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When Enemies Attract	By : tennisstar Category: Individual Celebrities > Athlete/Sports Misc Views: 3352 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know Roger Federer or Novak Djokovic, or claim that this is in any way representative of their true lives. I do not make any profit from the writing of this story. This is fiction.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
Roger awoke with the strange sensation of limited breathing. He was drowning in a sea of pineapple-scented something that was both smothering him and scratching at his face. It was overwhelmingly fruity, and ultimately unbearable, pulling him from his blissful dream of being elsewhere.
As he pried his eyes open, Roger found himself in an unfamiliar environment. When his brain finally woke up, he remembered why he was in this common motel room, lying in a ridiculously cramped double-size bed, being smothered by what he could now identify as Mirka’s hair.
Sweeping the locks aside, Roger noticed that Mirka was in the center of the bed, leaving him nearly falling off his end. He could only assume that she had tried to move closer to him during the night, and he had retreated. Ignoring that even in his subconscious state he rejected his girlfriend’s advances, Roger instead focused on how it was probably best that she didn’t get too near him, considering he had been reliving that wonderful morning in Miami with Novak. Roger punched his pillow in frustration, though not hard enough to wake Mirka. It seemed like every time he shut his eyes, Roger was back in that hotel room with Novak; and as lovely as it was to relive a memory that was quickly becoming one of his favorites, it was also dangerous and almost always left him frustrated. Just as it had happened that morning, in his dream they never got to finish.
Though he had very little control over his dreams, Roger knew how dangerous it was to be dreaming such things in such close proximity to Mirka, who was probably growing suspicious of him already. Roger had already slipped up once in his slumber, and luckily made a very narrow escape, but that wouldn’t be so easy this time. It had been nearly two weeks since he lost in Miami, and they were gearing up for a new tournament, as far as Mirka knew, he had no reason to still be thinking of Djokovic, and yet, the Serb was pretty much all he’d been thinking of this whole vacation.
Roger pried himself from the warmth of the bed, wishing that he had slippers on to protect his feet from the many diseases that were surely lurking in the grubby indoor-outdoor carpet of the motel. Mirka stirred slightly by his side, enough to startle Roger who was walking around in just boxers, his morning erection fairly obvious. Pulling on yesterday’s jeans, Roger tiptoed around the bed toward the bathroom.
Fluorescent light filled the bedroom as Roger opened the door, cursing himself for leaving the light on the night before and watching as Mirka’s eyes fluttered open. Damn, Roger thought as he painted on a smile of acknowledgement, noticing vaguely that she still looked incredibly tired. Maybe she didn’t sleep well either.
Roger felt guilty. She didn’t have to come with him to Munich early, and stay in this dingy hotel until the suites were ready. God knows if there is one person who is more of a princess than him about proper hotel accommodations it’s Mirka, and yet here she is, looking more tired and sad than Roger can remember seeing her. He approached the bed slowly and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I have to get ready for the meeting, you sleep,” Roger said kindly, watching as his simple gesture cheered her up. If there was anything Roger noticed during their terribly awkward two weeks home together, it was how thoroughly he’d been neglecting Mirka. Rather than acknowledge their ailing relationship, he pushed her away and ignored her, something Diana had warned him not to do. Her most surprising advice in their garden chat was that no matter how strained things got between him and Mirka, Roger shouldn’t ignore her or make her feel unwanted. Instead, he should focus on keeping things positive, and try to see her more as a good friend than a disgruntled girlfriend. It was worth trying…
“Do you want me to come with you?” Mirka asked, sitting up to prove she could be ready in moments if he needed her, or maybe she was just desperate to get out of this room.
“No, I already know how it will go. No use in us both losing sleep for it,” Roger said, running his hand calmly through the hair that nearly suffocated him just minutes ago. He could feel her relax under his touch, and eventually slip back to sleep. Glancing at the clock, Roger saw that it was later than he thought and his shower would have to be cut short. Damn, Roger thought as he undressed, being reintroduced to his straining erection. Cold shower it is.
As the icy water washed over him, Roger felt disappointment flood his body just as harshly. It was almost cruel how many times his mornings started this way recently, hiding out in the bathroom to take care of the erection he didn’t want his girlfriend to know he had. Ever since they got to Switzerland, Mirka had been trying to have sex with him and as strange as it sounds, he had been coming up with excuses left and right. No matter what they did that day, he claimed to be tired, or came up with some random errand that needed to be taken care of, even at ten o’clock at night. If he was lucky, she believed him, or at least assumed he was having some problems down there, which was admittedly better than her figuring out what was really going on.
Roger threw on his clothes haphazardly, well aware that he would be late for his meeting with the ATP executives. He wasn’t nervous about that, surely they wouldn’t mention it to him, but the fact that they controlled if he got to play the next few weeks of tournaments concerned him. Roger thought of his trip to the doctor, trying to remember anything that might help him plead his case. No way was he willing to miss Munich.
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Roger sat in the waiting room for over two hours while his test results were being processed. Typically the Doctor would just call in the results later that week, but since he was a special client they were willing to put a rush on his tests. It was nerve-wracking to just sit around waiting; hardly the V.I.P. treatment they thought was being provided.
After flipping through every remotely interesting magazine, Roger was officially bored out of his mind. He had come across a copy of TENNIS magazine, but after the second story about his disappointing start to the year, he left it abandoned on the table, still open to the offensive page. It wasn’t until an elderly lady acknowledged it that his attention returned to the magazine.
“Handsome, isn’t he?” the woman said sweetly, pointing to the open page. Roger looked down to find Novak’s picture staring up at him, clad in green Adidas gear from head to toe, bringing out the green in his hazel eyes. Roger smiled and nodded, handing the magazine over to the woman, who apparently didn’t realize that he was the Federer they were talking about on the opposite page.
It was kind of ironic that the magazine had put him and Novak so close together, and for a moment Roger convinced himself that they knew somehow. It wasn’t until he saw the last part of the article from over the old lady’s shoulder where they spoke of his huge loss to Djokovic in Miami that he understood why the Adidas ad accompanied the story on him. They were trying to be clever. Guess who has been beating Federer lately? Djokovic, here’s a picture of him. Roger was amused to find that the woman flipped through the all the pages, only pausing on pictures of Novak. She didn’t even seem to know his name, passing over the many stories on the rise of Novak Djokovic and focusing solely on his pictures.
“I think I just met your biggest fan :)” Roger wrote teasingly. The woman didn’t seem to notice he was observing her as she found a full page ad of Novak hugging his Head racket and ripped it out slowly, slipping the page into her purse.
“Talking about yourself? =P” Novak quipped back and Roger smiled, expecting nothing less than a cocky reply, somehow the attitude no longer bothered him.
“Hah you wish. This lady just ripped your picture out of a magazine and stuffed it in her purse.” Just as Roger tattled on her, the woman was called into the patient rooms and he was left in the waiting room alone. Roger retrieved the magazine and opened it to one of the Djokovic ads that remained. Somehow it comforted him to see Novak while texting him, he could almost pretend that they were actually speaking, something he just realized he missed doing, talking to Novak…in person.
“Why do I always attract the crazies?”
“Maybe because you act so crazy on court =P”
“Ha ha. Says the racket thrower…”
“That was one time! Don’t act like you don’t lose your cool”
“I’m always cool. You see. I go on court right now and be Mr. Cool.”
Roger wished he would be able to see Novak’s match, but none of the sites were streaming Dubai live and there was no chance he’d be able to tune it at home with Mirka there. He could only hope that some dope in the stands would think the match was significant to put up on YouTube.
“Mr. Federer?” The nurse asked to the empty waiting room, as if she didn’t already know who he was. There was that kind of fan, the kind that pretends they don’t know who you are so they won’t seem stalkerish and uncool, but are secretly obsessed. Yup, Roger thought as he passed through the door, noticing the nervous giddiness in her eyes. She’s a fan.
It wasn’t long before Doctor Morgan joined him in the exam room, with a slightly grim expression on her face. Dammit. They found something.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” she started, and just as Roger opened his mouth to reassure her that he didn’t mind, Dr. Morgan continued, “But we did find the problem.”
“Great. What’s wrong?” Roger asked anxiously, steadily growing more nervous as Dr. Morgan delayed.
“You tested positive for Mononucleosis, a variation of the Epstein-Barr virus. One of the major symptoms of Mono is chronic fatigue, which you described experiencing…” Roger’s mind trailed off halfway through her explanation. Mono? Like the kissing disease? Roger thought anxiously. From what he could tell from the random bits of information entering his brain, Roger had been infected for months, probably before the Australian Open. Just the thought of “the kissing disease” sent his mind into a flurry. Who knows how he got it, especially that long ago, God knows he hadn’t kissed Mirka much lately, but that was the least of his worries. If this thing was spread by kissing, there’s a chance he infected Novak.
“Is it still contagious?” Roger interrupted. Doctor Morgan smiled at him and shook her head, explaining that there is a very small window of potential infection, and if the timeline is accurate, Roger was contagious around the same time he had food poisoning. Roger was relieved, but more than a little bit bothered by the knowing smile Dr. Morgan was wearing. He knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘It’s so cute how worried he is about infecting Mirka, what a relief that he was vomiting profusely during the contagious period.’ For a moment he wanted to tell her off, set things straight that he couldn’t care less if Mirka had Mono too, would fatigue really matter much for the life of a manager? Would this lady still be wearing that stupid smirk if she knew it was really his boyfriend he was concerned for? No, like everyone else in this country, Dr. Morgan was enamored by Switzerland’s golden couple, and for once it made Roger sick.
With a prescription, some treatment advice and a promise to send the results to the ATP doctors like always, Roger left, highly frustrated with this whole day and dreading the next few. Did he really need one more thing to deal with? And then there was telling Mirka, who would probably be appropriately concerned, only lazily veiling her frustration that he would have to cut back on his activities outside of tennis. Predictable, yes, just like everything else they do.
Buzz.
“You see? I can win and be cool.”
Suddenly, this day wasn’t so bad.
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“So these are the new digs, eh? Monogrammed pillows and all,” Allison joked, roaming around Roger’s hotel suite.
“We’re testing out the new logo for The Roger Federation products,” Mirka explained sharply, with a glare that told the publicist to get to the point.
“Okay so the reason I called is there is a new tennis website that is creating quite a buzz…”
“You called us about a website?” Mirka asked, tapping her foot in annoyance. Allison noticed.
“Hell yeah I did. This is a different kind of website. They specialize in watching players off court, finding out their dirty little secrets and sharing them with the public. They’ve only been up for a month, so not much damage done yet, but the media has taken notice,” Allison reported.
“Off court? Why do they want to know about us off court?” Roger asked, suddenly very concerned. He has a lot to hide.
“People are curious, and the fans love it. The stories aren’t very reliable, but they are certainly good at starting rumors. Bastards know how to do it legally too. Every “fact” they suggest ends in a question mark,” Allison paused, obviously impressed. “Only two stories about Roger, luckily. They are putting heavy focus on the top four though. Most famous I guess.”
“Does everyone know about this website?” Roger asked. When Mirka looked over at him questioningly, Roger added. “Like does Rafa and Roddick know?” Mirka seemed to relax. Of course he would care about his friends.
“I’m sure everyone knows by now. Some reporters asked questions about one of the stories in Dubai. Totally caught the players off guard. Asked them if they’re really the drunken libertines that everyone thinks,” Allison gushed, highly entertained by the story. “After that all the publicists checked out the site, made sure their player wasn’t getting slammed.”
“Drunken libertines? On the tennis tour?” Mirka scoffed, as if the idea was ludicrous.
“Yeah, Djokovic and Murray. Apparently quite the partiers. They had no problem finding pictures of them drunk off their asses and a list full of girls who claim to have slept with them. Glad I don’t work for them…”
Roger gulped, wondering if he actually dared to look at the site. “What’s the site called?”
“Tennis watch,” Allison replied. “I’ll email it to you.”
Roger thanked her, not at all looking forward to checking it out. This website is going to make his life much more complicated.
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“We’ll show them drunk!” Murray slurred, raising his glass to toast with Novak.
“Yeah!” Nole agreed, taking a huge gulp of whatever beer was in his glass, at this point it didn’t really matter.
“Gentleman, these are from those ladies over there,” the bartender announced, pushing two shot glasses of golden liquid in their direction. Drinking them quickly, the boys headed in the direction of the giggling ladies.
“I call that one and the blond,” Andy said, pushing Novak slightly to get a head start. Novak smiled dopily, trying to keep his balance.
“Woah,” said a voice in his ear, two hands finding their way around his arms, holding him up until he could get his bearings. Looking up at the person who saved him from falling on his face, Novak saw a familiar face.
“Nana!” She looked at him strangely. He tried again. “Nanada. Nadanada. Nana,” he went on.
“Alright alright. Enough of that. I guess I’m Nana for the night,” Ana said, pulling her friend toward a chair, his weight heavy on her shoulders. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked him once they were settled.
“I is drunk listerine, like they say. Muzzy libalryn too,” Novak said, pointing over to Andy who was surrounded by swooning women.
“Well Muzzy is not my problem. You know better than to go clubbing during a tournament. What’s wrong with you Nole?” Ana asked, reaching over to hold his hand reassuringly. “And don’t tell me it’s because of what those reporters said, they’ve said worse.”
Novak looked up at her and she could see sadness in his eyes, something she didn’t expect considering how happy he’d been lately. He pulled out his phone and the banner of Tennis Watch popped up. Ana rolled her eyes, not this again.
“Oh, Nole. They are just trying to cause trouble. You know their wrong,” said Ana, rather skeptical of her own words. Wasn’t he completely sloshed right now? And if she hadn’t stopped him, wouldn’t he be chatting up those girls over there? She knew better than anyone that he wasn’t usually like this. Something had upset him, why else would he go get plastered with Murray?
“Nuh, down,” Novak said, reaching for the phone to scroll down on the page, almost knocking down a bowl of nuts on the table. Ana grabbed the phone, doing as he asked, but keeping it a safe distance from its clumsy owner.
“Stop!” he shouted, far too loudly, making Ana cringe slightly as people turned to look at them.
“Okay, so what? You’re mad about them thinking we’re dating?” she asked, looking at an old picture of them leaving a hotel room. Yet another website using it as proof they are dating. You’d think after two years they’d let it go.
“Nuh,” Novak repeated, putting his head down on the table, pillowing his forehead with his arms. He was mumbling on about something, but Ana could only make out the words “he” and “marry.” Looking down at the other story, she noticed the word wedding. Ana was certain she knew what was wrong.
“Nole, you never know, they could pass new laws in Serbia before you get to that point. Just because you’re gay now doesn’t mean you can’t get married,” Ana cooed in his ear, rubbing his back lightly.
They stayed that way for awhile before Ana could convince him to leave the club. Novak’s manager had sent her to make sure he didn’t get into too much trouble, but by the time she got here he was already far too drunk to recover nicely by the next morning. She texted Andy that she was taking Nole home from the Novak’s cell phone, hoping that Andy would take that as a hint to leave as well. While rifling through the unfamiliar phone, Ana accidentally came across the text messages. Curiosity got the best of her, and since Novak was half-asleep in her lap, she read a couple of them. Most of the messages were from someone labeled “R” with no last name or anything. It seemed this was Novak’s beau from the flirtatious nature of the messages. Before she could discover anything too scandalous, they were at the hotel. Just to be safe, they used the back entrance, which was probably best considering Ana had to practically carry her friend to the elevator.
Luckily his room was very close to the elevator and the loud dinging noises the lift made on each floor seemed to wake Novak up slightly, enough so he could walk on his own, though quite shakily. After insisting that he drink water and take an aspirin, Ana left the room, wondering what exactly triggered Nole’s meltdown. From what she could tell, by reading his text messages, Novak wasn’t fighting with his guy, and he’d been playing well in this tournament. It was possible that he really was concerned about not being able to get married in the future, but it wasn’t like Novak to plan ahead and he never cared much about politics. Ana was confused, but tomorrow she planned on getting a full explanation, even if she had to bully it out of him.
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Roger was excited. He had been in Munich for several days now because of the impromptu ATP meeting, which was admittedly much more convenient than flying to the London office like any other player would. Roger was getting anxious. At first, he convinced himself that he wanted the tournament to start so badly because he hadn’t played in awhile, he was looking forward to the competition. Four lengthy practice sessions later, Roger was well aware that the nervous joy he was feeling had less to do with tennis, and more with the arrival of a certain Serb he’d been dying to see for the last two weeks.
Roger had a plan. It started with Mirka taking a business call when they got to the hotel, leaving him to check in for the group. He’d done it before, in the early days, and knew how tedious it was, going over each of the ten rooms they rented for the week and planning who stays where. When they got to the master suite, his suite, the man asked if he wanted one key or two. Roger thought about it for a moment, looking over at Mirka who was obviously chewing someone out on the phone. “I’ll take both,” he responded, but when he saw his girlfriend coming back inside toward the counter he added, “If someone from my team asks, could you say there was just one key to my room?” Roger was surprised how easily the man complied, smiling and nodding as he handed keycards over quickly, in separate pouches that indicated the room numbers. Mirka collected him and their bags, heading upstairs. When he handed over all the keycards she was shocked to find that they only gave him one key, and went off to interrogate the front desk clerk, but it seems the man held strong and convinced her that it was company policy to only give out one key for the luxury suites. Roger was grateful. The next time he saw that man, Roger gave him a hundred dollar tip just for opening the door for him; and he felt a grim sort of satisfaction when Mirka told him not to because the man was absolutely worthless, holding up ridiculous hotel policies that don’t make sense.
With both keys pocketed, Roger leaves for the pre-tournament get together in the player’s lounge. It was customary for one of the tournament officials to address the players, go over the rules one last time before play begins. It might’ve been easier to just have everyone meet up at the hotel, the players always stay in the same one, but the tournament wanted to promote their recently refurbished players’ lounge with an opening party.
The most exciting part of this evening, Roger felt, was the lack of “teams” that would be present, and for him that meant no Mirka. Rafa had already texted him to meet up, he was there early, no doubt with the Armada, and offered to save Roger a place near him. Roger didn’t really know any of the Spaniards well besides Rafa, but since Roddick wasn’t playing at this tournament, and he couldn’t casually hang out with Novak, Roger gladly accepted his offer.
Surprisingly Rafa was standing at one of the high, circular bar tables alone, with Lopez and Verdasco nearby with one of their latest girlfriends; Roger didn’t pay them much attention. To his carefully hidden delight, Novak joined Rafa at table, bringing the Spaniard a drink from the bar. Just then, Rafa turned and spotted the Swiss man, waving him over to the table.
Happily, Roger joined them, amused by Novak’s attempt to act disinterested. He could now recognize the girl on Verdasco’s arm as Ana Ivanovic, only because talking to her was how Novak chose to distract himself from Roger’s arrival. It wasn’t until Roger and Rafa had exchanged hugs and greetings that the Serb looked his way. Novak offered a nod in acknowledgement, greeting him only with his name; Roger returned the gesture in the same matter, not daring more in front of the other players. The three of them kept up casual conversation before the official came into the room, signifying all the players were there. After the usual rules were stated, and no questions came up, the officials left the room, leaving the players to their “party.”
Lopez was telling some story, in Spanish of course, which drew Nadal’s attention away from them. There wasn’t much they could say to each other in front of everyone. Even with Rafa looking away, it still seemed they were being watched, they always were. When Roger judged it safe enough, he retrieved one of the keycards from his pocket, shielding it with his hand before placing it flat on the table. He moved it toward the center of the table, casually taking a sip from his nearby drink. Roger looked away, over to the rowdy Spaniards, pretending he understood the story, he knew some Spanish, like the kind you learn from a textbook. Roger could never keep up with all the dialects and regional variations, not to mention how fast they spoke.
Roger smiled when he looked back at the table, the key was gone. He looked up at Novak, who turned toward him with a smirk, something expected from the Serb, but the look in his eyes was softer, more caring, like he was saying thanks. Ana sprung into action, pulling her friend away from the group, into a different part of the room.Uh-oh Roger thought, thinking that perhaps they were less subtle than he’d thought.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Oh my god,” Ana said once they were away from the crowd. She smacked him on the shoulder.
“Ouch, what was that for?” Novak asked, switching over to Serbian. Ana took the hint and used their native language as well.
“Was that a key?” she demanded, sounding much sterner than usual.
“What?” Novak asked with feigned innocence. Ana didn’t fall for it; she kept her glare in place, waiting for a real answer. “Yes, it was,” he admitted.
“So he’s your guy? Of every guy on the planet you choose Roger Federer?” Ana may have just whispered his name, but it was dangerous enough to make Novak panic.
“Are you crazy? Don’t say his name!” Novak whispered harshly, pulling them further away from people. He was sure that Russian guy in the corner heard who they were talking about.
“But it is him?” asked Ana. Novak didn’t like her tone, it always sounded harsher in Serbian.
“Yes,” Novak replied hesitantly, wondering why she was having a change of heart. Why did her feelings change when she knew it was Roger he was seeing? “You don’t like him?”
“Of course, I like him. Everybody likes him.” Ana sighed heavily. “You know who really likes him? His girlfriend, Mirka. Damn it, Novak! Their like the tennis golden couple!”
“I know that!” he defended. “I told you he had a girlfriend. Why does it matter who she is? Who he is? I thought you were happy for me?”
Ana’s demeanor changed, she seemed to calm slightly, but Novak knew they weren’t done. There was still a glimmer of fierceness in her eyes that he wasn’t taking lightly. “I am happy for you, Novak. It’s just… it’s not a good situation. She’s not just some random girl he’s seeing, they’ve been together forever Nole, they’re marriage-bound.”
A wave of disappointed understanding hit Novak, and Ana could finally understand what set him off into his drinking binge earlier that week. “But I don’t have to tell you that,” she commented lightly.
“I know it’s not ideal, but for now I’m happy, and I think he is too,” Novak said after awhile, and despite her resolve to be mad at him, Ana couldn’t help but smile at the kindness in his voice, the care. Even if this all falls apart in a couple months, she thought it’d be worth it for him. Novak’s never cared about anyone so much, that she was sure of, and if it took Roger Federer to bring out the loving side in him, Ana was all for it.
“Just be careful,” was her only advice. It seems there are some cracks in the Federer-Vavrinec façade of perfection, and if Ana knew anything about Mirka, it was that she wouldn’t let anything stand in her way of getting what she wanted, especially not Novak Djokovic.
They returned to the main room of the lounge, Ana nuzzling up next to her boyfriend, Novak hesitantly approaching his table where he found an unwelcome guest had arrived. There she was, the road bump in his otherwise ideal relationship. Mirka was standing uncomfortably close to Roger with her arm around his waist. She was speaking with Rafa in what sounded like Spanish, and Novak was hesitant to approach. His drink was there, as was his folder of papers they handed out at the meeting. Novak had every right to be there, and yet he waited until it seemed like they were wrapping up their conversation. He walked up to the table just in time to say goodbye. Roger left them with a general “see you later,” but for the first time that night, Novak was sure he was talking to him. What he meant by it, Novak didn’t know.
He wasn’t the only one confused by Roger tonight. Rafa was going on about something that Roger was telling him about, and if it were any other player Novak would’ve nodded his head and pretended to listen, but after an hour in the vicinity of the Swiss man without actually being able to be near him, Novak would take anything he could get, even secondhand conversation. “And he say ten o’cloak again! I no get it. Why he tell me he no go back to room before ten! Maybe him thinks I go talk to him? You think?” Rafa asked, his eyebrow arched high into his fringe, the picture of confusion.
Novak laughed at his friend’s confusion, and at Roger’s cleverness. Obviously he knew Rafa well enough to know that if he didn’t understand something, he would ask the first person he came across, and by leaving at a strategic moment he ensured it would be Novak. Or maybe it was just dumb luck that Novak was interpreting to be much greater. Either way, he was fairly certain that Roger was trying to send him a message.
“He probably meant nothing by it Rafa,” Novak reassured the Spaniard, knowing Roger meant so much more. It was an invitation, ten o’clock with a room key, and all Novak knew is that he would be there.
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When Enemies Attract