Love Game
Pairing: Jannik Sinner × Reader (Wife!Reader)
Word Count: ~1,700
Genre: Romance, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort (happy tears)
Summary: Jannik wins the biggest match of his life, but the real victory comes later, when his wife reveals the secret she’s been keeping.
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The applause at Centre Court was deafening. The sound of thousands of people rising to their feet, clapping, cheering, roaring his name—Jannik Sinner had just won Wimbledon.
You stood in the players’ box, tears streaming down your cheeks, hands pressed together against your mouth as your husband lifted the trophy. His smile stretched across his whole face, raw and unfiltered, the kind of joy you rarely saw from the usually calm, stoic Jannik.
He looked up into the stands, searching for you. When his eyes found yours, the rest of the world blurred. He tapped the trophy lightly with his fingers, then pointed directly at you. This is ours.
Later, after press conferences, photos, and the whirlwind of media, the two of you finally made it back to the hotel suite in London. Jannik was still glowing, his ginger hair damp from a quick shower, his cheeks flushed with happiness. He kicked off his sneakers and collapsed onto the sofa, trophy still in hand.
“Can you believe it?” he whispered, almost to himself. “Wimbledon champion.”
You smiled, kneeling in front of him, taking his free hand. “I always believed it.”
He leaned forward, kissing your forehead, his voice low and full of awe. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
You brushed a strand of hair from his face, grinning. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the one who played five sets in this heat.”
“And you’re the one who kept me sane through the nerves,” he shot back. “Same thing.”
He reached for the hotel phone, dialing room service. “We need champagne. Lots of it. Tonight, we celebrate properly.”
You froze. Your heart skipped.
The waiter arrived with a bucket of ice, two tall glasses, and a golden bottle of Dom Pérignon. Jannik tipped generously, too caught up in his high to notice how stiffly you sat on the edge of the sofa.
He popped the cork with a grin, pouring the fizz into both glasses. The bubbles rose, golden and perfect, and he handed one to you.
“To us,” he said softly, lifting his own glass.
Your hand trembled slightly as you accepted it—but you didn’t raise it to your lips.
Jannik noticed. He lowered his glass, frowning gently. “What’s wrong?”
You swallowed hard. Your throat was suddenly dry. “I… I can’t drink it.”
His brow furrowed. “Why not? You love champagne. Especially after big wins.”
Your pulse raced. You’d been waiting for the right moment, but now it had found you. He was glowing with joy, so full of life—how could you not give him the news tonight, here, when everything felt so perfect?
Slowly, you set the glass on the table. You looked up at him, tears brimming.
“Because… I’m pregnant.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than any trophy.
Jannik blinked. His lips parted, his expression shifting through disbelief, shock, then slowly softening into something else—something indescribable. His eyes shimmered as he set his own glass down with a shaky hand.
“Pregnant?” he repeated, voice breaking slightly.
You nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks. “Yes. I found out last week. I wanted to tell you after the tournament so you could focus, but… I couldn’t lie to you tonight. Not when you wanted me to drink.”
He stared at you for a heartbeat, then two, and suddenly he was on the floor with you, kneeling, hands trembling as they cupped your face.
“Amore mio…” His voice cracked, and he kissed you desperately, like he had to taste the truth to believe it. He pulled back, resting his forehead against yours. “We’re going to have a baby?”
“Yes,” you whispered, smiling through tears. “You’re going to be a dad.”
A tear rolled down his cheek, and he laughed breathlessly, pulling you into his arms so tightly it almost hurt. “I just won Wimbledon… and then you tell me this? How is this real? How is this my life?”
You pressed your face into his neck, clinging to him. “It’s real. All of it.”
He pulled back, looking at you like you were the trophy he’d just lifted. “The trophy is nothing compared to this. To you. To our baby.”
His hands dropped instinctively to your stomach, tentative, reverent. He spread his palm over your belly, even though it was still flat. “In here?” he whispered, awestruck.
You nodded, covering his hand with yours. “In here.”
He kissed your stomach gently, then looked up at you with glassy eyes. “I promise you—I’ll be the best father. Just like I promised to give everything on the court, I’ll give everything to our family. Always.”
Your tears wouldn’t stop, but you smiled, heart overflowing. “I know you will. You already are.”
That night, the champagne stayed untouched on the table. Instead, you lay tangled together on the bed, his arms around you, his hand never leaving your stomach. He whispered plans, dreams, names, half-asleep vows of love and devotion.
And as you drifted off in his embrace, the sound of his steady heartbeat in your ear, you realized something simple and profound: Wimbledon had been his victory. But you, together, were his forever.
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