Chapter Text
INTERVIEW WITH NOVAK DJOKOVIC – CHAMPION AT INDIAN WELLS (def. M. Fish)
Indian Wells, Sunday 24th March 2008
Q: After the US Open last year, you reached the final, and the Australian Open this year, there is a lot of talk about how you might provide the real rivalry with Roger Federer over the next few years rather than Nadal. How do you see the rest of the year going, and do you think you will take the number two ranking this year to really count as a rival to Federer?
NOVAK DJOKOVIC: Well, it’s hard to say how the year will go, you know, for me, except that I want to win, you know. I hope that this year at Roland Garros and Wimbledon will be better for me than last year, when I had to retire in the semifinal for both. I think if I play my best like I did today then I have a chance to win. You know, a lot of people say I can be Federer’s real rival I think because he is friends with Rafa, and it’s hard to be good rivals with a friend. They’re like a little too close, you know what I mean? You know, that’s what I think. But we will see in Roland Garros, maybe Wimbledon this year. There is a long time to go this year.
Q: You say that Roger and Rafa are too close?
NOVAK DJOKOVIC: Yeah. Maybe.
Q: Can you comment on that? How do you think they are too close?
NOVAK DJOKOVIC: (smiling) I just mean, you know, that they are friendly, they hang out. I don’t mean anything really. Just they maybe like each other so it’s hard to really want to beat a guy you like. That’s all.
April 2008
Clay season is nearing, and it is Roger’s last night in Mallorca. They eat at Las Dores in a leisurely fashion, oil from the mussels on fingers and mouths, a glass or two of wine but no more, they do not want to be sleepy. A short walk to Rafa's house in Porto Cristo, dark and empty and waiting for them. Roger stands for a moment as Rafa opens the door. He looks at the stars, bright in the black sky above, smells the air. The wind is still cool and it smells of the sea, of spring in Mallorca.
"I love this place," he says, and Rafa smiles.
"Of course," he says, shrugging playfully, and he waits for Roger to be ready to come inside.
They close the door and lock it, the silence thick around them as they find each other in the dark, find each other’s mouths with practiced ease, undo familiar buttons and zips and run their hands over skin they know like their own. And yet familiarity does nothing to quell the beat of Roger’s heart, the impatient hitches of his breath; no, he loves this man and pushes into every touch, pushes his body against him, his skin aching for touch. They stumble their way blindly to Rafa’s bedroom, and it smells of fresh cotton and something else, something like sunshine on skin, the smell of Rafa.
He buries his face in that smell, in the curve of Rafa’s neck where those powerful shoulders sweep up and under his hair, and Roger runs his hands along that path till he holds Rafa’s face in his hands. "You," he whispers, punctuating the word with a kiss on Rafa’s soft, wet mouth. "You make me crazy. I count my days from you to you."
Rafa’s arms encircle him, pulling him closer, and they are chest to chest, belly to belly. Their belt buckles clink together. Rafa’s eyes are shadowed, shining in what little moonlight makes its way through the window shutters. "Always come back here," Rafa murmurs into his mouth. His voice is breathy, his lips seeking Roger’s. "Always, okay? You and me."
Roger nods, and they kiss again, desperate and urgent. He feels Rafa’s hands dip below his waistband, gripping his ass with strong fingers and grinding him forward, he feels Rafa’s cock through his jeans, hard against his own. Belts are unbuckled and trousers and shorts fall to the floor, their shoes and socks already kicked off somewhere along the corridor. Roger pulls back the duvet and they tumble into bed, limbs already entangled and their hips moving together, impatient for sensation.
May 2008
It is agreed in Roger’s room the evening after the Roland Garros semifinals. Roger sits on the couch, his knee bumping against Rafa’s, who is sitting with one arm along the back of the cushions, his fingers gently resting on Roger’s shoulder. His uncle Toni has taken a chair by the wall. Tony Godsick, Roger’s agent, looks on, nodding, silently agreeing with Benito, who is pacing, gesticulating. Sometimes, he says, searching for the words to explain, sometimes they are just a little… fond. Roger glances at Rafa, who is smiling to himself. He glances up at Roger, something dark and conspiratorial in his eyes. Roger echoes his smile before looking back to Benito.
It is Benito’s idea that there should be articles and photographs.
"It’s necessary?" Roger is serious, businesslike.
Toni says nothing, just shifts in his chair, his arms folded and legs crossed. He looks as if he is courtside. Benito smiles, and Roger thinks that maybe there is a little sadness to it. He shrugs. "I think so," he says, quietly.
Mirka is looking at him, her eyes soft. "That’s why you have me," she says. There is a hush in the room when she says it, as if there is more weight to her words, as if she knows what this involves better than any of them. Roger thinks that maybe she does.
He rests his face in his hands for a moment. When he looks up, Rafa is watching him intently, all traces of a smile gone. "So it will be Xisca?" he asks.
Rafa nods quickly, just once. He looks away.
Roger says nothing. He stares at the carpet, absently rubbing his fingers together. Then he stands up and puts his hands in his pockets, sighing as he does so. "Fine," he says, eventually. It isn’t fine at all.
Roger Federer Interview
Sunday, June 8, 2008
French Open - After 6-1, 6-3, 6-0 loss to Rafael Nadal in the Final
Q. For what happened, could you name it? This thing that happened today, what is it going to mean for you in the next future?
ROGER FEDERER: I mean, key for me is the way Rafa played. I mean, no doubt he played excellent. He hardly made unforced errors, and when he's on the attack, he's lethal. On the defense, he had some, I mean, unbelievable shots, you know. I can only praise him for the level of play he's had for the last two weeks and today again under pressure. It's not like it's easy for him either. He handles it very well. To come up with a performance like this under pressure shows what a great champion he is. For me, I mean, it's been a good tournament. I still go out of this tournament, you know, with a positive mindset. You know, not with a mindset. Oh my God, you know, I had no chance today. I mean, I had a little chance in the second set. Okay. But, you know, it doesn't matter now. I mean, I'm going to look forward to grass. I think the second half of the season, hopefully, is going to be better than the first.
June 2008
Roland Garros, Paris
Roger is slowly packing his things, having returned to the locker room after his presser. He’s taken to giving his pressers quickly after a match, getting them over with; he has less patience now, and wants the questions asked and answered quickly. He even means most of the things he says. Then he returns to the locker room to pack his things slowly and neatly, allowing his irritation to fade as he sits on a bench and stretches out his neck and his legs and his fingers, as he rolls his socks into balls and puts them in the right pocket of his bag, as he folds his shirts and his shorts and arranges his rackets. Only then is he ready to leave.
Just as he is about to heave his racket bag onto his shoulder, Rafa slips into the locker room, his eyebrows drawn and serious, his stride purposeful. He comes to a halt when he sees Roger. "Rogelio," he says, and it seems an age since they saw each other off court, though it has only been two days.
They gravitate towards each other as if pulled by some magnetic force, until they find themselves in each other’s arms. They do not kiss, not yet; Roger simply wants to grasp Rafa in his hands, feel his strength and his solidity against his own body. "Are you finished your press?" he asks, and he realises he doesn’t know the time, doesn’t know how long Mirka has been waiting for him the lounge, how many coffees his father will have had by now, how soon they’re supposed to have dinner.
"Sí," says Rafa, and Roger knows the look in his eyes, unsure and hesitant, though they’ve beaten each other so often now. It’s always the same.
"Rafa," says Roger, running his hands up the curve of Rafa’s biceps, fingers straying to his face, outlining the shape of Rafa’s mouth, watching his lips part at his touch. "Don’t worry about it."
"Why did you not fight harder, Roger?" asks Rafa, his voice breathy and his body already aroused. Roger can see him getting annoyed at himself. He knows the set of Rafa’s mouth when he wants to talk, but Roger doesn’t want to talk at all.
"You’re just too good, okay?" Roger cants his hips a little, allowing Rafa to feel his hardness. Again that annoyed scrunch of Rafa’s nose, that comical eyebrow pushed into a frown.
"I didn’t want to—" begins Rafa, but Roger cuts him short with his fingertips pressing against his lips. He lets his other hand wander down Rafa’s side, his thin t-shirt no disguise for the hard muscle underneath, for the contradiction that is Rafa’s body. Rafa is curvy and responsive and yet so, so male. Roger can feel his cock beginning to harden, can see his desire in the darkening of his eyes. He palms Rafa’s ass through his shorts, squeezes a little, slipping the tips of his fingers against the centre seam. Rafa’s breath becomes thicker in his throat.
"It doesn’t matter," whispers Roger. "It really doesn’t matter, okay?" he says, and while he says it he works his hand inside the back of Rafa’s shorts, his palm right against the cheek of Rafa’s ass, full and round and smooth in his hand. He feels Rafa clench, and grinds his hips. Rafa is hard now, as hard as he is, and Roger drags him out of view of the doorway, back into an empty shower stall, where the light is low and mottled and they can remain undiscovered, should someone look for them. Roger pushes Rafa against the wall, his fingers slipping between his ass cheeks. Rafa gasps and finally gives in, his hands curling against Roger’s arms, pulling him closer and kissing him; no gentle kiss, no introduction, but headlong into passion. Rafa does not do this by halves. Roger strips off Rafa’s shirt and Rafa pulls at his and soon they are discarded, lying crumpled on the wet ground. Rafa kicks off his shoes while Roger kisses his neck, eliciting whimpers from Rafa that he muffles with his palm. Rafa groans and jerks his hips and somehow the water gets turned on, and once the shock has passed, Roger realises it is warm, not cold, and grins as it runs down his face. Rafa laughs, running his hands over Roger’s newly wet skin, tangling his fingertips in the trail of hair on his belly, and palms Roger’s cock through his shorts.
Roger needs this after he has been beaten, needs it more than Rafa ever does. Needs to take control again, needs to feel this body under his hands, his tongue, his cock, all of him taking control of Rafa, who is already shut-eyed and panting against the wall. He roughly turns him around, using his fingers to get him ready, reaching for the soap in the dispenser by the shower control, and slicking himself up.
Only when he is inside Rafa, only when he feels the rhythm of their movement and hears the sound of Rafa's moaning echoing against the tiles, does he forget the court and the score and the press. When he is inside Rafa, nothing else matters.
People
Monday, 23rd June 2008
Tennis Hotshot Rafael Nadal Has a Secret Girlfriend
Wimbledon is about to begin – but female fans of Rafael Nadal have one less reason to cheer this year.
Turns out the supposedly single tennis ace has a long-running love match with a girl from his hometown of Majorca. In fact, the 22-year-old has reportedly been dating Maria Francisca Perello for three years – and the two were recently photographed frolicking in the surf.
July 2008
He did not count on losing Wimbledon and seeing those beach photos two days later. He did not count on that at all. When his phone rings and he sees Rafa’s name, he tosses it aside and lets it ring out every time, until it stops ringing altogether. He trains in Dubai, a punishing schedule under the hot sun, and at the end of each day he falls into bed, splayed out across the mattress as if he has no thoughts of leaving room for anyone else.
He always wakes up on his side of the bed.
August 2008
Toronto
Roger is the first to break the silence. He does so with a text, short, terse: "Come to my suite."
He says nothing when he opens the door, just turns his back to Rafa and walks back into the room. It is cool and spacious in the penthouse, everything a neutral cream. He has left his gear in a bag by the window, ready for training in the morning, but there is nothing else of his in the living area. Nothing personal.
Rafa stands far enough inside to let the door close, but no further.
"So you brought Xisca?" says Roger, finally, without turning around. He can hear Rafa behind him, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.
"Yes," says Rafa. "Like last year. She come with me."
Roger exhales sharply, a cynical sound. "Like last year," he echoes. He turns around. "Not really like last year, Rafa, don’t you think?"
Rafa’s face is shut down, blank. Roger hates his face like that. "Roger," Rafa says, but the he stops.
"What, Rafa?" asks Roger. He makes no effort to say it kindly.
Rafa’s brow is furrowed, the way it is when he’s trying to think of the right words. "I don’t know what you want," he says, eventually. "I say to you at Wimbledon, you gonna be okay? You say yes but you don’t talk to me, not till now."
Roger looks away at that, down at the carpet.
Rafa continues. "I call you, I don’t know, ten, twenty times. You no answer, no? So yes, I bring her. She ask me to come, I bring her."
His words hang in the silence. Roger watches him. Rafa’s his face is hard now, determined, that set to his jaw that he gets on court. Roger has to look away.
"I hate those pictures," says Roger, half to himself. He sees them again in his mind, Rafa smiling, swimming, holding her in the waves.
Rafa mutters something in Spanish, something Roger half recognises as a curse. "You agreed," he says. "You say do it. Everyone say. If we want, if we want this, you and me, then is necessary, no?"
"Necessary?" repeats Roger.
"Sí!" Rafa looks half incredulous that he has to explain this, and half plain pissed off. "You see the photos of Wimbledon? Of you and me, after the match?" Roger shakes his head. He never looked. "Our faces, Rogelio," continues Rafa. "No one who see these pictures could not know. No one. Benito say, we must get photos with Xisca now, or else everybody will know, no?"
"Benito says too much," says Roger. "It’s stupid, Rafa, I hate this, I hate if this is the way it has to be." His feelings are in turmoil, anger and determination mixed up in his belly. Love is in there too, somewhere, making his fist clench and his throat tighten. "Tell her to go home."
"Roger," says Rafa, quietly, placatingly. "This is usual, no? She just here with my team. Is not real."
"But I’m tired of this!" Roger is almost shouting, not placated at all. He’s pacing a bit, his hands making gestures and he feels a little out of control, a little hysterical, and he hates it. He takes a breath and tries to ground himself, tries to focus. "Look," he says, more calmly now, but still with an edge to his voice betraying his tight control. "I want you. All of you, no hiding, no faking, no Mirka or Xisca." As soon as the words come out of his mouth he stops, lets Rafa hear them, understand them fully. He has never said it before, not like that, not so clearly. "That’s what I want," he says. He means to deliver it like an ultimatum, but it comes out instead a rough whisper, a plea. He grits his teeth.
Rafa says nothing. He seems to search Roger’s eyes for some hint as to how to understand him, some direction, but does not appear to find any. "We can’t—" He shakes his head tightly. "We can’t do that, you know we can’t."
Roger feels crazy, feels as if he’s been possessed by a clarity he has never before experienced. "Why not?" he says. "I mean, why not, you know? Is it gonna make us bad at tennis? Is it gonna mean we win less?" He waits, staring at Rafa for some kind of answer.
Again Rafa shakes his head. "No," he says uncertainly. "Maybe. I don’t know, no? No one is afraid of Gasquet."
"That has nothing to do with his boyfriend," says Roger. "That’s because he doesn’t think properly. Not like you. Not like me."
Rafa looks stricken. "No, Rogi," he says. "I will tell Xisca, I say her go back to Mallorca. But not this, I think… I don’t think I can do this."
Roger looks at him, deflated. "Okay," he says, flatly. "No, I know. You’re right. It’s stupid." He sighs, shaking his head. He looks away from Rafa, towards the window, his eyes meaninglessly scanning the city view, seeing nothing. "Forget I said it."
Rafa nods, putting his hands in his back pockets.
"Call me when you’ve told her," says Roger, quietly. "We can, I don’t know, meet up again or something. Talk some more." Rafa’s eyes are bruised with hurt, but Roger cannot find the will to care. Not just now. He shrugs and turns away. "See you later, Rafa," he says.
Rafa says nothing. Roger hears the door open and shut again. He exhales slowly, his muscles a knot of tension. He digs his phone out of his pocket and turns it off, throwing it on the coffee table before retreating to the bedroom and trying to sleep.
May 2007
Paris
Mirka found out like this.
It had not been long, only a few months that they had been doing this, but they already had a system. Eyes catching across the locker room meant take your time getting dressed, and more often than not they’d end up stealing hand jobs in the showers. A simple "see you later" meant "visit me tonight". Then there were texts and phonecalls, private jokes and quiet endearments that seemed to sneak into their communication without either of them noticing until they were a fixture. Now and then they’d even have dinner together under the guise of discussing ATP matters or simple friendship. It was all anything but simple.
But this was simple. One night, when Mirka was out with friends in Paris, just before Roland Garros began, they had a rare chance for languorous sex in the lengthening twilight of a May evening. So often they had to make do with frantic liaisons, fear always lurking that they would be found out, but this time they took their time, lingering over each other’s bodies with singular care, caressing with hands and mouths, kissing and licking and sucking. It was exquisite, and by the time Roger had Rafa’s knees slung over his shoulders, long, paced thrusts driving deep inside him, they were both so close that they could hardly stand it. They came in long drawn out gasps, Rafa’s moans filling the room, almost shouting as he came in spurts over his own belly. Roger collapsed into Rafa’s arms, his strength dissipated, his skin still hungry for contact. Rafa nuzzled into his hair, tiny sounds of contentment escaping his lips.
And then they fell asleep. That was all it took.
August 2008
Beijing
Jet lag wakes Roger at unexpected hours in Beijing, hours through which he usually sleeps. He hears the city wake up, smells the morning over his mug of coffee as he leans his elbows on the railing of his veranda. His suite overlooks a quiet courtyard. Trickling water echoes from one corner and the silent hush of a tranquil morning haze rises with the rising sun. Morning fades from dusky pink to yellow, and though the air is still cool at this hour he can feel the rising heat on stone and lacquer. He can hear the first stirrings of breakfast preparation from the restaurant courtyards, though the hour is the only clue that it is breakfast being prepared. The exotic smells of a Chinese morning drown out the smell of croissants.
He is playing James Blake today.
These delicate early mornings take their toll; by the time he gets into the taxi for the drive to the tennis centre, sleepiness overcomes him and he dozes all the way.
Centre court looms like an angular hulk over the rest of the tennis centre. The flat pavement seems vast around it, its punctuation of sparse new planting emphasising rather than disguising the vacant landscape. Roger’s taxi stops near the entrance, and he has just shaken the sleep from his head and smoothed back his hair when he sees Rafa in the distance, making use of the pavement to zoom along on his Segway. He is smiling like a kid, and it’s almost contagious. Roger looks away and takes his time retrieving his racket bag from the trunk of the cab. When he looks up, Rafa is just dismounting, shucking his racket bag more firmly onto his shoulder, the grin fading from his face. It becomes something different, a fond sort of smile, and Roger smiles back. They walk together into the tennis centre, and they do not move away when their arms bump against each other as they open the door to the locker room. There are plenty of people already there. Novak Djokovic glances over at them and gives them a nod of greeting. His eyes linger on them momentarily, a curious expression on his face, before he turns away. Some of the French guys are laughing, loud in the echoing surroundings.
"Xisca is not here," says Rafa quietly.
"I know," replies Roger. He holds Rafa’s gaze for a moment, their eyes locked, some kind of energy flowing between them, some kind of understanding.
"She has a boyfriend." He looks down, smiling a little. "A real one. She not gonna do photos or anything like this again."
Roger nods slowly. "Good," he says quietly, looking away.
"And anyway, I no ask her anymore," says Rafa. He looks abashed, looks like he's muddled his thoughts and is trying to articulate them but cannot find the right words.
Roger presses his lips together. "Okay," he says. Now is not the time for this. He looks once more at Rafa, in his eyes a silent goodbye, and just as he turns to go, Rafa reaches out and holds his arm. Roger freezes, and there is something like fear in Rafa’s eyes as he glances around to see who might see, but a certain defiance also. He presses his fingers into Roger’s skin. "I see you later, no?" he says, his voice quiet but not a whisper.
Roger just nods. He is too surprised to smile. "Yeah," he says. "I’ll call you."
They turn away to separate sections of the locker room, just one brief glance back, and no one seems to have noticed anything at all.
May 2007
Paris
Rafa did not wake up when she came into the bedroom, but Roger did. She leaned against the door, her hair loose around her shoulders, her legs crossed, the straps of her handbag twisted around her left wrist. There was a look on her face half way between resignation and fondness.
She left the room, a pointed glance behind her as she turned.
Roger dressed quickly, quietly, cleaning off in the bathroom before pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt. The t-shirt was Rafa’s, which he had pulled on absently, and he did not take the time to change. Rafa still slept softly on the bed, his arm thrown across a pillow as if Roger still lay there.
She was sitting on the couch, and she’d poured herself a glass of wine from the minibar. She wasn’t drunk, but she was relaxed, a little tired. He sat across from her in the armchair, elbows on his knees and face resting in his hands.
"It’s Rafa," she said.
Roger nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Sorry he’s still here. I guess we fell asleep."
She looked at him, her head against her hand. The light was low. She had switched on just one lamp on the sideboard.
"That’s not like you," she said, quietly. She took a sip of her wine.
He shook his head. He couldn’t help smiling, just a little. "I know," he said. "Rafa is…" He searched for a word, cast about for something, anything that could encompass Rafa. He came up empty. "Rafa is different," he said, settling.
Mirka looked at him curiously. "You’ve fallen for him?" she said.
Roger shrugged, defensive, suddenly, as if showing too much of his hand, as if he wasn’t ready to think about that himself, yet. He rubbed his face in his hands. "Maybe," he said, and then he breathed out a laugh. "Yeah."
She smiled. Perhaps he saw a glimmer of sadness in her eyes, but he could not be sure. She looked towards the window. It had begun to rain, and rivulets ran down the glass in mistimed rushes, catching the orange streetlights from below.
"Remember when you first met me, Mirka?" he said to her. He shifted place and sat beside her, lying against her, and stretching his legs out in from of him on the couch. She put her arm around him, her fingers – a woman’s fingers, so different – resting at his temples, threading through his hair.
"Mmm hmm," she said, quietly.
"How did you, you know, know?" He did not have to explain.
He felt her sigh, heard her throat as she drank. "This question again?" she said, though she was not as tired of it as she pretended.
He nodded. "You never really tell me," he said. "You always say it was just a feeling, a hunch, or something."
"It was," she said. "That’s what it was."
"Yes, but why?" He almost sounded petulant. "Tell me the reason."
He felt her look at him, resting her cheek against his head. "Well," she began. "It was nothing stupid, like your hair or your clothes or anything. You had terrible hair then anyway." She laughed quietly, and he felt it in her chest. "It was the way you lit up around other men. Marat, I remember your face when you looked at Marat. And Andy Roddick, too. You looked…" she hesitated, and he felt her consider her words. "You looked as if you couldn’t look enough."
He remembered. He was young, surrounded for the first time by men, not boys.
"And when you looked at me, it wasn’t the same, you know?" She kissed the top of his head, maternal. "But the idea of you, I found you interesting."
"But why did you…" he trailed away, shrugging.
"Look, it wasn’t altruism, you know?," she said, something tougher in her voice, now. "I’m good at this, good at working with you. And you need a cover, and I’m good at that, too."
"You are," he said, agreeing. "You are good at everything. Good for me."
"So you have your men, and I have mine, and we take care of each other, right?" She was talking low, her voice intimate, her arm around his chest. His fingers were threaded between hers.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said. He watched the rain. "That’s right."
He didn’t tell her, not yet, that he didn’t think there would be other men. Not anymore. They stayed like that, just the two of them, for a few minutes, until he turned and kissed her on the cheek. "I’m going back to bed," he said, pushing himself up from the couch. He stood, and touched her shoulder as he walked by.
He heard her bedroom door close as he curled up once more in Rafa’s arms.
LA Times
14th August 2008
Top-seeded Roger Federer loses to James Blake
Roger Federer's Olympic moment was, for the third time, a glum one.
The world's No. 1 player, currently going through a rocky streak, was upset in the quarterfinals of the Olympic tournament here Thursday night by American James Blake.
Blake won, 6-4, 7-6 (2), marking the first time he had ever beaten Federer, although he had always gone into the matches with an upbeat attitude.
"The results haven't been good," he said, "but I've always felt I could win."
Federer, No. 1 in the world for most of the last four years and the owner of 12 Grand Slam titles, second only to Pete Sampras' 14, will lose his No. 1 ranking to Rafael Nadal next week. Federer has not won a major title this year and had looked on the Olympics as a steppingstone for saving his year here, and at the upcoming U.S. Open.
Winning with Stan after losing to Blake is an almost impossible redemption, an escape with which Roger is unfamiliar. When he loses, he cannot imagine another step on the court; when he returns, he cannot imagine how he could have got here, how they let him pass. And with Stan at his side, solid and dependable in his presence, if not in his game, Roger feels rising in his chest a kind of glee, the giddy high of impossible escape. And so he plays on, each shot one more step away from the oblivion of defeat.
And after the match, before his muscles start to ache, before tiredness overtakes elation, he and Stan laugh their way to the locker rooms. The locker room is quiet at this hour, not too many now left in the competition, and the facilities large and comfortable, banks of lockers creating almost private spaces for groups of players. He and Stan have lockers in a corner near the showers.
Stan is on the phone, half hidden by his locker door. His voice is low and intimate and excited and happy all at the same time. Roger doesn’t mean to listen, he really doesn’t, but he hears Stan say "Marcos" in a voice almost cracking with emotion, and that is when he turns abruptly and pretends he needs to shave over by the sinks near the shower stalls. He can’t hear Stan’s voice from there.
He returns when he is sure Stan is off the phone, when he is just about to pick up his bag and leave. Stan looks at him thankfully. "That was Marcos," he says. "His wrist is getting better."
Roger nods. "That’s good," he says, packing his razor into his shaving bag. "I bet he wishes he was here, huh?"
Stan sighs. "Yeah. You know, he’s okay. He’s training now. He’ll be in the US."
"That’s good," says Roger again, smiling. He doesn’t know what else to say.
"But his girlfriend will be coming, so…" Stan stops himself, abruptly. His face reddens and his eyes seek anything to latch on to, his hand running nervously through his hair.
Roger stills, straightening up. He can see the fall of Stan’s shoulders, the sadness in his face. "How do you do it?" he asks, carefully.
Stan looks at him now. "Do what?"
"His girlfriend. See them together. How do you, you know, deal with that?" He slides his wristband over his hand.
Stan regards him quizzically. "It’s sport, Roger. Always the way it is, isn’t it? Never let anyone know, always have a girlfriend. Those are the rules."
Roger throws down his wristband. "Those are stupid rules," he says.
Stan frowns. He leans against his locker. "Who?" he asks, quietly.
Roger rubs his face. "I don’t know if…" he says, and then he shakes his head. He looks up at Stan. "Rafa," he says. "It’s Rafa. Or at least it was. If I haven't messed it up."
Stan raises his eyebrows. "Wow," he says. "I can see how that would be tough."
"Yeah," says Roger. "Yeah, sometimes it’s tough. Recently it's been tough. But the rest of the time…" He smiles. Stan smiles with him, understanding.
"I know," he says.
"It shouldn’t be this way, Stan," said Roger. "It makes no sense to me."
Stan shrugs, no longer smiling. "I don’t think things will change very soon. Not while everyone thinks being an athlete is about money and cars and beautiful women."
"But how will it change," says Roger, musingly, "if we don’t change it?"
Stan folds his arms. "You would do that?" he says. "Rafa would?"
Roger’s face clouds over. "I don’t know about Rafa. I would. I should." He sighs. "Sometimes I see photos of me and Rafa and I don’t know how the whole world hasn’t figured it out already. I guess they just don’t expect to see it, so they don’t see it."
"That’s what helps us hide," says Stan, frowning. "Are you serious? You would make it public?"
Roger chews a fingernail. "Yeah," he says. He nods. "Yeah, I think I would. But it’s not just up to me."
Stan chews his lip, regarding Roger for a moment. "No, it’s not," he says. "Go talk to Rafa."
Roger nods thoughtfully. "Yeah," he says. "After the presser. Let’s go."
They pack quickly. Roger can feel Stan’s eyes on him now and again, as if judging the measure of him anew. He imagines such a reassessment in the eyes of the world, and wonders if he could take it, if Rafa could. But underneath the doubt, he can feel a sort of certainty. He wonders if Rafa could feel the same.
INTERVIEW
15th August 2008
BEIJING, CHINA
FEDERER-WAWRINKA/Bryan-Bryan
7-6, 6-4
Q. Stan, when you're on court, people are asking Roger to marry them. They ask for his autograph when you leave the court. Do you feel like you're just the other guy? Is that pressure on you?
STANISLAS WAWRINKA: No, I don't care. It's normal, you know. Roger for me is the best player ever in the world. I am just the No. 10. That is good for me. But, you know, it's normal all the people wants Roger and not me.
Q: And Roger, how do you feel out there with people asking you this, to marry you, all of it?
ROGER FEDERER: (smiling) I don’t know about marriage, you know, but I’m definitely taken, so I’ve got to say no every time.
They assume he means Mirka.