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Rafa stops at the doorway. Would it be appropriate to just walk in? He got a bit delayed in the on-court interview, and then stayed back and watched the first two games of the doubles match. He assumed that by the time he goes to the lockers Daniil would have gone to the showers and the room would be empty. But now he finds that it is not as he had expected. Daniil is sprawled on a bench, with his head and left arm on the backrest, still wearing the clothes he played in. His bags are at his feet. Behind him is Sascha in a white t-shirt and grey jeans, leaning over him with his elbows resting on the backrest, each on either side of Daniil’s head, his hair touching Daniil’s forehead. They are having a conversation, though mostly Sascha’s voice can be heard. Rafa cannot understand a word of it – they must be speaking in their mother tongue.
Rafa waits for a whole minute before saying loudly, “Can I come in?”
At his voice Sascha tries to stand up and Daniil tries to sit up straighter at the same time, and Sascha would have knocked his face into Daniil’s head if Daniil had not raised his hand over his head to save Sascha’s face. Rafa wonders if those long bony fingers could cushion his face at all, because Sascha is massaging his chin and both of them are glaring at Rafa. Daniil swears loudly. Of course Rafa does not understand it, but he can recognise a swearword when he hears one. Also Sascha swats at Daniil's shoulder, though he is still glaring at Rafa.
“Why do you ask permission? This is locker room – everybody’s place!” Sascha exclaims irritably.
“Sorry, I -” Rafa does not know what he is going to say. Did not want to interfere? That sounds terrible. But Daniil saves him the trouble. He tells Sascha something, to which he nods and goes away towards his own locker. Daniil bends down and starts untying his shoelaces.
Rafa drops his bags and sits down heavily on the bench in front of Daniil, whose attention seems to be entirely on his shoelaces. Rafa looks at the dishevelled head. “Sascha is early for his match, no?” He says that for the sake of saying something, trying to break the silence.
“No, he is not,” Daniil replies, not raising his head.
“The doubles match just started, and then -”
Daniil cuts him short, without looking up. “Sascha comes when he wants.”
Okay. Everyone appears to be irritated. Be the better person. That is his mother’s advice. She always advises everyone to be the better one in an argument. Daniil is not on his best behaviour, but then he has just lost a match, a match in which he held a match point. Rafa can make allowances if he be depressed and furious.
Rafa looks over to where Sascha is getting dressed. He has probably got his earpods on; he seems to be bobbing his head to music. Rafa turns towards Daniil who has taken off his shoes by now. He addresses him in a low voice, “I know you are upset. I understand. You played great; was a great match, but is just tennis, things happen -”
“I am not upset because I lost to you.” Daniil finally raises his head and looks into Rafa’s eyes. There is a harsh gleam in his eyes. “Okay, not entirely true. Every loss hurts. But with you everything is new experience. Something new to learn. When I lost the match point, I knew I lost the match. Everyone thinks he has two more chances to serve out; I know I had none. I tried my best, but was not enough against you. With you no match is finished before it is finished, so no, I am not upset because you defeat me.”
“Okay,” Rafa replies, not fully convinced.
Daniil seems to see through it. “I am not upset because I lost to you,” he repeats. “It’s just that – I should have won the other match!” He throws up his hands, frustrated.
“What?” Rafa is surprised. “You lose today, and you still upset with the match you lost two days before!” What obsession!
“Because I lost against – because it was not just a match!” Daniil’s voice rises, and he stands up. “It was a question of pride, a question of honour -”
“¡Que estúpido!” Rafa stands up too. “Was just a tennis match! You take it out of context!”
“No!” Daniil’s voice is shrill. He takes a step towards Rafa. “No! It is you who is refusing to see the context! You don’t know – he said – he told me -” Daniil is so overcome by emotion that he cannot complete the sentence.
“Is there any problem?” It is Sascha. He has come over to stand beside them. He is in near undress, wearing only his shorts, and one sock. His hair is sticking up in all directions, and his earpods are in his hands.
“No. No problem,” Rafa replies.
But Sascha is looking at Daniil, who looks Sascha up and down once and says something in a very annoyed voice in his own language. “Calm down!” Sascha responds in English, with a smirk. “Not like I am running around naked!”
Daniil blushes and looks down, and Rafa exclaims, “Sascha!”
“Ask him what he said!” Sascha shrugs and returns to his own bench.
“What is his problem!” Rafa mutters irritably.
“What is your problem?” Daniil retorts and turns away and bends down to retrieve something from his bag.
Rafa tries to think of a suitable response, but instead finds himself staring at the long legs, especially at the paler skin on the back of Daniil’s thighs where his shorts have ridden up. Realising, he shakes his head and turns away. He takes off his shirt and throws it on the bench. Probably does not deserve any response.
Suddenly he is half-embraced from behind, with Daniil’s left arm around his chest and his voice in his ear, “I am sorry I shouted.”
“¡Cielos!” Rafa stumbles backward into Daniil and feels Daniil’s bare chest against his back and a touch of metal between his shoulder blades – Daniil’s chains. “You give me fright!”
“Sorry.” Daniil tries to step away, but Rafa grasps his wrist. Daniil stills. Rafa looks at the slim, white arm. With the long fingers and the bracelet around the wrist it seems almost feminine underneath his own. Daniil’s breath flutters his hair.
“You say is a question of honour, then you have to fight there, and not cry about it here, no?” Rafa utters in a voice that only Daniil can hear.
“Wasn’t crying,” Daniil whispers. “And you are right, it is my fight only. Now let go. Sascha is here.”
“What he will see, hm?” Rafa teases.
“Probably he will imagine more than he can see,” Daniil responds. Rafa can hear the smile in his voice. “Let go.” Rafa releases him.
He hears Sascha and Daniil talking as he takes out some towels and change of clothes. The hum of their conversation is background noise to his mind; they are speaking in Russian and Rafa has no hope of understanding a word. It is interesting that they could be talking about anything without caring about his presence. Is this how people who do not know Spanish feel when Rafa converses with someone in Spanish in front of them? Before he can think more about it Sascha is in front of him, wishing him good evening.
“Some practice before your match?” Rafa enquires.
“No, just a bit warm up in the gym,” he replies. “Still a lot of time before my match.” Then he approaches closer and lowers his voice. “He is just upset, please don’t mind.”
“I -” Rafa scratches his head. “I know, I not mind. Why you -?”
“Just saying,” Sascha cuts in.
Rafa abandons that line of conversation. Instead he wishes Sascha. “All the best for your match. Win it.”
Sascha grimaces and exits the room. Rafa looks around to find Daniil scrolling through his phone. His shirt, his socks and two towels are in a pile at his feet. Rafa decides to leave him to his own self and head to the showers when Daniil groans and throws his phone down on the pile.
Rafa stops. “¡Qué te pasa!” He is unable to keep the harshness out of his voice. He cannot tolerate throwing things.
“Sorry! Never mind me, please.” He raises his head but refuses to look at Rafa.
“No. Tell me.” Rafa walks towards him.
“I am stupid. You are right.” Daniil lowers his eyes. “Please, don’t get late because of me.”
Rafa drops his toilet bag on the floor and sits down beside Daniil. “I no mind get late. And you are not stupid.”
“I am,” Daniil says stubbornly, looking at his feet.
“No, you are just very – apasionado – ah -” He knows the English word is similar but just cannot recall it.
“Passionate – almost stupid.” Daniil cracks a small smile, still not looking at Rafa.
“Passion is important,” Rafa responds. “Or why you imagine I play? Or you play?”
“You are right, as always. But I am just worried…” Daniil’s voice trails off and his shoulders slump.
“Worried?” Rafa prompts.
Daniil looks up. His eyes are a bit red and too bright. Is he ill? Has he been crying? “What if I never win another match? I lost three matches in succession -” His voice breaks.
Three? Oh, that disaster in Paris. Rafa shifts closer to him and touches his shoulder. “Daniil -”
He must have been waiting for something like this. At Rafa calling his name he leans forward and buries his face in Rafa’s chest. “I don’t want to cry, but – shit!” Had they not been nearly embracing, Rafa would have never known that Daniil was crying.
Rafa strokes Daniil’s back soothingly, rubbing his fingers over his spine. “These thoughts never help, Daniil. We all have bad times – never mean we not have better times again.”
“My body – I cannot feel – I am so tired…” Daniil sits up and rubs his eyes furiously. “Feels like ages since I won anything.”
“You won something last month,” Rafa comments.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” Daniil says petulantly. “And loss against him – I never imagined!”
Rafa notices that Daniil is not saying the name. Maybe better if he avoid saying it either. “You cannot expect – he is a very good player, not possible to have a perfect record against him -”
“I promised myself I will never lose against him, never,” Daniil mutters darkly. “And it’s more my fault that I lost -”
“Why you take away credit from him?” Rafa interrupts harshly. “He won fair – fin!”
Daniil hangs his head.
Rafa takes pity on him. He continues in a softer voice, “Why make impossible promises? Make better promise, like you going to win the next match against him, like that!”
“How?” Daniil raises his head. “How? My form is non-existent now! How do I win?”
Rafa takes his hand and squeezes the fingers. Depression is never good for anyone; who knows it better than him? “I tell you something. But promise you will listen and not talk when I talk – not interrupt.”
Daniil’s face darkens. “When I am not respectful to you?”
“I not say – okay, you are respectful to me. Alright.” Rafa swallows. “You see, I lost the Australian Open final. I not say is my fault; but Novak played faultless. Still, I reached final after what happened in the end of 2018, so I am happy. But then start my darkest time this year – first I lose in Acapulco, second round. Lost my head also, said things I should not say. Then injury. Spring hard court season gone. Body was betraying me – mind and body always at war. I start to believe the clay season will be better. But hope and reality not match.” Rafa stops. Recounting all that is still painful. He looks away and fixes his gaze on the door. Sascha would return to get his rackets, Stefanos would arrive at some point of time, better to leave before that – he has nothing against the boy, but…
“You don’t have to say any more if it is not – if it is -”
Daniil’s low voice startles him out of his thoughts. “You promised you not going to interrupt!”
“Sorry.”
Rafa looks down at the hand he is holding in his lap. The fingers are not warm and sweaty like the last time he had held them in a locker room; they are colder. And very still. “Okay, so I lose in Monte Carlo – played the worst match of my life. Not taking the credit away from Fabio, but. Then Barcelona – I lose in semifinal. You don’t know - I almost decide to take a break. I cannot get to the finish of any tournament! What good playing at all! Better go home and hide, I think. Like ten years before.” Rafa holds Daniil’s hand tighter. 2009, his worst year. Maybe after 2016. No, the two years are bad enough to compete for being the worst. “Depression, I know then. Never surrender to depression, you know?” Rafa looks up. Daniil’s gaze is intense. “Okay, then I decide I must go to Madrid. Whatever happens, I must go. I lose in semifinal again, to someone you hate.”
“I don’t hate him,” Daniil protests, raising his free hand. “He hates me. I feel nothing.”
“Lo que digas.” Rafa waves his free hand. “So, when I finally win in Roma, I feel - not happy, but relief! And then I sit down and analyse the whole season until then. Appears I lose in second round, withdraw for injury, lose in quarters and semis, but all the time my body was improving. Slowly, so you cannot see or understand, but was improving. You will find that for you also.”
“I am not you. You are – different – altogether.” Daniil says at once. “Oh, why can’t I explain! I mean everyone cannot be you. I cannot even dream of -”
“Then look at Sascha!” Rafa cuts in. “Where he was in the start of the year, where he is now!”
“He had a different problem -” Daniil starts hesitantly.
Rafa sighs, and releases Daniil’s hand. “You not understand, then. Everyone has different problem. What I want to say, believe yourself. Give yourself time. And you have a mind.” He touches the side of Daniil’s head. “Use it.”
“Hm.” Daniil seems thoughtful. “If I think about it – really think -” His eyes assume a faraway expression. “Nothing went well for me the first time, ever. Coming to a tournament, beating someone important, reaching semifinal, winning – never happened. I need time to get used to stuff. This is my first time here, and I still don’t feel the best -” Daniil glances at Rafa’s face, then looks away.
“Same with everyone,” Rafa says. “Who win the first tournament in life? You play one event, then another, then another, improving all the time. Is not like a jump. Is more like – escalera – uh – it means - like -”
“Stairs.” Daniil offers helpfully.
“Yes! Stairs. But -” Rafa suddenly realises that Daniil has correctly translated a Spanish word to English for the second time. “How you know -?”
Daniil replies before he has finished the question. “Escalier in French.”
Of course! “You see,” Rafa tries to pick up where he left. “Think your life like stairs. Sometimes you need to walk down one step or two steps, but most times you continue walk up. No worry. No think too much.”
“I see. Rafael Nadal’s secret to overcome depression – stairs!” Daniil deadpans.
Rafa tries to see the humor, but what he is more aware of is that Daniil has not removed his hand from Rafa’s lap. It is on his left thigh, and the fingers are pressing a little. Probably he does not even know that he is doing it. It makes a shiver run up Rafa’s thighs, and he presses his knees together. This is not an empty locker room like in New York in September. It is the group stage with singles and doubles matches one after another, so this is everybody’s place as Sascha said. Neither can he push Daniil’s hand away; that would be rude. He tries to discreetly shift away from the younger man, while shifting his mind to something else. “Also, listen to your body – what it needs. Is important”. Yes, that is shifting your mind, Rafael!
“I think my body needs sleep,” Daniil mutters with a crooked smile.
“Then sleep!” Rafa responds. “Shower, return to hotel, sleep. I do the same.”
He makes a move to stand up, but Daniil clutches Rafa’s left hand with his right. He keeps his eyes on the fingers that are curled around Rafa’s wrist as he says, “When Khacha – Karen – says you are the kindest person he met on the tour, I know what he means.”
“He say that?” Rafa is surprised. He has good relation with Karen Khachanov, but he had no idea that he discussed such things with his friend.
“Yes. And he is correct.” Daniil leans towards Rafa, still holding his wrist. “This still hurts?”
“The hand?” Rafa asks, distracted. Better tell him the truth - that might put him to thinking and Rafa can leave for the showers. “These things remain with you – the injuries you collect -”
“Unfortunate that you have so many.” Daniil shifts on the bench, moving closer to Rafa. “I thought you would win in Paris.”
“And I thought we will meet in the final!” Rafa responds.
Daniil grimaces. “I thought too! Nothing you want happens in life.”
“No, no say that!” Rafa protests. “Some things happen that you want, not all things. I wanted to win the Paris title. But my body – and that surface – you never know -”
And you never know what Daniil wants. He lowers his face almost on Rafa’s lap and raises Rafa’s left hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the inside of the wrist. Rafa squirms and tries to pull his hand away, but Daniil keeps his hold.
“This is hurting since September?” he asks, looking up. “The wrist?”
“From before.” That is the truth. He has been feeling it pretty much throughout the year. The US Open final only brought it out in the open.
Daniil sits up. “And the abdominal strain? For which you withdrew in Paris?”
Rafa gives a light laugh. “You keep list of all my injuries?” Inside he panics. They are so close, too much in each other’s personal spaces; Daniil has not released his wrist – this conversation should have ended fifteen minutes ago…
There is a half-smile on Daniil’s lips. “It was everywhere. Hard to miss.” With his left hand he softly touches Rafa’s lower abdomen. Rafa groans and tries to lean away. So much for being discreet!
“Ah!” The smile blooms on Daniil’s face. “I’m flattered.” He mutters softly.
Rafa closes his eyes. So embarrassing! He is thirty three, not fifteen! “I not – did not want – you should not -”
“You should follow your own advice.” Daniil cuts off his rambling.
“Ah?” Rafa opens his eyes.
Daniil places his hands on Rafa’s thighs, leans in and mutters into his ear, “Listen to your body.”
“I mean for tennis!” Rafa exclaims. He places his hands on Daniil’s chest, attempting to bring some distance between them.
“I think you mean for life!” Daniil pulls back a little and looks into Rafa’s eyes, face extremely serious. And then he has leaned in and is kissing Rafa, just like that. His left hand is cupping Rafa’s face, tilting it upwards, and his right arm is around Rafa’s waist. His eyes are closed. He is no longer the hesitant boy from two months before. Rafa closes his eyes and parts his lips, and is grateful that Daniil has not consumed anything extremely sweet.
They part after Rafa does not know how long. Daniil’s hair is wilder, but there is a happy glow on his face, which is better than what was half an hour ago. The room is still empty apart from them. It must be their luck that no one has walked in on them. Or did anyone come in, and flee on seeing them?
“What are you thinking?” Daniil’s question intrudes into his thoughts.
“Dinner, and sleep.” That is not true, but that might make Daniil see sense.
“Oh!” Daniil’s face falls. “I thought -”
Rafa shakes his head. “Sascha will return – take his rackets, and things -”
“Sascha is friend,” Daniil states promptly.
“Someone is not your friend – he will come -”
“Hmm.” Daniil picks up his phone from where he threw it. “You always know what to say, eh?” He sounds sullen.
This thing about Stefanos is beyond reasonable. “Mira!” Rafa exclaims. Daniil turns to look at him. “Don’t allow on-court incidents to get to you. You are better than that.” It is exactly what Roger had told him on phone after that disaster at Acapulco; he has quoted verbatim.
“I hate to lose against him,” Daniil says irritably. “Well, against anyone,” he amends quickly as Rafa glares at him. “I would like to win every match.”
“This is better.” Rafa smirks. “I wait for the day you beat me.”
“Huh?” Daniil looks lost.
“You hate to lose.” Rafa shrugs. “And you kiss me. So when you win – what you will do?”
Daniil blushes. “Don’t you want to know!” He mutters as he gathers his things, and hurries away towards the showers.
Later, when Rafa is in the car returning to his rooms, a message arrives in his phone. It is from Sascha. Rafa opens it. I am glad that you kissed and made up. (That is just an English expression, so don’t kill me.)
Rafa blushes, and is grateful that the inside of the car is dimly lit. Oh, how he would have loved to kill Sascha!