Summary: Nine years is a long time to know somebody. In those nine years, she and Jannik have changed so much; grown as people, as players, rose to fame alongside each other. But some things, some rituals never change.
Headphones in, head down. That was her most usual form about an hour before a match. Anything fast with a good rhythm would do - even better if it can keep up with her racing heart.
Nerves usually aren't an issue. Loud cheering crowds, chaotic coaches, phones ringing - loved ones wishing her good luck - it was a norm that she accepted early on in her career. However, they had never gotten that far before. This is it. Australian Open, Mixed Doubles Final, 2023.
Her eyes closed as a breath pushed out of her lungs, like waves rushing to shore, before opening once again and focusing on the task at hand. Her fingers worked with a practiced precision, the movement bringing an odd comfort to the room, as she carefully wrapped the white material around the grip of Jannik's racquet.
"I can do it myself, sai?" (you know?)
He comments from his place on the floor, while he stretches his hamstrings.
She looks at him blankly, noticing his mouth moving, yet hearing no sound over her blaring music. Gently tugging an earbud out, she raises a brow in question.
The response she receives is a gentle chuckle and a playful shake of the head.
"I'm not fifteen anymore, I can grip my own racquets."
(Note; he could always grip his racquets, just not up to her pristine standards. 'You're not doing it right,' she would complain back at the academy, before taking initiative and doing it herself - she was not going to risk losing due to his sloppiness.)
She simply shrugged, finishing her task with a slightly embarrassed smile.
"I don't want to jinx it."
She knew how silly it sounded, nevertheless, she did it. For the past seven years - on and off due to injury and scheduling conflicts, of course - she has known him, and re-gripped his racquets before their matches.
They were good. They were great. Two young rising stars, both in singles and doubles. She wasn't going to change the routine now. It worked, didn't it?
"I play just as fine when I do it myself, bella."
He responded with an small, amused smile.
"You have your superstitions, I have mine. Do you want to win or not?"
Her hand twitched, the way it did when she tensed, when her voiced carried a certain sharpness, threatening to crack under the weight of stress. He saw. He knew. Before she could apologise for her minor - yet sudden outburst, he repositioned himself to sit on the floor in front of the bench she is sitting at. He firmly tied the stubborn lace of her left shoe, giving her leg a reassuring pat.
"Andrà tutto bene. We've got this, no?" (everything will be fine)
How can he be so calm, so collected?
After a generous exhale, she nodded. He noticed that the whole scene lacked conviction, sure, but fake confidence was considerably better than no confidence. That was enough for him. She was enough for him.
They were enough for eachother. A universal truth that was further proven two hours later, when they lifted the silver trophy together.
Their lips met the cold steel at the same time, the ability to stand fueled purely by adrenaline after a grueling three set match. Another hour later, his lips would find hers for the first time. Yes, fueled by adrenaline, but mainly by the years spent by her side, watching her, knowing her. A simple silent admiration that he refused to suppress for any longer.
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His hair is shorter. Her's is longer.
He has two grand slams to his name. She has three.
Together, they have four doubles majors under their belt, aiming for five.
Australian Open, Mixed Doubles Final, 2025.
Headphones in, head down. Brows gently furrowed in concentration, as the white material drags and stretches between her fingers, rotating his racquet with her other hand.
Sitting next to her, Jannik gently pulls an earphone out of her ear, careful not to startle her.
"Pronta, bella?" (ready?)
He nudges her shoulder with his in an encouraging gesture.
Finishing her practiced ministrations, she shrugs, placing the last racquet in his bag.
"Not really." She says with a nervous smile. It never gets easier. The contrary, if anything. The more you win, the more people admire you. The more people admire you, the more people you can dissapoint.
A tender smile creeps onto his face, and his comforting hand slips into hers, fingers lacing for the nth time.
"Honesty looks good on you. Come tutto, a dire il vero." (So does everything, to be fair)
She laughs lightly, shaking her head at his blatant flirting. Italian charm; foolproof.
"E niente." (And nothing) He says with a boyish grin, leaning in slightly.
She knows what he's doing, of course she does. Laughter is the best distcraction - anything to ease her nerves. And so, she lets him.
Her laughter thickens, her nose scrunching the way it often does when she is trully amused.
"You're ridiculous." She simply comments, her wide smile contrasting her words while she double-knots the laces of her shoes.
Jannik's undoubtebly witty retort is interupted by a knock on the door, and the tournament manager's nasally voice - "Five minutes!"
Brought back into the reality of the situation, she sighs as her smile drops slightly. Standing up, she picks up her bags, throwing them over her shoulder with a certain determination.
"It's just you and me out there." He reminds her, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear with his calloused fingers.
She nods with a thankful smile, placing his cap on his head.
"That's enough for me. I don't need anything else."
She seals her words with a quick, yet tender kiss. It is less a statement, more a promise. His hands - rough but oh so gentle - linger on her cheek, for just a moment more. Whatever happens out there, he's enough for her. They're enough for eachother.
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