[Tennis] Another Second Time Around
Title: Another Second Time Around
Characters (Pairings): Tommy Robredo, Juan Carlos Ferrero (David Ferrer/Tommy Robredo, Juan Carlos Ferrero/Marat Safin, Marcel Granollers/Marc López)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Created in a world of pure imagination: no money changed hands, no actuality implied, no offence intended.
A/N: Set in 2014. Tommy and Juan Carlos may have stopped playing, but they definitely haven't stopped competing ~9K
i (Prologue)
The party was still in full swing when Tommy whispered to David that he needed some fresh air and slipped away. All in all it had been an overwhelming day and-although he didn't want to be ungrateful, although he felt an obligation to stay and interact with everyone who wanted to shake his hand and wish him well-he needed some space to himself.
He could still hear the party going on in the Agora behind him as he sat at a table on the veranda. The brandy he was drinking really was exceptionally good; he cradled the glass in his hands to keep it warm. He supposed Juan Carlos must have organised that, there was no way David knew a decent brandy from a bottle of balsamic.
'I could drink this every night, if I wanted to. In fact, I could drink a whole bottle.' The words came out louder than he'd intended, making him jump. Although not as much as he jumped when he heard a voice behind him.
'You could, but you could never afford it.'
Juan Carlos emerged from the shadows and sat down next to Tommy, a glass in one hand and a three-quarter-full bottle in the other.
'You look punch-drunk, is it getting to you? It got to me last year, too. They mean well, but after the thirty-fifth time of hearing the same banal comments the veneer of politeness threatens to shatter. Has it sunk in yet?'
'That I'm retired? That I'm no longer a tennis player? Not really.' Tommy let Juan Carlos refill his glass and leant back in his chair. 'It feels weird, actually. Part of me thinks I should have done it at Barcelona, but I wasn't sure I wanted to then. Sorry I did it here, though; you and David will get a reputation for killing careers.' He was drunk enough to laugh at his own feeble joke, and he was grateful when Juan Carlos played along.
'I should talk to him about moving the tournament back to the spring, and then everyone would have to find somewhere else to announce their retirements,' he deadpanned.
'I'm just glad I got to choose when to do it.' Tommy suddenly became solemn. 'For a while there I honestly thought I'd never play again.'
He swatted at Juan Carlos, who was shaking his head and muttering, 'Such a drama queen,' and continued,
'No, seriously. I'm grateful I got to make the decision myself; I thought my body would end up making it for me. But I came back, and I stopped on my own terms. And I'm ready for it now. I can eat what I like, go skiing without Salva having a conniption that I might break a leg, stay up all night if I want-anything!'
They gossiped drunkenly for a while about all the things Tommy could do now that the world was his oyster. Between them, they compiled quite a bucket list-including never getting up before midday, eating pizza every day for a month, pony trekking across the Andes, bungee jumping over the Grand Canyon and white-water rafting in Alaska.
'But, enough about me!' Tommy gave a guilty start as he realised how long he'd been talking about himself. 'What about you? How are you enjoying coaching?'
'It's marvellous. I get to stay with the tour, but don't get any of the pressures or press intrusions. I'm not quite ready to go to Moscow and be a political wife; this way I get the air miles and the scenery, and someone else pays all my expenses. I'm going to be doing it full-time next year.'
'Plus-and I feel that this is the most important plus-' Tommy's voice brimmed with amusement, 'you get to be a bossy bastard to someone who can't tell you to fuck off.'
'Excuse you,' Juan Carlos frowned imperiously, but his slight swaying took the edge off his glare. 'I'll have you know that Nico's no picnic!'
There was a brief pause, then Tommy blurted, 'Actually, I'm going to be coaching next year, too.' In response to Juan Carlos' raised eyebrow he continued, 'I'm going to coach Marcel. We're just waiting for him to sort things out with Fernando before we make it official-what? What's so funny?'
It was a while before the laughter that had overtaken Juan Carlos allowed him to straighten up and answer. 'And you think Nico's bad? Good Lord you're going to have your hands full.'
'What? Oh, no, he's not like that any more! It was only a crush, he's moved on now-in fact,' he added drily, 'I think you're the one with the problem, I've seen the way Nico looks at you.'
'I didn't mean Marcel. I meant Marc. You know how jealous he is.'
'Oh. Right. That.' Tommy picked up the bottle but it was empty. 'But they sorted that out, didn't they? I don't think Marc'll have an issue with me. Well. Provided he doesn't find out that we-' Tommy broke off suddenly, but it was too late.
'Tommy? Find out that you what, exactly? What have-dear God, you haven't slept with Marcel, have you?'
'Juanca, shut UP!' Tommy hissed. 'It was ages ago, it was just a-a thing, after David and Feli-well, you know. It didn't mean anything!'
'Ah, I see… but I don't know that Marc would, so let's hope he never finds out, hmm? I tell you what, though,' he rubbed his chin contemplatively, 'if we're both coaching, we should have a contest: who can get their charge to the most titles? We'll count up right here next year, and when you lose you can buy me dinner at Ricard Camarena.'
Tommy snorted, grateful for the change in subject. 'Don't sound so sure of yourself, old man. It's about time I levelled our head-to-head. You're on.'
With only minimal slurring, they agreed their terms. Only tournaments they played together would count, and they would all travel as a team so no-one had an advantage: if one made a final they would all stay, so there was no unfair acclimatisation time.
They clinked their glasses and drained them, and then-somewhat unsteadily-steered each other back inside.
'Before David has kittens,' Juan Carlos slurred conspiratorially in Tommy's ear.
Tommy 0, Juan Carlos 0.
ii
Tommy was surprised at how nervous he was at the start of the season. What if it all went wrong? What if he turned out to be diabolically awful at coaching, and Marcel's ranking plummeted as a result?
'You worry too much, tete,' David soothed as they unpacked in their hotel room. 'You'll be fine. Just think how well you did when you practiced on Xavi and Lukas last month, way better than Javier had done. You're patient, and sympathetic… and stubborn. And, most importantly, you're here with me.'
David was right. In fact, he was the main reason Tommy had decided on coaching. He didn't feel right being a kept man, nor could he bear the thought of working at home while David was God-knows-where in the world. He couldn't be apart from him for that long, and coaching was the best compromise.
The trouble was, it didn't exactly start brilliantly.
Juan Carlos was right: Marc was being difficult. The first few days Tommy was prepared to put it down to jet lag, but by the third day he had to acknowledge that there was more to Marc's attitude than a disrupted body clock. He disregarded Tommy completely, often giving Marcel diametrically opposing instructions-as if it were some kind of contest. Marcel hung on to Tommy's every suggestion, oblivious to how awkward Marc was being and as eager to please as ever, but Marc was certainly noticing Marcel's behaviour. In fact, he watched him like a hawk with an expression that grew increasingly thunderous. Needless to say, with Marc's concentration more on one-upmanship over Tommy than on his game, their run in Brisbane was brief.
By the time they headed to Auckland, even Marcel couldn't ignore Marc's behaviour any longer. When Marc asked Salva if he'd organised a car to the airport no more than three seconds after Tommy had just finished telling them how the car he'd arranged was on its way, Marcel frowned at Marc and led him across the hotel lobby 'to talk'.
The problem was, he didn't go far enough. Tommy overheard every word.
'Marc, why are you being like this?'
'Being like what?'
'You know what. You act like Tommy's not there: you ignore him, you tell me to do other stuff. Why are you doing that?'
'Why do you think I'm doing that? It's Tommy, isn't it? It's always fucking Tommy.' The bitterness in Marc's voice was unmistakeable.
'Wait, you're not still jealous, are you? But I thought we'd sorted all that out!' Marcel sounded utterly confused, and Marc laughed scornfully.
'Jealous? Of course I'm not! I'm just sick of how stupid you get around him. 'Yes, Tommy! Right away, Tommy! Would you like to share our bed, Tommy?' He might as fucking well, he does everything else with us.'
'But he's my coach, Marc! Can't you at least try?'
Marc muttered something inaudible, and Tommy began to regret straining quite so hard to overhear them. He was genuinely surprised that Marc was still jealous; he rubbed his neck in deep thought as Juan Carlos sat down on the sofa beside him. The speculative expression on his face made it clear that he, too, had heard every word.
'Trouble in paradise?' he asked solicitously. Tommy just glared at him.
'It's fine,' he snapped. 'I'll sort it out.'
Tommy was unsurprised to see Nico and Juan Carlos on the adjacent practice court the next morning. He was surprised, however, to see quite how bad Nico's case of hero-worship had become. His backhand was all over the place, and he spent most of the session casting adoring, cow-eyed glances in Juan Carlos' direction. Tommy tried hard not to smirk … but he probably didn't try hard enough. His cheery wave at Juan Carlos was met with a withering stare as, once again, he snapped at Nico to pay attention and concentrate.
When Nico played his first match, Tommy went along to watch. Juan Carlos' eyes narrowed as Tommy slid into Nico's box during a first-set changeover.
'What?' Tommy asked innocently. Just come to support my coaching buddy!'
Juan Carlos snorted. 'You expect me to believe that? I smell sabotage.' There was a pregnant pause, in which Tommy could practically hear the wheels going round in Juan Carlos' brain.
'Oh, please,' Tommy gestured to the court, where Nico was so busy turning to check Juan Carlos' response to every shot that he didn't take time to notice where these shots were landing (most of them outside the lines). 'As if I'd stoop to sabotage. Anyway, I'm not even sure that's necessary.'
Juan Carlos swore under his breath as Nico double-faulted for the third consecutive time, and Tommy sighed with relief. Any fleeting thoughts of sabotage Juan Carlos may have been harbouring had just been overridden by more pressing concerns.
Tommy, too, preferred to direct his energies in a positive manner. In an attempt to prove to Marc that he respected his relationship and presented no threat, Tommy took advantage of the two-day gap in their scheduling and sent Marcel and Marc on a romantic island-hopping trip. Marc looked cynical when Tommy waved them off the next day, but it worked. When they came back they were almost sickeningly tactile and demonstrative, and this made them unbeatable. On Sunday afternoon they thrashed their opponents 6-1 6-1, and lifted the trophy.
As they posed for photos afterwards-the victors and their coaching teams-Marc made no attempt to hide his smug comment to Marcel.
'See? Anything you can do with him, you can do better with me.'
Tommy didn't care, he had 'won' his first title.
Tommy 1, Juan Carlos 0.
iii
The seatbelt light had barely gone off on their flight from Melbourne when Marc's grumbling began. He and Marcel were sat directly in front of Tommy; the fact that Marc didn't even lower his voice told Tommy that he was expected to hear.
'Why are we even going to South America? We never play South America: we do European indoor. Doesn't he even know you get travel sick? What was he thinking, making you fly all this way?'
Marcel's response was tinged with fond laughter. 'Tio, it's actually shorter to fly to Chile than it is to fly back to Europe! Anyway, I always used to play South America when I played with Tommy, so it's not that big a deal.'
This was the wrong thing to say.
'…because you used to play South America. When you played with Tommy,' Marc's tone was mocking and sarcastic. 'But now you play European indoor. With me. Unless you've forgotten.'
'I haven't forgotten, of course I haven't! But Tommy asked if I'd switch this year as David plays South America every year and he didn't want to spend a month apart, and this way we get to spend time on golden beaches where I can kiss your sulks away in the hot sun, rather than in grey, rainy Rotterdam.'
Marc muttered something about sweet-talking bullshitters, but at least he was smiling.
It didn't last, though. When they arrived in Chile Marc recommenced his one-sided power struggle. When Tommy set Marcel to work on his serve, Marc reminded him they needed to practice their net work. When Tommy had Marcel hitting volley after volley, Marc watched for a moment and then interrupted,
'Marcel, stand here, I'll hit to your backhand; Salva said you needed to strengthen that, remember?'
Tommy sighed, and was prepared to let it go when Marcel turned to Marc with a puzzled expression.
'But we did that this morning! For over an hour!'
Marc shot Marcel a dirty look, but added smoothly, 'Yeah, but you could probably do to keep on with it, don't you think?
When Marcel looked questioningly at Tommy he gave a resigned shrug and gestured to Marc. 'If that's what Salva said, you should probably do it.' He couldn't face making a scene.
The session ended when Marc deliberately ignored Tommy's comment that he'd booked the court for an extra half hour so they could stay longer, and started packing up his racquets. Marcel shrugged helplessly as Marc bustled him away, leaving Tommy to clear up what felt like three hundred loose balls.
Tommy wracked his brains for a way to prove to Marc he had nothing of which to be jealous. He tried inviting David to practice, and lavishing attention upon him to show Marc that he had no interest in Marcel, but that only attracted scorn. He tried mentioning David at every opportunity to remind Marc of how long he and David had been together ('you remember when we played DC in Logroño and David insisted we got our names on our shirts so he'd know which one of us to kiss when we won?'), but for some reason this only made Marc worse.
By Saturday he gave up, and gave them the rest of the afternoon off. It wasn't like practice was urgent; they'd been out of the tournament since Wednesday.
The players' lounge was empty, and Tommy was enjoying the peace and quiet (and an over-sized pastry with his coffee) when Juan Carlos sat down opposite him with a disapproving eyebrow and a knowing smile.
'Eating your feelings? If I were your coach, I'd have you running twenty laps for that.'
'Shut up, Juanca,' Tommy mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. 'Where the hell have you been?'
'Guarajuba,' Juan Carlos sighed happily. 'Marat got some time off and told me to meet him in our house there-so I gave myself a week's holiday and… well, we're making the most of it.' He stretched languidly, and Tommy rolled his eyes.
'That'll be why Nico made the final, then.'
'Nonsense! It's due to my fine coaching!'
'Juanca, how can it be? You haven't been here. When you're around he falls to pieces, his crush has got so out of hand,' Tommy explained patiently. 'We might have to cancel the bet: it hardly counts if you only win when you're not actually coaching him.'
Juan Carlos denied this strongly, but Tommy was gratified to be proved right the next day. Nico spent the first set labouring under such an attack of nerves that he barely managed to win two games. It was only when Juan Carlos slid so far down in the box that he couldn't be seen that Nico managed to pull himself together.
Juan Carlos' smile when Nico (eventually) lifted the trophy was pensive. 'He has got it bad, hasn't he?'
Tommy nodded, and tried not to snigger.
Tommy 1, Juan Carlos 1.
iv
In Argentina, it soon became clear that neither coach would win a title that week. Nico was still mooning around like a lovesick teenager, and Marc was still… being Marc.
By the second round they'd all been knocked out. While Tommy and Juan Carlos went to organise transportation to Rio, they discussed their respective problems.
'I'm getting nothing out of him,' Juan Carlos complained. 'He's even worse than Marcel was with you.'
Valiantly, Tommy resisted the urge to say, 'I told you so,' and smiled sympathetically. 'You're going to have to talk to him. It's what I had to do with Marcel. It'll make things awkward for a few weeks, but it's the only way to sort it: if you ignore it, he'll just get worse.' Secretly, Tommy hoped it made things awkward for longer than a few weeks, but he had the sense not to articulate this.
'That's going to be a fun conversation,' Juan Carlos sighed. 'But what about you? Things still seem pretty tense with Marc.'
Tommy set his chin, 'It's fine, I'm dealing with it.'
'It sounds like it,' Juan Carlos grinned. 'But I think I know how you can get Marc onside.' At Tommy's questioning look he leaned forward and continued, 'A little bird-well, actually, a tall, scruffy, unkempt bird, but that's neither here nor there-told me about a certain spreadsheet Marcel and Marc keep, to do with stairs…'
The rest of the information was passed in a whisper, and Tommy frowned doubtfully. Was this a set-up? He looked closely at Juan Carlos and could see no sign of subterfuge, but he remained sceptical.
Despite Tommy's best efforts, he wasn't able to eavesdrop on the conversation Juan Carlos had with Nico. And, much to Tommy's disappointment, it seemed to work. For the first couple of days in Rio Nico was subdued and shamefaced but then, with a surprising resilience, he began to bounce back. Tommy watched his second round match: he was sharp and focussed and, rather annoyingly, not showing the slightest inclination of being pissed off with his coach.
Things in his own camp were going rather differently, and once again Tommy thought about what Juan Carlos had told him. If Marcel was sharing information like that Marc must be OK with it, he reasoned. It could help him persuade Marc that he was a considerate, understanding coach who was fully aware of their relationship and had no intention whatsoever of trying to muscle in on it.
And, right now, it couldn't exactly make things worse.
Except, of course, that it could.
On Thursday, after a particularly strenuous practice, Tommy carelessly suggested they spend the rest of the day updating their spreadsheet. 'There's a secluded set of stairs at the back of the hotel that would be perfect.'
Marcel blushed, turning huge, stunned eyes on Tommy, but Marc froze where he was putting his racquets back in his bag.
'What. The fuck. Are you talking about? How do you know about that?' His voice was clipped and cold, and Tommy silently cursed Juan Carlos to hell and back.
'Your spreadsheet,' Tommy tried to bluff his way out of it, 'You know, the one about stairs, Marcel told-'
He didn't get chance to finish, as Marc whirled round to Marcel and snapped, 'You told him? You fucking told him? That was the one thing we had that he didn't know about and you had to share that with him, too?'
Tommy tried to explain that, actually, they had a lot of things that he didn't know about, and, even-more-actually, one of the things he didn't know about was what the hell Marc's problem was… but it was too late. Marc had gone.
Later that evening, Tommy sought out Juan Carlos, determined to give him a piece of his mind. He was in the hotel bar with a bottle of Brunello, and gestured to Tommy to join him. Tommy drained his glass in one go, then snapped,
'You did that on purpose, you asshole.'
'Did what?' Juan Carlos smiled serenely. 'Shared a very good wine with you? Indeed I did, and you were so uncouth as to suck it down like it was lemonade. I'm not sure I'll be pouring you another glass.'
'You know what I mean. The spreadsheet thing. You told me Marcel had told you about it, I trusted you!'
'Tommy, I did no such thing. Cast your mind back: at no point did I actually articulate that Marcel had told me, that's wholly your own inference. There's a big difference.'
'Shut up with your semantics, you bastard.' Tommy had to concede Juan Carlos was right. He hadn't named Marcel. 'You told me because you knew exactly what I'd do, and how Marc would react.'
Juan Carlos just smiled, and made a disparaging comment about people who resorted to insults when their vocabulary failed them.
Tommy sulked in silence for a moment, then his curiosity got the better of him. 'So, who did tell you, then?'
'Who do you think? Feliciano, of course. I have to say, I am impressed with how well it went-who'd have thought little Marc would have so much possessive anger in him?' Juan Carlos was at his most patronising, and Tommy sat on the urge to punch him.
'You do know I'll get you back, don't you? You're not the only one who can play dirty.'
'Make sure you let me know when you do it, I'd hate to miss it.'
When Nico won the Rio title that Sunday, Juan Carlos traced two figures in the air:
Tommy 1, Juan Carlos 2.
v
To Tommy's annoyance, Indian Wells and Miami were a total write-off. For the umpteenth time Tommy bemoaned this fact to David as they packed up for Monte Carlo.
'Fucking Feliciano, why did he have to be a stay-at-home playboy, he could have told Marc he'd been stirring, and I might have had another trophy by now!'
'I know, tio.' To David's credit, he neither rolled his eyes nor told Tommy to shut up, but listened patiently to his complaining, 'But when most people retire they stay at home and spend their money-Feli's just doing it more ostentatiously. He always said he was most looking forward to not having to fly long-haul anymore.'
'But in the meantime I've had to deal with Marcel and Marc squabbling like kids and Juan Carlos being all supercilious.'
'It's a steep learning curve, but I think you're handling it really well.' David took Tommy's hand, thumb rubbing small circles on the inside of his wrist, and Tommy couldn't help smiling.
'You're so biased it's ridiculous, I'm not handling it at all well. But Juan Carlos hasn't exactly got it easy; with Nico's crush coming and going, he's not got a trophy, either. In fact, he should be wary, ' Tommy muttered belligerently as David pulled him into a hug, 'As soon as we get to Europe I'll sort him out…'
When Tommy finally got to explain his predicament to Feli it was greeted with a derisive laugh.
'And you think I'm going to let Marc yell at me? Why the hell should I?!'
'Look, because you can't keep your big mouth shut Marc thinks Marcel told me about this spreadsheet they have, and now he's pissed off with both of us. And a pissed off Marc is shit to work with. I need you to explain to him that it was you who found it, and you who blabbed to the whole world about it.'
'And what's in it for me if I do?'
'Nothing. But you should know that if you don't you may be finding super-powerful fake tan in your moisturiser and depilatory cream in your conditioner. Or your shower gel. Just think on that.'
Feli's shudder was eloquent, but he reluctantly agreed. 'But it's not my fault Marcel left his laptop open, what was I supposed to do? Not go snooping round in it?!'
'Uh, yes,' Tommy scoffed, 'That would be what most normal people would have done. Maybe you could view this as a lesson in appropriate behaviour.'
'Don't hold your breath,' Feli grinned. 'When has my behaviour ever been appropriate?'
Feli's vanity must have got the better of his indolence: when Marc turned up to practice the next day, he looked shamefaced and uncomfortable, but his apology was sincere.
'Tommy, I'm sorry. I've been a dick, and I'm sorry.' He held Marcel's hand tightly as he spoke, who smiled encouragingly at him as he continued, 'I-I'll probably always find this a bit weird, but I promise to try not to jump to conclusions, and-and to try not to be a twat. It's not fair on Marcel.'
'It's OK,' Tommy slapped Marc on the shoulder reassuringly as he moved to unpack his bag, 'I'd probably be the same if David started working with…well, anyone who wasn't Javier, to be honest. I reckon you owe Marcel more of an apology than me, though-' Tommy stopped, rolling his eyes as Marcel started shuffling his feet. A blush was rising inexorably from the collar of his shirt.
'Oh, yeah,' Marc grinned. 'Don't worry about that, I, uh, spent all night apologising to him, didn't I, Marcel?'
Marcel nodded eagerly, and Tommy held up a hand to stop him before he started to give any more detail.
'All right, enough. Let's make a start.'
Their truce may have been unexpected, but it was effective. Marc relaxed and became more receptive, and Tommy made a point of deferring to his judgement and seeking his opinion more often. As a result of this new level of collaboration, they breezed their way into the final.
When they lifted the trophy on Sunday, Tommy's pride and relief were tempered by an awareness that Nico had made the semi-final. His crush on Juan Carlos continued to dwindle, and Juan Carlos did not miss the opportunity to remind Tommy of this.
'Enjoy it while it lasts, Robredo. Marc'll fall out with you again soon enough, and I'm about to start raking in titles.'
'We'll see,' Tommy smiled knowingly. He hadn't forgotten Juan Carlos' attempt at sabotage.
It was time to start getting his own back.
Tommy 2, Juan Carlos 2.
vi
On the flight to Barcelona Tommy started putting his plan into action.
are you free tonight? meet me in Bar Mut at 8:30?
'Oh yeah?' David raised an eyebrow at Tommy's text, snatching at his phone when he received a response ('yes!! cant wait!! but youre paying :)') 'Cheating on me before we've even taken off?'
Tommy poked his tongue out at David, and hissed at him to keep his voice down. 'I don't want Juan Carlos to hear!'
David nodded solemnly and put his finger to his lips. 'My lips are sealed, my lord,' he whispered. Tommy elbowed him in the ribs and settled down to nap on his shoulder.
The bar was busy when Tommy arrived, but he needn't have worried: Gerard had clearly been looking out for him, for he shot to his feet waving both hands above his head as soon as Tommy walked through the door.
Tommy let Gerard rattle on about what he'd been up to-it would be ungracious to barge right in with his request-but eventually Tommy grew tired of listening to his tales and got to the point.
'Gerard, I need you to do something for me this week.'
'Oh dear, David getting too old, is he? I can do anything you want me to,' Gerard's wink was more cheeky than lascivious, and Tommy shook his head wearily.
'Shut up, you idiot. No, I need you to exercise your charms on Nico. Distract him… in whatever way you see fit, I can't have him winning a title or Juan Carlos will be unbearable.'
A slow smile spread across Gerard's face as realisation dawned.
'You mean… wear him out? Hell I can do that, I'm amazing in bed. In fact I've always fancied trying it on with him-I mean, I have to be better at sex than Marcel, right, and this way I can prove it for definite. I'll have him doing it so much he won't be able to think straight, never mind play tennis.'
'Too much information, thank you. If you can, I'll do what I can to make it worth your while-no, not like that,' he added hurriedly as Gerard's face took on an inquisitive expression, 'I'll put a word in for you with a couple of tournament directors, let you travel with us, that sort of thing.'
So it was that Gerard became Nico's hitting partner. He flirted with the outright suggestiveness of the young and the over-confident, but to Tommy's delight it worked like a dream. Juan Carlos' sarcasm and withering put-downs were lost on Gerard, who was too young to be intimidated, and he and Nico became increasingly blatant as the days progressed.
'Oh look, they've finally shown up,' Tommy smirked as Nico and Gerard staggered onto court three-quarters of an hour late for practice. They seemed oblivious to Juan Carlos' thunderous expression and stood whispering to each other as soon as they'd dropped their bags.
'Ahhh, young love,' Marc cooed. 'I wonder what they're whispering about.'
'What they're going to do the second they get off court, by the looks of things,' Tommy responded drily, as Nico and Gerard finally separated. When Gerard's hand lingered on Nico's crotch he added, 'That's if they make it that far and don't start screwing right here.'
Marcel protested, 'Shut up, you two, that's my brother!'
'Sorry, Marcel,' they both chorused, and made sure they continued their speculation out of earshot.
Tommy was grateful that Nico was distracted, because he had distractions of his own to deal with. As the final grew closer, and Marcel and Marc kept winning, the nerves began to show. The practice before their semi-final saw not a single ball being hit, as it became a counselling session for Marcel's growing panic.
'But we've fucked it up two years on the trot, what if we do it again?'
'Worse than that,' Marc muttered darkly, 'What if it's David and Fernando again, and we lose it to them?'
'Oh God, don't!' Marcel's eyes grew huge in horror, and he dropped the ball he'd been fiddling with. He scrabbled round in the dirt, unable to pick it up, and turned to Tommy, 'See? I can't even pick up a ball, this is going to be a disaster! Can we just pull out now, maybe? At least that way we won't be humiliated.'
'Listen to me, the pair of you,' Tommy was firm. 'You are not going to pull out, and you are not going to fuck up. You can do it. I know you can do it, you know you can do it. But you need to start acting like you can do it or… you won't do it.'
'Oh, bravo, Martin Luther King.' Juan Carlos smiled sardonically as he sauntered over and caught the end of Tommy's pep talk. 'With you to inspire them, who knows what dizzy heights they might reach!'
'Higher than yours Juanca. At least mine are still playing: yours is probably getting felt up in the bushes somewhere, these youngsters are insatiable. Fancy Nico getting a toyboy!' Tommy exuded innocence; Juan Carlos was clearly not fooled.
'You think you're so smart, don't you? But I'm not worried: kids also get bored easily, I'm sure it won't last long.' The twitch in his right eye gave the lie to his statement, however.
'Oh, I don't know,' Marcel piped up, 'Gerard was telling me last night that he really likes Nico! He said it was just a bit of fun to start with but, actually, Nico's sweet and funny and they like a lot of the same things. He said he could see this going further-he might even go to Madrid with him next week.'
Juan Carlos' expression was priceless.
Tommy didn't want to brag about his coaching, but when the chair umpire called 'Game, set match, Granollers-Lopez; 6-3 6-2' on Sunday, he couldn't help thinking at least a little bit of it was down to him. And it felt fantastic.
Not quite as fantastic, however, as it apparently felt to his players, whose victory hug was in danger of becoming something considerably more (and involving considerably less clothing, looking at what Marc's hand was doing). It was only when Tommy hurried onto the court and physically separated them that they even remembered that David and Fernando were still waiting at the net for them.
'Best tournament ever,' Marcel declared that night, still unable to put the trophy down.
As David had won singles as well, Tommy couldn't help but agree.
Tommy 3, Juan Carlos 2.
vii
The plus side of collective early exits from Wimbledon was that the Ferrero-Robredo coaching circus rolled into Båstad almost a full week early, allowing the players plenty of time to transition back to clay. Or, at least, so Tommy reminded Juan Carlos every time he complained about it. And he complained frequently.
The minus side, Juan Carlos reminded Tommy with even greater frequency and a lot more sarcasm, was that they had an extra Granollers in tow. True to his word, Tommy had persuaded the tournament director to offer Gerard a qualifying wild card, and he had become a permanent fixture at Nico's practices. To Tommy's endless amusement, his plan was working exceptionally well indeed: Nico was distracted and preoccupied, wholly focussed on his new obsession; Gerard was cocky and insouciant, blithely disregarding Juan Carlos completely, and Juan Carlos himself was practically sparking with frustration. It was glorious.
It came to an end, though, when Gerard got knocked out in the second round of qualifying. At breakfast the next day he turned an excessively woebegone face around the table.
'Who's going to take me to the airport? You wouldn't make me go on my own, would you?'
Juan Carlos immediately clapped his hand over Nico's mouth. 'I'm sorry, but Nico's going to be far too busy re-learning how to play tennis, you'll have to find somebody else.'
'I'll do it,' Marc volunteered. 'Marcel has a Prince promo-thing with David this morning, but I'm free.'
After lengthy and sentimental farewells, in which Nico bemoaned Gerard having to leave, Gerard stroked his cheek and told him, 'Win the trophy for me', and everyone else struggled to hold onto their breakfast, they were gone.
'Good grief,' Juan Carlos muttered disparagingly to Tommy, 'And I thought your two were deplorably cloying.'
When Marc returned, Tommy and Marcel were grabbing a quick lunch between practices.
'You'll never guess what Gerard told me,' he began conversationally, helping himself to a cup of Marcel's tea. 'It involves you,' he pointed at Tommy, 'and you,' he pointed to Marcel, 'and-presumably-a bed and not very many clothes, although, thankfully, he was a little sketchy on the precise details.
'Anyone want to shed any more light on it?' he asked, when Tommy and Marcel just stared at each other. Tommy felt his heart sink and, judging from Marcel's panicked expression, his was doing the same thing.
'Marc, it isn't-it isn't what you think; we didn't-Gerard will've exaggerated anyway, you know what he's like!' Marcel's agitation was clear; Tommy bit at a loose fingernail.
'Firstly, you don't know what I'm thinking; secondly, I don't think there was any exaggeration; thirdly, let me ask you outright: have you slept with Tommy?'
With a helpless look at Tommy, Marcel nodded. 'Yes. Yes, I have, but it wasn't-we didn't-' he reached out to Marc, who snatched his hand away.
'Right. I wonder when you were planning on actually telling me that?' Marc stood up abruptly and walked away. Marcel's chair scraped as he ran after him, and Tommy was left cursing Juan Carlos.
'Fucking Juan Carlos, who does he think he is?!' Tommy paced their hotel room, repeating himself for the fifth time as David tried to calm him down.
'Are you sure he's behind it? It really doesn't seem like the sort of thing he'd do.'
'Of course he's behind it! He knows I used Gerard to get at Nico, so he's used Gerard to drop me in the shit and get at me, without thinking that he's fucking with other people. Marcel and Marc are expendable as long as he proves his point, and that stinks.'
'You should talk to him, tete. At least find out for sure.' David succeeded in catching Tommy's hand and pulled him down onto the bed beside him, rubbing his back.
'I can't! I'll be too busy sorting out the mess he's caused with Marc.'
'Hey,' David's tone was soft, and Tommy let himself be pulled down into a hug. 'You want me to talk to Marc?'
'You? What will you say? 'Sorry, I know Tommy slept with your boyfriend, but can you play nice as it's fucking up his bet with Juan Carlos?''
David chuckled, 'No, stupid. I mean explain to him why you did it. That I'd been… fucking around with Feli, and you were hurt and angry; that Marcel was there with his crush burning so brightly, making it so easy; that you thought it would make you feel better, but it only made things worse. That you were the one who was cheated on, not him.'
Tommy burrowed deeper into David's arms and murmured gratefully against his chest, 'Ferru, I love you for offering, but you can't fight my battles for me. It's up to me to sort it out.'
'Well, can you do it soon, please? I'm fed up with you stomping round with a face like thunder.'
'I…can go now, if you like?' Tommy paused his unbuttoning of David's shirt.
'Uh, no. Later will do just fine.'
When Tommy went to apologise and clear the air at practice the next morning, he found that he didn't need to.
'Tommy, it's OK.' Marc's smile was sheepish. 'Marcel and I talked it all through last night, he told me everything. I didn't know about David, I'm sorry. I always suspected you'd been with Marcel, I knew there was more between you than you were letting on, I just… didn't know when it'd happened. And now I do know, and I know it was before Marcel and I got together, and it's stupid, but it doesn't seem quite so bad somehow. Just… don't ever do it again, yeah?' he laughed weakly.
'I won't.' Tommy was sincere in his promise. 'You're perfect for him, even a fool could see that. Besides, have you and David after me? I'm not that stupid.'
This time, Marc's laugh was genuine and Tommy felt relief flood through him. Now he could concentrate on showing Juan Carlos exactly how pissed off he was.
But, to Tommy's disgruntlement, Juan Carlos barely even noticed the cold shoulder he was being given. And he certainly didn't seem remotely perturbed by the fact that his plan had backfired so spectacularly.
…except, Tommy discovered, it sort of hadn't. Because while Tommy was fuming about what Juan Carlos had done he wasn't doing a whole lot of coaching, so Marcel and Marc lost in the quarter-final. Meanwhile, the extensive training carried Nico right to the final: where he met a David who was so preoccupied by the fight between Tommy and Juan Carlos-his partner and his best friend-that Nico was finally able to overcome the head to head and beat him.
Tommy 3, Juan Carlos 3.
viii
The atmosphere didn't improve in Hamburg. In fact, Tommy seethed, not once did Juan Carlos show the slightest sign of either remorse or-and this was even worse-curiosity as to why Tommy was being so cold and snippy with him.
'He hasn't even asked me why I'm mad!' he exclaimed to David, as he scraped his spoon around an empty bowl. 'In fact, I don't think he's even noticed that I'm mad!'
'Oh, he's noticed,' David said wryly, 'but you know what he's like, there's no way he'll give you the satisfaction of asking you what's the matter. He'll just bide his time until you get so mad you let rip at him, which if I know you,' he paused to look at his watch, 'will be in about an hour and a half.'
'Ugh, why are you so sensible?' Tommy grumbled half-heartedly. 'And why isn't there any ice cream left?'
'You ate the rest of it last night, and we're not getting any more as it's not fair on me. Some of us are still in this tournament.'
Tommy wriggled closer to David and nuzzled his neck. 'Why couldn't you have lost? I don't want to leave you behind.'
'It's only a few days, you can manage without me for that long. You know what you should do, though? A road trip.' At Tommy's look of confusion he continued, 'Hire a couple of cars and drive to Gstaad. Nico's a horrible back seat driver, he'll drive Juanca bonkers….'
David's wink was wicked, and Tommy kissed him triumphantly. 'You are a genius, Ferru. A total genius! I'll get on that first thing in the morning.'
Twenty-four hours later and Tommy was less convinced of the degree of David's genius. While he could see, in the car in front of him, Nico chattering away to Juan Carlos, gesticulating and generally making a persistent nuisance of himself, it was what he could see in the rear-view mirror that was more of a problem.
'Do you have to?'
The whispered giggles from the back seat stopped at Tommy's question; Marc's expression was knowing as he looked directly in the mirror, then swirled his tongue around the shell of Marcel's ear.
'Yeah, I do,' he said smugly. 'He likes it, see?'
Marcel squirmed and bit his lip as Marc's hand moved steadily under the blanket thrown carelessly over their laps.
'Sorry, Tommy!' Marcel panted, somewhat short of breath, 'He always tries it on when we travel by car-I tried to stop him, but he said he gets bored, and then he-' his words dissolved into a low moan as Marc's hand started to move more deliberately. Tommy gritted his teeth and looked away.
'Can't you just read a book if you're bored?' he snapped.
Marc grinned unrepentantly; the way Marcel's head rolled back showed the answer was 'no'.
When Juan Carlos turned into a service station just outside Frankfurt, Tommy heaved a sigh of relief.
Queueing for coffee, Tommy forgot he wasn't talking to Juan Carlos.
'They're driving me mad, they're practically screwing in the back seat, are we nearly there yet?'
'You're being driven mad? You don't have Fernando Alonso sitting next to you, criticising your driving and making helpful suggestions every thirty seconds. Which, I suspect,' Juan Carlos' eyes narrowed slightly, 'was your underlying reasoning for your suggestion that we drive. Hoist by your own petard, Robredo?'
'I dunno, you pompous ass-I've got no idea what you just said.'
Juan Carlos sighed eloquently. 'How David tolerates an illiterate like you I'll never know. It's Shakespeare. From Hamlet. In layman's terms: did your cunning plan backfire in your own face?'
Tommy gave a slight nod. 'Yeah, sort of,' he admitted grudgingly. 'Want to swap with me for the rest of the journey?'
'I have a better idea. How about you swap with Nico? He gets to deal with the fondling, they get to listen to F1 commentary the rest of the journey… and you get to tell me what's behind the bristling silence with which you've been presenting me.' Juan Carlos gazed at Tommy, his expression inscrutable, and Tommy found himself nodding again.
Twenty minutes after they set back off, and Tommy could take Juan Carlos' expectant silence no longer.
'I can't believe you told Marc about Marcel and me,' he muttered. 'I… I didn't think you'd stoop that low, it's kind of tough to take.'
'I beg your pardon?' Juan Carlos' astonishment was genuine.
Haltingly, Tommy explained. When he realised it wasn't going well he tried to defend himself. 'I'd told you, last year, in Valencia. Who else would have put Gerard up to it?'
'Well now, let's see,' Juan Carlos' voice dripped with sarcasm. 'How could Marcel's brother possibly have found out that you slept with Marcel? Because, of course, Marcel would never have bragged about it to him himself. My goodness, that is a conundrum!'
'Oh. Oh, yeah. I… never thought of that. I'm sorry.'
Luckily, Juan Carlos accepted Tommy's apology, and was only mildly sanctimonious about how Tommy should never have jumped to conclusions. The lecture he gave on how he would never have done such a thing, and how insulted he was that Tommy should think he would was delivered in tones of only slight reproach rather than outright scorn. In return, Tommy dutifully accepted his chiding, and made suitably repentant noises at the right moments. As a result of this, harmony was fully restored; they both happily agreed to concentrate their efforts on their own campaigns in future, rather than trying to derail each other's.
On Sunday evening, though, when Marcel and his trophy were leading the conga line at the post-final party, Juan Carlos was less sanguine about not meddling.
'How was I supposed to know he'd go on and win?' he grumbled, slapping at the hands that were trying to get him to join in as the conga line passed a little too close. 'I should have put that laxative in his teabags, after all.'
'You just can't take me being better than you, can you?' Tommy crowed.
Tommy 4, Juan Carlos 3.
ix (Epilogue)
There were no more titles for either Tommy or Juan Carlos that year, but as the Tour began to prepare for the final tournament of the season there was another retirement party. Unlike Tommy, David went out with a bang; winning his last title in his last match in his own tournament in Valencia. Unfortunately, Juan Carlos had been engrossed with tournament-organising, and Tommy had been so caught up in supporting David through his final matches that both their coaching duties were sorely neglected. Despite the bitching he got from Marc as he cancelled yet another practice session to cheer David on, Tommy was somewhat gratified to notice how rudderless they had been this week without his guidance. (Thankfully, they'd qualified for the O2 in Shanghai, or his stress levels really would have been off the scale.)
The party was still in full swing when Tommy sneaked away. He was getting more emotional over David's retirement than he had over his own, which was daft, so he slipped out from David's arm, and headed to the veranda. When he got there, Juan Carlos was already there, stretched out on one chair with his feet crossed on another, a bottle of the same brandy on the table.
'I thought you'd forgotten me in all your celebratory WAG-ing,' he teased. 'So, how has your first year of coaching been?'
Tommy sat down beside him and accepted the proffered glass. 'Eventful,' he sighed.
'Not the disaster you were anticipating, though?' Juan Carlos smiled.
'Well, no,' Tommy admitted. 'Marcel's ranking didn't nose-dive, and there were a respectable number of finals. Which,' he added candidly, 'is way more than it looked like being at the start of the year.'
They reflected on how the year had gone for them both: the ups (Nico finally beating David, Marcel and Marc finally winning Barcelona), the downs (getting knocked out first round in all grass tournaments, the times when it looked as though they'd never win anything), and the downright ridiculous (the Monte Carlo players party, the fancy-dress tour of Versailles). They grew sentimental as they agreed that they knew their charges a lot better now; there was even use of the word 'bonding' in a non-ironic manner and talk of what they had learned from each other (Juan Carlos had developed his people skills through watching Tommy, and Tommy's vocabulary of multi-syllabled words had increased exponentially). Then talk turned to the thing that really mattered as Juan Carlos asked bluntly,
'When are you taking me to Ricard Camarena?'
Tommy gaped at him in bewilderment. 'What? You're taking me, I won more titles than you!'
'Ahh,' a slight, condescending smile flickered across Juan Carlos' face. 'Didn't I say? We were only counting singles titles.'
There was a stream of spluttered profanity from Tommy, over which Juan Carlos continued, 'Because, of course, it would be unfair to count doubles, as your player only wins half a title. This means I have three titles and you have one-or, if I am inclined to be generous and count the doubles titles as half each-two and a half. Ergo, I win. Which brings me back to my original question: when are you taking me to Ricard Camarena?'
Tommy's attempts at strangulation were interrupted by the arrival of Marat, shepherding a thoroughly partied-out David with him.
'Budge up,' he ordered, knocking Juan Carlos' feet from the chair, 'this one needs to sit down. I caught him declaring undying love to anything and everything that would stand still long enough-including the giant pot plant you put in Reception.' He helped David into the newly-vacated chair and pulled another over for himself.
As soon as Tommy had reassured himself that David was OK ('I'm fiiiiiiiine, s'my party, I'm having fun-mmmm, you smell nice,') he turned to Marat and demanded,
'Tell Juan Carlos he's being a dick; he's trying to cheat me out of dinner!'
'Juan Carlos, you're being a dick,' Marat said obligingly, but then spoiled the effect by adding, 'I love it when you're a dick,' and kissing Juan Carlos comprehensively.
'Juanca, are you being a twat to my Tommy?' David sat up belligerently as he caught up with the conversation, and Tommy shushed him.
'It's OK, Ferru, he's just being Juan Carlos. He changed the terms of our bet so he won. But only because he couldn't win legitimately,' he added sulkily.
Marat fluttered his eyelashes at Juan Carlos and simpered, 'That's my mosquito, Macchiavellian to the core. It's only cheating if other people do it, right?'
'Beak out, Hippo,' Juan Carlos instructed. 'How many times: it's not cheating, it's simple logic. Counting different kinds of wins would be like…' he paused to think and Tommy interjected with an analogy that would make it meaningful to Marat.
'…like comparing pasta to gateaux in a food tasting contest.'
'Exactly!' Juan Carlos sat back, beaming smugly. 'So I win!'
'Doesn't matter if you cheat or not,' David announced. 'I won more titles than both of you. And I'll beat you both next year. For I,' he paused for emphasis, wobbling precariously as he waved his hand in their faces, 'I am coaching too!
'Gentlemen,' he smiled the confident smile of the completely drunk, 'you are looking at Albert's new coach!'
There was a shocked silence after this declaration, eventually broken by Juan Carlos' sardonic tones,
'Monty? Why, Ferru, you will trounce us all!'
'Shut up, Juan Carlos, stop being a dick. Not Albert Montañes, Albert Ramos. And I will win next year, because he is good and I am left-handed and-no, that’s the wrong way round, I…' he broke off, frowning at his hand in concentration.
Once the others had finished teasing David, and the boundaries had been set for next year's contest (Tommy ensuring, this time, that there were no loopholes within which Juan Carlos could hide), Juan Carlos made an announcement of his own.
'Seeing as our newly retired friend here is so overflowing with titles this year, I propose he be the one to pay for dinner. For all four of us.'
This was something with which Tommy could agree, and Marat was despatched to hail a cab.
As they tumbled into the back Tommy took advantage of the crush to snuggle against David.
No matter what Juan Carlos said, he knew he'd won.
FIN
Notes:
~Inspired by comments made by Tommy after Casablanca that he was planning for RG and would then think about what he wanted to do from there, and by the fact that Juan Carlos is travelling with Nico as a part-time coach this year.
~ Xavi and Lukas are David's nephews, the sons of his brother Javier.
~ Ricard Camarena is real, as is Bar Mut (although the official website for it is horrifically pretentious), and Juan Carlos has a house in Guarajuba in Brazil.
~Naturally, all results products of my imagination; while I tried to be realistic about them I couldn't resist being selfish for Barcelona.
~With many thanks to caaare for beta-reading and generally talking me down when I got too whiny about this ♥
Characters (Pairings): Tommy Robredo, Juan Carlos Ferrero (David Ferrer/Tommy Robredo, Juan Carlos Ferrero/Marat Safin, Marcel Granollers/Marc López)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Created in a world of pure imagination: no money changed hands, no actuality implied, no offence intended.
A/N: Set in 2014. Tommy and Juan Carlos may have stopped playing, but they definitely haven't stopped competing ~9K
i (Prologue)
The party was still in full swing when Tommy whispered to David that he needed some fresh air and slipped away. All in all it had been an overwhelming day and-although he didn't want to be ungrateful, although he felt an obligation to stay and interact with everyone who wanted to shake his hand and wish him well-he needed some space to himself.
He could still hear the party going on in the Agora behind him as he sat at a table on the veranda. The brandy he was drinking really was exceptionally good; he cradled the glass in his hands to keep it warm. He supposed Juan Carlos must have organised that, there was no way David knew a decent brandy from a bottle of balsamic.
'I could drink this every night, if I wanted to. In fact, I could drink a whole bottle.' The words came out louder than he'd intended, making him jump. Although not as much as he jumped when he heard a voice behind him.
'You could, but you could never afford it.'
Juan Carlos emerged from the shadows and sat down next to Tommy, a glass in one hand and a three-quarter-full bottle in the other.
'You look punch-drunk, is it getting to you? It got to me last year, too. They mean well, but after the thirty-fifth time of hearing the same banal comments the veneer of politeness threatens to shatter. Has it sunk in yet?'
'That I'm retired? That I'm no longer a tennis player? Not really.' Tommy let Juan Carlos refill his glass and leant back in his chair. 'It feels weird, actually. Part of me thinks I should have done it at Barcelona, but I wasn't sure I wanted to then. Sorry I did it here, though; you and David will get a reputation for killing careers.' He was drunk enough to laugh at his own feeble joke, and he was grateful when Juan Carlos played along.
'I should talk to him about moving the tournament back to the spring, and then everyone would have to find somewhere else to announce their retirements,' he deadpanned.
'I'm just glad I got to choose when to do it.' Tommy suddenly became solemn. 'For a while there I honestly thought I'd never play again.'
He swatted at Juan Carlos, who was shaking his head and muttering, 'Such a drama queen,' and continued,
'No, seriously. I'm grateful I got to make the decision myself; I thought my body would end up making it for me. But I came back, and I stopped on my own terms. And I'm ready for it now. I can eat what I like, go skiing without Salva having a conniption that I might break a leg, stay up all night if I want-anything!'
They gossiped drunkenly for a while about all the things Tommy could do now that the world was his oyster. Between them, they compiled quite a bucket list-including never getting up before midday, eating pizza every day for a month, pony trekking across the Andes, bungee jumping over the Grand Canyon and white-water rafting in Alaska.
'But, enough about me!' Tommy gave a guilty start as he realised how long he'd been talking about himself. 'What about you? How are you enjoying coaching?'
'It's marvellous. I get to stay with the tour, but don't get any of the pressures or press intrusions. I'm not quite ready to go to Moscow and be a political wife; this way I get the air miles and the scenery, and someone else pays all my expenses. I'm going to be doing it full-time next year.'
'Plus-and I feel that this is the most important plus-' Tommy's voice brimmed with amusement, 'you get to be a bossy bastard to someone who can't tell you to fuck off.'
'Excuse you,' Juan Carlos frowned imperiously, but his slight swaying took the edge off his glare. 'I'll have you know that Nico's no picnic!'
There was a brief pause, then Tommy blurted, 'Actually, I'm going to be coaching next year, too.' In response to Juan Carlos' raised eyebrow he continued, 'I'm going to coach Marcel. We're just waiting for him to sort things out with Fernando before we make it official-what? What's so funny?'
It was a while before the laughter that had overtaken Juan Carlos allowed him to straighten up and answer. 'And you think Nico's bad? Good Lord you're going to have your hands full.'
'What? Oh, no, he's not like that any more! It was only a crush, he's moved on now-in fact,' he added drily, 'I think you're the one with the problem, I've seen the way Nico looks at you.'
'I didn't mean Marcel. I meant Marc. You know how jealous he is.'
'Oh. Right. That.' Tommy picked up the bottle but it was empty. 'But they sorted that out, didn't they? I don't think Marc'll have an issue with me. Well. Provided he doesn't find out that we-' Tommy broke off suddenly, but it was too late.
'Tommy? Find out that you what, exactly? What have-dear God, you haven't slept with Marcel, have you?'
'Juanca, shut UP!' Tommy hissed. 'It was ages ago, it was just a-a thing, after David and Feli-well, you know. It didn't mean anything!'
'Ah, I see… but I don't know that Marc would, so let's hope he never finds out, hmm? I tell you what, though,' he rubbed his chin contemplatively, 'if we're both coaching, we should have a contest: who can get their charge to the most titles? We'll count up right here next year, and when you lose you can buy me dinner at Ricard Camarena.'
Tommy snorted, grateful for the change in subject. 'Don't sound so sure of yourself, old man. It's about time I levelled our head-to-head. You're on.'
With only minimal slurring, they agreed their terms. Only tournaments they played together would count, and they would all travel as a team so no-one had an advantage: if one made a final they would all stay, so there was no unfair acclimatisation time.
They clinked their glasses and drained them, and then-somewhat unsteadily-steered each other back inside.
'Before David has kittens,' Juan Carlos slurred conspiratorially in Tommy's ear.
Tommy 0, Juan Carlos 0.
ii
Tommy was surprised at how nervous he was at the start of the season. What if it all went wrong? What if he turned out to be diabolically awful at coaching, and Marcel's ranking plummeted as a result?
'You worry too much, tete,' David soothed as they unpacked in their hotel room. 'You'll be fine. Just think how well you did when you practiced on Xavi and Lukas last month, way better than Javier had done. You're patient, and sympathetic… and stubborn. And, most importantly, you're here with me.'
David was right. In fact, he was the main reason Tommy had decided on coaching. He didn't feel right being a kept man, nor could he bear the thought of working at home while David was God-knows-where in the world. He couldn't be apart from him for that long, and coaching was the best compromise.
The trouble was, it didn't exactly start brilliantly.
Juan Carlos was right: Marc was being difficult. The first few days Tommy was prepared to put it down to jet lag, but by the third day he had to acknowledge that there was more to Marc's attitude than a disrupted body clock. He disregarded Tommy completely, often giving Marcel diametrically opposing instructions-as if it were some kind of contest. Marcel hung on to Tommy's every suggestion, oblivious to how awkward Marc was being and as eager to please as ever, but Marc was certainly noticing Marcel's behaviour. In fact, he watched him like a hawk with an expression that grew increasingly thunderous. Needless to say, with Marc's concentration more on one-upmanship over Tommy than on his game, their run in Brisbane was brief.
By the time they headed to Auckland, even Marcel couldn't ignore Marc's behaviour any longer. When Marc asked Salva if he'd organised a car to the airport no more than three seconds after Tommy had just finished telling them how the car he'd arranged was on its way, Marcel frowned at Marc and led him across the hotel lobby 'to talk'.
The problem was, he didn't go far enough. Tommy overheard every word.
'Marc, why are you being like this?'
'Being like what?'
'You know what. You act like Tommy's not there: you ignore him, you tell me to do other stuff. Why are you doing that?'
'Why do you think I'm doing that? It's Tommy, isn't it? It's always fucking Tommy.' The bitterness in Marc's voice was unmistakeable.
'Wait, you're not still jealous, are you? But I thought we'd sorted all that out!' Marcel sounded utterly confused, and Marc laughed scornfully.
'Jealous? Of course I'm not! I'm just sick of how stupid you get around him. 'Yes, Tommy! Right away, Tommy! Would you like to share our bed, Tommy?' He might as fucking well, he does everything else with us.'
'But he's my coach, Marc! Can't you at least try?'
Marc muttered something inaudible, and Tommy began to regret straining quite so hard to overhear them. He was genuinely surprised that Marc was still jealous; he rubbed his neck in deep thought as Juan Carlos sat down on the sofa beside him. The speculative expression on his face made it clear that he, too, had heard every word.
'Trouble in paradise?' he asked solicitously. Tommy just glared at him.
'It's fine,' he snapped. 'I'll sort it out.'
Tommy was unsurprised to see Nico and Juan Carlos on the adjacent practice court the next morning. He was surprised, however, to see quite how bad Nico's case of hero-worship had become. His backhand was all over the place, and he spent most of the session casting adoring, cow-eyed glances in Juan Carlos' direction. Tommy tried hard not to smirk … but he probably didn't try hard enough. His cheery wave at Juan Carlos was met with a withering stare as, once again, he snapped at Nico to pay attention and concentrate.
When Nico played his first match, Tommy went along to watch. Juan Carlos' eyes narrowed as Tommy slid into Nico's box during a first-set changeover.
'What?' Tommy asked innocently. Just come to support my coaching buddy!'
Juan Carlos snorted. 'You expect me to believe that? I smell sabotage.' There was a pregnant pause, in which Tommy could practically hear the wheels going round in Juan Carlos' brain.
'Oh, please,' Tommy gestured to the court, where Nico was so busy turning to check Juan Carlos' response to every shot that he didn't take time to notice where these shots were landing (most of them outside the lines). 'As if I'd stoop to sabotage. Anyway, I'm not even sure that's necessary.'
Juan Carlos swore under his breath as Nico double-faulted for the third consecutive time, and Tommy sighed with relief. Any fleeting thoughts of sabotage Juan Carlos may have been harbouring had just been overridden by more pressing concerns.
Tommy, too, preferred to direct his energies in a positive manner. In an attempt to prove to Marc that he respected his relationship and presented no threat, Tommy took advantage of the two-day gap in their scheduling and sent Marcel and Marc on a romantic island-hopping trip. Marc looked cynical when Tommy waved them off the next day, but it worked. When they came back they were almost sickeningly tactile and demonstrative, and this made them unbeatable. On Sunday afternoon they thrashed their opponents 6-1 6-1, and lifted the trophy.
As they posed for photos afterwards-the victors and their coaching teams-Marc made no attempt to hide his smug comment to Marcel.
'See? Anything you can do with him, you can do better with me.'
Tommy didn't care, he had 'won' his first title.
Tommy 1, Juan Carlos 0.
iii
The seatbelt light had barely gone off on their flight from Melbourne when Marc's grumbling began. He and Marcel were sat directly in front of Tommy; the fact that Marc didn't even lower his voice told Tommy that he was expected to hear.
'Why are we even going to South America? We never play South America: we do European indoor. Doesn't he even know you get travel sick? What was he thinking, making you fly all this way?'
Marcel's response was tinged with fond laughter. 'Tio, it's actually shorter to fly to Chile than it is to fly back to Europe! Anyway, I always used to play South America when I played with Tommy, so it's not that big a deal.'
This was the wrong thing to say.
'…because you used to play South America. When you played with Tommy,' Marc's tone was mocking and sarcastic. 'But now you play European indoor. With me. Unless you've forgotten.'
'I haven't forgotten, of course I haven't! But Tommy asked if I'd switch this year as David plays South America every year and he didn't want to spend a month apart, and this way we get to spend time on golden beaches where I can kiss your sulks away in the hot sun, rather than in grey, rainy Rotterdam.'
Marc muttered something about sweet-talking bullshitters, but at least he was smiling.
It didn't last, though. When they arrived in Chile Marc recommenced his one-sided power struggle. When Tommy set Marcel to work on his serve, Marc reminded him they needed to practice their net work. When Tommy had Marcel hitting volley after volley, Marc watched for a moment and then interrupted,
'Marcel, stand here, I'll hit to your backhand; Salva said you needed to strengthen that, remember?'
Tommy sighed, and was prepared to let it go when Marcel turned to Marc with a puzzled expression.
'But we did that this morning! For over an hour!'
Marc shot Marcel a dirty look, but added smoothly, 'Yeah, but you could probably do to keep on with it, don't you think?
When Marcel looked questioningly at Tommy he gave a resigned shrug and gestured to Marc. 'If that's what Salva said, you should probably do it.' He couldn't face making a scene.
The session ended when Marc deliberately ignored Tommy's comment that he'd booked the court for an extra half hour so they could stay longer, and started packing up his racquets. Marcel shrugged helplessly as Marc bustled him away, leaving Tommy to clear up what felt like three hundred loose balls.
Tommy wracked his brains for a way to prove to Marc he had nothing of which to be jealous. He tried inviting David to practice, and lavishing attention upon him to show Marc that he had no interest in Marcel, but that only attracted scorn. He tried mentioning David at every opportunity to remind Marc of how long he and David had been together ('you remember when we played DC in Logroño and David insisted we got our names on our shirts so he'd know which one of us to kiss when we won?'), but for some reason this only made Marc worse.
By Saturday he gave up, and gave them the rest of the afternoon off. It wasn't like practice was urgent; they'd been out of the tournament since Wednesday.
The players' lounge was empty, and Tommy was enjoying the peace and quiet (and an over-sized pastry with his coffee) when Juan Carlos sat down opposite him with a disapproving eyebrow and a knowing smile.
'Eating your feelings? If I were your coach, I'd have you running twenty laps for that.'
'Shut up, Juanca,' Tommy mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. 'Where the hell have you been?'
'Guarajuba,' Juan Carlos sighed happily. 'Marat got some time off and told me to meet him in our house there-so I gave myself a week's holiday and… well, we're making the most of it.' He stretched languidly, and Tommy rolled his eyes.
'That'll be why Nico made the final, then.'
'Nonsense! It's due to my fine coaching!'
'Juanca, how can it be? You haven't been here. When you're around he falls to pieces, his crush has got so out of hand,' Tommy explained patiently. 'We might have to cancel the bet: it hardly counts if you only win when you're not actually coaching him.'
Juan Carlos denied this strongly, but Tommy was gratified to be proved right the next day. Nico spent the first set labouring under such an attack of nerves that he barely managed to win two games. It was only when Juan Carlos slid so far down in the box that he couldn't be seen that Nico managed to pull himself together.
Juan Carlos' smile when Nico (eventually) lifted the trophy was pensive. 'He has got it bad, hasn't he?'
Tommy nodded, and tried not to snigger.
Tommy 1, Juan Carlos 1.
iv
In Argentina, it soon became clear that neither coach would win a title that week. Nico was still mooning around like a lovesick teenager, and Marc was still… being Marc.
By the second round they'd all been knocked out. While Tommy and Juan Carlos went to organise transportation to Rio, they discussed their respective problems.
'I'm getting nothing out of him,' Juan Carlos complained. 'He's even worse than Marcel was with you.'
Valiantly, Tommy resisted the urge to say, 'I told you so,' and smiled sympathetically. 'You're going to have to talk to him. It's what I had to do with Marcel. It'll make things awkward for a few weeks, but it's the only way to sort it: if you ignore it, he'll just get worse.' Secretly, Tommy hoped it made things awkward for longer than a few weeks, but he had the sense not to articulate this.
'That's going to be a fun conversation,' Juan Carlos sighed. 'But what about you? Things still seem pretty tense with Marc.'
Tommy set his chin, 'It's fine, I'm dealing with it.'
'It sounds like it,' Juan Carlos grinned. 'But I think I know how you can get Marc onside.' At Tommy's questioning look he leaned forward and continued, 'A little bird-well, actually, a tall, scruffy, unkempt bird, but that's neither here nor there-told me about a certain spreadsheet Marcel and Marc keep, to do with stairs…'
The rest of the information was passed in a whisper, and Tommy frowned doubtfully. Was this a set-up? He looked closely at Juan Carlos and could see no sign of subterfuge, but he remained sceptical.
Despite Tommy's best efforts, he wasn't able to eavesdrop on the conversation Juan Carlos had with Nico. And, much to Tommy's disappointment, it seemed to work. For the first couple of days in Rio Nico was subdued and shamefaced but then, with a surprising resilience, he began to bounce back. Tommy watched his second round match: he was sharp and focussed and, rather annoyingly, not showing the slightest inclination of being pissed off with his coach.
Things in his own camp were going rather differently, and once again Tommy thought about what Juan Carlos had told him. If Marcel was sharing information like that Marc must be OK with it, he reasoned. It could help him persuade Marc that he was a considerate, understanding coach who was fully aware of their relationship and had no intention whatsoever of trying to muscle in on it.
And, right now, it couldn't exactly make things worse.
Except, of course, that it could.
On Thursday, after a particularly strenuous practice, Tommy carelessly suggested they spend the rest of the day updating their spreadsheet. 'There's a secluded set of stairs at the back of the hotel that would be perfect.'
Marcel blushed, turning huge, stunned eyes on Tommy, but Marc froze where he was putting his racquets back in his bag.
'What. The fuck. Are you talking about? How do you know about that?' His voice was clipped and cold, and Tommy silently cursed Juan Carlos to hell and back.
'Your spreadsheet,' Tommy tried to bluff his way out of it, 'You know, the one about stairs, Marcel told-'
He didn't get chance to finish, as Marc whirled round to Marcel and snapped, 'You told him? You fucking told him? That was the one thing we had that he didn't know about and you had to share that with him, too?'
Tommy tried to explain that, actually, they had a lot of things that he didn't know about, and, even-more-actually, one of the things he didn't know about was what the hell Marc's problem was… but it was too late. Marc had gone.
Later that evening, Tommy sought out Juan Carlos, determined to give him a piece of his mind. He was in the hotel bar with a bottle of Brunello, and gestured to Tommy to join him. Tommy drained his glass in one go, then snapped,
'You did that on purpose, you asshole.'
'Did what?' Juan Carlos smiled serenely. 'Shared a very good wine with you? Indeed I did, and you were so uncouth as to suck it down like it was lemonade. I'm not sure I'll be pouring you another glass.'
'You know what I mean. The spreadsheet thing. You told me Marcel had told you about it, I trusted you!'
'Tommy, I did no such thing. Cast your mind back: at no point did I actually articulate that Marcel had told me, that's wholly your own inference. There's a big difference.'
'Shut up with your semantics, you bastard.' Tommy had to concede Juan Carlos was right. He hadn't named Marcel. 'You told me because you knew exactly what I'd do, and how Marc would react.'
Juan Carlos just smiled, and made a disparaging comment about people who resorted to insults when their vocabulary failed them.
Tommy sulked in silence for a moment, then his curiosity got the better of him. 'So, who did tell you, then?'
'Who do you think? Feliciano, of course. I have to say, I am impressed with how well it went-who'd have thought little Marc would have so much possessive anger in him?' Juan Carlos was at his most patronising, and Tommy sat on the urge to punch him.
'You do know I'll get you back, don't you? You're not the only one who can play dirty.'
'Make sure you let me know when you do it, I'd hate to miss it.'
When Nico won the Rio title that Sunday, Juan Carlos traced two figures in the air:
Tommy 1, Juan Carlos 2.
v
To Tommy's annoyance, Indian Wells and Miami were a total write-off. For the umpteenth time Tommy bemoaned this fact to David as they packed up for Monte Carlo.
'Fucking Feliciano, why did he have to be a stay-at-home playboy, he could have told Marc he'd been stirring, and I might have had another trophy by now!'
'I know, tio.' To David's credit, he neither rolled his eyes nor told Tommy to shut up, but listened patiently to his complaining, 'But when most people retire they stay at home and spend their money-Feli's just doing it more ostentatiously. He always said he was most looking forward to not having to fly long-haul anymore.'
'But in the meantime I've had to deal with Marcel and Marc squabbling like kids and Juan Carlos being all supercilious.'
'It's a steep learning curve, but I think you're handling it really well.' David took Tommy's hand, thumb rubbing small circles on the inside of his wrist, and Tommy couldn't help smiling.
'You're so biased it's ridiculous, I'm not handling it at all well. But Juan Carlos hasn't exactly got it easy; with Nico's crush coming and going, he's not got a trophy, either. In fact, he should be wary, ' Tommy muttered belligerently as David pulled him into a hug, 'As soon as we get to Europe I'll sort him out…'
When Tommy finally got to explain his predicament to Feli it was greeted with a derisive laugh.
'And you think I'm going to let Marc yell at me? Why the hell should I?!'
'Look, because you can't keep your big mouth shut Marc thinks Marcel told me about this spreadsheet they have, and now he's pissed off with both of us. And a pissed off Marc is shit to work with. I need you to explain to him that it was you who found it, and you who blabbed to the whole world about it.'
'And what's in it for me if I do?'
'Nothing. But you should know that if you don't you may be finding super-powerful fake tan in your moisturiser and depilatory cream in your conditioner. Or your shower gel. Just think on that.'
Feli's shudder was eloquent, but he reluctantly agreed. 'But it's not my fault Marcel left his laptop open, what was I supposed to do? Not go snooping round in it?!'
'Uh, yes,' Tommy scoffed, 'That would be what most normal people would have done. Maybe you could view this as a lesson in appropriate behaviour.'
'Don't hold your breath,' Feli grinned. 'When has my behaviour ever been appropriate?'
Feli's vanity must have got the better of his indolence: when Marc turned up to practice the next day, he looked shamefaced and uncomfortable, but his apology was sincere.
'Tommy, I'm sorry. I've been a dick, and I'm sorry.' He held Marcel's hand tightly as he spoke, who smiled encouragingly at him as he continued, 'I-I'll probably always find this a bit weird, but I promise to try not to jump to conclusions, and-and to try not to be a twat. It's not fair on Marcel.'
'It's OK,' Tommy slapped Marc on the shoulder reassuringly as he moved to unpack his bag, 'I'd probably be the same if David started working with…well, anyone who wasn't Javier, to be honest. I reckon you owe Marcel more of an apology than me, though-' Tommy stopped, rolling his eyes as Marcel started shuffling his feet. A blush was rising inexorably from the collar of his shirt.
'Oh, yeah,' Marc grinned. 'Don't worry about that, I, uh, spent all night apologising to him, didn't I, Marcel?'
Marcel nodded eagerly, and Tommy held up a hand to stop him before he started to give any more detail.
'All right, enough. Let's make a start.'
Their truce may have been unexpected, but it was effective. Marc relaxed and became more receptive, and Tommy made a point of deferring to his judgement and seeking his opinion more often. As a result of this new level of collaboration, they breezed their way into the final.
When they lifted the trophy on Sunday, Tommy's pride and relief were tempered by an awareness that Nico had made the semi-final. His crush on Juan Carlos continued to dwindle, and Juan Carlos did not miss the opportunity to remind Tommy of this.
'Enjoy it while it lasts, Robredo. Marc'll fall out with you again soon enough, and I'm about to start raking in titles.'
'We'll see,' Tommy smiled knowingly. He hadn't forgotten Juan Carlos' attempt at sabotage.
It was time to start getting his own back.
Tommy 2, Juan Carlos 2.
vi
On the flight to Barcelona Tommy started putting his plan into action.
are you free tonight? meet me in Bar Mut at 8:30?
'Oh yeah?' David raised an eyebrow at Tommy's text, snatching at his phone when he received a response ('yes!! cant wait!! but youre paying :)') 'Cheating on me before we've even taken off?'
Tommy poked his tongue out at David, and hissed at him to keep his voice down. 'I don't want Juan Carlos to hear!'
David nodded solemnly and put his finger to his lips. 'My lips are sealed, my lord,' he whispered. Tommy elbowed him in the ribs and settled down to nap on his shoulder.
The bar was busy when Tommy arrived, but he needn't have worried: Gerard had clearly been looking out for him, for he shot to his feet waving both hands above his head as soon as Tommy walked through the door.
Tommy let Gerard rattle on about what he'd been up to-it would be ungracious to barge right in with his request-but eventually Tommy grew tired of listening to his tales and got to the point.
'Gerard, I need you to do something for me this week.'
'Oh dear, David getting too old, is he? I can do anything you want me to,' Gerard's wink was more cheeky than lascivious, and Tommy shook his head wearily.
'Shut up, you idiot. No, I need you to exercise your charms on Nico. Distract him… in whatever way you see fit, I can't have him winning a title or Juan Carlos will be unbearable.'
A slow smile spread across Gerard's face as realisation dawned.
'You mean… wear him out? Hell I can do that, I'm amazing in bed. In fact I've always fancied trying it on with him-I mean, I have to be better at sex than Marcel, right, and this way I can prove it for definite. I'll have him doing it so much he won't be able to think straight, never mind play tennis.'
'Too much information, thank you. If you can, I'll do what I can to make it worth your while-no, not like that,' he added hurriedly as Gerard's face took on an inquisitive expression, 'I'll put a word in for you with a couple of tournament directors, let you travel with us, that sort of thing.'
So it was that Gerard became Nico's hitting partner. He flirted with the outright suggestiveness of the young and the over-confident, but to Tommy's delight it worked like a dream. Juan Carlos' sarcasm and withering put-downs were lost on Gerard, who was too young to be intimidated, and he and Nico became increasingly blatant as the days progressed.
'Oh look, they've finally shown up,' Tommy smirked as Nico and Gerard staggered onto court three-quarters of an hour late for practice. They seemed oblivious to Juan Carlos' thunderous expression and stood whispering to each other as soon as they'd dropped their bags.
'Ahhh, young love,' Marc cooed. 'I wonder what they're whispering about.'
'What they're going to do the second they get off court, by the looks of things,' Tommy responded drily, as Nico and Gerard finally separated. When Gerard's hand lingered on Nico's crotch he added, 'That's if they make it that far and don't start screwing right here.'
Marcel protested, 'Shut up, you two, that's my brother!'
'Sorry, Marcel,' they both chorused, and made sure they continued their speculation out of earshot.
Tommy was grateful that Nico was distracted, because he had distractions of his own to deal with. As the final grew closer, and Marcel and Marc kept winning, the nerves began to show. The practice before their semi-final saw not a single ball being hit, as it became a counselling session for Marcel's growing panic.
'But we've fucked it up two years on the trot, what if we do it again?'
'Worse than that,' Marc muttered darkly, 'What if it's David and Fernando again, and we lose it to them?'
'Oh God, don't!' Marcel's eyes grew huge in horror, and he dropped the ball he'd been fiddling with. He scrabbled round in the dirt, unable to pick it up, and turned to Tommy, 'See? I can't even pick up a ball, this is going to be a disaster! Can we just pull out now, maybe? At least that way we won't be humiliated.'
'Listen to me, the pair of you,' Tommy was firm. 'You are not going to pull out, and you are not going to fuck up. You can do it. I know you can do it, you know you can do it. But you need to start acting like you can do it or… you won't do it.'
'Oh, bravo, Martin Luther King.' Juan Carlos smiled sardonically as he sauntered over and caught the end of Tommy's pep talk. 'With you to inspire them, who knows what dizzy heights they might reach!'
'Higher than yours Juanca. At least mine are still playing: yours is probably getting felt up in the bushes somewhere, these youngsters are insatiable. Fancy Nico getting a toyboy!' Tommy exuded innocence; Juan Carlos was clearly not fooled.
'You think you're so smart, don't you? But I'm not worried: kids also get bored easily, I'm sure it won't last long.' The twitch in his right eye gave the lie to his statement, however.
'Oh, I don't know,' Marcel piped up, 'Gerard was telling me last night that he really likes Nico! He said it was just a bit of fun to start with but, actually, Nico's sweet and funny and they like a lot of the same things. He said he could see this going further-he might even go to Madrid with him next week.'
Juan Carlos' expression was priceless.
Tommy didn't want to brag about his coaching, but when the chair umpire called 'Game, set match, Granollers-Lopez; 6-3 6-2' on Sunday, he couldn't help thinking at least a little bit of it was down to him. And it felt fantastic.
Not quite as fantastic, however, as it apparently felt to his players, whose victory hug was in danger of becoming something considerably more (and involving considerably less clothing, looking at what Marc's hand was doing). It was only when Tommy hurried onto the court and physically separated them that they even remembered that David and Fernando were still waiting at the net for them.
'Best tournament ever,' Marcel declared that night, still unable to put the trophy down.
As David had won singles as well, Tommy couldn't help but agree.
Tommy 3, Juan Carlos 2.
vii
The plus side of collective early exits from Wimbledon was that the Ferrero-Robredo coaching circus rolled into Båstad almost a full week early, allowing the players plenty of time to transition back to clay. Or, at least, so Tommy reminded Juan Carlos every time he complained about it. And he complained frequently.
The minus side, Juan Carlos reminded Tommy with even greater frequency and a lot more sarcasm, was that they had an extra Granollers in tow. True to his word, Tommy had persuaded the tournament director to offer Gerard a qualifying wild card, and he had become a permanent fixture at Nico's practices. To Tommy's endless amusement, his plan was working exceptionally well indeed: Nico was distracted and preoccupied, wholly focussed on his new obsession; Gerard was cocky and insouciant, blithely disregarding Juan Carlos completely, and Juan Carlos himself was practically sparking with frustration. It was glorious.
It came to an end, though, when Gerard got knocked out in the second round of qualifying. At breakfast the next day he turned an excessively woebegone face around the table.
'Who's going to take me to the airport? You wouldn't make me go on my own, would you?'
Juan Carlos immediately clapped his hand over Nico's mouth. 'I'm sorry, but Nico's going to be far too busy re-learning how to play tennis, you'll have to find somebody else.'
'I'll do it,' Marc volunteered. 'Marcel has a Prince promo-thing with David this morning, but I'm free.'
After lengthy and sentimental farewells, in which Nico bemoaned Gerard having to leave, Gerard stroked his cheek and told him, 'Win the trophy for me', and everyone else struggled to hold onto their breakfast, they were gone.
'Good grief,' Juan Carlos muttered disparagingly to Tommy, 'And I thought your two were deplorably cloying.'
When Marc returned, Tommy and Marcel were grabbing a quick lunch between practices.
'You'll never guess what Gerard told me,' he began conversationally, helping himself to a cup of Marcel's tea. 'It involves you,' he pointed at Tommy, 'and you,' he pointed to Marcel, 'and-presumably-a bed and not very many clothes, although, thankfully, he was a little sketchy on the precise details.
'Anyone want to shed any more light on it?' he asked, when Tommy and Marcel just stared at each other. Tommy felt his heart sink and, judging from Marcel's panicked expression, his was doing the same thing.
'Marc, it isn't-it isn't what you think; we didn't-Gerard will've exaggerated anyway, you know what he's like!' Marcel's agitation was clear; Tommy bit at a loose fingernail.
'Firstly, you don't know what I'm thinking; secondly, I don't think there was any exaggeration; thirdly, let me ask you outright: have you slept with Tommy?'
With a helpless look at Tommy, Marcel nodded. 'Yes. Yes, I have, but it wasn't-we didn't-' he reached out to Marc, who snatched his hand away.
'Right. I wonder when you were planning on actually telling me that?' Marc stood up abruptly and walked away. Marcel's chair scraped as he ran after him, and Tommy was left cursing Juan Carlos.
'Fucking Juan Carlos, who does he think he is?!' Tommy paced their hotel room, repeating himself for the fifth time as David tried to calm him down.
'Are you sure he's behind it? It really doesn't seem like the sort of thing he'd do.'
'Of course he's behind it! He knows I used Gerard to get at Nico, so he's used Gerard to drop me in the shit and get at me, without thinking that he's fucking with other people. Marcel and Marc are expendable as long as he proves his point, and that stinks.'
'You should talk to him, tete. At least find out for sure.' David succeeded in catching Tommy's hand and pulled him down onto the bed beside him, rubbing his back.
'I can't! I'll be too busy sorting out the mess he's caused with Marc.'
'Hey,' David's tone was soft, and Tommy let himself be pulled down into a hug. 'You want me to talk to Marc?'
'You? What will you say? 'Sorry, I know Tommy slept with your boyfriend, but can you play nice as it's fucking up his bet with Juan Carlos?''
David chuckled, 'No, stupid. I mean explain to him why you did it. That I'd been… fucking around with Feli, and you were hurt and angry; that Marcel was there with his crush burning so brightly, making it so easy; that you thought it would make you feel better, but it only made things worse. That you were the one who was cheated on, not him.'
Tommy burrowed deeper into David's arms and murmured gratefully against his chest, 'Ferru, I love you for offering, but you can't fight my battles for me. It's up to me to sort it out.'
'Well, can you do it soon, please? I'm fed up with you stomping round with a face like thunder.'
'I…can go now, if you like?' Tommy paused his unbuttoning of David's shirt.
'Uh, no. Later will do just fine.'
When Tommy went to apologise and clear the air at practice the next morning, he found that he didn't need to.
'Tommy, it's OK.' Marc's smile was sheepish. 'Marcel and I talked it all through last night, he told me everything. I didn't know about David, I'm sorry. I always suspected you'd been with Marcel, I knew there was more between you than you were letting on, I just… didn't know when it'd happened. And now I do know, and I know it was before Marcel and I got together, and it's stupid, but it doesn't seem quite so bad somehow. Just… don't ever do it again, yeah?' he laughed weakly.
'I won't.' Tommy was sincere in his promise. 'You're perfect for him, even a fool could see that. Besides, have you and David after me? I'm not that stupid.'
This time, Marc's laugh was genuine and Tommy felt relief flood through him. Now he could concentrate on showing Juan Carlos exactly how pissed off he was.
But, to Tommy's disgruntlement, Juan Carlos barely even noticed the cold shoulder he was being given. And he certainly didn't seem remotely perturbed by the fact that his plan had backfired so spectacularly.
…except, Tommy discovered, it sort of hadn't. Because while Tommy was fuming about what Juan Carlos had done he wasn't doing a whole lot of coaching, so Marcel and Marc lost in the quarter-final. Meanwhile, the extensive training carried Nico right to the final: where he met a David who was so preoccupied by the fight between Tommy and Juan Carlos-his partner and his best friend-that Nico was finally able to overcome the head to head and beat him.
Tommy 3, Juan Carlos 3.
viii
The atmosphere didn't improve in Hamburg. In fact, Tommy seethed, not once did Juan Carlos show the slightest sign of either remorse or-and this was even worse-curiosity as to why Tommy was being so cold and snippy with him.
'He hasn't even asked me why I'm mad!' he exclaimed to David, as he scraped his spoon around an empty bowl. 'In fact, I don't think he's even noticed that I'm mad!'
'Oh, he's noticed,' David said wryly, 'but you know what he's like, there's no way he'll give you the satisfaction of asking you what's the matter. He'll just bide his time until you get so mad you let rip at him, which if I know you,' he paused to look at his watch, 'will be in about an hour and a half.'
'Ugh, why are you so sensible?' Tommy grumbled half-heartedly. 'And why isn't there any ice cream left?'
'You ate the rest of it last night, and we're not getting any more as it's not fair on me. Some of us are still in this tournament.'
Tommy wriggled closer to David and nuzzled his neck. 'Why couldn't you have lost? I don't want to leave you behind.'
'It's only a few days, you can manage without me for that long. You know what you should do, though? A road trip.' At Tommy's look of confusion he continued, 'Hire a couple of cars and drive to Gstaad. Nico's a horrible back seat driver, he'll drive Juanca bonkers….'
David's wink was wicked, and Tommy kissed him triumphantly. 'You are a genius, Ferru. A total genius! I'll get on that first thing in the morning.'
Twenty-four hours later and Tommy was less convinced of the degree of David's genius. While he could see, in the car in front of him, Nico chattering away to Juan Carlos, gesticulating and generally making a persistent nuisance of himself, it was what he could see in the rear-view mirror that was more of a problem.
'Do you have to?'
The whispered giggles from the back seat stopped at Tommy's question; Marc's expression was knowing as he looked directly in the mirror, then swirled his tongue around the shell of Marcel's ear.
'Yeah, I do,' he said smugly. 'He likes it, see?'
Marcel squirmed and bit his lip as Marc's hand moved steadily under the blanket thrown carelessly over their laps.
'Sorry, Tommy!' Marcel panted, somewhat short of breath, 'He always tries it on when we travel by car-I tried to stop him, but he said he gets bored, and then he-' his words dissolved into a low moan as Marc's hand started to move more deliberately. Tommy gritted his teeth and looked away.
'Can't you just read a book if you're bored?' he snapped.
Marc grinned unrepentantly; the way Marcel's head rolled back showed the answer was 'no'.
When Juan Carlos turned into a service station just outside Frankfurt, Tommy heaved a sigh of relief.
Queueing for coffee, Tommy forgot he wasn't talking to Juan Carlos.
'They're driving me mad, they're practically screwing in the back seat, are we nearly there yet?'
'You're being driven mad? You don't have Fernando Alonso sitting next to you, criticising your driving and making helpful suggestions every thirty seconds. Which, I suspect,' Juan Carlos' eyes narrowed slightly, 'was your underlying reasoning for your suggestion that we drive. Hoist by your own petard, Robredo?'
'I dunno, you pompous ass-I've got no idea what you just said.'
Juan Carlos sighed eloquently. 'How David tolerates an illiterate like you I'll never know. It's Shakespeare. From Hamlet. In layman's terms: did your cunning plan backfire in your own face?'
Tommy gave a slight nod. 'Yeah, sort of,' he admitted grudgingly. 'Want to swap with me for the rest of the journey?'
'I have a better idea. How about you swap with Nico? He gets to deal with the fondling, they get to listen to F1 commentary the rest of the journey… and you get to tell me what's behind the bristling silence with which you've been presenting me.' Juan Carlos gazed at Tommy, his expression inscrutable, and Tommy found himself nodding again.
Twenty minutes after they set back off, and Tommy could take Juan Carlos' expectant silence no longer.
'I can't believe you told Marc about Marcel and me,' he muttered. 'I… I didn't think you'd stoop that low, it's kind of tough to take.'
'I beg your pardon?' Juan Carlos' astonishment was genuine.
Haltingly, Tommy explained. When he realised it wasn't going well he tried to defend himself. 'I'd told you, last year, in Valencia. Who else would have put Gerard up to it?'
'Well now, let's see,' Juan Carlos' voice dripped with sarcasm. 'How could Marcel's brother possibly have found out that you slept with Marcel? Because, of course, Marcel would never have bragged about it to him himself. My goodness, that is a conundrum!'
'Oh. Oh, yeah. I… never thought of that. I'm sorry.'
Luckily, Juan Carlos accepted Tommy's apology, and was only mildly sanctimonious about how Tommy should never have jumped to conclusions. The lecture he gave on how he would never have done such a thing, and how insulted he was that Tommy should think he would was delivered in tones of only slight reproach rather than outright scorn. In return, Tommy dutifully accepted his chiding, and made suitably repentant noises at the right moments. As a result of this, harmony was fully restored; they both happily agreed to concentrate their efforts on their own campaigns in future, rather than trying to derail each other's.
On Sunday evening, though, when Marcel and his trophy were leading the conga line at the post-final party, Juan Carlos was less sanguine about not meddling.
'How was I supposed to know he'd go on and win?' he grumbled, slapping at the hands that were trying to get him to join in as the conga line passed a little too close. 'I should have put that laxative in his teabags, after all.'
'You just can't take me being better than you, can you?' Tommy crowed.
Tommy 4, Juan Carlos 3.
ix (Epilogue)
There were no more titles for either Tommy or Juan Carlos that year, but as the Tour began to prepare for the final tournament of the season there was another retirement party. Unlike Tommy, David went out with a bang; winning his last title in his last match in his own tournament in Valencia. Unfortunately, Juan Carlos had been engrossed with tournament-organising, and Tommy had been so caught up in supporting David through his final matches that both their coaching duties were sorely neglected. Despite the bitching he got from Marc as he cancelled yet another practice session to cheer David on, Tommy was somewhat gratified to notice how rudderless they had been this week without his guidance. (Thankfully, they'd qualified for the O2 in Shanghai, or his stress levels really would have been off the scale.)
The party was still in full swing when Tommy sneaked away. He was getting more emotional over David's retirement than he had over his own, which was daft, so he slipped out from David's arm, and headed to the veranda. When he got there, Juan Carlos was already there, stretched out on one chair with his feet crossed on another, a bottle of the same brandy on the table.
'I thought you'd forgotten me in all your celebratory WAG-ing,' he teased. 'So, how has your first year of coaching been?'
Tommy sat down beside him and accepted the proffered glass. 'Eventful,' he sighed.
'Not the disaster you were anticipating, though?' Juan Carlos smiled.
'Well, no,' Tommy admitted. 'Marcel's ranking didn't nose-dive, and there were a respectable number of finals. Which,' he added candidly, 'is way more than it looked like being at the start of the year.'
They reflected on how the year had gone for them both: the ups (Nico finally beating David, Marcel and Marc finally winning Barcelona), the downs (getting knocked out first round in all grass tournaments, the times when it looked as though they'd never win anything), and the downright ridiculous (the Monte Carlo players party, the fancy-dress tour of Versailles). They grew sentimental as they agreed that they knew their charges a lot better now; there was even use of the word 'bonding' in a non-ironic manner and talk of what they had learned from each other (Juan Carlos had developed his people skills through watching Tommy, and Tommy's vocabulary of multi-syllabled words had increased exponentially). Then talk turned to the thing that really mattered as Juan Carlos asked bluntly,
'When are you taking me to Ricard Camarena?'
Tommy gaped at him in bewilderment. 'What? You're taking me, I won more titles than you!'
'Ahh,' a slight, condescending smile flickered across Juan Carlos' face. 'Didn't I say? We were only counting singles titles.'
There was a stream of spluttered profanity from Tommy, over which Juan Carlos continued, 'Because, of course, it would be unfair to count doubles, as your player only wins half a title. This means I have three titles and you have one-or, if I am inclined to be generous and count the doubles titles as half each-two and a half. Ergo, I win. Which brings me back to my original question: when are you taking me to Ricard Camarena?'
Tommy's attempts at strangulation were interrupted by the arrival of Marat, shepherding a thoroughly partied-out David with him.
'Budge up,' he ordered, knocking Juan Carlos' feet from the chair, 'this one needs to sit down. I caught him declaring undying love to anything and everything that would stand still long enough-including the giant pot plant you put in Reception.' He helped David into the newly-vacated chair and pulled another over for himself.
As soon as Tommy had reassured himself that David was OK ('I'm fiiiiiiiine, s'my party, I'm having fun-mmmm, you smell nice,') he turned to Marat and demanded,
'Tell Juan Carlos he's being a dick; he's trying to cheat me out of dinner!'
'Juan Carlos, you're being a dick,' Marat said obligingly, but then spoiled the effect by adding, 'I love it when you're a dick,' and kissing Juan Carlos comprehensively.
'Juanca, are you being a twat to my Tommy?' David sat up belligerently as he caught up with the conversation, and Tommy shushed him.
'It's OK, Ferru, he's just being Juan Carlos. He changed the terms of our bet so he won. But only because he couldn't win legitimately,' he added sulkily.
Marat fluttered his eyelashes at Juan Carlos and simpered, 'That's my mosquito, Macchiavellian to the core. It's only cheating if other people do it, right?'
'Beak out, Hippo,' Juan Carlos instructed. 'How many times: it's not cheating, it's simple logic. Counting different kinds of wins would be like…' he paused to think and Tommy interjected with an analogy that would make it meaningful to Marat.
'…like comparing pasta to gateaux in a food tasting contest.'
'Exactly!' Juan Carlos sat back, beaming smugly. 'So I win!'
'Doesn't matter if you cheat or not,' David announced. 'I won more titles than both of you. And I'll beat you both next year. For I,' he paused for emphasis, wobbling precariously as he waved his hand in their faces, 'I am coaching too!
'Gentlemen,' he smiled the confident smile of the completely drunk, 'you are looking at Albert's new coach!'
There was a shocked silence after this declaration, eventually broken by Juan Carlos' sardonic tones,
'Monty? Why, Ferru, you will trounce us all!'
'Shut up, Juan Carlos, stop being a dick. Not Albert Montañes, Albert Ramos. And I will win next year, because he is good and I am left-handed and-no, that’s the wrong way round, I…' he broke off, frowning at his hand in concentration.
Once the others had finished teasing David, and the boundaries had been set for next year's contest (Tommy ensuring, this time, that there were no loopholes within which Juan Carlos could hide), Juan Carlos made an announcement of his own.
'Seeing as our newly retired friend here is so overflowing with titles this year, I propose he be the one to pay for dinner. For all four of us.'
This was something with which Tommy could agree, and Marat was despatched to hail a cab.
As they tumbled into the back Tommy took advantage of the crush to snuggle against David.
No matter what Juan Carlos said, he knew he'd won.
FIN
Notes:
~Inspired by comments made by Tommy after Casablanca that he was planning for RG and would then think about what he wanted to do from there, and by the fact that Juan Carlos is travelling with Nico as a part-time coach this year.
~ Xavi and Lukas are David's nephews, the sons of his brother Javier.
~ Ricard Camarena is real, as is Bar Mut (although the official website for it is horrifically pretentious), and Juan Carlos has a house in Guarajuba in Brazil.
~Naturally, all results products of my imagination; while I tried to be realistic about them I couldn't resist being selfish for Barcelona.
~With many thanks to caaare for beta-reading and generally talking me down when I got too whiny about this ♥