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Champion’s Waltz | J.Sinner

synopsis: in which after winning the 2025 wimbledon, you reunite with your ex boyfriend for the champion’s waltz

pairing: jannik sinner x f!reader, exes to lovers (???)

author’s note: i recently got into tennis and jannik’s become my favorite! +iga & carlos

1,346 words

The applause is deafening. It rolls over the emerald grass of Centre Court like a tide, crashing in waves as the Duchess hands you the Wimbledon trophy. Your fingers tremble around the silver plate, your chest rising and falling with every labored breath. You're soaked in sweat, mascara smudged just slightly under your eyes, but you don't care. You did it. After nearly three hours of slugging it out with Iga Swiatek in one of the most punishing, exhilarating finals in years, you’re the Wimbledon champion. Again.

You glance across the net where Iga stands, shoulders slumped but eyes bright with admiration. She offers a tired smile, walking over to embrace you.

"You earned that," she says, voice rough but warm. "Every point. Damn near killed me."

You laugh against her shoulder. "You’re the toughest opponent I've ever had. I’m just glad it's over."

As you part, she smirks. “Almost over.”

You blink. “What do you mean—”

And then it hits you. The Champion’s Ball. The waltz.

Tradition.

Your stomach sinks like lead as your gaze shifts to the men’s trophy ceremony happening a few courts away, broadcast on the big screen above the stands. Carlos Alcaraz claps Jannik Sinner on the back, grinning, while Jannik lifts the silver cup high, his eyes shaded behind thick lashes and the familiar, lopsided smile you haven’t seen up close in months.

Because Jannik is the men’s champion.

Your ex.

And you’re about to be stuck dancing with him in front of the entire tennis world.

•

The hotel ballroom is opulent—gold chandeliers glitter above you, casting champagne-colored light on polished floors and glittering gowns. You wear white, of course. Wimbledon’s tradition even stretches to its formalwear, and your silky, off-the-shoulder dress hugs your frame with an elegance you didn’t know you still possessed after nearly tearing every muscle in your body on court.

You catch glimpses of familiar faces: Ons Jabeur laughing with Aryna Sabalenka by the bar; Novak Djokovic in deep conversation with Roger Federer near the floral arrangements. Cameras flash. Waiters pass hors d'oeuvres. And yet you only feel the weight of one pair of eyes.

You don’t have to look far to find him. Jannik stands near the center of the ballroom, dressed in a crisp white tuxedo, bow tie undone, looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. He’s surrounded by people—journalists, officials, fellow players—but his eyes are on you the moment you walk in.

You freeze for a second.

There’s no hate there. No bitterness. Just… something that crackles in the air between you. Familiar, magnetic, dangerous.

Iga appears at your elbow like a guardian angel with a devilish grin.

“Nice dress,” she says casually, popping a cherry tomato in her mouth.

“Don’t start,” you murmur.

She shrugs. “I’m just saying, if I had to waltz with my ex in front of the royal family and millions of viewers, I’d want to look like a goddess too.”

You arch a brow. “You really know how to calm a girl’s nerves.”

“You’ll be fine,” she says, nudging you toward the center. “Besides, Carlos is practically foaming at the mouth for a reunion. Don’t let him down.”

Your eyes flick to where Carlos is standing—shirt sleeves rolled, tie already off, his grin wide as ever. He gives you a massive thumbs-up like he’s watching his favorite soap opera unfold.

You roll your eyes.

•

The music begins.

Soft, classical. A Viennese waltz. Jannik steps forward through the crowd, parting the sea of people with grace you forgot he had. He stops in front of you, eyes tracing your face with a look you can’t name.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi.”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. You extend your hand, and he takes it, warm and familiar. His other hand settles at your waist, and just like that, you're dancing.

Your bodies move together with ease, gliding through the steps like muscle memory. For all the things that didn’t work between you, your rhythm always did. On the court, off it. You were in sync—until you weren’t.

He’s quiet for a few turns, his jaw tight. Then he says, “Congratulations.”

You glance up at him. “You too. You played beautifully today.”

His lips twitch. “It felt like crap, actually. Nerve-wracking the whole way through. Until I saw your match.”

You blink. “You watched it?”

He shrugs. “Streamed it on my phone between sets. Nearly smashed it when you double-faulted at 5–5 in the second.”

A breath of a laugh escapes you. “Iga was brutal.”

“She always is.”

There’s a long pause, filled only with music and the shuffle of feet.

You finally murmur, “This is surreal.”

He looks down at you. “Dancing with me?”

You hesitate. “Being here. Like this. After everything.”

Jannik doesn’t answer right away. He just twirls you gently, his hand still firm at your waist when you spin back into his chest. You land closer than before.

“You look happy,” he says, not quite a question.

You tilt your head. “Are you asking if I am, or saying it like you already know?”

His gaze drops to your lips for a heartbeat. “I’m saying it. But I’m wondering if it’s the kind of happy that lasts. Or the kind that’s... just for show.”

You search his face. “What do you think?”

“I think we weren’t ready before,” he says quietly. “But I wonder sometimes if we gave up too soon.”

It hurts. Not in a raw, angry way. In a slow, aching one. Because part of you has wondered the same, even if you've never said it out loud.

"I was scared," you admit, voice barely above the music. "Of us being bigger than the game. Of losing myself in it."

"I know," he says. “And I didn’t fight hard enough to keep us from falling apart.”

Another pause.

"I missed you, you know," he adds.

You swallow. “I missed you too.”

And there it is again—that invisible thread. The one that pulled you together in locker rooms and hotel corridors, in airports and warm-up courts, now tugging once more.

You don’t say I want you back. Not here, not tonight. Because this isn’t a movie. This is the afterglow of glory and pain, of months apart filled with late-night texts you never sent.

But maybe he doesn’t need you to say it.

He leans closer, breath brushing your temple. “One dance won’t fix everything.”

“I know.”

“But it’s a start.”

You nod, pressing just a little closer as the music swells, feeling his heartbeat match yours in rhythm.

Around you, the crowd claps at the beauty of the moment—two champions, reunited in motion, gliding like they never broke at all.

Iga nudges Carlos as they watch, sipping from her champagne.

“I give them two weeks,” she says.

Carlos grins. “You’re generous. I give them one.”

•

Later that night, when the cameras are gone and your feet ache from hours in heels, you’re standing on the hotel terrace with a flute of champagne. London’s skyline twinkles beyond the balustrade. You think you’re alone—until you hear the soft click of a door behind you.

You don’t need to turn to know it’s him.

Jannik steps up beside you, mirroring your pose, hands braced on the railing. The silence between you now feels less tense, more lived-in.

“You heading to the States next?” he asks.

“Yeah. Toronto, then Cincinnati. You?”

He nods. “Same.”

You sip your drink. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Guess so.”

Another beat.

Then softly, with the kind of hope that tastes like spring, he asks, “Want to practice mixed doubles again?”

You glance at him sideways, heart flipping in your chest.

“Are you asking for tennis reasons or...?”

His smile is slow. “Both.”