied quickly, his gaze steady. He took a slow, steadying breath. “I’m angry, though. At him. But I’m not pitying you, Y/N. You’re... you’re strong. You don’t deserve that. You never have.”

She blinked, her breath catching in her throat as she tried to steady herself. Harry could see her fighting it—fighting the tears, fighting the emotions that were threatening to spill over.

“I got a low grade on my report card this semester,” she whispered after a beat, her voice so small it almost hurt to hear. “My parents think it’s because I spend too much time playing. They threatened to stop funding my schooling if I didn’t quit. Not that I’m going to quit, but I have to lay low for a while.”

Harry’s heart broke at her words. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take, the thought of her in such a difficult situation, but he forced himself to stay composed. She was so strong, but there was only so much someone could take.

“Does he…” Harry hesitated, the words feeling too heavy to speak, but he forced them out anyway, “Does he do that often?”

Y/N opened her mouth to speak but paused, her gaze dropping to the ground for a long moment. The silence stretched between them, and Harry felt that pit in his stomach grow deeper with each passing second. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

“It wasn’t the first time,” she said, her voice faltering. “But he doesn’t do it often.”

Harry’s eyes darkened with barely-contained anger. His hands clenched at his sides, a reflex he couldn’t control. “Y/N, he shouldn’t be doing it at all,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice low and tight. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her close and hold her, but something held him back. He knew she wasn’t ready for that, and he didn’t want to push her further away.

“No man should ever lay a hand on you,” he added, his voice raw with emotion. “Not ever. You don’t deserve that. No one does.”

Y/N stayed quiet for a long time, her face a mixture of exhaustion and something else Harry couldn’t name. She looked up at him, eyes glistening, but there was no hint of softness in her expression. She had her walls up again, already rebuilding what little had cracked.

“I don’t want your sympathy, Harry,” she said firmly, her voice regaining some of its usual sharpness. “And I don’t need you to protect me. I’ll deal with it.”

Harry’s chest tightened, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But you don’t have to do it alone,” he said, taking a step closer, his voice softer now. “I can’t just stand by and pretend like nothing’s wrong. You shouldn’t have to carry this by yourself.”

She shook her head, but this time, there was no bite in it—just a sad resignation. “You don’t get it,” she muttered, her eyes darting to the side. “I’m not some fragile thing that needs to be protected. I don’t want your help. I just want to get through this on my own.”

Harry could feel the walls she’d built between them—walls made of pain and pride—climbing higher, and the instinct to break them down was strong. But he knew, deep down, he couldn’t force her to open up, especially not when she wasn’t ready.

“I’m not trying to save you, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice tinged with something like regret. “I’m just here. Whenever you need someone to listen, or... whatever else you need. Just know that.”

She didn’t meet his eyes, but he could see the smallest tremor in her shoulders as she exhaled. Finally, after a long pause, she spoke again, her voice quiet but firm.

“I don't need help,” she said, her words like a wall being slammed shut. “I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need anyone to try and fix me.”

Harry’s heart dropped, the weight of her words hitting him harder than he wanted to admit. But he understood. She was trying to keep control of a situation that was already slipping through her fingers. And maybe she wasn’t ready to let him in, no matter how much he wanted to be there for her.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now, the weight of his emotions slipping through despite himself. “I just... I care about you, Y/N. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Her eyes flicked to his, sharp and guarded. “I don’t need help but I’ll keep that in mind.”

Harry’s chest tightened, but he didn’t let his gaze drop. “Alright,” he said softly. “But I’ll be here. Whenever you need me.”

Y/N didn’t respond, and Harry didn’t push. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, looking at her, wishing he could say more—do more—make her feel safe, but knowing it wasn’t his place to force anything. For now, all he could do was wait.

And somehow, that felt worse than anything.

“Want to go another round?” Harry asked, his voice lighter, searching for a way to ease the tension.

“I think we should probably head back. Sarah might be looking for me.” Y/Ns expression softens.

“Right” the last thing Harry wanted to do was leave this pocket of space they were in together. He savoured any rare moment of time he had with her alone and this was one of them.

They walked side by side, the silence between them not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken truths. As they approached his flat, Y/N glanced at him, her voice quiet but firm. “This doesn’t change anything, you know. I don’t want you to look at me differently just because I couldn’t defend myself against my dad. I’m strong—it just… it caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Harry stopped, turning to her with an earnestness that made her chest tighten. “Y/N, this doesn’t change a thing. Not about how I see you, or what I think of you. You’re still the strongest person I know.”

Her lips quirked in a small, tentative smile. “Good,” she said softly. Then, with a playful glint in her eyes, she added, “And you better win the final.”

Harry chuckled, his own smile breaking through. For her, he would.

For her, he’d do anything.

. . .

Harry walked into the school the next day with his tie askew, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show his white t-shirt underneath, and his blazer slung casually over his shoulder, hooked with his middle finger. He had no particular reason to look so disheveled—he just liked the chaos it seemed to cause.

As he passed Mitch’s locker, he caught sight of Y/N walking down the hallway. Her eyes were trained straight ahead, like she was in her own world, but Harry couldn’t resist. He flashed a smirk and called out, “Hey, love.”

She immediately paused and turned to face him. Her expression was unreadable for a moment, then the corner of her lips twitched slightly, but her eyes were all ice.

“Seriously?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Yeah, seriously,” Harry teased, not backing down. “You got something against me saying hello?”

“Not really,” she replied dryly, her arms crossing over her chest. “But I’m guessing you’re doing it just to get a reaction.”

“You know me too well,” Harry said with a grin. “But still, can’t help it. You just look... irresistible when you’re pissed off.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement hiding beneath the irritation. Without saying a word, she lifted her middle finger and gave him a quick, deliberate flip-off. Then, as she turned to walk away, she allowed herself to smile, just a little—just enough for Harry to catch it.

He watched her walk off, his smirk fading as something tighter, warmer, filled his chest. He had always loved the way she carried herself—so confident, even when she was annoyed with him. He liked that she never made it easy. But right now, as she walked away, all he could think was how much he was falling for her.

"God," he muttered under his breath, watching her disappear down the hallway. "I’m so screwed."

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sherryflavoured · 27 days ago

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Morning cuddle with big ben.

(Here is a little drabble since I cant finish my main one shot. :))

Ben had always been a very sleepy boy, so the noise of the alarm clock was so unbearable that it surprisingly managed to wake him up. The girl in his arms seemed to be awake for a while, and the expression on her face did not seem to be happy. She was trapped in her boyfriend's arms, unable to move, just listening to the horrible sound of the alarm clock that was placed on the bedside table that Ben's back was turned to, and the brunette's snoring that was destroying her ears. "What is that noise?" he mumbles, his voice hoarse and annoyed. "The alarm, Ben, it's been ringing for half an hour." "And why don't you turn it off?" The boy's sleepy, confused expression just made her roll her eyes, thinking what a fool her boyfriend was when he was asleep. "Maybe because you've got me trapped in your arms?" the moment she said that, Ben let her go immediately, but she didn't move to turn off the alarm, she ran to the bathroom, her bladder about to explode. "What are you…? ma'am your something." he frowned, confused by his girlfriend's movements. he reached for the clock to turn off the alarm and lay back down, waiting for her to come out of the bathroom. "You need to stop trapping me in your arms, Ben…" she said as she opened the bathroom door. "I almost pissed myself in there." Ben moves to give her some space in the bed as he laughs, she trapped in and lay at Ben's side, resting her head on his shoulder as he passed an arm around her waist. "Always so exaggerated, my love…" She and Ben lay in bed for a while longer, both very relaxed and rested from the busy night before. Ben had played a small local tennis match and then they had gone out to dinner, no matter how tired the boy was, he insisted on taking her out to dinner. They had only started dating a few months ago, but had been too reluctant to make it official due to Ben's busy schedule. What neither of them expected was the arrival of Ben's parents, as both had left the day before to celebrate a small family party that Ben had skipped, and according to Ben's parents' words, both were to return two days later, not the next morning as it was happening now. "Ben...what's that sound?" The boy's face seemed to have gone through every possible color, adrenaline started coursing through his veins and they both jumped out of the bed as if it was on fire. "my parents..." The girl's eyes widened like saucers, her hands began to tremble and her heart pounded in her chest. "what!?...but you said the wouldn't come until tomorrow!" she whispers loudly "I know, I know!...fuck...what do we do?" he turns to look at her, ironically, because the house was his and the parents were his, not hers. "why do you ask me that, shelton!? they are your parents!" To make matters worse, they were both half naked, but their heads were so full of panic that they couldn't even fix that. They only came out of their bubble when Ben's mother's voice echoed down the hall and Ben pushed the girl to hide under the bed. Ben's mother's face peeked through the door of Ben's room and the brunette sat on the bed trying to hide his nervousness. "Hey Mom…"

"Hey honey…im sorry we are this early but there were a lot of people at your aunt's house and your dad and I were so uncomfortable…" The girl under the bed did her best not to make any noise, even though the space was so small. "No, don't worry Mom…I'm glad you're both here" of course Ben's mother noticed the nervousness in her son's voice, and of course she had to ask. "Ben, is everything okay?…why do you seem so nervous?" "No, no, everything's fine, I just…I just woke up and…I had a bad dream," which is the worst excuse you can ever give someone."Oh honey…" Obviously Ben's mom was worried so she entered the room completely, she walked over to Ben and sat down right next to him. Ben's heart rate increased and all he could do was accept his mother's hug. "I'm fine Mom…you don't have to do this…" his voice was muffled and shaky, his girlfriend knew immediately that everything was fucked when she saw the other pair of feet along to Ben's.

So, in just one second, things got even worse: the girl under the bed made a wrong move and his head hit the wood of the bed, leaving only the evidence that someone was in the room. Ben tried to cover it up with a cough, but the damage was already done. "What was that?" "Nothing!" The look on Ben's mother's face was one of suspicion combined with a frown. "Ben…what was that noise?" she spoke slowly and treathningly. "Shit." was all Ben could say as a sneeze was heard…under the bed. "I'll give her 10 minutes to get dressed…and the same for you too." were his mother's words when she realized the real situation. the older woman walked out of the room downstairs and Ben just stayed sitting on the bed as his girlfriend crawled out from under the bed. "We're fucked, aren't we?" Ben just shakes his head and pulls her into his arms to calm her down. "It's okay baby…they'll understand, I'm sure they will" she rests her head on his shoulder as he caresses her hair. The ten minutes passed faster than the thought and they only start to move when Ben's mom's voice is heard again. "You two better get downstairs before I come and get you!" the couple immediately begin to dress with a deep blush and fear running through their veins. Ben's dad had an amused smile on his face as he watched the whole show, he knows his son perfectly.

___________________________________✿______________________________________

Note: hi! this is my first drabble posted and i got to confess that it take me more time than expected. I'm currently making a one shot, which I had planned from the beginning, but the plot got too long, so it won't be ready for now. I decided to make a small drabble to introduce myself and here it is.

ptsd: If you want to make any adaptation or translation, write me to the DM to ask for permission.

#tennis #ben shelton #archive of our own #fan edit #ao 2025 #atp tennis #taylor fritz #ben shelton imagine #ben shelton tennis #roland garros #novak djokovic #carlos alcaraz #one shot #drabble #fluff

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gamesetattach · 2 months ago

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When World's Collide - Part 1

Jannik Sinner x Williams Race Strategist!Reader The comeback of Williams is shocking the world, and reader is basically the face of it. Sinner first witnesses her in the paddock in all her glory, and she might as well have had him by the balls since then. Of course, neither of them have discovered that yet... but they will... oh what's that? She just moved to Monaco? Oh, figures Totally don't have to be an F1 fan to follow this one, I feel! Part 2 and Part 3 here

All eyes were on Williams Racing this year, the buzz around the team had grown louder with the new faces and each passing race. Ever since you’d joined as their new race strategist, the team had been on an undeniable upswing. Wins were starting to pile up for the first time in years, and while the credit wasn’t solely yours, the media and fans couldn’t seem to stop dissecting your unconventional methods. Your rapport with drivers Carlos Sainz and Alex Albon, frequently on display in post-race celebrations and social media, only added fuel to the fire. Some called your strategies ruthless, others called them genius, but everyone agreed—you'd quickly become one of the most captivating figures in the paddock.

---

It was a particularly thrilling race weekend when Jannik Sinner first saw you in action. Eager to experience the adrenaline of an F1 paddock once again, he had happily accepted the invitation from distant friend and Williams' newest driver, Carlos Sainz. He was an avid fan of the sport and Sinner, along with many others, was following the surprising resurgence of Williams with fascination. When he arrived at the paddock, he hadn’t expected to be as intrigued by one person as he was by the entire spectacle.

You were standing in the heart of the Williams garage, headset on, hands animated as you strategized with the engineers and drivers. Even from a distance, your energy was magnetic. During their brief interactions between obligations, Jannik couldn’t help but ask the drivers about you.

“That’s our new strategist,” Alex Albon answered with a grin. “She’s half the reason we’re not dead last anymore. But don’t let her charm fool you—she’ll cut your throat if it means getting the win.”

“She seems… intense,” Jannik said, still watching you.

“She’s also hilarious. And way too smart for her own good,” Carlos added. “You should meet her later. She’s fun.”

---

A few weeks later, in between two of F1’s double headers, Jannik was at a café in Monaco with Charles Leclerc. It was a rare day off for both of them, and they were enjoying a quick catch up on a sunny morning when Jannik suddenly froze mid-sentence.

“Isn’t that the Williams strategist?” he asked, nodding toward the door. You’d just walked in, looking a little frazzled but no less striking.

Charles turned to look, breaking into a wide smile. “[Your Name]!” he called out, waving you over.

You spotted him and hesitated for only a second before making your way to their table. “Charles! Fancy seeing you here.”

“This is Monaco,” he teased. “You’ll see everyone here eventually.”

You laughed, then gestured to your somewhat disheveled state. “I’m in the middle of moving, actually. Just stopped for coffee before diving back into cardboard hell.”

It was then that you noticed Jannik, and your expression shifted slightly, a touch of awareness settling in. “Sorry, I’m interrupting. Hi, I’m [Your Name],” you said, extending a hand.

“Jannik,” he said, shaking your hand with a small smile. “Nice to meet you.”

Charles watched the exchange with thinly-veiled amusement, his eyes flicking between the two of you like he was filing away notes. You recovered a little slower from the introduction than you should have, turning back to Charles.

“I’ll probably see you around,” you said. “I have plans with Alex later this week.”

“Of course,” Charles said, grinning. “And maybe Jannik will see you around too.”

You laughed lightly. “Maybe. Nice meeting you, Jannik.”

As you walked out, Jannik’s eyes followed you and Charles chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “You’re in trouble, mate.”

---

Later that week, you were hanging out at Charles and Alexandra’s place, sipping wine and catching up. Toward the end of the evening, Charles returned home and found you and Alex laughing on the couch.

“You should ask Charles,” Alexandra said, nudging you with a grin.

“Ask me what?” Charles asked, leaning against the doorway.

You groaned, your face heating up. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Alex smirked. “She wants to know if Jannik Sinner is single.”

Charles whooped, pointing at you. “I knew it! I knew there was something at the café.”

“Stop,” you said, burying your face in your hands. “Please don't say anything to him.”

“I have to do something” Charles teased. “For the record, I don’t know if he’s single, but I can find out.”

"No, Charles, please stay out of it. Don't ask." you begged more deliberately. "If I ever do see him around again, it'll be so awkward."

"Okay... your loss. I am a brilliant wingman." He said, walking out of the room with his hands up in surrender, but not before you caught the smirk on his face.

You weren't convinced. "No, seriously though," You tried once more.

"No promises." You heard him call out from the other room.

You sighed dramatically, and looked back at Alex with a rejected expression. She was still covering her laugh with a hand.

"They're not so close," she tried to reassure you, "they only catch up every so often."

You could only hope you ran into him before Charles did.

---

With some luck, you did.

A few days later, you were back at the same café, sitting for a quiet moment before a day of unending meetings. You hadn't expected to see Jannik walk in shortly after, like you'd secretly hoped to each time you went. He scanned the room after he gave his order and when your eyes met, you waved. He smiled back and, to your surprise, approached you.

“How’s the move going?” he asked as he towered over your table.

“Almost done,” you said. “I’m hosting a housewarming soon, too. Having a sort of deadline helps."

"Moving can go on forever." he said agreeably.

There was a lull then, he looked back at the counter for his order with his hands in his pockets and you reached for something to say.

"You should come," you land at, hoping you managed to sound casual and sincere at the same time, "Charles and some others I'm sure you know will be there, so at least a few familiar faces.”

He looked a little surprised by the offer, but nodded anyways. “I’d like that.”

---

The housewarming was a lively affair, filled with faces from F1 and a few new ones. You'd manage to fix up your new apartment enough to feel comfortable flooding the cramped space with neighboring friends and co-workers. Jannik arrived with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers—your favorite ones, too, though he had no way of knowing that. It took an embarrassing amount of effort to tell yourself not to run with that as some sort of cosmic sign.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, taking the gifts with a smile.

“It was nothing,” he said simply.

Throughout the evening, he mingled easily, catching up with Charles and Carlos while occasionally glancing your way. You, meanwhile, were in your element, effortlessly moving between your guests, cracking jokes, and making sure everyone felt welcome.

At one point, you escaped to the kitchen to get a head start in cleaning up. Jannik found you then, and only took a moment before rolling up his sleeves.

“Need help?” he asked.

“Oh no, that's okay–” you started, but he was already reaching for a dish towel.

The two of you worked side by side, chatting easily. When he complimented your decor and the completion of your apartment, you laughed and admitted, “There are still so many unpacked boxes hidden away, I only have enough dishes out for the party. My bedroom is a disaster.”

“Can I see?” he said, his tone curious, "It can't be so bad."

You hesitated, then led him to your room. It was small but cozy, with your bed half made and the walls beginning to be dressed in artwork and random clippings. It was also, true to your word, overflowing with boxes. Some were haphazardly stuffed under your bed, but it was clear that you had given up trying to conceal them at some point as most of the stacks had settled on every free surface. Jannik smiled as he took it all in.

“It’s… very you,” he said.

You laughed. “I don't know how to take that, honestly.”

"Aside from the boxes of course." He clarified teasingly, his smile shining.

He went to sit on what you hoped was one of the more steady stacks of boxes. Now his eyes were level yours and his knees brushed your legs. You vaguely heard the commotion from the living room, but the air in your bedroom had fallen completely still. As you looked back at him, you found yourself taking a silent step forward, almost unconsciously. He widened his legs for you and reached out to the belt loop at your side, gently tugging you closer.

In that moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Neither of you spoke or leaned closer, and he adjusted his palm to fold around your hip now, his grip gentle and steady. He reached his other hand upwards towards your face, and you didn't dare breath.

Then came a loud shout of your name in the hallway. You both startled, whatever spell there was between you now broken.

His hand dropped and he released his hold on your hip. You cleared your throat and stepped back, before calling out in response. You glance back at Jannik and he was biting back a smile, looking at the floor. When he looked back up at you, you couldn't help but let out a little laugh with him. Shaking your head as you reluctantly left the room to see out your guests.

Somewhere during your stream of goodbyes, Jannik had come out of your room to join the others situating to leave at the doorway. Charles and Alex were the last to remain, along with Jannik.

“We’re heading out,” Charles said while throwing you a knowing look, and you prayed he'd stop there.

Luckily he stayed silent, as Alex delivered the last goodbye, “Thank you for the great night.”

After they left, Jannik hesitated. “I should probably head out, too,” he said.

“I mean, only if you want,” you replied, your tone was light but your heart skipped as you said it.

He stayed. The two of you talked late into the night, but what charged between you earlier now laid dormant. You didn't want to risk the flow of your of conversation with some mistimed move. So you walked him out some time after midnight, with no real acknowledgment of whatever moment almost happened back in your overflowing bedroom.

Instead, he rocked back and forth on his feet at your doorway. You smiled up at him as he thanked you again for the invite. The night ended with a careful hug and a promise to see each other again.

When you finally wound down for the night, you couldn't help but enter your room, in all it's cardboard glory, with this unyielding warmth in your chest.

---

Part 2 here

Thanks for reading, I so appreciate any engagement showing you liked the fic xx

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scuderiasundays · 2 years ago

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you and me together

summary: a growing rift between you and carlos mixed with late night celebrations for an old friend + a little insta au at the end!

words: 1,345

a/n: this is the first time i've gotten a request for a fic so a big thank you to anon for sending this in! i've been fixated on who will win wimbledon 2023 so i had to incorporate a few tennis players 🎾

Carlos had managed to score some much-needed time off to make it to Wimbledon. The two of you had always dreamed of witnessing the pinnacle of tennis, booking the trip ages ago when the two of you were on steadier ground. Carlos was going to join you after his stint at Silverstone, while you had landed in London a day earlier to reconnect with college friends.

"Looks like Taylor's the hot favorite this year," you grinned. You and Taylor had a loose connection through Alexa, his cousin, who happened to be your college roommate. Whenever Taylor felt overwhelmed by the pressure of ATP rankings, he would swing by their apartment unannounced. The easygoing Californian would tag along to frat parties, going in as a stranger and emerging with a whole crew of newfound friends. You had played the role of Taylor's personal chauffeur, escorting him home in his intoxicated state, all the while indulging in his drunken rants about seeds, tournaments, and prize money. You always had a hunch that he had a thing for you, but your busy schedules kept the two of you delicately tiptoeing around the topic, never quite addressing it head-on.

You couldn't help but wonder how different things would be if you had taken a chance on Taylor. Stuck in a relationship that felt stagnant, you walked through the familiar streets of a city where you and Carlos had once roamed during his McLaren days. London summers seemed to stretch on forever, with the sun setting late around 9:30 PM. You and Carlos had once strolled through the city hand in hand, lost in aimless conversation. Now, the demands of your job kept you from accompanying Carlos to race weekends, while he rarely made it home, going straight from races to the simulator in Maranello.

When Carlos strolled into the hotel lobby with Charles by his side, you couldn't help but let out a faint sigh. It wasn't exactly a huge surprise since you knew Charles was a tennis fanatic, and you actually liked hanging out with him. On the other hand, you had secretly hoped this trip would be your shot at reconnecting with Carlos and maybe reviving the dwindling spark. Well, there goes that idea, you thought, feeling a twinge of disappointment set in.

As you entered the hotel room, Carlos asked, "You don't mind that I brought him, do you?" You replied, "No, not at all." Carlos proceeded to mention that he had to hit the gym since the Hungarian Grand Prix was coming up, emphasizing his "no days off" mentality. He affectionately kissed your forehead before shutting the door behind him.

Just as you were about to head out, a text notification popped up. It was from Carlos, apologizing that he couldn't make it to the Gentlemen’s Singles Final. Ferrari had sprung a last-minute PR commitment on him and Charles, but he promised to make it up to you. You were gutted, quickly dialing Alexa's number. You didn’t even feel like watching the match anymore, but she was adamant that you join her in Taylor's box. It had been years since you had last seen Taylor, and you were dazed by just how much he’d changed—a newfound aura of confidence that screamed "America’s No. 1."

"Y/N, it's been too long!" Taylor exclaimed as he pulled you into a warm hug. The atmosphere crackled with anticipation as you wished him luck and turned your attention to Centre Court, where Taylor was about to embark on an epic showdown against Carlos Alcaraz, the newly crowned world No. 1.

As the final point was won, the stadium erupted into an explosion of applause and admiration. Taylor stood tall, basking in the well-deserved glory of his hard-fought win. Emotions ran high as he shook his opponent’s hand in a display of sportsmanship and mutual respect.

Taylor's victory had set the stage for a night out on the town, and drinks were on him as the entourage made their way into the vibrant Sexy Fish in Mayfair. Congratulations poured in from all directions, amplifying the elation in the air. However, amidst the festive ambience, a pang of longing tugged at your heart, reminding you of the nights you’d spent by Carlos' side, reveling in his victories and beaming with pride.

As the evening progressed and the champagne flowed, you playfully grabbed an imaginary microphone, assuming the role of a reporter. With a mischievous glint in your eye, you turned to Taylor, who stood at the bar, soaking it all in. "You just won Wimbledon! How does it feel to be on top of the world, Mr. Fritz?" you mockingly asked him.

Taylor, caught off guard but never without his notorious charm, grinned and replied, "I don't even have words, Y/N. I wasn't in the best headspace going into the match, but you showed up, and something just clicked. Maybe I'd be World No.1 if you were in my box at every tournament." His playful words made you blush, fully aware of the harmless flirtation at play. You knew you weren't doing anything wrong, yet the room seemed to spin, overwhelming you with a sudden rush of emotions. Excusing yourself, you swiftly made your way towards the ladies' room, seeking a moment alone to gather your thoughts in the midst of the whirlwind celebration.

As Carlos and Charles walked into the restaurant, accompanied by a group of older executives, they immediately spotted you amidst the crowd. Charles couldn't help but make a lighthearted remark, "Funny seeing you here, Y/N! Any chance you can introduce us to the Wimbledon champion?" Relief washed over you, knowing they hadn't overheard your conversation with Taylor. Taylor was stunned to say the least as you walked back to the bar with two rather muscular men by your side.

“Taylor, meet the Scuderia Ferrari boys. Boys, meet Taylor.” The handshake exchanged between the three men was cordial, but Carlos, always quick-witted and ever possessive, raised one of his infamous eyebrows and chimed in, "Thanks for the introduction but I’m your boyfriend more importantly, no?" The playful remark had a tinge of jealousy in it, causing a momentary pause in the conversation.

Just then, Alexa, your ever-supportive confidante, happened to pass by. In her extremely inebriated state, she voiced what had been gnawing at her mind, "Not for long if you don't treat her right. You barely show up for her." Alexa had been there through the ups and downs of your rollercoaster of a relationship, aware of the challenges posed by long-distance and the strain it had placed on the both of you.

Overwhelmed by the weight of it all, you felt the need to escape for a moment. Without a word, you made your way outside, craving the coolness of the night air. Carlos, sensing your distress, followed closely behind. Observing your shivering, he swiftly handed you his navy blazer, offering you comfort in the only way he knew how.

"I'm sorry I haven’t been putting us first lately. I can tell I'm losing you," Carlos admitted with a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, his hands fidgeting nervously—a telltale sign of his unease. You could tell he was hurting as he struggled to find the right words. He had been grappling with the reality of your relationship slipping away, yet hesitant to poke the bear.

“It’s not just you, Carlos. It’s me too. Neither of us has been putting in the work and it shows.” Carlos nodded as his gaze softened.

“Where do we go from here?” Carlos muttered.

"Where do we go from here?" you repeated, mulling over the open-ended question. It held infinite possibilities, a multitude of paths stretching out before the two of you. And in that moment, you knew what you wanted more than anything.

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you looked up at Carlos, a spark dancing in your eyes. "Let's just walk around the city like we used to. Take me anywhere, as long as the night ends with you and me together."

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

liked by carlossainz55, taylorfritz, and 57,575 others

yourusername: what a weekend! catching up with forever friends, getting my steps in, and watching the sunrise with my person 💚

alexafritz: you’re stuck with me for life

yourusername: i love this photo of you, lex! i’d be lost in a world without you 🫶🏼

carlossainz55: solamente mía

pierregasly: how dare you even think of going to wimbledon without me, @charles_leclerc 😤

charles_leclerc: calme-toi, mate! i didn’t even get to go but i did meet @taylorfritz 😏

yourusername: get a room

fan1: i went on a run in primrose hill this morning but i didn't want to bother carlos and @yourusername because they looked so blissfully in love

taylorfritz: you and lex are the best (loudest) cheerleaders 📢

yourusername: rooting for you always!

update: part two here ➡️

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