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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
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Chapter 2
Novak awoke the next morning with a mind-splitting headache and was confused by his whereabouts. It took him nearly five minutes of worried panic to remember that he had gone up to Federer’s room to apologize and didn’t recall ever leaving. The Serb quickly gathered the few things he had and left, pausing only to scribble a note to Roger on the hotel stationary. He snuck through the hotel until he found his room, three floors lower. The old woman in the elevator gave him a snarky annoyed look when he pushed several buttons before remembering the actual floor number of his suite. After many awkward stops in the elevator on various floors, he quickly exited and snuck into his room. He wasn’t expecting to see anyone upon entering, but his younger brother was lying on the extra bed still dressed in that night’s clothes. Novak assumed he had been waiting up for him, probably very confused as to where his brother had gone. The Serb felt guilty for lying, but at the time it seemed necessary to protect his reputation. He couldn’t tell them that he was rushing off to essentially beg for forgiveness, that sort of thing was for pansy boys.
Novak stripped down to just his boxers and climbed into bed. He couldn’t sleep at first because of his headache, but after downing the maximum dose of pain pills he was able to go back to sleep.
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“I don’t know when he got in. I fell asleep waiting up for him,” Marko’s voice whispered. “When I woke up he was here.”
“Maybe he got lost,” Andy Murray whispered jokingly.
“Or found something better to do,” Jamie Murray piped in with a suggestive smirk.
Novak hadn’t realized he was awake enough to listen until he suddenly felt the need to get up and explain himself. But what would he say? He snuck off to Federer’s room where he fell asleep after having a pleasant chat for over an hour? No, the truth wouldn’t be best in this situation. If they knew he would be teased endlessly, or worse they would dare to tease Roger, maybe even mention it to a reporter or two. Suddenly Novak remembered the woman in the elevator, the one dressed in red. He didn’t remember much about her, but he could always claim he was with her.
Novak rolled over toward his group and opened his eyes slightly, enough to fake a gradual awakening. He was immediately bombarded with questions.
“Where did you wander off to last night?”
“What time did you get in?”
“Did you get lost?”
The questions came so fast that he didn’t know which to answer first, or which boy asked them.
He decided to just tell the story he had made up rather than answer questions, which would most likely lead to blowing his cover story.
“When I was in the elevator coming up to the room, I met this hot girl and she invited me back to her room,” he said with feigned confidence, hoping they wouldn’t ask any more questions.
“What did she look like?” Andy asked, more curious than suspicious.
“Blond hair, red dress, nice body. I just hope she’s not a tennis player, I don’t think I asked her name,” he said jokingly, truly hoping that he never saw that woman again.
The guys seemed to accept the story and quickly changed the subject to his upcoming match. It was nearly ten in the morning and he had scheduled to hit with Andy around noon. Novak was glad to slip off into the shower to get ready for his day of rest, which would be more like a stressful day of last minute training. Ideally he should have asked Nadal to hit, the Spaniard’s style being more like Tsonga’s, or if he was really daring he could’ve asked Federer last night considering the Swiss man was readily handing out advice, but Novak wasn’t that brave. He would have to settle for his good friend Andy, whose style wasn’t much like Tsonga’s, but they always had good matches.
When both the Djokovic boys had left the room to get dressed the Murrays sat on the bed waiting for their friends to return. Jamie waited until the shower popped on before speaking freely to his brother.
“So you know that girl Novak said he spent the night with?” Jamie started hesitantly.
“Yeah,” Andy replied suspiciously.
“Well. I have reason to believe he wasn’t with her,” said Jamie.
“Why do you think that?” his brother asked.
“Because I was with her,” Jamie said with a smirk.
“How do you know it was the same girl he’s talking about?” Andy inquired.
“She was hanging out in the elevator for a while. She just stayed in there. I think she was hoping to meet some famous tennis player since all of us are staying at this hotel.”
“Well I guess she was lucky to meet you then,” Andy joked. “But why would Nole lie about that? Where do you think he really was?”
“I don’t know. Obviously he doesn’t want us to know…”
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When Roger woke up the next morning he found his suite to be quite empty. It was a rare occurrence for Mirka to sleep in his room at major tournaments, as his manager/ publicist she got her own room, but it was not her he was surprised not to see. When he entered the sitting room connected to his bedroom he was expecting the younger tennis star to be sprawled out on the sofa like he left him, but the boy was nowhere to be found. Instead, Roger found a note from the Serb. “Sorry I crashed here. Thanks for the info. See you later, Novak.” It was short, but to the point and surprisingly without signs of smugness or arrogance. Roger laughed as he remembered the previous night and had a sudden overwhelming urge to call Rafa and tell him about the Serb’s strange behavior, but thought better of it considering that for the first time in their short time of acquaintance, Novak and he got along quite well. Perhaps he should wait until after their next interaction. Who knows how Novak will act toward him when they’re not alone or drunk.
As Roger headed downstairs for some breakfast, Mirka happened to open her door as he was passing.
“Hey babe,” she said sweetly, as if they didn’t have a huge fight the night before.
“You look nice,” Roger observed aloud, surprised by her colorful day dress. She had a habit of wearing ‘comfortable’ clothes recently that were usually unflattering and boring, but today she looked happy and aglow.
“Thank you, honey. Have you had breakfast yet?” He nodded no. “One of the girls recommended this adorable little café that I was going to check out. Would you like to join me?”
She was trying so hard to make up for yelling at him the previous night that Roger couldn’t help but agree. She had made a whole list of things she wanted to do that day in Melbourne and Roger was happy to follow along. He wasn’t used to seeing the sights while on tour. Usually he was playing matches all the way through the finals or somberly sat in his room if he lost early. Wandering around Melbourne was a nice treat.
When they parted ways after dinner, Roger was surprised that the day had gone so well. Outside of tennis, they didn’t do much together anymore. Every meal they spent together was packed with tennis related conversation, but today his career wasn’t even mentioned. It was like old times, hanging out on their days off. Roger almost invited her to spend the night in his room, but chose not to extend an invite figuring that eight hours of peace was all they could expect from one day and any more might lead to another argument. Roger flipped on the television to a random movie and snuggled up in his bed. Before falling asleep he programmed the TV to turn on when the men’s final came on the next morning so he could watch. Roger considered actually going to the match, but decided it was best to stick around the hotel. He usually watched matches on TV anyway. There was something awkward about sitting in the crowd with all the fans when he was scouting out opponents or even cheering on friends. Most of his friends would offer him a spot in the player’s box, but he rarely accepted, always feeling strange about jipping a family member out of a seat. It would be even stranger if he was seen by the press supporting Djokovic, someone the public knows he has a beef with. He didn’t even know if Novak would be happy to see him hanging around. TV was definitely a better choice. Roger called the front desk and ordered breakfast for the following morning, then went to sleep.
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The day went quickly for Novak, his nerves building with each hour that passed. Brunch was a distant blur in his memory, as was his practice session with Andy, which was productive but short. Novak was expecting to practice longer, but the Australian heat was taking its toll on his body and he wanted to save his energy for the next day. After a large, carbohydrate-full meal he went to bed early, looking over Federer’s file and mentally strategizing up until the moment he closed his eyes.
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Novak found himself in Rod Laver Arena staring up at a faceless crowd. He shook hands with the chair umpire and hurried off to his side of the court. His opponent was a ball machine, shooting tennis balls at him as fast as Roddick’s serve. He lunged for each ball, but he just couldn’t get there in time. Before he could finish his play on one ball, another was bouncing on the court for him to track down. It was a losing battle, there was no way he could get to all of them. Suddenly Federer appeared in the crowd, the only person to actually have a face in the thousands of bodies that filled the stands.
“Stick to your game, Nole,” the man said reassuringly. “Trust your shots. Believe in yourself. You can do this.”
Novak nodded and the balls started flying again, only this time he was keeping up with them. Every ball flew over the net with perfect precision. After Roger’s pep-talk, Novak didn’t miss a single shot. Finally the umpire yelled “Game. Set. Match. Djokovic” and he knew he had won, that he could win.
Novak ran over to the stands and pulled Federer over the barrier onto the court with him. He hugged the older man tightly.
“I knew you could do it,” said Federer with a smile.
“Thanks for believing in me,” Novak replied.
“I always have,” the Swiss man replied, kissing the champion lightly on the forehead.
The Serb pulled away. “What was that for?” he asked.
“I’m proud of you,” Roger replied, beaming with joy.
“That means a lot,” Novak said softly, now realizing for the first time how much it did mean to him, or would mean. The Serb’s eyes popped open at the sound of his alarm. He grabbed the hotel stationary from the bedside table and scribbled down his dream before he forgot it. It was a strange dream, that was certain, but he didn’t have time to analyze it fully. In just a couple of hours he had a Grand Slam final to play.
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Roger didn’t wake immediately when the television flipped on, showing Novak and Tsonga bouncing around nervously in the locker room. It wasn’t until harsh, rapid knocking sounded against his door that he pulled himself from bed. There was a stout man dressed in a navy suit with the hotel logo embroidered on his chest waiting expectantly with a tray of food. Roger stepped away from the door, allowing the man to enter and place his breakfast on the bedside table. Roger dug in his wallet for a tip, but only had a five with him. The man gave him a forced smile when he saw the lowly bill, clearly expecting more from such a high-status player. Roger blushed slightly but returned the smile, hoping that he was putting more meaning into the look than it actually held.
Roger settled back into his bed now glancing at the television for the first time that morning. It was easy to see that Novak was nervous, his usual cocky demeanor stifled down to a mere predatory smirk. Roger wasn’t very familiar with Tsonga’s mannerisms, but from what he could tell the man was even more nervous than the Serb. The Frenchman had a dreamy look in his eyes that could only be compared to a child’s first glance at the expansive ocean, realizing for the first time how small they are in comparison. If Novak played well, he could easily intimidate Tsonga into a submissive defeat. The Frenchman was riding an epic wave of good fortune and chance, but the ride would soon be over. It was all up to him now, Novak Djokovic was their last hope.
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He looked around the stadium, noticing how different it was than his dream. There was a sea of faces, all unfamiliar but present. His box was full, as always, with his loud family and their matching white track suits, each bearing one letter of his name. The Murray brothers whooped loudly from their seats behind his parents. The rest of the box was filled with various members of his camp: tennis coach, physician, trainer, nutritionist, publicist, manager.
Novak had a lousy start to the match. It seemed that Tsonga was less nervous than he appeared. Before the Serb could take over the lead the first set was gone. The break between games was longer than usual because there was a switch of tennis balls. Djokovic used this time to refocus. He thought of the file Federer had given him and all the clues scribbled in the margins. The words the Swiss man told him echoed in his head, “His forehand is his biggest weapon, but his backhand isn’t bad either. He has a slight preference for down the line backhands so be careful not to leave that area vulnerable… Watch out for his serve. It is modeled after Roddick’s and he loves to come up to net off his first serve.” Novak nodded visibly and stood up, ready to continue. He knew what to do. As he collected the balls to serve, Novak continued his thought of Federer’s encouraging words, only this time it was dream Roger’s words that he heard. “Stick to your game Nole… Trust your shots. Believe in yourself. You can do this.”
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Roger found the match almost painful to watch. It seemed Novak was about to be shut down just like Nadal had been in the last round. Federer left the room to take a shower and calm his nerves. When he returned, Roger found that the match had turned. Djokovic now had a set as well and was leading in the third. There was a knock at his door and Federer could barely pull himself away from the screen long enough to answer it. Rafa’s friendly face was on the other side, smiling as he stepped inside.
“Are you watching?” Rafa said excitedly.
Federer waved him over to the bed where the TV was visible from. They sat there gawking at the television, cheering whenever Novak did anything right. It was strange to think that the last time they met, neither showed much support of the Serb, but now they were his greatest fans, as long as he was winning.
“Since when do you cheer for Novak?” Rafa asked playfully.
“Since I realized you were right. Pro tennis isn’t ready for a wildcard to win a Slam. He’s the lesser of two evils I suppose,” Roger said in a jovial tone, all past dislike clearly set aside.
Rafa was surprised by Federer’s answer. He wasn’t expecting Roger to confess that Novak came to him with an apology, the man was much too private for that, but he wasn’t expecting Roger to speak so fondly of the hopeful champion either. It wasn’t the words he used, but the way he said them that made Nadal suspicious. He didn’t linger too long on his suspicions, the match being too good to distract himself from, but he kept aware of Federer’s behavior as he cheered on the Serb.
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Once I refocused, the next two sets were a breeze. I just kept telling myself to play my game and trust my shots, like my subconscious told me the night before via dream Roger. The first set was on serve until I got a break, ending in 6-4. The next one I was fortunate enough to get two breaks early on and hold serve after that, leading to a 6-3 end to the set. It was this last set that has been giving me problems, on serve throughout. We finally got into a tiebreak for the fourth set.
Tsonga’s nerves seemed to catch up with him (finally). The first two shots of the breaker he dumped the ball in the net. “You can do this,” was repeating in my mind, though surprisingly not in my own voice. I blinked and for a moment I thought I saw Federer in the stands, cheering me on, but when I looked again he was gone. I have to shake these thoughts from my head, Tsonga is about to serve. Oh nice serve, barely got it back. He hit it cross court and by the time I got there my only choice was to pop it up. Easy overhead for him.
Okay, now it’s my serve. Time to refocus. Boom. It’s good, but he gets it back. Oh sweet, my chance at an overhead! I couldn’t help but let a come on! slip out after that one. Three-one. I can do this! Ugh long long long point, but he dumped it in the net at the end! How can I be so lucky? All of a sudden he’s making unforced errors like mad. Four-one, three more points to go! His first serve is called out, but he challenges. He’s wrong of course but he might as well use his challenges, the match will be over soon. Hah double fault! Let’s see him come up with a decent serve after that! We switched sides and he was mumbling angry words at himself, cursing in different languages I’m sure. He’s broken, I can tell.
Boom. I barely get to the serve, pop it up and…damn it’s out. Okay well, I wanted to win it on my serve anyways. Sweet now it’s my serve again. I’m serving for the championship, just two more points! Damn good rally, but I won it. One more point!! I serve, it’s in, he returns it, and then I return it and his next shot it out!!! OH MY GOD! I JUST WON THE AUSTRALIAN OPEN!!!
Djokovic fell to the ground, unable to support himself and covering his face in disbelief. All he could do was laugh. Novak looked up to his family, who were jumping up and down enthusiastically, crying tears of joy. He got up, dropped the ball from his pocket and went over to the net to shake Jo-Wilfried’s hand, no need to be disrespectful.
The Serb walks around the court in a daze, unsure of what to do with himself. He kneels down to the ground and kisses the court. Novak looked around at the crowd, throwing various objects up to his fans. He couldn’t help but feel something was missing, and deep down he was beginning to realize it was someone that was missing. His mind flashed with the memory of his dream, something that had happened several times that day, he saw Roger’s face in the crowd beaming with joy. The tennis fans were screaming, but all Novak could hear were the Swiss man’s kind words.
“I knew you could do it.”
“Thanks for believing in me,” Novak thought in reply, recalling his own words.
“I always have,” the Swiss man said. “I’m proud of you.”
Tears began to swell in Novak’s eyes, he wanted that to be true, but unfortunately it was just his mind. A fan moved through imaginary Federer and the man disappeared, shocking Novak back to reality. They were beginning to pull out the Winner’s ceremony stage, it was real. The shiny trophy was set on a stand and Novak found he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Finally, it’s mine.
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When Enemies Attract