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Wimbledon 2008.
Roger Federer quickly dressed after taking the most depressing shower of his life.
Grabbing the bag with his personal effects, he angrily came out of the locker room going straight to the hotel where he was staying.
He closed the door behind him with a thud and dropped the bag badly on the floor.
He pulled the curtains despite it being almost dark and switched on the bedside lamp, which bathed the room with a warm yellowish light.
He ran the back of his hand over his nose, a nervous gesture he performed on the pitch.
He took a deep breath and kicked his shoes into a corner, then threw himself on the bed with a dead weight.
He pulled the phone out of his pocket, ignoring all the various calls from his coach, his parents and Mirka, turned it off and put it in the nightstand drawer.
He lay down on his back with one arm resting over his eyes.
He was in pieces.
Wimbledon was his tournament.
The grass was the surface of him.
And he had lost.
Before he was so angry, he was disappointed by himself for not being able to give his best, he had given a single very hasty interview, answering only a couple of questions and complimenting the winner as usual.
Now he was sad, he wanted to win so much, Wimbledon was any tennis player's dream.
He hated losing, but at least, he had lost to Rafael Nadal, not to anyone.
That young spaniard with an extraordinary strength and determination that made his heart beat like no one had ever done.
He felt his eyes moisten, it wasn't really the day.
He tried to relax, but failed when someone knocked on the door.
«Verpiss dich! Ich möchte allein sein!»
He yelled in German, without even bothering to say it in English or to use the education he cared so much about.
But the knocking didn't stop and he became more insistent.
Then Roger rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his white sweater and marched to the door, throwing it open violently.
On the threshold he found nothing but Rafa.
It looked like he hadn't even taken a shower, judging by the towel draped around his neck, his damp hair, his Nike sweatshirt completely closed, and the acrid smell of his sweat floating in the air.
He had a sad, almost pained expression on his face, the same one he had seen just before during the award ceremony.
That bothered him, he had fucking won, what was there to be sad about?
«What do you want?» he asked, returning to English. He bit his tongue, he didn't want to be so blunt with him.
Rafa looked up at him, «Rogelio» blew, and bit his lip.
Roger felt his stomach contract, it happened every time he heard him pronounce his name in the Spanish version, when Rafa rolled the R on his tongue like that.
«I'm sorry» he said correctly, but with a very heavy accent, and Roger didn't understand.
«Lo siento mucho. I dis...like it so much»
«What are you apologizing for?»
Rafa seemed confused by the question, probably not having fully understood it.
«Won» he whispered, then frowned «I won...to the...final» he said uncertainly.
Roger bared his teeth, what exactly was that fool apologizing for?
«Are you apologizing for winning?»
he slowly spoke the words for the other to understand.
Rafa nodded firmly, relieved that he understood his point, «I won, but you lost».
«I wanted to ganar, but if I win you lose, and when you lose...i don't like it because you're sad angry por lo tanto sad too».
And there he is, the great Rafael Nadal, as confident on the pitch as he is insecure in real life, extremely kind and with a heart of cream.
Roger decided it was best not to continue the conversation in the corridor, took a quick glance making sure no one was listening and unceremoniously pulled Rafa into the room, closing the door behind him.
«Are you sad because i lost?» he asked almost in disbelief.
«Yeah» agreed Rafa, he shivered, probably the sweaty shirt was cold on him.
He started pacing back and forth wringing his hands.
«I wanted ganar, really. I like ganar. It was important, my first Wimbledon. But looking at you sad breaks my heart. Creo que people hoped you win. They like you, you elegant and perfect English, then they aim at Nadal all weird, they think he is stupid, he doesn't speak English.
They are right, I like you eres muy clever, yo estupido.
You are my idol when I was young and now… now» he stopped, crunching his face, his dark brows together in a frown.
He couldn't translate what he meant, he shrugged and surrendered.
Roger was silent, trying to process what little he understood.
He was so plain and simple.
He had ignored the celebrations and hadn't even taken a shower while running to him to apologize for winning.
Rafa walked over to him, bringing with him his usual lost puppy expression, large eyes of an enveloping glossy coffee color.
The Swiss wanted to touch him, then stretched out his hands, grabbing his biceps, bringing him closer.
He swallowed, slowly raised a hand to place it gently on the side of his face and brushed his hair behind his ear.
He now he looked at him in that round face of his with full cheeks like a child's and full lips red from the constant biting.
God, he was so handsome, he liked him damn so much, he was in love with him maybe with him maybe since that game in Miami four years ago.
The Spaniard thrust his head hesitantly, as if asking permission, then finally pressed his mouth against his.
Roger responded enthusiastically to the kiss, interlacing his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, sliding his other hand down his side.
Rafa's lips were soft and a little cracked, Roger's heart skipped a beat as the Spaniard wrapped his arms around his neck, making their chests collide.
He stuck his tongue into his mouth and almost moaned at how hot and wet it was.
They continued kissing for a few minutes before Roger exhales strongly from his nose and pulls away slightly.
Rafa was breathing heavily, his cheeks redand his lips glistening with saliva.
He smiled a little and hugged him tightly, sticking his nose into the crook of his neck.
«Rafa,» Roger whispered into his hair, «Ich liebe dich».
____________
Later in bed, after the Spaniard took a shower and put on clean clothes, they went to sleep.
Tucked under the covers, Roger heard Rafa mutter something in Spanish against his shoulder.
«Te quiero mucho, no tuve el coraje de decírtelo todo este tiempo, eras mi amigo but no it was suficiente para mí, tal vez soy a little egoísta, pero siempre te quise para mí».
____________
«Verpiss dich! Ich möchte allein sein!» (Fuck off! I want to be alone)
«Ich liebe dich» (I love you)
«Te quiero mucho, no tuve el coraje de decírtelo todo este tiempo, eras mi amigo but no it was suficiente para mí, tal vez soy a little egoísta, pero siempre te quise para mí». (I love you so much, I didn't have the courage to tell you all this time, you were my friend but it wasn't enough for me, maybe I'm a little selfish, but i always wanted you for myself)