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Novak doesn’t like that guy.
He can’t really understand why – maybe it’s Carlos’ dark eyes and tanned skin or the way he speaks that reminds Novak of someone else from the same country who broke him down so many times before. Maybe it’s the way the young Spaniard moves when he’s on the court, challenging his opponent, the brutality with which he hits his forehand that speaks volumes about who the youngster’s tennis idol really is.
Whatever the reason, Novak sometimes thinks he hates him. He hates Carlos Alcaraz.
He knows he’s stronger than Carlos. A lot more experienced. He already beat him once, he can undoubtedly do it again. He will do it again so soon.
Wimbledon’s final is close. A little over 24 hours, Novak thinks. A little over 24 hours is all that will take him to destroy Carlos Alcaraz, sweep him away from the court and from tennis history.
He just can’t wait.
*
Novak bumps into Carlos the day before the match, while entering the locker room at the end of a particularly tiring practice session. Carlos is there, sitting on the bench, his hands hung loosely between his knees, head bowed down while apparently staring at the ground, lost in his thoughts. When Novak comes in, he lifts his head and stares at him without saying a word.
The Serbian halts in front of him, the bag thrown over one shoulder, his feet apart like the perfect war machine that he is.
" Ready for tomorrow?" he says, grinning from side to side in that way of his that would be funny – if it wasn’t, well, just creepy.
" Yeah, sort of" Carlos murmurs, straightening his back. He lets his hands rest on his thighs and starts biting absent-mindedly his lower lip.
Novak is watching him more attentively than ever, now, his fixed green eyes drinking in every single detail of Carlos’ appearance. The more he sees, the more he feels a fierce joy building up inside him – because the young Spaniard may be good at concealing it, but the Djoker knows the truth: Carlos Alcaraz is shitting his pants, right now.
" You look a bit nervous" he teases. "Are you scared, chico?"
Carlos throws a silent glance at him, full of ill-concealed distaste. That suddenly reminds Novak of the first time he approached Rafa off the court, years ago; Novak was drunk as hell – trying to muster the courage to make the first move – and Rafa… well, Rafa was just standing there, as nice as ever, but all that Novak could get from him, at that time, was a disgusted look. The same look that the young boy from Murcia is wearing on his face in this moment.
Not a pleasant memory. Actually, one that only makes Novak angrier.
" Scared by what?" Carlos retorts, while the Serbian is still lost in his thoughts. " By you? I’m not scared."
" We’ll see very soon. Hope you’re better at playing tennis than at telling lies, Carlitos."
Novak goes to get past the bench where Carlos is sitting, satisfied by what he thinks is his last word, but he’s surprised for the second time in a few minutes, because Carlos jumps up and faces him with his fists clenched, like he’s about to take a swing at Novak.
The younger’s face is filled with rage. Novak looks at him vaguely intrigued, but not concerned, as though he’s facing a lion cub – there are no less than sixteen years between the two of them (a whole lifetime, when it comes to sport), but he knows he still has the upper hand.
He stops and turns around to face Carlos. "What? You wanna pick up a fight?"
Maybe Novak can’t imagine how much the smirk on his lips, along with his sarcastic tone, is driving the young Spaniard crazy. Or, more likely, he’s perfectly conscious of that and Carlos’ reaction only amuses him further and further.
" They tried to warn me about you, you know," Carlos whispers, staring straight in Novak’s eyes. "They told me that you were a world-class…" Novak thinks he’s about to say “champion”, only to be denied again, "… asshole."
Ouch . That hurts. A lot.
" I thought they were all exaggerating, or trying to upset me," Carlos continues, apparently unaware of Novak’s slight wincing at that insult, "and I couldn’t believe them first. But now, after all I have seen you do on the court and off the court, I do. They are right. There is a reason why people don’t like you, Novak, despite you being a great player. Have you ever thought about it?"
" They’ll learn to like me," Novak says in a pretty self-assured tone. "All of them. Spanish, Americans… I’m going to be the greatest champion of all times, and they will have to acknowledge it. You’ll see. It’s only a matter of time."
Carlos stares at him and shakes his head slowly.
" You could and eventually will be the greatest of all times, yeah. But people will never love you the way they love Roger or Rafa. That’s what being a real champion means, Novak."
Novak frowns for a second, and that’s the only thing that gives away how much those words affect him, deep down in his soul. Then his expression softens, his face splits in a wide smile.
" Best wishes for the final," he whispers.
Before Carlos can talk back, Novak turns around and leaves the room. His eyes are no longer green; they’re dark – like lumps of coal straight from hell – but Carlos can’t see them.
The boy doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just made an enemy.
*
Novak loses Wimbledon to Carlos.
And it doesn’t really matter that, by the end of 2023, he’s the one who brings home three out of the four Grand Slams in a year – a ridiculous result – because that one defeat hurts him in a way he couldn’t imagine it was even possible.
In addition to his wounded pride – that still won’t heal – Carlos’ words have been keeping echoing in Novak’s mind since the moment they came out of his mouth, on that day in the locker room. Novak can’t forget them, because a part of himself fears Carlos was right.
" Hey, what’s that face, honey? " Jelena asks, in one of those rare moments of quiet and privacy that they share at the end of the season, some time after the Davis Cup.
They are back in Belgrade by the time, but Novak has never looked so gloomy in his own country before, especially after the extraordinary season that’s just over. Not even Jelena seems to be able to get past the wall of silence that Novak has been building up around himself in the last few months.
" It’s the same face as always, I suppose."
Novak tries to joke – he’s used to doing it, mostly in hard situations; he’s the best Joker around, and there is a reason why he chose that nickname for himself, after all – but these days it’s not working properly.
Jelena gives him a worried look.
" Are you feeling okay? You’re acting so strange lately, and I can’t quite figure out what it is that’s haunting you. You don’t talk to me anymore."
" It’s just… aging, maybe," Novak shrugs. "I may have said otherwise in front of the cameras, but I’m actually getting older, you know. I’m starting to feel it."
It’s not completely a lie. He’s still got a powerful body, providing him the energy to be the high-performing machine that he’s used to being on the court, but something has started to change lately. In his body as well in his soul.
At the same time, there’s more than that. He just can’t bring himself to tell Jelena the truth.
So, once again, it ends with her walking quietly out of their bedroom, leaving Novak sitting on the bed with his head bowed. He glides his fingers over the smooth surface of the duvet, while the silence stretches all around him, and thinks that maybe his marriage is over. As well as his career.
That’s when the phone call comes through – and changes everything.
It’s from abroad. The caller’s number is not in his phone book.
Novak puts the phone close to his ear, absently wondering who the hell could possibly be so late at night – some sales guy coming up with offers which he’s not interested in, for sure.
" Not a good time, sorry. Don’t need anything, by the way. Bye." He speaks a quick Serbian, realizing too late that he should have used English instead.
The voice on the other side sounds uncertain and a little anxious. "N-Novak?... This is Carlos."
Novak is left speechless for a few seconds.
" Carlos? Carlos Alcaraz?"
" The very one. Bothering you?"
Novak is tempted to say “yes”, because that’s the truth: he has a marriage to save, a career to end, a peace of mind to regain – and no, right now he can’t take care of Carlos Alcaraz too, whatever it is that he wants from him.
It’s like Carlos can read his mind, because he anticipates Novak:
" I know we didn’t part on good terms," he says, a bit too fast, "and probably you weren’t expecting to hear from me, but…" he pauses, and Novak hears him sigh deeply, "I was thinking that maybe… that it was… Hmm, well, I wanted to apologize, basically. For being rude."
" For being honest, you mean. For being you."
Carlos sinks in a guilty silence. Novak can almost picture him in his mind – downcast eyes, half-open mouth and biting hard his lip like he always does when he feels the tension. It’s the perfect moment for Novak to put the last nail in the coffin and, by doing so, take his long-awaited revenge.
" Why did it take you so long? " Novak insists. "It’s been months. Why not before?"
" I was… I hadn’t the courage."
Novak chuckles softly. "Don’t tell me. A Spaniard who has no guts? You must be kidding."
" Listen, if you want to humiliate me, go on, I don’t mind," Carlos says abruptly, and this time his voice trembles with a slight annoyance. "I just supposed that was the right thing to do. Maybe I was wrong, maybe I should have thought twice. Things get always so complicated when it comes to you. Sorry for bothering, man…"
" Hey. Hey, wait."
Novak’s tone is dead serious - no hint of sarcasm this time.
" Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you." It’s his turn, now, to take a deep breath. "It was actually very nice of you, apologizing and all. Knowing how proud you are, it couldn’t have been easy for you."
" I’m more mature now, I know when I make a mistake and I try to fix it."
" Little kid is growing up, uh? Eventually." Novak can’t help but tease him, just a bit – just a little bit this time, and almost affectionately. "Anyway, you’ll have to do better than that to make me forgive you about the last Wimbledon."
He’s just making jokes – that old skill apparently back in his hands again, now, doing justice to his nickname – but Carlos takes that seriously: after a few seconds of silence the Spaniard replies – in a soft and suddenly stuttering half-tone: "I’ll do whatever you want, Novak. You just have to ask."
Carlos’ quivering voice thrills Novak more than he’ll admit. That’s why he suddenly decides to push the limit and see how far the boy will let him go.
" What I want may be too much to ask of you," he says, his voice deliberately low and a little husky.
" Or it may be exactly the same thing that I want myself," says Carlos, with no hesitation this time. "Just try me, no?"
Novak love playing games – tennis is just one of those. The kid barely knows him, he doesn’t have the slightest idea of what he’s getting into. Novak feels almost sorry for him.
" You don’t know what you’re talking about," he whispers.
" I might be a little young, Novak, but I’m not that naïve. You mean sex, of course. Right?"
Oh, well, straight to the point. Novak almost can’t believe his ears. No, he hasn’t misheard, of course – Carlos said the “S word” loud and clear – but he nearly wishes to, because then it would be easier for him to ignore the sudden surge of desire in his belly that takes his breath away for a second.
Well, he could lie and tell himself that he has never dreamed of this moment before. That he’s taken aback, and shocked, and that it’s all. He could say that the unpredictability of the whole thing is the only reason he’s still not answering, just heavily breathing into the phone like some kind of drowning man.
But that would be a lie.
If Carlos can be mature and honest, Novak will be no less. No more lies, just truth. And the truth is that he has just realized how desperately he wants what the young Spaniard seems so eager to offer.
Up until this moment Novak was sure he hated Carlos Alcaraz. But now he finds himself thinking about Carlos’ body in a way that he should not be allowed to – for instance, stretched out naked on a bed, wearing only a pleading look in his large puppy eyes…
It feels odd being for once the wanted one. Jelena was the first who chose him, years ago, but a lot of time has passed since then. And now here comes this stubborn and defiant kid who first calls him names, then offers himself on a plate. It’s enough to drive anybody nuts.
Novak is not very familiar with people showing genuine appreciation for him – he never knows what to do with them, if he can trust their intentions or not. What he knows right now is just how easy it would be to hold out his hand and grab what is awaiting in front of him.
The fact is that Carlos is still very young – oh, the perfect time to grow a conscience, Nole, well done – but that’s not the point, actually. It would be all too justifiable, anyway: they’re both adults and, as the saying goes, the heart has its reasons… and stuff. Or rather, the lust has its reasons, in this case. After the thing with Rafa, Novak knows that it’s better to keep the two things – heart and lust – apart.
Years’ experience taught him to be very cautious, because it’s much better to walk on eggshells, not being too hasty to cut to the chase, than to have regrets for the rest of his life. Novak learned the lesson – the memory of the look in Rafa’s eyes while politely dismissing him (But we can still be friends, Nole, no? I really want to be your friend) still makes him burn with shame and frustration, even after all these years.
That’s when a sudden thought strikes him, and erases all that’s been so far.
" You said they will never love me," he blurts out, breaking the silence. " The day before our Wimbledon final. You said people will never love me the way they love Roger and Rafa. Do you remember?"
" Y-yeah, I do." Carlos is puzzled: that is clearly not the answer he was expecting.
" And that’s because they are true champions, whereas I’m just a… how did you call me?... a “world-class asshole”, right?" Novak is smiling now, because he can feel Carlos’ discomfort on the other end of the line, he could almost cut it with a knife and it makes him glad.
" I thought I’ve already apologized for that…" Carlos is stumbling. "Novak, please…"
Novak simply ignores him. " Well, maybe you weren’t that mistaken, Carlitos," he continues, unfazed. " I am an asshole, everybody knows that. Just not the total asshole they think I am. I could do a lot worse, but I won’t." He pauses briefly to catch his breath. "So thanks for your call, Carlitos. Apology accepted. And thanks for your… kind offer but… no, I don’t really need anything from you at the moment. Sleep tight, chico. I’ll see you soon."
He doesn’t give Carlos the time to say anything.
While he’s hanging up quickly, Novak realizes that his heart is pounding furiously in his chest, almost as fast as it does shortly before an important match.
He stays with his phone in his hand, torn inside between opposite thoughts.
Maybe a little fun with Carlos wouldn’t be bad for him – and the boy would even thank him later.
Maybe he has just sabotaged himself once again, giving up his chance to feel young and alive one more time.
It’s not for Carlos that he stepped back. He did it for himself – will he ever get rid of that stupid pride and urge for revenge?
It felt good to leave Carlos completely blown away and confused, anyway. It can’t repay Novak for being defeated at Wimbledon, of course – or for having his heart broken by Rafa when he was not much older than Carlos himself. Nothing could change that, he knows. However, it’s a little payback for Carlos’ insolence.
Besides, Novak has proved himself that he can be better than how people usually depict him. They will never know about this, and he will let them go on believing that he’s a detestable and arrogant blowhard who only thinks of himself. His true self is quite the opposite of what it seems, sometimes.
At the end of the day, he doesn’t care what people think. He’s used to being mistreated, and strong enough to cope with that.
He finally stands up from the bed, throwing the phone onto the duvet, and walks towards the bathroom.
No matter how wonderfully he’s capable of managing his lower impulses, still he could really use a cold shower right now, to shove the lingering tension elicited by Carlos’ words out of his body. He turns on the tap in the shower and while waiting for the water to warm up he looks at himself in the mirror above the sink. His face looks devastated for no apparent reason at all. He makes grimaces at his own reflection until the hot steam covering the surface hides it from sight.
Water is hot, now. Very well.
He stretches his body under the gentle stream and starts to feel better almost immediately.
God, he really needs to stay away from those bloody Spaniards, he tells himself.
End