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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
- 15
- 16
- 17
“Are you sure about this?” Ana asked, sounding quite worried as she stuffed an oversized bag with clothes. “It doesn’t really seem like his cup of tea.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Roger said no more rules when we see each other. Anywhere, anytime we can manage,” Novak reassured her, holding up two ties for Ana to choose between.
“I doubt he meant publically. What happens if Mirka doesn’t leave his side all night?”
“Then this party won’t be nearly as fun as it should be. That’s why we’re planning, so he can ditch her if he wants. And it won’t exactly be public, it's a masquerade party,” Novak said as he held up various masks in the mirror, trying to decide between them.
He decided on a regal looking black one that was vaguely reminiscent Batman’s mask, only better quality since it was just for show. Looking at it, Novak chuckled to himself. “Kind of funny actually.” Ana looked at him strangely, not yet seeing the joke. “Everyone else will be wearing these to hide, but us; we can be more open than ever."
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Ana straightened her dress and prepared for the camera to turn on, ready for her first red carpet interview. She wasn’t used to being on this side, asking the questions, but it did allow her to be playful with the other players, and ask questions she usually wouldn’t dare, especially when Roger came walking down the carpet.
“Welcome back to Open Access on the Tennis Channel, this is Ana Ivanovic at the Wilson Party in New York,” she said nervously and perhaps a bit too quickly, but remembering to say all that was the hardest part. “I’m here with Roger Federer who is looking sharp as always. I have to ask, who are you wearing tonight?”
“Um, the sweater and shoes are Prada, and the pants are Ralph Lauren,” Roger said, looking over his outfit carefully, not wanting to mix up the designers.
“Great. Are you excited to be in New York again? What do you look forward to most when you come here?” Ana asked excitedly. Months ago this interview might’ve made her terribly nervous, Roger Federer would be an intimidating guest for even the most experienced journalist, but now that she knew him personally, it was like talking to a friend.
“I love New York, I’ve always felt very comfortable here and the crowd is great. I do a lot of shopping here,” Roger admitted sheepishly. Not many men would own up to shopping as much as he did, but then again, not many men dressed as nicely as he did either.
“And where is Mirka this evening?” Ana asked, trying to keep her voice neutral and sweet, when really she was hoping for him to say Mirka wasn’t coming.
“Oh, she went inside already. Mirka doesn’t like the attention,” Roger said, looking around at all the cameras and reporters surrounding them, not to mention the crowd of fans trying to push their way through the barrier to the tennis stars.
“So it’s a masquerade party. Any chance you’ll show us your mask?” Ana asked slyly, knowing he wouldn’t be able to say no if she asked in front of so many people. Roger held up a fancy mask that looked like porcelain only less heavy, and in the Phantom of the Opera style. It was classy and adventurous, perfect for Roger, Ana decided.
“Very nice. Is there anyone you’re looking forward to seeing in there?” Ana asked with a smirk, knowing he couldn’t truthfully answer that question right then. Roger smiled back, letting her know that yes, he was looking forward to seeing Novak.
“Just friends. It’s always nice to see the players off court at things like this. We don’t have to be rivals right now, just friends.” Always the diplomat, Ana thought amusedly as Roger left her to enter the party.
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Hours later, Ana surprised Roger outside the restroom by shoving a duffle bag at him and pushing him into the men’s room. Novak was already in there, changing his clothes.
“What’s this?” Roger asked, peeking inside the bag.
“Change clothes,” Novak instructed, struggling to button his shirt quickly before someone came in. “The press knows what everyone is wearing tonight, yes? From the interviews with Ana. So the masks don’t really hide anything from them, but if we change masks and clothes…”
“Then nobody will know it’s us,” Roger finished, now realizing the brilliance of the plan. “Whose clothes are these anyway?” Roger asked, pulling on a pair of tan corduroys that weren’t typically his style.
“Probably Verdasco’s. Ana found them for us. She knew about the Masquerade theme months ago because she’s hosting.”
“I was wondering why she asked me about my clothes, and wanted to see the mask. So everyone would remember,"saidRoger, thoroughly impressed.
“Yeah. Smarter than she seems, eh?” Novak joked, moving to help Roger with his tie.
“I already though she was wise for her age,” Roger said, poking fun at Novak for his young age. He knew Ana was smart, but never suspected she could beso sly.They weren't mentioning theaspect of the plan whereMirka too was fooled bythe disguises, butRogerwas impressed that they would take on such a task. Not many people attempted to deceive the strong-willed Swiss woman, Roger included. The fact that he had made it this far without her catching on to his secret life was amazing.
“Not especially smart though. She’s my age and she’s not smarter than me,” Novak pointed out haughtily.
“Of course not,”said Roger amusedly, not wanting to wound the Serb’s ego.
They pulled on their new masks, plastic and cheap, but definitely unrecognizable from their former selves.
“Hey stranger,” Roger said, pulling Novak close to him for the first time that evening and kissing him softly, a sweet little gesture that said everything.
I’ve missed you too, Novak thought happily.
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“What the hell, Ana? Are those my clothes?” Fernando asked as Novak and Roger passed by.
“Yes,” she answered easily, unconcerned by her boyfriend’s annoyance. “They’ll give the clothes back later.”
“Why can’t they wear their own clothes? Doesn’t Novak have his own pair of three hundred dollar leather pants?” Verdasco complained.
“You knew it was him?" Ana asked worriedly, suddenly concerned that her plan wasn't devious enough."Do you think everyone will recognize them?”
“Nobodyelse cares, he’s not wearing their clothes.They won'trecognize him…or Federer,” Fernando smirked, raising an eyebrow as if to say ‘of course I figured it out.’ “I’m shocked he’d even take part in this nonsense. The way he’s got his hair fixed, he almost looks like…” Fernando’s eyes shot open insurprise.
“Like Feli,” he continued, glaring at Ana. “And Novak wearing my clothes makes him look like a scrawnier version of me. Tell me you did notdo that on purpose,” Fernando said, looking at Ana expectantly.
She shrugged. “So what if I did? It works for everybody. And Roger’s not supposed to be Feliciano, just lookenough like him.”
“Enough like him? Why does he need to look enough like Feli?” Nando asked, panic growing within him. His friendship with Feliciano was already rocky enough these days, a mere shadow of what it once was; they didn’t need anyone meddling in their business.
“Enough like him to make Feliciano think you’ve replaced him,” Ana said simply with a smile that said ‘you can tell me I'm brilliant now.’
“That will never work,” Fernando said, scoffing at the notion, but as one of the flashing spotlights fell on Roger and Novak, dancingprovocatively and stealing occasional kisses, he caught sight of Feli across the room with his random model date sitting at his side, obviously bored, Nando was filled with hope. Feliciano was glaring daggers at the pair, whom he obviously assumed included Fernando, and if he was reading it right, Nando sawa bit of jealousyin his fellow Spaniard’s angry expression.
“You’re kind of brilliant,” Verdasco conceded, his whole mood changing as his eyes flashed between Feliciano and the dancing men.
Ana followed his gaze, satisfied she had predicted Feliciano’s reaction so accurately. “I thought you’d much rather see him struggling with the feelings he doesn’t want to have for you than fawning over his girlfriend of the moment.”
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The crowd of people around them didn’t seem to care when Novak moved closer to his masked boyfriend, grinding against him from behind to the beat of the music, or when the strobe lights caught them kissing fervently. The party atmosphere was different since people were disguised, free and easy. Everybody there just wanted a couple hours of carefree fun before the matches began and the pressure resumed.
There was a brilliant feeling that came with a mask, Novak observed. It was freeing, like you could do anything without consequences. Novak liked that feeling and surely Roger, who was constantly being watched by the media and hisoverbearing manager/ girlfriend,would like it too.
As the night wore on they got more daring. At first it was just dancing a little closer than they usually would, then a bit of groping and the occasional kiss, but three hours into the party found them hidden in the shadows of the room, like many other coupleswho would prefer not to be seen, barely visible with the poor lighting that the flashing neon lights provided. Novak never knew Roger could be so adventurous, but it was the Swiss man who had pinned him against the wall, covering his exposed neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses, grinding their groins together through the layers of fabric and hands roaming over his lower back and occasionally dipping below the waistband of his pants.
It was just as Roger’s fingers brushed over the cleft of his ass and dared to dip between the cheeks that Ana interrupted. “Ahem,” she cleared her throat, stepping into the shadows. Novak opened his eyes reluctantly and glowered at her. There wasn’t much more they could’ve done in public, they were pushing the boundaries already and were damn lucky that nobody could see this spot. Novak looked at Roger, whose eyes were glazed and focused completely on him.
“What?” Novak growled at her, only then noticing Fernando was standing behind Ana looking nervously around the room.
“Mirka is looking for him,” she said, nodding toward Roger, but speaking to Novak. Only at the mention of his girlfriend did Roger turn around to face them.
“Damn,” he said, looking around the room for Mirka. He quickly spotted her at a table with Safin and his sister, one of the few WTA players Mirka actually talked to anymore. Roddick and Brooklyn were nearby, joining in on the conversation occasionally. Novak noticed a defeated look flash across Roger’s face and thought that for once he was considering not doing the right thing and returning to his girlfriend. Novak wished more than anything they didn’t have to hide, that they could be together openly, that Roger would break up with Mirka, and just tell all those who opposed in the tennis world to fuck off. Clearly, that wasn’t happening tonight, but Novak knew he was lucky to have gotten this time with Roger.
“Later,” Roger said, more of a promise than a statement.
Novak nodded, “you know where to find me.”
Roger looked him over, one last fleeting glance to get him through the rest of the night, until they could meet again. Novak could only imagine how disheveled he looked, pants slightly stretched from dancing, shirt mostly wrinkled and slightly undone, not to mention the silly, cheap mask he was wearing that was gold coloredplastic. Roger started to walk away, but got hardly a step before turning back for one last kiss, hard and sloppy, desperate and needy, everything Roger was feeling at the thought of leaving Novak. Ruefully, he pulled away, retrieving his clothes from Ana’s bag, and rushing off to become Roger Federer again.
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When Roger saw him enter the locker room, Novak was surrounded. Coaches, trainers, managers, even his practice partner were all hovering around their player, congratulating him for his quarterfinal win. Roger too had earned a place in the Semis, and as fate would have it, they were to play each other in the next round.
Roger went into this tournament expecting to play his young lover, but given his recent results it wasn’t a sure thing he would make it that far. Ordinarily that would mean Roger avoiding Novak as much as possible this week, but after playing and losing so badly lately, Roger felt that spending time with Novak wouldn’t affect his game as much as he’d thought. Novak was the only good thing he had to look forward to these days.
It didn’t seem like a good time to approach his boyfriend, so Roger continued with his post-match ritual and headed for the shower. The group shower room was still quite crowded at this point in the tournament and Roger always preferred the individual stalls. That’s where he found himself, comparing how sexy Novak looked after tennis to his after sex look. Surprisingly, they weren’t that different. His cheeks flushed from exercise, a light sheen of sweat covering his form, muscles tired from overuse, but it was his eyes Roger remembered most vividly. His lidsdrooped slightlyfrom tiredness, but there was this wonderful sparkle there, a mixture of satisfaction and happiness that Roger could get lost in. He felt sated just looking into Novak’s smiling eyes.
It was at this moment when a flushed Roger was beginning to lightly stroke his member that the curtain moved behind him and footsteps echoed softly in the tiled room. Roger snarled out a rather snippy, “occupied” to the unknown person, annoyed at the interruption.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Novak’s voice sounded with mock disappointment. Roger turned to find him standing just inside the closed curtain, wearing only that damn sexy smirk of his. “I was hoping to join you.”
Roger felt excitement course through him, especially when he noticed the condom and lube in the Serb’s hands. It was clear what he wanted and Roger was more than happy to oblige.
“I guess we could share,” Roger said casually, drawing Novak closer to him and bringing their lips together under the heated spray. Roger could hear voices all around them, just outside the curtain, on either side of their walls. The whole room echoes and they had to be nearly silent or everyone would know what they were doing. The danger of discovery made it that much more exciting, only a curtain separated them from their oblivious peers.
Roger decided to play with his boyfriend a little, knowing how difficult it would be to keep quiet. “Shh,” he whispered, lightly brushing his fingertip over Novak’s lips. Roger sucked on the pulse point of his neck, licking and nipping his way down to the collarbone. Novak writhed beside him, trying to get more contact. Roger pushed him up against the tile wall, grinding their bodies together roughly.
Novak shuddered and bit his lip to keep from making noise. “Uhh,” he groaned as Roger raked his teeth across a nipple. Novak felt Roger move away suddenly and lifted his heavy lids to see Roger grinning at him.
He was about to ask why when Roger dropped to his knees in front of him. Novak felt himself gasp deep down in his lungs, but tried to stifle it. “Shh,” Roger repeated, placing a finger over his own lips this time. Novak could think of much better uses for those fingers. Roger’s smile was devious, like he knew exactly what he was doing to Novak and loving every moment of it.
Without a moment of hesitation, Roger’s mouth closed around his cock, tongue swirling around the tip skillfully. Novak didn’t have to worry about making noise; he was just trying to remember how to breathe. His eyes wanted to flutter closed and enjoy the sensations, but Novak couldn’t give up the sight in front of him. Watching his cock slip in and out of Roger’s mouth effortlessly, the Swiss man’s eyes flashing up to catch his reactions, it was intoxicating to Novak and he felt his knees threatening to buckle underneath him. But then there was Roger’s hand on his hip, steadying him against the slick wall.
Novak tried his best not to thrust his hips into the heat surrounding his cock, not wanting to ruin this for Roger. He never expected Roger to want to suck him, especially not in the shower at a Grand Slam tournament. For some reason the thought of Roger kneeling before him for a blow job seemed unlikely, even in fantasy form,and he couldn't get over the fact that it was actually happening.
Roger reached his hand up and Novak knew what he was looking for. The Serb retrieved the lube from the soap dish where he’d set it down. Roger settled back into a comfortable pace of stroking and licking his cock before slipping a finger into him. It didn’t take long for Roger to stretch him adequately since Novak was so distracted by his mounting orgasm. Just as Novak felt he was close to the edge, Roger pulled off completely and stood beside him, watching as Novak regained his strength and self control.
Roger smirked and rolled on the condom. He couldn’t deny Novak for that long. He moved in closer, his breath on Novak’s ear and their faces barely touching. “How do you want me to take you?” Roger purred into his ear, rubbing his hands all over Novak’s body while he waited. Novak thought for a moment and turned his back to Roger, facing the tile wall and offering himself to Roger.
The Swiss man always took it slow at first, not yet trusting himself entirely to make it painless for Novak. It was always the Serb who made them go faster and asked for it harder. Roger was becoming an expert at finding his prostate quickly. The last couple times it took him only a couple of strokes to hit Novak’s sweet spot and not long after that to push him to the brink. Novak didn’t last long at all; his body had been waiting for release ever since Roger stopped sucking him. Roger soon followed, nipping at his shoulder to keep from crying out.
Novak wanted to slide down and take a nap right there on the floor, but Roger’s strong arms kept him grounded until his energy returned. The promise of meeting up in Roger’s room once they returned to the hotel perked him up enough to rinse off and rush to get dressed.
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When Novak returned to his bag, Murray was sitting on the bench by his locker, staring at the closed metal door. Something about his unexpected presence made Novak nervous so he approached cautiously.
“Hey, man,” he greeted, opening the locker and pulling out his clothes. Murray didn’t respond. “Andy,” Novak tried again, waving his hand in front of his friend’s face. The Scot’s eyes flashed up at him and Novak didn’t quite like the intensity of that gaze.
“What the fuck were you doing in there?” Andy demanded.
“It’s a shower,” Novak replied frankly, refusing to be intimidated by his friend's tone.
“I know that you ponce. I went looking for you, I heard noises,” Murray said,not meeting his eyes.
“Okay, so I tossed off in the shower. Who cares? Just don’t use that one tomorrow,” Novak said, turning to his friend with an exasperated look.
“Don’t lie to me,” Andy said aggressively. “I know someone was in there with you.”
Novak paused, unsure of what to say. He might be caught, but Novak was not going to drag Roger into this. He’d never seen Murray in such a mood and wasn’t sure what the Scot would do. His mind was reeling and Novak couldn't help but think this could be the dreaded moment where he was exposed and his career ended tragically like Sven’s.
“Who was it?” Andy asked, watching the shower exit suspiciously for someone else to come out. Novak held his breath and prayed that Roger didn’t come out that door. Anyone but him, he kept repeating. A mop of blond curls turned the corner and when the guy moved his hair, Novak saw it was Bobby. It was an unfortunate moment for his young hitting partner to exit, his presence alone getting him caught up in all this, but Novak was grateful it was not Roger. Bobby nodded toward him in acknowledgement, then to Murray, flashing them a bright smile.
“Bobby?” Andy questioned, his tone slightly less threatening. “God, and he didn’t tell me either?”
“Why does it matter?” Novak asked impatiently. If this is where it all came crashing down on him he’d rather it happen quickly.
When Andy turned to him Novak was surprised to find hurt and not anger in his eyes. “Yes, it matters. I thought we were friends and you don’t even tell me when you start fucking blokes.”
Novak didn’t have a response, at least not one that Murray would like to hear. He was so quick to trust Ana with his precious secret, but from the very start telling Andy was out of the question. Truth be told, they weren’t that close. They talked about tennis, the tour, video games and the women they shagged along the way. None of that was a secret. They were buddies. But for several months now, Roger has been his closest guy friend, and he couldn’t risk losing that, not even if his other friendships suffered.
“Whatever, I don’t give a fuck,” Andy said, stalking away without even looking back. Novak felt awful, but he felt like Andy wouldn’t sell him out, even if their friendship was over and he took solace in that.
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Roger wondered if there would be tension between them now that they’ve seen each other as competitors again. Things were different, Roger had noticed that, but there was also a feeling of peace, like they belonged there, on court together.Roger noticed the lack of animosity between them; each spectacular shot was greeted with a clap of the racket from the opponent instead of a showy “come on” fist pump. It was only the fans who seemed angry or aggressive, them and Novak’s family with their obnoxious suits.
There was one moment of awkwardness that interrupted his focus, but Novak quickly shut it down before he could become truly distracted. It was a limp, or really, more like Novak was walking gingerly on one of the crossovers. It was so slight and unnoticeable that surely no other player would’ve caught on to something so subtle. Roger wasn’t sure if it was his predatory senses that made him aware or the fact that it was Novak and he knew the Serb well enough to know when something was bothering him. Or perhaps it was guilt because when Roger first saw him wince as he got up and walked, his first thought was a panic-stricken I hope I wasn’t too rough with him yesterday.
The next two games Roger was preoccupied with limiting Novak’s court movement. Instead of running him side to side, front to back until his strokes gave out, like Roger would typically do to an injured opponent, Roger’s shots fell closer to the center court. It was timid play and Roger could only imagine what his coach was thinking, but it’s not like he was handing the points over. The disrupted rhythm threw him off enough to make the unforced errors. He lost both games.
On the switchover Novak walked up to him, out of the chair umpire’s earshot and whispered harshly, “don’t you fucking dare go easy on me.” Roger looked down at his leg unconsciously, his mind screaming “but you’re injured.” Novak seemed to catch on to what he was thinking. “Leg cramp, not your fault,” he explained.And with that Roger’s focus returned to the match, though he lost that set, he pulled off the win in four sets.
“Congratulations,” Novak said, slipping into his part of the locker room. He was already showered and dressed for his presser. Roger was surprised he came to him so soon after defeat, he’d assumed it would take a couple days to get over. Novak seemed rather cheery for someone who just got knocked out of a Slam. Roger must’ve been looking at his boyfriend strangely or maybe his lack of response clued Novak in. “Just because I won one doesn’t mean I expect to win them all,” he explained. “The semifinals are perfectly acceptable, better than Wimbledon anyway.”
Roger smiled, wondering when Novak had grown up. Or maybe he’s always been better at dealing with defeat. Roger would like to think his good influence had something to do with it, but considering it was Novak who had saved him from his last two after-loss breakdowns it seemed unlikely that Roger was his role model.
Novak waited patiently for him as he changed into his regular clothes. There was a sense of calm peace between them as they chatted casually, waiting to be called into the press room. Novak picked up hisboyfriend'sNike jacket, specially made in U.S. colors for this event, and tried it on, looking at himself in a mirror as he did his best Federer impression. Before he could take it off, the younger man was called in to face the reporters.
“Wait,” Roger yelled as he left the locker room, well aware Novak was still wearing his jacket.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be funny,” Novak said, reassuring his man that he was joking around and not irresponsibly trying to expose them.
Roger waited in the hallway with his team, watching the screen and waiting for the reactions. Laughter echoed through the room as the reporters caught sight of Novak. Like all his other player impressions, Novak was spot on and even Roger had a good laugh as his boyfriend mimicked his behavior. Eventually Roger grew tired of Mirka’s “he’s making a fool of you” glare and went to retrieve his jacket, conveniently interrupting the question of what they spoke about on court when Novak pulled him aside.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, Roger Federer,” Novak said playfully as the Swiss man entered. He quickly handed over the jacket, making sure to look intimidated and advised the crowd not to steal from the greatest tennis player ever sarcastically.
When Roger was questioned later, he just said “Djokovic plays jokes. He always does. Is funny sometimes. I’m not mad.” Roger knew the clip would be online in hours, further fueling the rumors of their intense rivalry. The public would never know that Roger handed over the garment willingly, nor that he would give Novak anything, the world if he could manage it. They wouldn’t know that Novak wore that jacket again later that night when they made love and eventually Roger begrudgingly admitted that it looks better on the Serb.
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When Novak came in to the room, Roger was watching a playback of their match, pausing occasionally to take notes. Novak threw himself on the bed beside his lover and followed along. Roger paused the match to acknowledge him, a picture of Novak serving on screen as Roger leaned in to kiss him.
“This is looking pretty stalkerish,” Novak said playfully. “Didn’t get to watch me enough earlier?”
“Ha, very funny,” Roger said, rolling his eyes and shoving him lightly. “My coach wants me to find five ways I can improve my second serve before the final.”
“Well as the person who most recently faced it, I say it’s fine. Just tell him that.”
“Right. ‘Hey coach, my boyfriend likes my serve.’”
“Okay so maybe you can’t say that. Just use more top spin. Switch it up with some slice out wide, especially against a lefty like Nadal.”
Roger wrote that down. It may be irresponsible to be taking advice from a competitor, but Roger though his coach was being ridiculous anyway. Novak crawled under the covers and curled up near him. He seemed tired but was trying to stay awake.
“Go ahead,” Roger said, fluffing up Novak’s pillow. “I’ll wake you up when I’m done.”
Novak slept deeply for nearly an hour before he started getting restless. Roger assumed it was from the commentators saying his name frequently, but he couldn’t turn down the volume or he’d miss Brad Gilbert’s analysis of his serve and occasionally helpful comments.
Roger was sure Novak was awake when they talked about his overzealous family riling up the crowd. He sighed deeply into his pillow and turned to see the damage done to his reputation. They were cheering obnoxiously at Roger’s unforced error, waving signs at him as Mirka glared from Roger’s player box.
“Sorry about them,” Novak said, resting his head on Roger’s shoulder. His family used to be one of the things that annoyed Roger so much about Novak; their complete lack of decorum was crude. He had never considered that Novak too harbored some dislike for the Djokovic clan, or at least some embarrassment. "They don't mean to be rude. It's just, they don't get to come to my matches very often and they wait all yearfor the Slams. Sometimesthey just get a bit too excited."
Roger shook his head to say it doesn’t matter to him, at least not enough to worry Novak. The commentators went on to say the Djokovic family had purchased a tournament to move to Serbia with Novak’s uncle as tournament director. Novak’s expression was hard to read, but Roger could tell it wasn’t happy.
“I can’t believe they did that,” Novak said in exasperation. “Seriously, who buys a tournament?”
Roger knew he was talking to himself, but he didn’t like seeing Novak stressed like this. “You don’t want the Serbia Open?” Roger asked carefully.
Novak thought for a moment. “It’s just…so greedy. I would love to have a tournament in Serbia, but not with my money. It looks bad, you know? Like I need my own personal ATP event. I know they meant well, establishing a legacy and everything, but it’s just tacky. I would’ve never given them the money if I knew where it would go.”
“I’m sure they didn’t mean to embarrass you. Maybe it was just a Serbian pride thing,” Roger tried, surprised at himself for defending the crazy family.
“I know. They don’t think about things like public opinion or losing the respect of peers. It’s just showboating. Beware of the noveau riche, eh?” Novak said, sounding more amused than angry. “I should’ve expected they’d buy something extravagant with our new wealth. I just wanted them to buy a bigger house.”
“I’m sure it will be fine. Plenty of players have their home-base tournament, and as long as you come into it as just a player, nobody will care. If there is no special treatment, there is nothing to talk about,” Roger explained logically. He was curious about Novak’s childhood, especially since it seems like he wasn’t the over-privileged brat that Roger had always assumed. He sensed it wasn’t a good time to ask, mostly because Novak looked close to napping again, but he was curious nonetheless.
“You’re right, I’m sure the story will pass soon. I expect much bigger news will be coming around soon,” Novak said, cuddling up to Roger under the covers and coaxing him to put the file folders and notepad away.
“Oh yeah? What news is that?” Roger asked hesitantly, wondering if this was one of Novak’s pranks.
“Dethroned champion back on top,” Novak said with a wry smile.
Roger smiled at him, rolling them over so that he was hovering above the younger man. “On top. You mean here?”
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He was a champion again and never had it mattered more to Roger. For months now he’d felt like a has-been loser, trying to hold on to whatever remnants of career he had left and trying desperately to live up to his reputation. Never has a trophy shined as brightly as it did in the morning sun, the golden light reflecting down onto Roger and Novak in bed.
Roger felt more deserving of Novak’s affection now, like he needed to prove to himself that he could still be the Roger Federer. Novak would never admit to being disappointed, but dating a former Grand Slam champion, former number one player, former greatest player of all time couldn’t have been his ideal boyfriend. Roger proved that he is still in his prime and his career is far from over.
Roger hoped this feeling would last through the holidays. A couple weeks away from tennis was always a struggle for Roger, but he had promised his family a long time ago that he would never miss Christmas day with them, no matter how famous he got. Roger had more than tennis to miss this year. Roger wondered if he’d be able to share in their joy when he felt like a part of his family was missing. The last few visits to Switzerland had been incredibly awkward, pretending he was still in love with Mirka and lying to both their families. If only the world was simpler and he could just come out to them with no consequences.
The light shifted and Roger’s gaze was drawn back to the trophy. It was a good way to end an unsuccessful season, winning a Grand Slam. Nadal was still ahead in the rankings and had a much more impressive record, but the tennis critics couldn’t say 2008 was his “off year.” Nobody wins a Grand Slam on an off year. As frustrating as it was to lose so many matches, Roger needed this wake up call. For a couple years now Nadal had been right on his tail, but Roger was still in charge. Gone were the days of straight set wins over Roddick, Hewitt and Safin, the young guys soaring through the ranks were all full of potential. Nadal was leading the pack, for now, but Roger had a feeling Novak would soon overtake him.
Roger looked at the younger man whose head rested peacefully on his chest. He wondered about Novak’s future. At twenty-one Novak was a Slam champion, a year younger than Roger was when he won his first. In a couple of years they could be saying Novak is the greatest tennis player of all time. Strangely enough, Roger wouldn’t mind handing over the title, as long as it was Novak who dethroned him.
Truthfully, Roger was just glad Novak could see him as the glorified champion again. Recently, he’d been plagued with the thought that Novak came along too late in his career, that the younger man would only be able to watch his downfall. There was something brilliant about having someone there to pick up the pieces when you fall apart, someone who knows what you need without ever being told, but Roger wanted to be at his best with Novak. It had been a long time since he had someone to celebrate with, someone who was happy because he was happy and not because of what the win did for his career. Roger was sure Novak was that person. Hell, he lost to Roger no less than two days ago and he was still ecstatic when the Swiss man won. Who else was capable of that?
Roger gently kissed Novak’s forehead, grateful that he had the Serb in his life. If Roger had continued on his winning streak and beat Novak in the Aussie semis, they may not be together now. Roger didn’t know how he would’ve made it through the year without Novak, and in the last couple of months Roger felt himself come to life again and felt more like himselfthan he had in years.
The sun rose further in the sky and the glare from the trophy shined on Novak’s face. He must’ve been half awake already, because when the light shifted over his eyes, Novak began to stir. Roger did him the favor of blocking the sunlight, which was much easier than getting out of bed to close the curtains.
“Good morning,” Roger greeted, his voice husky from sleep. Novak’s smile was unguardedly sweet, as it always was first thing in the morning, before the walls came up to block out the world. Roger kissed him languidly because they had all day and he wouldn’t get to wake up like this for awhile. Roger ran his hand down Novak’s side softly, always amazed at the softness of his skin. His fingers came across an indention marring the smooth surface.
“What’s that?” Roger broke away to ask. Novak shrugged and lowered the covers to take a look. There was a mark on his left hipbone in a familiar shape.
“I’ve been branded!” Novak joked, running his fingers over the distinct Roger Federation logo that had transferred onto him from the embroidered covers.
“I kind of like it,” Roger said as he admired Novak’s “branding” with a devious smirk. “You should keep it.”
“Keep it? It’s not a puppy. The mark will be gone in a hour.”
“Draw it on then,” Roger suggested, far too entertained by the idea of marking Novak as his.
“Fine, give me a marker,” Novak said with mock annoyance. The Serb thought it was adorable that Roger was so giddy to claim him with such a mark, brand his skin with the same label he wore on his heart.
Roger found a permanent marker in the bedside table and traced the logo on Novak’s skin. He did several layers before blowing on the wet ink to dry, all the while Novak squirming like he was getting an actual tattoo. Novak tried to wrestle the marker away from him after the sixth layer of ink, telling Roger he wouldn’t be able to go swimming for weeks now.
Just as their wrestling match turned into something much more heated, a knock sounded on the door. “Roger? Are you in there?” Mirka’s voice came muffled through the door. Panic swept through both men as they hopped out of bed and struggled to compose themselves quickly. It was then that Roger noticed the streaks of dark ink on his chest.
“I’m coming,” Roger shouted, pulling on his the plushy hotel bathrobe since he couldn’t figure out which clothes Mirka had seen him in this week. Novak had come to him just after Roger got back from celebrating with his team and their clothes were quickly discarded. Roger didn’t even bother with pajamas.
Roger looked around the room for a place for Novak to hide, but didn’t find anywhere suitable. He couldn’t predict where Mirka would go in the room, and it would be more awkward if she found him stashed in a closet or the bathroom.
“I have an idea,” Novak said as he attempted to straighten out his wrinkled shirt that had been bunched up on the floor for several hours. Roger nodded and opened the door with a forced smile, no choice but to trust Novak completely.
“What are you wearing?” Mirka asked, looking at him strangely. True, it would be odd if he just sat around all day in the robe, but first thing in the morning it wasn’t so weird.
“Oh, I was just about to get in the shower,” Roger gave the obvious answer.
“Well I’ll be fast then,” Mirka said as she walked through the doorway, pausing when she caught sight of Novak sitting on the sofa. She turned to Roger in surprise, hardly acknowledging Novak at all. “What is he doing here?”
“Actually I was making a business proposition. I’m glad you’re here, maybe you can talk some sense into him.” Novak was aware of the slight glare Roger was sending his way, but hewouldn't be mad ifthis plan saved them fromMirka's wrath.
Mirka’s business hat came on instantly and she was alert and ready for the opportunity. “Alright, let’s hear it then.”
“I was thinking about doing an exhibition doubles match, for charity of course. Me and Roger could play together, maybe against Roddick and Nadal. Something like that,” Novak said with all the confidence he could muster. He would feel like a total douche if he really did come to them with that suggestion.
Mirka thought for a moment, and Novak wondered if she was actually considering the idea. He soon found that she was trying to figure out the best way to tell him hell no. First, she thought the idea was silly, especially because Roger already does so many exhibition matches a year. That was a fairly reasonable excuse. She went on to say that Novak was making a desperate attempt to win over Roger’s fans and force himself on Roger’s friends. Novak didn’t really care what she thought of his scheme, just that she accepted that was why he came over, but she didn’t have to be so rude about it.
“Fair enough,” Novak said simply. “I’ll be going then.”
Roger walked him to the door and Novak could see the amusement in his eyes. It gave Novak an uplifting feeling, like Roger was choosing his side over Mirka’s. Like Roger put him first.
--------------------------------------------
Novak’s joy didn’t last long. He opened his room to find a disgruntled Marko packing up his room.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Novak was alarmed by his brother’s tone; Marko never spoke to him that way.
“I was out,” Novak answered defensively, not appreciating the interrogation. As Marko continued to fold his brother’s clothes and pack them in the suitcase, Novak felt guilty for not doing it himself before he left. He was almost always late back to the room after a night with Roger and packing would’ve saved time. “You don’t have to do that. I can pack my bag,” Novak said, taking one of his rackets out of Marko’s angry hand.
“No, I do have to do it or we’ll all be fucking late for our flight,” Marko spat.
“We’re not going to miss the flight,” Novak reassured him, puzzled by his brother’s actions. “What is going on? Why are you mad at me?”
“You don’t think I heard you in here the other night, talking to someone. Who was it, Novak? I know you had some guy in here.”
Novak laughed hollowly. “I’m allowed to have friends over, Marko.”
“That late? You should’ve been preparing for your match. Maybe that’s why you lost in the semis,” the younger Serb said smartly.
“I lost because I played Federer. Lack of sleep had nothing to do with it,” Novak defended, wishing that he could tell Marko it was Roger just to prove his snarky brother wrong.
“Whatever. It’s still messed up. And our parents wouldn't approve.”
“Why? What do you care if Murray comes over sometimes for a beer and video games? You’re just jealous we didn’t invite you,” Novak said, knowing that Marko wouldn’t dare scold Andy’s habits.
“Fine. But it wasn’t Murray. You guys aren’t even talking anymore. I haven’t seen him around in ages. And if it were Andy, he would’ve invited me."
“That was an example,” Novak added, wondering how Marko knew about his strained relationship with Andy and hoping the Scot hadn’t confided anything in the younger boy. “I have other friends besides Murray and I don’t need permission to see them.”
They were quiet for awhile, each packing as efficiently as time would allow. Novak felt the tension diminish slightly and hoped his brother wouldn’t be this angry at him over the holidays or he’d have to escape to Monte Carlo earlier than usual. After they packed the last few items Marko spoke again.
“I hope you know that if it were Andy who made it big first, he wouldn’t ditch you for new friends. Andy would never do that to you,” Marko said softly, in a defeated way.
Novak hadn’t thought of it that way, like he was moving on to more successful friends. It wasn’t necessarily untrue. Novak’s closest friends besides Murray these days were Nadal and Federer, his fellow top players. Maybe that is part of why Andy got so angry in the locker room. Novak was cutting him out of his life and suddenly Andy felt like he didn’t even know his friend anymore.
“I know he wouldn’t. But you don’t know what you’re talking about Marko. Just because I’ve made new friends doesn’t mean I’ll abandon the old ones,” Novak said and it occurred to him halfway through that Marko probably felt like he had ditched him as well. Before the Aussie Open, Novak would practice with him, they’d warm up together, and he’d even go to his younger brother’s matches, but he hadn’t done any of that in awhile.
“Why haven’t we met you’re new friends then? Why can’t we hang out together?”
“It’s not that easy, Marko.”
“Yes, it is. You shouldn't hide things from your family, it's not right. If you won’t tell me who your friend is, I’ll figure it out,” Marko said, anger returning to his voice. “And then I’ll tell mom and dad,” he threatened.
Marko probably wouldn’t do that, Novak knew this, but he couldn’t take the chance. Marko might be willing to accept it was just a friend coming over to hang out, but his parents would be more suspicious of his late night visitor. The best thing to do was to cut a deal with Marko.
“It’s unfortunate that you feel that way because I was going to invite Ana over for Christmas dinner. But I don’t want her coming over if all this family drama is going on,” Novak said casually. Playing on Marko’s crush on Ana wasn’t the nicest thing to do, but it was the only way he was sure to have Marko under control.
“She’s coming to our house?” Marko said, lighting up with possibilities.
“She was, but now that you’re so determined to investigate my life I don’t think she should.”
“Wait,” Marko said, considering for a moment. He seemed to decide Ana was worth it because he conceded. “I don’t care about your friend, or what you guys are always busy with. Just don’t leave Murray out so much, okay?”
“Okay,” Novak agreed.
"And don't lie to mom and dad," he added.
"Fine."
"So she's coming then?" Marko asked excitedly. Novak nodded, hoping she would play along.
"Yeah, she really is."
"What am Igoing to wear?!?" was the first of many concerns Marko had, and Novak put up with every question, trying to seem just as excited. Inside he was a bundle of nerves. Three close calls in as many days was too much for him and Novak was glad he would have the holidays to figure out how to keep Murray quiet, distract Marko, avoid Mirka, see Roger as much as possible, and somehow play some decent tennis.
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When Enemies Attract