Jannik Sinner X Reader - Blog Posts

I will be (un)patiently waiting for some carlos and jannik fics bc i feel like we def don't have enough here😔

anon don’t even have to tell me twice!! i’m already working on a jannik smau and next up i’m writing for carlos, i just wanted to post a draft that i had since forever first

and yes we are in serious drought of fics where are they !!!!

write anything about jannik sinner we are in drought of him please😩😩🙏🙏

no need to worry my jannik girlies i just got a request and i’ll be working on it asap 🙏🏽

after some consideration i decided that in addition to f1 drivers and footballers i will also be starting to write for tennis players!! very excited to get into that part of the fandom so feel free to check my who do i write for page in case you want to requests for someone 🫶🏽

im eating this up ugh i love how u write im inloveeeee with it. this is probably my favorite one

In Sync - Part 3

Jannik Sinner x Reader This doubles duo has their moment of redemption. Reader, no longer feeling the need to prove herself to Jannik, is free to prove herself on court. And she does—twice over, actually. And Jannik is her biggest fan, tbh. Part 1, Part 2

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The morning of the mixed doubles final began with a newfound sense of clarity. The sky outside the tournament facilities was cloudless and bright and, despite your very first semi-finals looming even after the doubles finals, everything felt light and possible again. 

Relishing your airy and blissed mood—a stark contrast from the day before—your easy smile grew into a wide grin the second you spotted Jannik at the practice courts for your scheduled warmup, his hood up, stretching with lazy movements.

He looked up at the sound of your footsteps and cracked a slow smile, one that made chest constrict a bit. You’d last seen him too long ago—slipping out of his room early sometime that same day, just a little past midnight—but you felt something in you ease when you saw that his face was just as bright in seeing you as it was then. Ease in knowing that he didn’t deem last night as a momentary lapse in judgement, in knowing that all he’d said still held true. 

“You look like you rolled out of bed five minutes ago,” you said, tossing your bag to the bench and reaching up to place a light hand over the crown of his head to rustle his hair with his hood. 

“I did,” he replied, unapologetic, but chuckling as he nudged your hand off of him. “I’m always sleeping to the last possible minute.”

You rolled your eyes in response with a slight smile playing at your lips as you moved to turn back to your bag, but he gently held you in place with the hand he still had on your wrist. He stepped closer and, in a hushed voice, added, “But I think I have good reason to sleep in after last night…”

You swatted his shoulder immediately, looking over both of yours to make sure no one heard, but you couldn’t help the grin growing on your face.

“Alright. Don’t start.” You muttered, flushing and shaking your head to yourself as you yanked your hand from his already light grasp. He just chuckled under his breath at your reaction, bouncing a ball off his racket and stepping onto the court.

Chris and Darren stood just outside the court fence, Chris nursing a coffee, Darren flipping through notes. Behind them, Simone stood further back on talking with both yours and Jannik’s trainers and physios. And all of them paused to just watch the way you and Jannik moved with each other—laughing, teasing, shoulders bumping during dynamic stretches.

They looked on in silence for a bit, amused and in shock at the stark contrast from how you both were just the day before. Sure, you two had got on well initially, but that dynamic had done an obvious 180 for the semi-finals. Yet now, it seemed there had been yet another full flip overnight and the energy between you very clearly read as something even closer than before.

A knowing look passed amongst all of them. Darren, Simone, and the rest of Jannik’s team chuckled with each other, turning away from you both to fully do so, and Chris shook his head with a smirk towards your physio and trainer.

“How’d you pull that off?” Darren nudged Chris, leaning in to ask, tone half-impressed, half-mocking.

“Just told her she had to talk to him,” Chris shrugged, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sort it out.”

“Well, it’s definitely sorted.” Darren chuckled down at his feet.

“And—yeah, I’ll say it—it seems like they did more than just talk.” Your trainer called out from behind.

Both teams flat out laughed at that, but schooled their expressions when you and Jannik approached. Whatever happened between you two last night—it wasn’t their business, and it worked. And none of them were about to mess that up.

The coaches briefed you both together, with you standing shoulder to shoulder with Jannik—as a unit, as a team. You hugged your racket to your chest, and your shoulder brushed against his arm. He seemed to lean into the contact, not moving to step away when you touched. You bit back a smile and just vaguely nodded at the directions Chris relayed your way.

The warmup went on without a hitch. Clean and fluid. No hiccups, no awkward pauses.

It began with your usual sequence—groundstrokes first, trading balls down the middle before easing into crosscourts. And, even early on into the prep, you could already tell you were working together seamlessly. In sync once more.

By the time you switched from start-up drills, your coordination was seamless. He anticipated your angles, and you read his pace. The small adjustments you’d given each other showed up right away—his net coverage tighter, your backhand heavier. You both moved around each other like there was no friction at all—like there never was.

After a long rally practicing strokes back and forth on opposite sides of the net, you motioned for him to meet you in the middle at the net. At this point, so close to the match, both your teams trusted you as players to work on whatever it was that you felt was needed. The last 15 minutes both your coaches had just been standing on the sidelines without any sort of intervention—there wasn’t any reason to today, you were both clearly in the right headspace and hitting well. Playing well, together.

So, you proposed the next phase of the warm-up to Jannik yourself.

"Wanna try drop shots? I’ve got a few tips I can teach you," you said, twirling your racket as you approached the net.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning onto the tape. "You’d give away your secrets to me?"

"Not all of them—don’t get too excited—just enough to help us get the win."

You demonstrated a few sequences, showing him how you shifted your weight on your left foot, holding the racket at a concealed angle, disguising the shot until the very last second. He nodded, studying your grip, your stance, before practicing a few dozen drop-shots himself. You stood beside him as Simone fed him balls to hit, giving him hushed pointers and adjustments every now and then. He picked it up pretty quickly, which was to be expected, but his delight was clear after he executed a handful of floaty volleys in a row—all of them clearly marked with your personal, signature style.

“Not bad, Sinner.” He turned to you beaming, and you placed a hand on his shoulder with a grin of your own. “Not bad at all.”

You both moved to the baseline to hit crosscourt forehands side by side after that, concluding the warm-up’s net work, walking back with lingering smiles. Chris stepped in diagonally across the net to hit balls for you as Simone did the same for Jannik, but after a few reps Jannik signalled for both of them to pause. 

“I show you something?” He asked, already walking over to you.

You nodded to him and so he stepped close, his hands landing at your waist to guide you back to a semi-open stance—not rough, but fingers firmer than necessary. His hands then dropped ever so slightly to hold your hips, and his thumbs brushed a little too slow at the top of your skirt’s waistband. 

“Try to get more power from here, like this,” he said, his voice lower now, the warmth of his body unmistakable against your side. He shifted your hips for you to come square to the net before pulling them back again to repeat the motion. “You’re already there and doing it, but just snap faster. Feel that”

Your brain was just a little delayed in filtering his words, focusing on his touch more than anything—you followed what he was saying well enough, but the contact had sent a spark skimming straight up your spine. And when he spoke, the press of his chest just barely grazed your shoulder. It was too much and not enough all at once.

“Feel that?” He asked. You finally turned your neck to nod towards him and saw, though his voice sounded neutral and matter-of-fact enough, he was smirking at you.

You weren’t about to let him have it, so you blinked away your dazed state and nodded sensibly. “All in the hips, got it.”

His grasp lifted just the slightest bit so you could practice the pivot motion without his guidance, though his palms still hovered over your hips, radiating a heat onto your waist that seemed to travel down between your thighs. He was close enough that you could feel his nod of approval.

“Just like that.” He said and you swallowed, but at the same time, you had to roll your eyes. He knew. 

He knew what he was doing—not that it wasn’t working… 

You glanced up and saw your teams weren’t looking in your direction at all, they were huddled around Chris’s phone watching something intently, maybe avoiding you both on purpose. So you decided it was safe for you to leave Jannik flustered now, and tilted just enough so that you grazed up against him. You heard his breath stall a little and smiled, arching back ever so slightly to apply just a little more pressure for a moment, teasing, before straightening to come up out of the open stance entirely.

“Just like that.” You said as you turned to face him, smiling innocently, his hands still on you. “Thanks Jannik.”

He smiled, but his voice came out dry. “Of course.”

You raised a goading brow at him, still smiling, and he shook his head at you as if to say well played. He lingered there for a beat longer before retreating back with a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, just as the coaches stepped on court to feed balls once more.

“Your coaching methods may be questionable,” you called after him, smirking. “But it is good advice, I’ll admit."

His head stayed facing forward as the balls started coming towards you both again, but you heard him laugh as he shuffled to hit a forehand. “I try.”

Your grin mirrored his and, as you struck the incoming balls, you did actually try to implement the tip Jannik had so generously offered. You felt the momentum of the snap carry over to the strength of your ball-strike, applying the technique more and more effectively with each shot.

And then Chris hit over the last ball in the basket beside him. You stepped in, pivoted fast, and struck.

It cracked off your strings, sharp and clean. A textbook winner that seemed to span the length of the court in the speed of light, easily the fasted topspin you’d ever managed on a forehand

Chris whistled, loud and delighted from across the court. “That’s the one!” he called out. “Perfect!”

You barely had time to grin before Jannik’s voice came from beside you, praising and smug at the same time.

"That was great," he said, simple and sincere, his tone only slightly lilting with self-satisfaction as his hands ghosted around your hips again for the briefest of moments. “See? All in the hips.”

“Thanks for the lesson.” You shot him a look as you walked towards the bench, small smile gracing your lips both at the power you were able to generate and the way Jannik seemed to be matching your usual cheekiness.

He followed you off court so you could both wrap up the warm-up, stretching out and hydrating while listening to a few last technical notes from your teams. The sun had climbed higher, the buzz and the energy around the facility sharpening as the tail end of the tournament approached.

It wasn’t long before the time came, before you were called onto court for the mixed finals. Rackets bagged, extra grips tucked away. The coaches dispersed toward the stadium, and you and Jannik met up again at the tunnel after your individual pre-match prep in the gym—side by side again, you stood quieter now with less banter than during the warm-up, with the required focus of the match starting so soon, but the silence between you this time was comfortable and relaxed.

The final was set in the larger of the secondary stadiums, a much bigger arena compared to where you’d played the earlier mixed rounds on. The crowd was already buzzing, seats filled to the brim despite being before noon, an off time for the less popular category—fans were showing out for their favorite players, and their newest, favorite duo.

Jannik being the number one and playing as well as he did, as well as he always did, made it so the spectators started off in high spirits and large numbers. You were newer to the scene, but already a fan favorite with your trademark theatrics—so though your persona may have been polarizing, those who loved you loved you.

But the two of you together, that had become the show in itself. 

Your last few rounds playing together had amassed quite the chatter, seeing you mixed doubles matches had been nothing short of spectacular so far—even the disastrous semi-final was a spectacular failure that barely managed to end in a win.

So the noise of the crowd surrounded you, drowning out even your own, loud pre-match thoughts as you stood beside Jannik at the opening of the tunnel. But then his shoulder brushed yours and you looked up to find his eyes were already on you, gaze as calm as ever. It was like none of it touched him. The stable hum of his presence radiated off of him and washed over you, settling in your chest—steadying the thrum of your heart and deafening the spiral in your head.

“Ready?” he asked, his face was passive but his eyes and voice were warm.

You gave him a slow grin, nodding. “Let’s find out.”

And then your names were announced.

The cheers immeadiately peaked—sharp, layered, and overwhelming. And it wasn’t just a hum of excitement like other matches, but a full-force roar. Whistles, clapping, the deep swell of crowd energy moving in waves. The kind of volume that hit your chest before your ears, that buzzed through your sneakers into the bones of your legs. Flags waved in the stands. Cameras flashed. Your name and Jannik’s echoed in pockets of cheers as you stepped into the light.

You were ready for it though—taking it in, not in fear, but in scope. This wasn’t just another match. Wasn’t just some show. This was the finals. 

The word redemption flashed across your mind. Redemption for the last match, for your performance and for your poor sportsmanship. Today you were to play with Jannik. As a team.

The introductions, the photos, it all passed by you. Unconscious, routine motions as you readied your headspace. The coin landed in your favor, and you just nodded at Jannik—you were both on the same page. 

Your grip on your racket tightened by instinct as you walked to your place on the court, a flicker of healthy, familiar pressure curling in your stomach. Jannik placed a hand on your shoulder as he passed, gentle and brief, a silent message. We’ve got this.

Your breath evened out, all else in view but the court seemed to blur in your periphery and the sounds of the stadium seemed to dull as the ball was bounced for service. 

Then the match started. 

And that rhythm? Between you and Jannik? It was back. And it showed instantly.

---

From the first point, the crowd energy pressed in from all sides—constant, crackling, alive. Each bounce of the ball sounded sharper against the sea of low murmurs and rising anticipation. You could feel every collective breath held, every gasp when a rally extended longer than expected. When a point ended, the cheers surged so loud it felt palpable.

You and Jannik moved through each game like a sort of tide—a natural push and pull. Your first rally alone had the audience teetering forward in their seats. His serve snapped through the air, and you exploded forward at the first read of the return. You called your switches with sharp, clear commands. He responded with instinct. When he stepped in for a volley, you already knew which angle to cover. When you rushed the net, he anchored behind you, ready to absorb the return. Your communication crisp, your synergy undeniable.

The rhythm persisted—muscle memory and instinct compounding with chemistry and skill. His serve set up your poach, your drop shot teased out their desperation, his lob chased them back. Point after point.

And the crowd was loving every moment, and they were sure to let you both know.

Every now and then you’d tune in to their sound and it made your chest buzz, adrenaline rushing so fast you heard it in your ears. Then you’d look to Jannik, amidst whatever celebration you were doing that had the crowd shouting, and he’d smile—and that seemed to fuel you more than anything. 

You were playing as a pair again. A unit. Your teamwork unfolded in sharp, stunning detail.

And this time, it wasn’t just some pleasant surprise. You’d worked for it—lost it, then fought to repair what you could, ending up with a connection better than you could have ever hoped for. Maybe promise to be deeper than you would have ever thought.

When you’d come together to quickly discuss strategy and position—leaning close, words concealed behind your hands—you didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered. The way his eyes flickered back and forth from one of your eyes to the other, taking in your expression, your concentration. The way they’d drop to your lips, for the briefest of moments, when you’d smile before breaking to jog back to position. And you were watching him carefully enough to know that he’d walk back wearing a smile that looked a lot like yours felt.

Those smiles carried over as you both walked over to the bench after dominating and winning over the first set. Towels draped around your necks, you knocked your knees with his as you took a long sip from your water bottle, still breathless, heart pounding. Jannik leaned back beside you, tipping water onto the back of his neck with a small exhale, facing towards you.

"Let’s keep playing this way, okay? For the second set?" He asked, nodding towards you. “Just need to keep it up.”

“Yeah, agreed—we’ve got that.” You grinned, wiping your face with the edge of your towel before turning his way to offer the slightest wink. "You’ve been looking good out there, by the way."

“Thank you,” Jannik only shook his head, turning his face forward and away from you though a small smile was beginning to grace his lips once more. “You've been playing great, too.”

“Thanks—” You said sincerely, before laughing to yourself at his infallible manners. “And same to you, but… your game play wasn’t what I was referring to…” 

“... I know.” He ran a hand over his face and huffed a quiet chuckle, one that quickly grew to join in with your ongoing laughter. "No, I know."

“Wow. You’ve really been media trained that well, haven't you?” You placed a hand on his shoulder, pouting with exaggerated severity. “It’s okay, Jannik. This bench is a safe space.”

Jannik rolled his eyes, but made no move to push off your hand and he was still smiling. “You’re wasting our two minutes—we should be discussing strategy.”

“Wasting is a strong word.” You cocked your head. “In fact, I would even say I’m enhancing our two minutes.”

He gave you a pointed look, though there was still that affectionate glint behind his eyes, and you shrugged with a smile—silently agreeing to discuss more pertinent things, giving in easily after having had your fun.

“Okay, next set—you take the baseline, I’ll take the net?” Jannik took advantage of your concession, jumping into game tactics immediately, stretching his arm out to rest on the bench behind you.

“Yeah, that can be our default position.” You matched his rationale easily, already on the same page. “But if anything compromises that arrangement, just go for what feels right. Does that sound okay, or is it too loose of a plan?”

“No, that’s good. We’re doing good reading each other already.” Jannik moved to stand, grabbing a new racket and nodding at the chair umpire as they called time. “If for some reason you can’t go for the ball, I’ll come for you.”

You split into a grin at his last few words, pausing your motions of lacing up your shoes for a moment. “You’ll what for me?” 

Jannik furrowed his brow, looking over at you in confusion as he repeated himself. “I’ll come for you?”

You flash him with yet another wink, leaning just slightly towards him as you reached for your racket. “Yeah you will.”

You shrugged and gave him one more flash of your smile, before jogging onto court, and Jannik groaned as he registered where your amusement was coming from, shaking his head with a smile for what seemed like the dozenth time within the short break itself. 

He followed you onto court, stopping by you to bump your outstretched fist. As you split ways, you to the baseline and him to the net, he heard you call out one more thing before the umpire spoke. “Don’t worry, Jannik. You know I’ll come for you, too.”

And he knew how you must have been grinning without needing to look back, and you could somehow see his smile even as he crouched for your serve—catching that unmistakable, charmed shake of his head from behind. You were beginning to love the reactions he gave you, the reactions you could get out of him.

“Love all.” The umpire called out and, feeling warm and encouraged, you tucked the thoughts of Jannik away to the back of your mind, trusting that the harmony you’d been playing with so far would kick in as the set began. 

So you bounced the ball—once, then three more times—and started the second set with a blistering ace.

You gave the crowd a little wave as they roared in astonishment, catching Jannik’s approving glance back in your periphery as you moved on to the next serve without much fanfare—aiming to capitalize on the momentum the ace gave you.

That first serve seemed to set the tone for the rest of the match, because you two played even sharper than the first half. Every shift in position, every decision to poach or drop back or switch—it all landed, you made virtually no mistakes. The few errors that were made, either you or Jannik gracefully compensated for the other in an instant. And both of you were showcasing skills like never before. New ones, too.

Midway through the set, Jannik executed a perfect drop shot—one you recognized instantly as a direct lift from the lesson you’d walked him through that morning. The disguise was flawless, the touch feather-light, and it spun just out of reach of your opponents.

But it didn’t come easy. 

The point leading up to it was a war of attrition—twenty-plus shots deep, both pairs scrambling, countering, resetting. You’d retrieved a deep overhead with a lunging slice that barely made it over the net. He kept you in it with a stabbing half-volley that stunned even the crowd into silence. And just when it seemed like the rally would never break, Jannik saw an opening. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, disguised his grip perfectly, angling his wrist to execute the softest, most devastating drop shot you’d seen from him yet.

The ball bounced once, then died. Before either of the opponents could even run for it.

Gasps erupted across the stadium, followed immediately by deafening applause.

You turned toward him, already laughing in disbelief. He wore a stunned look of pride, half-shrugging like he couldn’t believe it either. You met him at the center with both hands raised. He lifted his own hands to clap against your palms, clasping his racket-free hand with yours after, leaning into you with a grin.

“Incredible shot, Jannik. Incredible.” 

“What can I say…” he started, flushed and a little breathless, “I had a good teacher.”

“You’re too humble.” You nudged him with your shoulder, after remembering to untangle your hand from his. “As much as I’d like to take full credit, that was all you… Okay, maybe eighty percent you.”

He huffed out a small, pleased laugh, and gave one last shake of his head before turning back toward the net. “Eighty percent?”

“Fine, sixty percent.” And, as he laughed again, still walking off, you reached out and tapped his butt with your racket when he passed you.

It was brief, done out of reflex and adrenaline—affectionate, playful, almost thoughtless—but the crowd didn’t miss it. When they whooped louder at the contact, delighted, you stilled a little, feeling sobered by their reaction. Too far?

You glanced back at Jannik, trying to read him—only to catch that the action only had him smiling wider, hand brushing over his mouth as he laughed, shoulders shaking with amusement.

And when he looked back at you, his smile was wide and real.

Your relief rushed in even quicker than the initial doubt did, easing into something softer when you caught yourself smiling back—bright and uncensored. You didn’t have to shrink or temper yourself—not for him, not on court, not anywhere. Jannik liked you as you were, and so could his fans. It wasn’t worth your worry, you reminded yourself as you readied yourself for one of the final few games of the match. 

It was the other side’s service game, you focused in as they bounced the ball before their serve. You leaned low between your knees, shifted to the side in a semi-open stance. Then the opponent tossed the ball for their serve—flat, fast, and stinging off their strings. With such power that it should have made you back up. Maybe before, you would have given space and played safe. But, here, you didn’t.

Instead, you stepped forward.

Everything slowed in your head. You could hear your own breath. Hear Chris’s voice echoing from earlier tournaments about absorbing pace. Hear Jannik’s voice from just that morning, his hands guiding your hips. You’re already there and doing it, he’d said, just snap faster.

You exhaled.

The ball shot towards you, but before the bounce could even peak, your body reacted. You rotated through your hips, stayed low, let the racket swing with the momentum.

The crack was immediate—startling. The ball launched off your strings like a cannon, low and blazing across the net. A return so fast, it seemed to render the opponents motionless. They barely twitched before it landed and bounced again, untouched.

The entire stadium took a second of silence before erupting in audible shock. 

You stayed frozen in your return stance, arm still extended, eyes wide. You hadn't even expected to strike the ball that hard, that well. But it just came to you. The pivot, the contact, the follow-through. It was a textbook forehand, exactly what Jannik had taught you that morning—your form near-exact to the correction he'd made hours ago.

When you looked toward him, he was already staring at you in awe, grinning wide, hands on his hips. You smiled back, before looking to your box to see your entire team on their feet, clapping.

You had to yell. “Come on!” 

“Yes!” Chris shouted, his full upper-body leaning off the barrier. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

You pointed your racket at him in celebration, giving him a dramatic salute, before throwing your arms up in exaggerated triumph. 

Impossibly, the crowd cheered even louder. You spun slowly to engage with the entirety of stands, one hand to your ear and the other beckoning the crowd, as you made your way towards Jannik. 

He was still watching you.

Not just looking, but watching. With a kind of heavy gaze that was quiet and wide and still. Like he was taking a full snapshot of you in that exact moment—vibrant, ferocious, alive—and imprinting it somewhere deep and permanent in his mind.

When you finally approached, he took your hand to shake it with almost laughable solemnity.

“I think that return was faster than the serve.” He said, voice earnest, no trace of any teasing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“All thanks to your demonstration earlier.” You laughed, stepping closer, enjoying the hushed moment with him even amidst the continuous applause. “All in the hips, right?”

“Right.” His eyes practically twinkled down at you when he chuckled. “Just like that.”

You laughed, pointing a finger at him, because now it was your turn to shake your head. He grinned as you bumped fists one more time. “Let’s finish with this power, yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s do it.” He nodded, before backing up towards the net once more. “Come on.”

“Forza.”

Every point seemed to build off the last, threading tighter and more assured. At 4–3, Jannik stretched into a full lunge to dig up a sharp angle volley. He was too far forward to cover the return, but you read the ball as it left the racket and sprinted across court just in time to send back the shot with a strong forehand. The shot landed just out of your opponent’s reach with a thud near the sideline.

You didn’t celebrate immediately—and Jannik just turned back and grinned at you, panting. “Thanks for the help—nice shot.”

You laughed, the sound quiet but bright. “You know I’ve got you.”

At 5–3, you took your time bouncing the ball before your serve, eyes flicking to his position in front you. He flashing fingers behind his back, and you called out an easy yeah just for him to hear—confirming his non-verbal plan. You served flat and fast, drawing the opponent’s return straight into his forehand zone. He met it mid-air with a well-placed swing volley, the ball just zipping past the net player’s shoulder.

The crowd exploded.

You jogged toward him, already smiling, and he met you halfway—his hand warm on the small of your back, murmuring praise and strategy back and forth.

“Okay, time to close this,” he said into your ear as you wrapped up your plan for the final game.

The last few points really spoke to your partnership, your team work. You both gave it your all, playing with instinct, aggression, and trust. You anticipated the angles before they unfolded, trusting his coverage behind you, and he trusted your reads at the net. You faked a poach to bait a lob, and he was already backing up to intercept it. You lunged and flicked your wrist for a short angled volley, and he followed it in to cover the middle.

At deuce, you both moved on the same breath. Your opponent fired a fast return down the middle, and both of you split your coverage—he cut left, you shifted right. The moment they made the next play, you shouted "yours" and Jannik pounced, slamming the ball into open space.

You turned with wide eyes and let out a sharp cheer, reaching your hand back without even looking. His palm met yours, and the sound of the strike cracked across the court. A current passed between you, though that was constant throughout the game. Thoughts understood with just a moment of eye contact, with every breath. It was almost like playing with a single mind split between two bodies. 

And the crowd continued to feel it. They rose with you, point after point, enthralled by the synchronicity.

At 30–15 in the final game, you two orchestrated one of your cleanest points yet. It started with a deliberately heavy return from you, high and spinning deep into the backhand corner. Jannik stepped in at the net, faking a dropshot that pulled the opposing net player out of position. The ball came back low, but you sliced it down the middle. Jannik rotated instantly, switching court sides with you like a sort of dance—graceful and precise. He got the short ball, angled it wide, and when the opponent’s desperate lob went sky high, you were already sprinting back to meet it.

Without needing to call for it, he peeled off to the opposite side, predicting your movement. He got out of the way just as you launched into a full-body overhead smash that rocketed down the line. The crowd lost it. Jannik turned, breathless and beaming, and held up both hands before waving them down as though he was bowing to you.

“Oh please,” You chuckled, knocking into him to block the motion. “I only got that thanks to your gift of a setup.”

He just shook his head and bumped your shoulder. “And you say I’m too humble.”

“We’re both saints, then,” you grinned, rolling your eyes but flushing with pride all the same.

Then at 40–15—match point—the crowd fell into that electric hush, the absence of noise somehow made the pulse thrum in your ears that much louder. Jannik served. You slid toward center. The return was aggressive, but you were already moving, already sensing where it would land.

Together, you closed it.

He sliced the angle of his wrist for a clean volley. You covered the opponent’s quick reply at the net, right beside him. He slid behind to cover you in the meantime, and dipped to drive a final backhand up the line—clean, perfect, final.

It was yours. The mixed doubles title. The two of you had done it.

​​But you and Jannik didn’t erupt right away. The final point so clean, the win so expected, that it almost didn’t make sense to celebrate with any sort of leaping or yelling—you turned to him, and he was already looking back. You smiled, tired and genuine, and just exchanged a slow, mutual exhale followed by a quiet nod.

"That’ll do," you said, voice light and warm, knocking your shoulder with his as you came together to walk towards the net.

He gave a quiet chuckle, nudging you back. "We make a good team."

You shook hands with your opponents, then the umpire, both interactions steady and respectful. Then, as you split off to your respective halves of the court, you looked to Jannik again—returning to court to receive the ongoing applause from the crowd.

Jannik waved up at his box, then his fans, before meeting your eyes with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I’m serious," he said quietly, leaning in. "We make a good team."

You laughed, your fingers curling into the soft, slightly damp sleeve of his shirt to pull him in. The hug was short, but firm. And entirely gratifying. Your arms looped loosely around his shoulders, his palm pressing to the center of your back. 

“I know, and I agree.” You said as you pulled away.

And then you both drifted from each other, engaging with different sides of the spectators. You raised your racket toward the spectators, clapping slowly onto the strings with your free hand, and Jannik did the same, the two of you phasing through the different angles of the onlookers. They responded in waves, cheers swelling, people rising from their seats. 

Your eyes met, across the court this time, and you each raised your racket once more, this time to each other. A moment just for each other, personal and genuine—a quiet kind of triumph that seemed to celebrate more than just your win on court.

---

The crowd was still roaring when the organizers ushered you and Jannik toward the podium hastily placed onto court. The gilded cup and plate gleamed beneath the midday sun atop it, and the press camera circled around, their shutters clicking in constant rhythm. You stepped up beside him, leaving your racket on the bench, the residual adrenaline of the match amplifying your every sensation.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with Jannik while the tournament organizer began their speech—thanking the sponsors, the arena, the fans. You tilted your head towards the speaker—actively listening, or trying to, at least. You nodded at the right times, smiled when prompted. But your awareness was split clean down the middle—he was standing so close.

Jannik’s elbow was brushing yours, you could feel how even the fresh jacket he changed into clung to his still-damp skin. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the flex of his hand as he curled his fingers of one hand into the clasp of his other. 

It was only when your opponents stepped forward to accept their trophy that you broke out of your state to applaud warmly for them. The organizer’s introduction was long over and you, having zoned out of most of it, now listened in for the runner-up speech. They both took turns speaking into the mic, and their voices rang proud despite being a little labored from exertion. They took their loss in stride, and spoke of it with humor.

"We really thought we’d have a better shot," one of them said with a playful shrug, glancing over at you and Jannik. "After watching their round before this and seeing the, uh… the discordance between these two, we figured there’d be a lot of openings for us to work with."

Chuckles rumbled through the stands, almost drowning out the tail-end of the player’s words and only settling down when the other teammate leaned toward the mic.

"Yeah, we thought we’d be able to fight back a little better. Especially after seeing you both literally collide with each other," she said, emphasizing the word with a joking look and the stands laughed along with her, "Today, we expected to take advantage of a little… confusion."

The crowd cracked up again. You felt your face warm as you chuckled along good-naturedly, hearing Jannik’s own, quiet laugh rumble beside you. The other player nodded, sending a smile towards you and Jannik before speaking.

"I don’t know what changed overnight,” The player said, entirely innocently, but you smirked and ducked your head slightly because your thoughts were anything but casual at the mention. “But you played completely in sync—which maybe surprised us, yes—but you both earned this win. Congratulations."

Polite applause followed and, as you clapped, you exchanged a look with Jannik, catching the slight crease at the corner of his mouth, the subtle twist of amusement written in his eyes. You then stepped forward to shake hands with the opposing team once more with a gracious smile and Jannik, who knew the pair better than you did, even hugged them both.

And then it was your turn, you came forward to receive the winner’s trophy together—your hands brushing Jannik's briefly at the base, fingers curling inward as the cameras flashed. You nodded at him to speak first, but he gestured for you to go ahead so you smiled at him and stepped up.

"It’s true. We, uh... we definitely didn’t make it easy on ourselves. You all saw as much yesterday," you began, drawing laughter already. "I mean, at least now I can say—" you glanced back at Jannik with a smirk, "—I can say I was on top of the World Number One, so… Sure, it wasn't in the most graceful way, but how many players can say that?"

The stadium howled and Jannik let out a small, bashful laugh beside you, shaking his head.

"So yeah, there were some slip-ups along the way—on the court, and with the press, too, yeah… But today," you continued, smile growing at the chuckles around you, "I’m proud of how we came out of that. We played some good tennis out there, and we played that way together. And, of course, a lot of that is thanks to our teams—Our coaches set this up to begin with, and I’d say I’m very happy with how it turned out." You nudged Jannik with your elbow, and he stepped up to the mic.

He cleared his throat, blinking down at you and then up at the crowd. "I think... we learned a lot from each other this week," he said, voice steady. "About skill and technical things, yes. She made me better at the net. I think I helped her a bit at the baseline… But also we learned a lot about rhythm… and about trust. We might have looked a little bit—a little bit rough, for sure, but it’s really been nothing but progress."

He looked back at you, taking a moment to smile when you nodded at him before continuing. “We have come to read each other, we get into good positions together. Always switching, knowing when to give control and take control. Even if your close, as a partner, it’s important to be able to pull out at the right moment—”

You had begun giggling behind the palm of your hand soon into his words, unable to help it. If he heard you, he’d ignored it and furthered on anyway, but now a wave of laughter from the crowd cut him off. By the time he looked over to you, smiling but lost, your shoulders were shaking with laughter.

He hummed in confusion towards you, but his voice still projected into the mic. "I’m not saying good things? They’re true, no?"

The laughter of the audience escalated at that. Your hand could only move your hand up to clutch your bridge of your now, and you shook your head amidst your amusement. When you finally dropped your hand to reveal your expression, face flushed but grinning uncontrollably, he narrowed his eyes. He knew that look.

You could see him replay his own words, and you saw right when it clicked.

His neck flushed red, the warmth creeping up to his face . He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck before apologizing into the mic, words sheepish but bubbling with mirth. "I—Sorry, guys." 

“I guess maybe my antics are contagious.” You quipped, quickly poking forward to say into the mic before stepping back again.

The crowd roared, and you laughed harder, doubling slightly when Jannik joined in again. He took a breath, rubbing a hand down his face, you heard a muffled o dio slip past his lips to himself as he tried to compose himself once more before trying to recover the speech.

“Thank you to the great fans and to my team, and the organizers. And our opponents for making such a good match.” He paused for a beat, glancing sideways at you, and his voice softened just slightly and the look he gave you  was so sincere that your lingering smile faltered a bit . "Also, I have to say, I feel lucky to play with one of the fiercest players of today—always playing so sharp and unpredictable. All fire. And, of course, I’m wishing her all the best later today in her semifinal."

You blinked, brows furrowing with emotion as you looked up at him. You had no words, moved by his genuine, public expression of praise and support, though the applause of the crowd would have drowned out whatever you had to say anyways. Instead you mouthed thank you towards him as he stepped back in line with you, and he just nodded with a small, knowing smile.

The cameras flashed around you as you both hoisted the trophy above your heads, smiling at eachother beneath it. The ceremony transitioned fully into the necessary photo-op then, the organizers herded you first into formation with the runners-up holding their sterling plate. The tournament staff flocked around you, the poses all practiced and easy, though your lips twitched a little wider every time you and Jannik leaned in to murmur something under your breaths.

You nudged his side lightly with your elbow as you stood shoulder to shoulder once the others dispersed and the photographers pulled you two aside for duo photos. Now you were both kneeling on the court, the cup set on the floor by the tournament's logo between you. "Good positions? Switching and taking control?... Pull out at the right moment? It's like you were following a erotic script, honestly.” 

“No dai… Che figura," He groaned to himself, before sneaking a glance at you. “So much for media training… and it took me so long to realize.”

“It’s okay,” you laughed, patting him with your hand that already rested on his back for the photos. “It’s only right we both have a foot-in-our-mouth moment.”

“Smile please, smile.” A photographer called out, no doubt needing to pause their burst of photos for Jannik’s regretful and pained expression.

“Sorry,” Jannik replied back to them, before continuing his conversation with you from behind his smile. “I didn’t mean it like that, obviously—it’s like everyone has their head in the wrong place. Hanno tutti la mente sporca…”

You couldn’t quite catch the last bit that he muttered in Italian to himself—they all have dirty minds, he’d said—but grinned all the same. “That’s what I said. Now you know how I feel.”

The photographers gestured for you to stand to your feet again, and Jannik shot you a look as he bent down to grab the trophy for you two. “You’re the worst one.”

“Hey—” You retorted and narrowed your eyes at him in jest, knowing that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

He stayed facing forward, but you could see his smile grow wider with amusement at the feeling of your stare. Your own lips pursed with an incoming laugh, but you had to peel your eyes back to the lenses at another prompt from the photographers for you to look forward and smile.

In front of you, one of them signalled to you both, rattling off quick instructions in his native language—no doubt suggesting another pose. You both stared at him, a little puzzled but trying to understand, before he waved a hand and switched to accented English. “Kiss, kiss.”

The photographer gestured between you two, as if to punctuate the request. Your eyes flicked to Jannik, not quite processing the context, and a smile teased at your lips when he met your eyes with equal bewilderment. “Uh…”

"The trophy—He wants you both to kiss the trophy!"

You both let out matching, breathy noises of understanding and everyone laughed at the deer-in-headlights moment. 

“Ah, yes. Okay.” Jannik smiled at his feet before shifting the trophy to be in between you, at your eye level.”

You nodded, chuckling a little before you both leaned forward and kissed opposite sides of the cup—flashbulbs went off in quick bursts, and then someone voiced that you’d done enough of that pose. When Jannik lowered the cup again, you both shook your heads at each other, sharing secret smiles once more.

Then your teams surrounded you, given the green light to join for a few shots. Chris clapped Jannik on the back with an exaggerated nod. "Beautiful dropshots," he said, eyes shining. "That one in the first set looked real familiar."

Jannik chuckled. "I just learned from the best."

Beside him, Darren and Simone both congratulated you with open arms.

"Your returns were ridiculous," Darren said. "I’m having a hard time believing you ever needed help on your baseline strokes."

Simone nodded. "I want to frame a still of that forehand."

You just laughed, a little overwhelmed by all the praise, but basking in it nonetheless. Everyone gathered in tight around the trophy for one wide shot—arms around shoulders, heads ducked into the same plane.

Through the smiling, Darren leaned slightly toward Chris and murmured, "Chris, we might have just orchestrated the best pairing to ever happen to tennis."

Chris chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "You’re not wrong."

Soon after, the photographers got all the shots they needed, and the organizers waved the court clear of most other personnel, leaving just the two of you behind. You and Jannik made your way toward the edge of the court, where the crowd had already begun to gather. Fans leaned over the rails, programs and giant tennis balls and visors outstretched in hopes of a signature.

You signed as many as you could, moving down the line beside Jannik, who nodded repeatedly in thanks, his autograph just as tidy and efficient in between posing for the occasional selfie. The two of you chatted quietly between fans, and with them—taking joint photos, exchanging light conversation as you signed.

But then your team caught your eye near the tunnel, Chris motioning subtly at his watch. You gave him a small nod before turning back to the remaining fans still holding things out, your smile apologetic.

"I’m so sorry," you told them, reaching out to sign one last cap. "I’ve got my semifinal soon—I have to go and prepare, but thank you all so much. Seriously."

There were good-natured groans, but mostly more cheers. You turned toward Jannik then, and your grin softened.

"Congrats again," you said, stepping in for another hug. It was brief and chaste, but the crowd collectively cooed at the gesture.

You laughed quietly into his shoulder, pulling out of the hug but stayed close, murmuring to him with a pointed look. "We’ll talk later?"

“Yes, of course.” He nodded, steady. “But don’t worry—you just focus on your match."

You smiled at him one more time—more than a little reassured by how easily he answered—before turning to jog to your team. He called out good luck after you, and gave him another wave, the cheers rising again as you disappeared out of the tunnel.

---

It was only a few hours later when you stepped back onto the court again—this time for your singles semifinal. Your first one ever. In fact, it had been a fair amount of tournaments since you’d even made it to quarter final rounds. There was something about this one that had you laying out all you had on court, it seemed.

You should’ve been tired. You anticipated crashing from the earlier high of winning, expecting the adrenaline from the finals with Jannik to wear out. But instead, it cooled off and transitioned into a productive calm and confidence.

So, as you stood at the baseline, ball in hand, scanning the crowd now gathering for the match, all you felt was ready.

More than that, even—for the first time, you felt complete.

This tournament had seen you every year of your pro career so far, and this time around had held some of your most thrilling wins laced with some of most hair-pulling errors. But something about the past week had undeniably changed the way you moved throughout the space. You felt sharper—more assured. Not just in your instincts, but in your presence. You'd been tested under a different kind of pressure, and instead of cracking—though you came very close—you'd expanded. Absorbed the impact, and learned.

Just as Chris had predicted, doubles had forced you into improving. It had done what endless drills or game planning couldn’t. You could feel it in the way you’d been made to adapt mid-match. React, without needing to overthink. To believe in your shots as they were happening, before they happened. 

That had come from playing alongside someone with rhythm and vision, someone who’s skills worked in tandem to your own. 

And now, standing across from one of the top seeds in the tournament—a player few expected you to take a single set from—you were hungry for more than just damage control.

You were here to win.

The first serve came hard. Your return came harder.

And then the match unfolded like a test of controlled chaos. From the start, your opponent tried to dictate pace with ruthless efficiency—striking hard, flat shots that skimmed the net and pinned you to the corners. But you absorbed them, letting your legs do the work, your core holding you steady as you stayed grounded, tethered to your intent.

At 2-2 in the first set, a thirty-shot rally unfurled like a merciless battle. You danced laterally, catching her inside-out forehands with crosscourt retrievals, then took over with a low-slice backhand that skipped just above her knees. She tried to fake you out with a surprise drop shot, but you’d already predicted it and you were there before she even moved forward. This return wasn’t particularly fast or hard—it didn’t have to be-–it was angled so tight that it kissed the very corner of the lines.

The crowd was up at their feet for that one. You gave them a twirl and tapped your tacket against your thigh, grinning wide, soaking in the energy before focusing back on the match.

Later, you drew her in with a deep looping forehand to her backhand, then lobbed her with feathery precision. She got there, barely, and you waited just long enough before wrong-footing her with a fake backhand and flicking a forehand the opposite way.

Your dropshots—already the most infamous ones on the tour—were working more in your favor than ever. Early in the set, you baited her wide with a backhand drive and then feathered one just over the net, so fine it rolled and died before she could even finish her sprint. You heard a gasp from the crowd before they even knew to applaud.

And now, you don't have to rely on light touches alone. You knew you could count on your other shots, too.

The very next point, you stepped in early on the return and rocketed a fast topspin off your forehand, inside-out, deep into the corner. The crowd thundered and you mimed a curtsy, before standing with a wink and a nod toward your team’s box. Chris shouted with approval, and you pumped your fist in his direction as you walked back to the baseline. Even your opponent paused longer than usual before resetting, as if stunned by the variation.

You continued to celebrate boldly. Pumping your fist. Yelling and twirling. Every time you hit something especially outrageous, you allowed yourself to let out a roar—and the crowd would join in with you.

The first set went to a tie break. Your chest heaved with every serve, sweat running down your back, but your head stayed in it despite the exhaustion. You countered three straight set points before finally clinching the set with a slicing forehand. Everyone watching was on the edge of their seats. You’d come far, sure, within this tournament itself—it was plain for everyone to see. The way you’d played with Jannik in the morning had proved you’d be able to hold your own with the top seed, but now you were winning.

There was no telling how long you could keep the lead, though. And the next set would be the most telling.

The second set was demanding, both you and your opponent weary from such a physical first one. She started hitting flatter, taking the ball earlier, pushing up into the court to steal time from you. You had to counter with everything—your footwork tightening, your court sense stretching to cover angles that seemed impossibly narrow. She served with venom, hitting her spots with expert precision. It was at this point that most players succumbed to her skill. But, somehow, you withstood it. 

You withstood it, and then some.

At 2-3, you played a deuce game that lasted nearly ten minutes. You saved four breakpoints. One with a drop shot that hugged the net, another with a backhand half-volley that skidded just over the line. On the final point, you chased down a short ball and flicked a forehand past her down the line, letting out a loud yell as the stadium erupted.

You scrambled for impossible lobs, chased lines, cracked flat returns with shoulder-loaded precision. And then the set was even, and you were matching the top seed at 4-4. 

She attacked your second serve with a blistering backhand return, stepping in to take time away. But you reacted instantly, blocking it back low and wide, then following it in—closing the net before she could reset. She tried to dip a passing shot around you, but you leaned left and knifed a sharp volley into the open court.

The crowd exploded.

“Come on!” You yelled, not holding back. You held a fist up toward your team before dropping your head back toward the sky. When you walked to your towel, you were still wearing a grin, a little breathless from the thrill.

You were still fighting back, and still winning.

At 5-5, she held two break points. You erased one with an ace out wide—your fastest serve of the match—then turned to the crowd with a dramatic bow, drawing laughter and cheers. Then came the next point, a return that caught the line by centimeters. She challenged and the crowd held its breath, so did you. The replay showed the ball just clipping the edge. You stood still, hand on your hip, heartbeat in your throat.

The call stood and the point was yours. You looked toward your box and pumped your fist.

She hadn’t come this close to losing all year, and you weren’t even in the top 20 yet—your opponent was rattled, and it showed. 

So you worked her corner to corner—match point was made up of a stunning rally made up of over twenty-four shots, most of them baseline drives that demanded precision on a knife’s edge. She tried to end it with a short-angle forehand. You sprinted, slid, got your racket just under it—and flicked the ball right by her. She lurched to return it, overextending as she slide, her back turned to the net. The ball came back your way, but it landed well out of the line…

And that was it. You’d won.

You fell back slightly on your heels, arms raised, chest heaving. But even as the crowd roared and your team jumped to their feet, you stood still, staring right by the baseline where the ball had just bounced out. Your breath caught—chest still heaving, limbs still braced for another point. For a second, you didn’t move. It didn’t feel real.

When it started to click, you let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a laugh. Your eyes flew wide, and you dropped your racquet, hands to your head as your mouth fell open. You staggered a step backward, overcome. And then, as the weight of the moment crashed over you, you spun once in a dramatic circle, threw both arms in the air and let out an exhilarated yell that echoed into the stands.

You’d done it.

You’d won, and it felt like the culmination of everything you'd been pushing toward. And, with all the improvements you’d made, it really felt like you earned it.

You earned your very first final.

---

The hours that followed your singles win passed in a blur of congratulatory handshakes, rapid-fire interviews, and many, tight hugs from everyone on your team. You moved from the court to cool-down, to press, answering the same questions with the same answers with a wide smile because, for once, you didn’t mind the repetition. You were in your first final. 

You hadn’t gotten tired of hearing that yet, of repeating it to yourself. You weren’t sure if you ever could.

Chris clapped you on the back every chance he got, often pulling you into his chest soon after. Your physio joked that you were banned from doing anything other than stretching and eating, and your trainer even agreed. You soaked in every comment, every cheer. It was the kind of dizzying joy that made your chest feel buoyant and your steps just a little lighter, like the ground had softened beneath your feet. Even as your body registered the exhaustion, the wear from two separate matches, your mind replayed the semi in vivid detail—the angles you'd carved, the points you’d clawed back, the crowd’s roar cresting with every bold shot. You tucked away all the missed opportunities in the match, forever remembering the errors more easily than the winners—you knew you and Chris would discuss areas for improvement at length soon. You knew to still be focused and grounded, yes. You wanted to start visualizing points for the final already, but decided that, for now, you should allow yourself to soak in the bliss of the achievement.

You carried that weightlessness through every moment after, floating on adrenaline and the unmistakable hum of pride. Because, above it all, more than any impressive shot you made, you felt uplifted with how you conducted yourself on court. You didn’t bother dulling your edges or softening your presence, and instead you doubled down on it—leaned into your instincts, your style, your voice. You felt like you won not in spite of your identity, but because of it. And, for that, you felt stronger. Fuller. The ache in your legs didn’t bother you—not when your head and heart were still spinning.

Your team was buzzing, too, matching your high. They’d planned a low-key dinner for you—and it was nothing heavy or fancy. Just enough to cap the big day and let you sleep early. You were laughing with them as you finally made it back to the hotel, still carrying your bag, having gone straight to eat after finishing up your obligations at the tournament facility.

And that’s when you saw Jannik again.

It seemed him and his team were leaving for dinner right as you and yours arrived back. Jannik was just outside the elevator bank, talking with Darren and Simone—smiling as soon he spotted you.

"There she is," Darren said first, clapping once. "Queen of comebacks."

"Incredible match," Simone added. "Great tennis."

You thanked them both, still flushing despite having heard the same sentiment dozens of times over already. They continued to share praise around you, relaying compliments to your team, and you listened idly—nodding and smiling along, your eyes flickering over to Jannik often. 

And his gaze never left you—face steady, intent. Darren and Simone clocked it instantly, and your team had noted your weighted silence from the get go; they all exchanged knowing. Chris, standing just behind you, smirked faintly and gave a barely-there shake of his head, like these two. Your physio turned just in time to catch your eyes returning to Jannik and bit back a grin.

Your team offered their own brief words of appreciation with Jannik’s, coming together with them and hanging back—giving the two of you space with a mutual, unspoken understanding. Darren and Simone shared a smug glance with Chris as you both noticeably took the opportunity to split from the group.  Quietly, the two teams peeled away even further, chatting amongst themselves and throwing the occasional not-so-subtle glance in your way, not that either of you noticed.

He walked you to the elevator, or you both sort of drifted in that direction, not rushing to get out any words. He just looked at you with that quiet clarity of his for a moment, and then smiled before saying, "Congrats. That game was just crazy.”

“Thank you, Jannik.” 

“That forehand in the tiebreak? And all the times the ball landed just a little bit in the line? I mean…” Jannik gestured the small margin by which your balls were in with his fingers, sucking in air through his teeth like wow. “And, the dropshots, of course—beautiful as always."

You blinked before chuckling, a little startled by the specificity. "Wow. You really watched, huh?"

“Of course.” He shrugged casually, like it was a given. "From start to end, of course."

“I—thank you." You ducked your head, flattered. "Really. That means a lot.”

Jannik smiled, shrugging once more, and there was a beat of silence. Not awkward, but full.

The elevator dinged behind you.

You glanced at the opening doors, then back to him, lifting your eyes. He waited quietly, sensing you had something to say and giving you time to get it out. "...I know you’ve got your semis tomorrow—and I’ve got the final still—but... I would really like to talk at some point… Because..."

You trailed off but his gaze held yours, only moving to hold the now-closing elevator open, patient as ever.

You shrugged, your lips curling ever so slightly, rushing the next bit out as fast as you could. "Well, because I think we’d work just as well off court as we do on it."

You held your hands up in mock-surrender. There, I said it, clear and light in your expression. A smile broke across his face—one that read like he knew what was coming, but that he was delighted all the same. He nodded once. "I agree."

You beamed at his words. “... Okay.”

"Okay…" he said, chuckling at how fast you brightened, leaning in just slightly before straightening when he saw your team approaching. "We’ll talk—but, for now, go rest. And good luck for the final."

"Yeah, I’ll see you." You said, biting down the full extent of your smile as you stepped away and into the elevator. “Good luck to you for tomorrow.”

He nodded again, bidding goodnight to you and your team as they filled the lift around you. When the doors closed, you were still giddy—unable to help your wide grin.

Chris threw an arm around your shoulders, nodding at your expression with an exaggerated squint. "You want to tell the rest of us what that was about?" he asked, already laughing with the rest of the team. "You look like you were about to float straight through the ceiling."

You shrugged, but your smile only deepened. “Can’t a girl exchange a few words with her doubles partner.”

“Oh, is that the cover we’re going with?” He chuckled, shaking his head and pushing you slightly. "Don’t ever forget I’m who got you the number one, okay?" 

You groaned, but your eyes sparkled. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

{{{

I fear, and also am excited to say, a Insinrection may be upon us. A sinvolution? Idk, neither of those quite work, but, all to say: What do you mean Jannik has a week before his ban is up, and all of a sudden he launches a girlfriend and a foundation for children. I mean those are the two greatest achievements any one man could ever have, I assume—beside being tennis number one, which… So yeah, be afraid. I am, and the ATP player should be and also I am so excited. Well not so much about the gf part but whatever.

Also, had a moment, because his new girlfriend allegedly went to the same uni as me, and I found that she follows my college landlord’s kid. Which feels like the most random connection ever, but like the fact that there’s any connection at all is just crazy to me. She prob was in the same year as them or something normal anyways, but my moment was me being like: Damn, we really can all be just a few degrees of separation from any given person. Crazy. 

Okay, also, back to the plot. Literally. This is technically the final part of In Sync. But I plan to expand on this specific pairing’s evolution in the future, I’ll put out more about that later. I really like this particular reader and you can prob tell by the way I lowkey write more about her herself than her with Jannik, whoops, and I’ve had a lot of you express the same. So, yes, I left it off on like an almost—mostly because only a week has technically passed since they met and that felt the most natural and right—but don’t fret, there will be more.

Does anyone read these post-fic notes? I can’t say for sure, but I do know I kinda go haywire in these so… And this one is especially long... it's been a while, okay Formatted with a new "bracketing" }}} --- {{{ system bc I was rereading a fic of mine and was like, wow I kind of bait readers into thinking there's more to the story but actually it's just a dump of my bullshit. So, I'm sorry if relevant info or story gets lost amidst all my other riveting? thoughts.

Anyways, here you are, the long-awaited part 3. Thanks for your endless patience!!!! xx

**Maybe some people can rely on Tumblr’s queue thing, but I simply am not the one. Prob def user error, but still. If you couldn’t already tell, this here is an addition I’m making after coming on here to see that my scheduled post did not in fact post. So sorry, because it was later than I said. Like for each time I said it, too there was many, hope you enjoyed though!!

Everything has changed

Jannik Sinner x Reader

Synopsis: You're the girl next door, foreign, and out of place. But you meet the red-headed boy from the house next to yours and changes your life.

a/n: 2/3 fics :p im so soo sorry for making u guys wait, tourney has been unforgiving and it's hard balancing activities hahaaa but yeah after my tournament i got to go to madrid and see matches happen in real time so yeah.. but i kinda wished jannik was playing, i miss him. BUTTT we get to see him again in a few weeks and i cannot wait for that. alright enough oversharing hope u enjoy this fic!!!🤍🤍

It all started when you moved to Italy. You were just a kid, barely twelve, when your family decided to make the move from your home country to Jannik’s small hometown of San Candido. At the time, it felt like an impossible adjustment, a different world filled with strange customs, a new language, and people who all seemed so far ahead in their lives. But there was one constant that kept you grounded: Jannik Sinner.

He was thirteen, just a year older than you, but he made everything feel easier. He was quiet, a little reserved, yet incredibly kind. His smile was rare but always genuine, and it seemed like he always knew how to make you feel at ease, even in the most foreign of settings. He spoke in his thick Italian accent, which at first was hard for you to understand, but soon enough, you’d learned his words as if they were your own.

The two of you were inseparable. Every afternoon, after school, you'd both ride your bikes through the winding streets, exploring the beautiful town together, laughing over things that seemed silly to everyone else. It wasn’t long before you realized you had developed an undeniable bond with Jannik. The friendship blossomed naturally, and you never thought twice about it, he was just the boy you grew up with. The boy who always made you feel like you belonged.

By the time you were sixteen, something in Jannik changed. You could feel it before he even said it, before you even understood it fully. You’d noticed the subtle shifts in the way he looked at you, the way his hand would brush yours when you walked side by side, the way his smile became a little warmer every time he saw you. The small things that shouldn’t have meant anything, yet they did. But you were too caught up in your own world, high school, your family, your plans, to pay much attention to it.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking,” Jannik said one evening, the two of you sitting on a grassy hill overlooking the town. He was staring at the sunset, but you could see the tension in his jaw, his lips pressed together like he had something heavy on his mind.

“About what?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, trying to read him. You could tell something was different in the way he spoke. It wasn’t the usual carefree Jannik who would joke around and tease you.

“I’ve been thinking about tennis,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure whether he should say it or not. “About how... I might want to take it seriously, go pro. You know, travel the world and all that.”

It wasn’t a surprise. He was already exceptional at tennis, the best player in town by far. You’d always known he had potential, but the weight of it hit you when he spoke those words aloud. He had always been so grounded, so humble about his talent, and now, you could see the pressure in his eyes.

"That’s... that’s really amazing, Jannik, you should go for it. I mean, whatever you feel like what works for you, you know?" you said, trying to sound as supportive as you could. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. The thought of him leaving, leaving everything behind, was too much to process.

His eyes flicked to you, reading your expression, shaking his head. “I’m not sure if I’m ready to leave here, though,” he said quietly, as though he were confessing something. “I don’t want to leave you.”

The way he said that made your heart race. You opened your mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you just nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. The moment stretched on, both of you sitting there in the silence, but the air was different now, charged with something unspoken. Something you didn’t know how to name, and neither did he.

But the day came, and Jannik left for the big leagues. It wasn’t a grand goodbye, just a quiet one. You clung to him, as if it was the last because this was the last you'd be having this. Having him. "I'll miss you." You'd say, swallowing the tears back. "I'll miss you even more," He'd press a kiss to your temple, and you'd pretend it meant something to him. Because it did to you, and maybe, it meant something to him too.

You watched him go, as he stepped onto the plane to begin his journey. And you stayed behind, your world still in San Candido, your heart feeling the loss more than you ever expected.

Years passed. You focused on your studies, diving into your work, pushing through medical school. You had dreams of becoming a doctor, helping athletes, but every now and then, Jannik’s face would flash in your mind. It wasn’t often, but it was enough for you to realize that part of you still held onto him, even from afar. You followed his career, of course. Everyone did. He became one of the best players in the world, and with every victory, you felt a mixture of pride and ache. He had become everything you had always known he could be. And as much as you tried to ignore it, you couldn’t deny that you missed him.

By the time you were twenty-four, you had finished your medical degree and started working as a sports doctor, focusing on athletes. The job was demanding, but it was everything you had ever wanted. And yet, no matter how busy you were, the thought of Jannik lingered at the edges of your thoughts. You had moved on, in a sense, built your life around your goals and your work. But Jannik’s absence, the loss of that connection, still weighed on you.

Then, one day, it happened.

You were working at the clinic, reviewing a new athlete’s file when you heard the familiar voice. At first, you thought you were imagining it. But when you looked up, there he was. Jannik Sinner, standing in the doorway of your office, wearing that familiar smile that sent a warm rush of nostalgia through your veins.

It took a moment for your brain to process it all. He had grown taller, his body more defined, his face sharper. But his eyes, those deep blue eyes, were still the same. They were the same eyes that had watched you grow up, the same eyes that held secrets in them when you were younger, when you were both too scared to admit what you had.

“Jannik?” You blinked, unsure if you were dreaming.

He chuckled, a low, familiar sound. “It’s really you. I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

The warmth in his voice made your heart flutter. You hadn’t realized how much you had missed it, missed him, until now. “What are you doing here?” you asked, standing up from behind your desk, suddenly feeling self-conscious in front of him.

“I’m here for a check-up,” he said with a shrug, as though it was no big deal. “You’re working as a doctor for athletes now, no?”

You nodded, trying to steady your breath. “Yeah, I’m actually the team doctor for some of the tennis players now.” You gestured to the seat across from you. “You can take a seat.”

Jannik did, sitting casually across from you, his posture relaxed as always. But even now, you noticed the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his eyes searched your face, like he was trying to figure something out. Something important.

“How’s everything?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but you couldn’t help the flutter in your chest. He was here. After all these years, he was here.

He smiled, and for a second, you swore you saw a flicker of something more than just friendship in his eyes. “It’s good. You look good, too. You’ve really grown up.”

You laughed softly, nervously. “Well, I did go to med school, so... there’s that.”

The conversation shifted easily from there, but beneath the surface, something had changed. You both had changed. Jannik, the young boy who had once been your best friend, had become a man. A man you couldn’t deny you still had feelings for. And as you talked about everything that had happened since you last saw each other, you realized something. Something that had been building for years. This wasn’t just a reunion. This was fate pulling you back together, as if it was always meant to be.

As Jannik stood to leave, he turned to you with a look that was both familiar and new. “It was good seeing you again,” he said, his smile lingering a little longer than necessary. “Maybe... we can catch up more? Off the clock?”

Your heart raced as you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. But you didn’t need to. His smile said everything.

And just like that, everything had changed.

In your orbit

Jannik Sinner x Model!Reader

Synopsis: Reader sets her eyes on someone. A certain red-head, tall athlete. She's only ever seen him in the ads, on TV. But tonight, reader is set to put him in her orbit.

a/n: helloo!! 1/3 of fics finished today! i had an amazing match, and i also didn't expect to advance through another round so updates may be a bit delayed :( but i write every time i get free time (if i'm not tired), so yeah! hope u enjoy this little blurb i have. i really tried my best, hope this isn't too cringe or clichè. as always, comments and asks are greatly appreciated! i love reading your feedbacks, don't be afraid to request! ♡

You step out of the car with the kind of practiced ease that comes from years on runways and in front of flashing lights. Silk clings to your hips like it was made for you. And it was. Archival Gucci, deep emerald, low at the back, dangerous at the slit. Your heels click against the rooftop tiles like punctuation marks. Eyes follow you. They always do, you learn to adapt to it quickly.

But you’re only looking for one. And you find him.

Jannik Sinner, parked near the edge of the bar like he doesn’t quite belong. Fingers curled around a glass, jacket unbuttoned, hair still slightly damp like he ran his hands through it just before stepping in. He’s speaking with someone. Doesn’t matter who, but his eyes cut sideways when you walk in.

Bam. Bullseye.

He watches you the way you’ve seen men stare at cars they can’t afford. Like touching would be a luxury. You smile like you don’t see it, but you do. You always do.

You wait until he’s done glancing, then head straight for him. No detours. No small talk.

“You’re taller in person,” you say when you stop beside him, tone light, amused, like you’re commenting on the weather. “Not that I’m surprised.” You say casually, a smile adorning your lips.

His brows lift just a little, a smirk twitching up to the side of his lips. “You knew who I was?”

“I’d have to be blind not to,” you reply smoothly. “You’re everywhere. Ads, matches, press. And on my Instagram explore page every time you so much as breathe.”

That gets a soft laugh out of him, quick and low. One that makes you bite your lip, but you conceal it with a smile. He looks down for a second, a little shy, brushing his hand along the back of his neck like he’s trying to hide the smile.

“Do you always open with flattery?” he asks, glancing back up, voice dipped in that unmistakable South Tyrolean lilt.

You shrug, eyes flicking to his collarbone peeking beneath the shirt. “Only when it’s true.”

There’s a beat where you don’t say anything. You just look at him. Let him feel the weight of your attention. It’s intentional. You know exactly what you’re doing.

“I follow you,” you add, sipping your drink. “On Instagram. Not, like, in a creepy way.”

He tilts his head slightly, watching you with narrowed eyes, amused. “No?”

“No,” you smile, leaning in, letting your perfume fill the space between you. “Though if I were going to stalk someone, I’d probably pick you.”

His ears flush pink.

It’s subtle, but you catch it. You always catch the small things, the way he shifts his stance, how he glances at the guys across the room, the way his thumb drags across the condensation on his glass like he needs something to do with his hands.

“I saw you earlier,” he murmurs. “Before you saw me. All the guys looking at you…”

You raise a brow, amused. “Jealous, Sinner?”

He hesitates. Just long enough.

You smirk. “It’s alright. I get it. I’d be jealous too.”

His expression flickers, like he wants to say something in Italian but bites it back.

You step in a little closer, like it’s natural, like you’re just adjusting your clutch, but your shoulder brushes his chest.

And he stiffens slightly.

“I saw your Rome match last month,” you say, casually now, eyes still on his. “You play like you’re chasing something.”

“I am,” he says, too quickly.

You blink, surprised at the sharpness, tilting your head. “Oh?”

“I play better when I want something.”

“Like?”

He looks down at you, quiet, his gaze dragging slow. “Like now.”

Oh.

Oh.

You chuckle, amused and smirking. You let the small silence settle before pulling your phone from your bag, licking your lips. Tap. Unlock. Hold it out.

He blinks, raising his brows in surprise. "Oh? What is this?"

“Put your number in.” You tap the phone casually, not breaking eye contact.

He stares for a second.

“C’mon,” you add. “I already follow you. Might as well make it official.” You smirk, tilting your head. You know exactly what you were doing, and it was working. Mamma Mia, it was making Jannik go feral.

His fingers skim yours as he takes it with an amused smirk. His skin’s warm, calloused but gentle hands, knuckles slightly pink from the drink. When he hands it back, your name is already saved on his phone.

You peek, another smirk plastered on your soft lips.

“You added a heart?” You quirk a brow.

“Accidentally,” he says, completely lying. His accent thickens for a second. Accidentally. Cute.

You laugh and shake your head, shameless. “Right.”

You send him a text before you even step back.

His phone buzzes.

When he reads it 'don’t be shy tonight, golden boy.' you watch his throat work as he swallows.

You turn to leave, giving him one last look over your shoulder. An innocent smile.

“Nice meeting you, Jannik.”

He’s still standing there when you disappear back into the crowd.

Orbiting.

Just like you planned.

today's mood

i literally have no time to write today, my tournament's on monday and training's been relentless. i have yet to finish 3 fics, but i just can't seem to find extra time to sit down and write.

maybe after my match i'll be able to finish these 3 fics but in the meantime, i guess you'll just have to wait.

so sorry to keep u guys waiting but i promise i'll finish and upload as soon as i can. 😭👊🏻

so for now, check out the other fics i published!

MASTERLIST

The Other Court

Jannik Sinner x Former Tennis Player!Reader

Summary: After a brutal injury ends reader's meteoric rise, she disappears from the sport. Until Jannik Sinner finds her years later in Rome, coaching a wildcard on the very courts that should've been hers. She's not the girl he used to chase, and he's not the boy she used to beat.

a/n: this is in jannik's pov

When they were fifteen, she always beat him to the court.

Morning sessions started at seven, but she’d already be through her first basket of serves by the time Jannik arrived, bag slung over one shoulder, curls still damp from a half-awake shower. She never looked up. Just tossed another ball in the air, fluid and easy, the lefty toss not quite textbook but undeniably hers. He recognized it in his sleep, that uncoiled whip of a swing, the sound it made when she timed it right: low, clean, final.

She was faster than him. Lighter on her feet. Her footwork was tighter, her hands quieter, her temper non-existent. Even when her backhand clipped the net cord and dropped out during match play, she never snapped a string or muttered under her breath. Just shook it off and walked to the other side like it didn’t bother her at all. It drove him crazy in the way that admiration sometimes does.

They trained together every summer at the academy in Bordighera, back when they were still juniors with secondhand rackets and parents who clapped a little too loudly. At first, she barely spoke to him. She was focused. The kind of focused that got under his skin, because it made him feel like he was still a kid playing catch-up. She hit with the older boys. Ran extra laps. Practiced double-handed on both sides, just in case she ever needed it.

"You're not trying to be good," Jannik told her once, wiping sweat off his chin during a break. "You're trying to be perfect."

She took a sip from her water bottle, eyes still on the court. "Trying to win."

And he remembered that. He remembered everything, actually. The way her braids would come loose halfway through drills, the neon pink tape on her wrist, the callus on her index finger from stringing her own rackets at the academy’s shed. She liked black strings and hated indoor courts. Said they made her feel like the air was too still. Trapped.

The first time they played a proper match, she double bageled him.

He was furious, but Jannik couldn't help it but to also admire her play. She was gracious as ever, light on her feet, the way she just floats across the court.

"You played well," she told him at the net, offering her hand, and he wanted to believe it wasn’t pity. Wanted to believe she meant it.

They weren’t friends exactly. But they were something. Rivals, maybe. Mirrors, sometimes. But Jannik couldn't help himself, he felt as if there was something threatening to bloom. And maybe she felt it too. He rose fast, but she rose faster. By seventeen, she had her name stitched on a Nike visor and a junior Grand Slam final under her belt. Reporters circled her like hawks. People talked about her with a kind of breathless expectation. "The next big thing", they said, like she wasn’t still a teenager trying to stay upright under the weight and pressure of it all.

And then came Roland Garros Juniors.

It was supposed to be her title. She’d made the semis look routine, dismantling the third seed in fifty-eight minutes on Court 7. Jannik watched from the top row, elbows on his knees, barely breathing when she hit a running forehand up the line that spun so hard it dropped on the baseline and skipped into the fence.

He never told her he watched. He never told her he skipped his own recovery session just to see her play.

The final was scheduled on Court Suzanne-Lenglen. It was hot that afternoon, the kind of Parisian heat that made the clay smoke beneath your soles. She started strong, holding serve at love. Jannik was in the stands again, this time in a proper seat, credentials hanging around his neck. He could see her clearly from the third row. The thin line between her brows as she bounced the ball, the way she reset after each point like she was erasing the last one.

In the second game of the second set, it happened.

She slid for a wide ball, that same smooth left-foot plant she’d done a thousand times before. But something went wrong. Her shoe caught. Her knee twisted. Her racket dropped to the ground a full second before the scream came.

It was sharp. Real.

Jannik stood before he realized it.

Trainers rushed in. The match was paused. She didn’t get up.

He watched her hold her leg like it might come apart in her hands. Watched the other girl cross the net hesitantly, not sure if she should celebrate or apologize. He watched her get stretchered off the court, face blank, mouth pressed shut like she was refusing to cry until the tunnel swallowed her whole.

And just like that, the golden girl disappeared.

There were whispers after. Surgeries, rehab. A press release about a "complicated tear." She withdrew from Wimbledon juniors. Then the US Open. Then silence. Her social media went dark. Her name stopped showing up in draw sheets.

The world moved on.

But Jannik didn’t. Not really.

Not when he won his first ATP title. Not when he cracked the Top 10. Not even when he stood on the Centre Court of a Slam final and someone in the front row wore a visor just like hers. Not even when held the World No. 1 title.

He still remembered the way she moved, the sound of her serve, the way she told him trying wasn’t enough.

He still remembered her, she haunted him. Always wondering she could be, if he would run into her during tournaments.

And then, years later, in Rome, she came back.

But not to play.

——

The clay was different in Rome. Deeper. More theatrical. Everything at the Foro Italico felt like it was made to be watched. The marble statues, the sunlit courts, the piazza where the press circled like bees. Jannik didn’t love the noise, but he’d learned how to move through it. Smile here. Interview there. Keep the routine intact.

It was just past four when he cut through the practice courts after media rounds, intending to duck back into the locker room. He kept his head down. Headphones in. Until something stopped him.

Not a sound. A posture.

He looked up. Court 5.

A junior wildcard was practicing, kid from Naples with a sharp slice and nerves too big for his frame. But Jannik’s eyes weren’t on the boy.

She was standing behind the baseline, sunglasses perched on her head, arms crossed, lips pressed together in the way she always did when she was watching. Really watching. Not just looking for errors, but timing. Effort. How much a player wanted it.

The same way she'd once looked at him.

She hadn't changed much. Older, maybe. Stronger in the shoulders. Her hair was different, tied back in a low knot, but the way she moved; that hadn’t changed. She stepped forward during a drill and mimed a motion to the kid, hips rotating, weight shifting, like she was still teaching her own body what to remember.

Jannik’s heart dropped somewhere low in his chest.

He waited until the rally ended before he called her name.

She turned before he finished saying it, and she smiles.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

“Hey,” she greets, in that soft, wry tone that hadn’t aged a day, God, Jannik could fall apart at the sound of her voice. “Didn’t expect to see you lurking around the junior courts.” she smirks, a hand on her hips.

“You never know where the real matches are,” he said, slow smile pulling at the edge of his mouth.

She laughed, quiet but genuine. “Still with the one-liners, eh?.”

“Still trying to impress you, is it working now?” he said before he could help it.

She raised an eyebrow, just stared whilst quirking a playful smile. “You used to do it by overhitting forehands. Am I right or wrong?”

“And you used to do it by destroying my serve.”

“I was fair,” she said. “Just better.”

He smiled again. Because it was true, and because it was good to hear her say it like she used to.

“How long have you been coaching?” He asks, trying to keep up the momentum of their conversation.

“Just started with him a few months ago.” She nodded toward the boy, who was now sipping from a bottle and wiping sweat off his chin like a pro. “He reminds me of you.” She looks at him with a look that Jannik couldn't quite read. Was it longing? Or something else? Jannik couldn't decipher.

“Red hair and sickly looking skin?” he offered.

“No,” she shook her head, laughing. “The way he hates to lose. And you never used to admit it, but it showed. Always trying to hit your way out of frustration. No one could tell you were frustrated, but I dd.”

He tilted his head, a small grin. “You used to smile when I did.”

“You were predictable,” she breathes out. “But not boring.”

There was a pause.

He looked at her again. Not past her. At her. At the hint of sunscreen on her nose, the fray of her old academy cap, the careful way she stood, like she still carried her injury in her bones, even if it didn’t show anymore.

“You ever think about playing again?” he asked.

She shook her head once, not unkindly. “Sometimes. When I’m stringing rackets. Or watching a late match. But I don’t miss the tour.”

“You miss competing,” he said.

She didn’t deny it.

He took a step closer to the fence, fingers curling around the wire like it might keep the moment still.

“I watched your Roland Garros final,” he said.

“I know,” she said, just above a whisper.

He blinked. “How?”

“You always sat in the third row,” she said, turning toward him. “Back then, at least.”

He let that settle. Let the honesty of it rise between them.

“Come watch my match tomorrow,” he said.

She smiled, then shook her head. “You’re not a junior anymore, Jannik. You don’t need me in your corner.”

“That’s not why I want you there.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked down, then back at him, eyes thoughtful, careful, familiar.

“Alright then,” she said, soft and certain, smirking.

“Alright.” He grins, and Jannik watches as she walks away from him and towards her protégé. Thinking, 'I found you.'

Come Back.. Be Here

Jannik Sinner x Reader

You and Jannik had a brief, intense off-season romance. It was never officially labeled, just two people gravitating toward each other in quiet moments, shared coffees, late-night hotel calls, and accidental hand touches. He told you goodbye at 4 a.m. before flying out for the season, right when you were just beginning to fall. Now, he's in New York. You're in London. The time difference stretches like a chasm, and you never realized how much he took with him until you turned around and he wasn’t there anymore.

a/n: hey guys! another fic because i got an idea when i listened to taylor. i might do alot of these, just writing fics when i listen to songs. anyway, hope u like this! here's a fic based on the song come back be here, it is sad so buckle up.

You said it in a simple way.

4:00 a.m. the second day.

How strange that I don't know you at all.

You remember the time exactly. 4:08 a.m.

The soft shuffle of his suitcase wheels against the hotel carpet. The muted zip of his jacket. The dim yellow glow of the hallway light spilling into the room as he stood by the door.

He looked at you with that same calm expression he always wore after matches: neutral, unreadable, but somehow still gentle.

“I’ll text when I land,” he said.

You nodded from the edge of the bed, legs crossed, sweatshirt drowning your frame. You wanted to say something meaningful, something about how those last few weeks had meant more to you than you’d admitted aloud. But your throat was tight, and you didn’t trust your voice.

So you smiled and nodded.

And said, “Don’t forget to stretch on the plane.”

He laughed softly. Then came over. Pressed a kiss to your forehead. One last kiss. And then he was gone.

You didn’t realize it would ache like this.

Stumbled through the long goodbye. Right when I was just about to fall.

You’d told yourself it was just a thing.

Two athletes in the same city for a few weeks. Two people who liked the same quiet cafes. Who stayed up too late watching old match footage on hotel TVs. Who held hands under tables but never talked about what it meant.

You didn’t realize how hard you’d fallen, until the moment he left.

Now, everything you do feels heavy with the absence of him. The mornings feel emptier. The coffee doesn’t taste the same. The Spotify playlist you made together? You can’t even open it. Not yet.

Not when he’s posting selfies in New York.

Not when he’s half a world away and looking fine, golden, laughing, thriving.

While you’re in London, breaking.

And this is when the feeling sinks in. I don't wanna miss you like this. Come back… be here.

You miss him at the oddest moments.

On the walk back from the gym, when your headphones shuffle to a song he showed you.

In the grocery store, when you pass the same flavor of energy bar he always grabbed.

At 2 a.m., when your apartment is quiet and you’re tired of pretending you didn’t care.

You do care.

You miss him like something vital, like oxygen.

And it hurts, because you never told him. And you should've told him to stay, you should've pulled him back to the hotel bed and begged for him to stay.

The delicate beginning rush. The feeling you can know so much Without knowing anything at all.

You knew how he took his espresso; no sugar, a little foam.

You knew the exact breath he took before his serve.

You knew he hated flying and always triple-checked his passport.

But you didn’t know his middle name.

Or who he called after winning a big match.

Or whether he wanted you to ask him to stay.

You knew enough to miss him. And not enough to hold onto him.

If I had known what I know now… I never would've played so nonchalant.

You’d told yourself to stay cool. Not to get attached.

You didn’t want to be the girl who caught feelings first.

But now, you wish you’d said something. Anything.

You wish you’d kissed him harder.

You wish you’d whispered “Don’t go.”

You wish you'd done something to make him stay.

Taxi cabs and busy streets, That never bring you back to me.

It’s been three weeks.

You’re in London. He’s in New York. Then Miami. Then somewhere in between.

You see clips of him doing press, hear the way fans chant his name.

You wonder if he ever scrolls back through your texts. If he watches that video of you two at the charity gala, the one where you’re laughing, leaning into him, like there’s no world outside the frame.

You wonder if he’s still wearing the bracelet you left behind. The navy one. The one he called your lucky charm.

You wonder if he thinks of you at all. You wonder if he misses you like you miss him, in the most grueling way.

This is falling in love in the cruelest way. This is falling for you when you are worlds away.

You go about your life. You train. You stretch. You smile for cameras.

But at night, it’s different. At night, you stop pretending.

You stare at your ceiling and whisper his name like a secret, like a prayer, like an oath.

You’re not sure why you do it.

You open your phone. Scroll up to your last message with a frown, a meme you sent him the night before he left. He replied with a laughing emoji and a "you’re ridiculous."

You type.

“New York doesn’t suit you.”

You pause. Your thumb hovers just above the send button.

Then, a second message:

“Come back.”

You hit send.

You turn off your phone.

You sleep.

And you dream of him standing in that hallway again. Except this time, he doesn’t leave.

And when it happens, you're ready to make him stay.

J. SINNER MASTERLIST

As much as I love gatekeeping my fics, I realize that the tennis community is in dire need of more Jannik Sinner fics. Here I come!

These are mostly self-indulgent. But hey, what's mine is yours.

Enjoy these works of mine, I hope you like them as much as I like them. Or not. haha!

I plan to write more of these, so look forward to more fics. Maybe about 2-3 business days, cause I've been such in a writing slump and it's horrendous.

Lights Out! – F1 Female Driver!Reader

One Love – Tennis Player!Reader

Come Back.. Be Here – Athlete!Reader (but it's not really prioritized in the fic), fic based on Taylor Swift's song

The Other Court – Former Tennis Player!Reader

In your orbit – Model!Reader

Everything has changed - Childhood fic (based off the song Everything Has Changed by Taylor)

One Love

Jannik Sinner x Tennis Player!Reader

Summary: You're WTA World No.1. He's ATP World No.1. Everyone assumes you'd hate each other; too competitive, too intense. And you did. At first. Until you were both stuck doing mixed-doubles promo for a sponsor in Rome. Until you got paired for a charity match. Until you accidentally won… and didn’t stop texting afterward.

a/n: i recently rewatched challengers today because i couldn't practice tennis today.. i got inspired. atleast i got something good out of a sprained ankle, i hope you guys like it! (im cooked i got a tournament next week)

You barely look at him as you step onto the court, eyes locked on the lines, the crowd murmuring qnd cheering in anticipation. It’s hard to ignore the tension in the air, everyone’s been waiting for this match. You and Jannik Sinner, the World No. 1 ATP, and the World No. 1 WTA, forced to team up for a mixed doubles charity event in Italy. How ironic is that?

The Nike kits cling to you both in a matching, almost absurdly coordinated way. You can feel his presence beside you. Sharp, composed, intense; but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. This is all for the sponsors, nothing more. You aren’t friends. Not now, not ever.

He’s the last person you’d choose to be paired with. You’ve fought on the court against him on practices, never yielding an inch. You know how competitive he is, how he thrives in the heat of rivalry. And yet, here you are, standing shoulder to shoulder, forced to play as a team against Aryna Sabalenka and Ben Shelton. The moment the ball is served, you’re both in motion, racing across the court with sharp precision, silently competing to outdo one another. Your hands brush as you both reach for the same shot. Your heart skips, your breath hitches, but you don’t acknowledge it. Not yet.

The crowd cheers as you win the first point, and you catch a glimpse of Jannik out of the corner of your eye. He smirks at you, just barely. You hate that smirk, that confidence. It’s too much like your own. You give him a half-hearted nod. "Nice shot," you mutter. He doesn’t respond, but his eyes linger on you a second too long, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air. There’s more between you now than just competition. A strange, undeniable chemistry. You try to shake it off, but the match is far from over, and neither of you is ready to stop playing.

You don’t expect it, that effortless rhythm. It’s like you’ve trained together for years, not met awkwardly thirty minutes before warm-up. Every crosscourt shot you angle, he’s already there, anticipating it like clockwork. You find yourself moving in sync with him, not because he tells you to, but because your body just knows. At one point, you catch his eye after a clean volley, and he gives you the smallest nod, that same unreadable expression he wears when he’s locked in during finals. It should be infuriating. Instead, it sparks something warm, something dangerous.

The crowd starts getting louder, caught up in the surprising electricity of your teamwork. You don’t even notice the scoreboard ticking upward, too focused on the way Jannik moves; fluid, precise, like a language your body suddenly understands. Aryna’s grin sharpens when she realizes you and Jannik are actually a threat, while Ben just shakes his head, laughing under his breath after another brutal rally. Still, no words pass between you and Jannik. Just glances. Just breathless seconds between points where you could swear he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. And maybe that’s safer. Because if either of you speaks, you’re not sure you’ll keep pretending this is just tennis.

A series of volleys, and backhands go by in a blur. You both won straight sets, now it's the final set. And the final point. And it's your turn to serve.

You bounce the ball, you toss it. And the ball leaves your racket with a clean, vicious snap. You know it’s good the moment it cuts through the air. Fast, flat, brutal. It kisses the service line, untouched. Ben doesn’t even move.

Silence, just for a beat. Then the umpire’s voice cuts through the tension:

“Game, Sinner and—”

Your name, sharp and clear.

The crowd erupts.

Jannik doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, really looks at you. Hus chest rising with the effort of the match, sweat clinging to his hairline. Then, in that quiet, charged pause before your teammates approach, before the photos, before the sponsor reps swarm in with cameras and high-fives, he reaches out. Not for a hug, not for show. Just a brief touch to your back. Warm. Grounding. The kind of thing you’re not supposed to feel anything from.

But you do. And judging by the way his fingers hesitate before falling away, so does he.

And for a second, you swear you could see his boyish smile, barely there, just enough to catch the light before he wipes it off, turning it into a quick flick of his towel against his forehead. But you saw it. Just for a moment.

You smirk at the thought, the coolness of his touch still lingering on your skin, even as you pat his back lightly. Your hand lingers a second too long, just enough for the feeling to settle between you before you turn away. It’s not much. Nothing serious. But it’s something. And it means a lot more than either of you will admit. You head up to the net, shaking hands with Shelton first, exhanging thank you's and congratulations', then Aryna. She raises an eyebrow, clearly aware of the dynamic she just witnessed.

“Nice teamwork, you two,” she says, voice dripping with amusement.

You return her smirk. “Same to you, Sabby.” Her hand feels solid in yours, a rival’s handshake, but you’re too caught up in the lingering heat of your own victory to care.

The umpire’s call fades into the background as you all exchange pleasantries, preparing for the obligatory PR photos. The media teams and sponsor representatives rush in, pushing cameras and microphones into your face. You’re forced into the carefully choreographed smiles, standing side by side with Jannik as the photographers capture what feels like an entire lifetime of perfect moments: smiles too tight, poses too polished. You keep your eyes steady, even when you feel his presence next to you, too close for comfort. You wonder if he’s feeling it too, the strange tension that lingers in the space between you.

The session drags on, but finally, it's over. You escape to your hotel, the silence of your room welcoming you as you collapse onto the bed. You scroll through your phone, your feed already buzzing with highlights from the match, the photos, the reposts. You share your own, a subtle but confident caption. The whole world knows you’ve won. The whole world knows you’ve had this strange, unspoken moment with Jannik on court. Your phone buzzes again, this time a message from an unexpected source: Jannik.

You hesitate for a moment before opening it.

“Good match today.”

It’s simple. It’s cold. But something in the way it’s worded makes your heart skip. Maybe it’s the timing. Maybe it’s the fact he’s reached out at all. You type back slowly, keeping it casual.

“Yeah, not bad for a forced teammate.”

The dots appear, then disappear. Then a reply, as brief and sharp as the last one:

“Not bad at all.”

And just like that, the door to something else creaks open.

Lights out!

jannik sinner x f1 alpine driver!reader

summary: you are the only female driver in the grid. on race day, you happen to cross paths with a certain red headed tennis player.

a/n: my first fic! english isn't my first language so apologies in advance if i made any errors. also, i tried my best to be non-f1 fan friendly haha

The paddock buzzes with race day tension. Mechanics rush past with tires stacked shoulder-high, engineers juggle data on tablets, and camera crews swarm like bees. The scent of gasoline and espresso clings to the air, warm with late-summer Italian sun. You barely notice the commotion anymore.

You're used to the glances. The stares. You're the only woman on the grid, the first in years. They don’t mean harm, most of them, but the weight of proving yourself has never really gone away. It’s carved into your pre-race rituals. The cold splash of water on your face, the mental visualization, the deep breath before pulling your race suit over your fireproofs.

“Y/N,” your race engineer’s voice crackles in your earpiece, breaking your focus. “Garage in ten. We’re running checks on the floor. Your left side looked off in FP3.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, and turn toward the Alpine hospitality suite to grab your bottle and gloves. That’s when you catch a flicker of ginger hair and sunglasses across the walkway. Someone tall, lean, relaxed in a way no one else is right now. Not a driver.

It’s Jannik Sinner.

You’ve seen his face before on TV, sports magazines, that tennis documentary Netflix pushed on you mid-flight. You don’t follow tennis religiously, but you know him. Italian golden boy. Calm. Sharp. Unapologetically good. And apparently, a massive Formula 1 fan. You’ve heard he’s been to a few races before, he even met some of the boys from Red Bull last year.

Right now, he’s talking to Oscar Piastri, who’s leaned casually against the McLaren garage wall, helmet tucked under one arm. They’re laughing about something, Jannik’s hand briefly clapping Oscar on the shoulder.

You march over, not because of Jannik, but because Oscar still owes you answers about that mess in qualifying yesterday.

You stop just in front of them, planting your hands on your hips. “Piastri,” you say, not looking at Jannik. “You got a minute?”

Oscar gives you that signature dry smirk. “Didn’t expect the Alpine missile this early.”

You roll your eyes. “You blocked me in sector two. Again.”

Before Oscar can respond with something cheeky, Jannik clears his throat lightly. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You finally meet his eyes. Your throat goes dry, and you don't know why.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “You’re the tennis guy.”

He laughs softly, polite. “That’s one way to put it. I’ve seen you race. Big fan.”

There’s no condescension in his tone. No posturing. Just a simple truth. For some reason, it disarms you more than any media-trained compliment ever has.

Oscar glances between you two, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. Now you’ve got Sinner rooting for Alpine.”

“Just this once,” Jannik says, grinning. “You two were brilliant in Spa. That overtake into Eau Rouge…”

He trails off, mimicking your steering motion with his hands.

You arch a brow, an amused smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t think tennis players watched F1 that closely.”

“Oh, I grew up watching. Used to pretend I was Alonso when I was a kid. Built my own track with soda cans in the backyard.” He chuckles, then pauses, shifting slightly. “You’ve got a shot today, right?”

You shrug. “If I survive Turn 1.”

“I’ll be watching,” he says, his voice a little quieter now.

Oscar nudges him. “She’s the real deal, mate. Don’t blink or you’ll miss her on the straight.”

You nod toward the garages. “I need to check in before the formation lap. But thanks for watching.”

You don’t say “nice to meet you.” You don’t shake his hand. The moment is small but electric, like the seconds before lights out. You only nod amd smile at him in appreciation before turning your back.

And as you walk away, you feel his eyes still on you.

———

Your heart is pounding so loud you can feel it in your neck.

Last lap.

The engine screams in your ears, and sweat drips down your temple beneath the helmet. You’re gripping the wheel so tight your knuckles are white. Your engineer’s voice crackles into your headset, calm but sharp.

“Last lap. You’re still holding second. Verstappen's only half a second ahead. You’ve got this.”

"Copy." You murmur.

The crowd is a blur; flags, flares, noise, just streaks of color around the circuit. You shift your focus back to the car ahead. Slipstreaming. Right behind. Just one chance.

You take a deep breath and throw the car down the inside at Turn 1. It’s risky. Brave. Clean.

You pull ahead, and before you know it, you're leading the race.

Your engineer screams in your ear: “Yes! You’re leading! Bring it home!”

You fly through the final few corners, barely blinking, barely breathing. This is what you trained for. This is everything.

As you come out of the final bend, the straight opens up before you—and then, just ahead, a figure waves the black and white checkered flag, signaling the race is over.

It’s Jannik.

He’s standing tall on the stand, waving the flag with a wide grin, hair a little messy from the wind, sunglasses forgotten in his hand. You don’t even know if he sees your car or recognizes that it’s you, but the moment feels electric.

You cross the finish line.

Winner.

You scream into the helmet. "LET'S GO! P1 BABY!" You roar in happiness, in disbelief.

“GREAT PACE! YOU DID IT!” your engineer roars. “P1! That’s a win! Take a slow lap, bring it in. You were unbelievable!”

The victory lap is a blur. Fans are on their feet. Your crew leans over the fences, cheering. You give a wave, still breathless. You can't stop cheering through the radio, turning the car into parc fermé.

By the time you pull into parc fermé, the spot where the top cars park post-race, you barely register the noise around you. You turn the engine off. The world goes quiet.

You climb onto your car, standing tall, fists pumping in the air. The crowd roars in response. You don’t take the helmet off yet. You just let the noise soak in, hands over your head. You jump off of the car, and head straight for your team. The noise is deafening, their happy cheers and chants as they celebrate this legendary win.

You did it.

———

Later, after the national anthem, after the champagne is sprayed and your race suit is soaked and sticky with victory and celebration, you make your way down the steps of the podium. You run your fingers through your hair. Hair stuck to your forehead, and wipe the sweat away with the back of your glove.

Jannik is waiting just off to the side, now wearing a pass around his neck and a smile that’s hard to miss.

“That was insane,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched a lot of races, but that finish-”

“You saw it?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“I waved the flag, remember? I had the best seat in the house.”

You chuckle, looking up at him. “You looked good up there.”

He gives you a modest shrug, but the blush on his cheeks betrays him. “I didn’t think you’d notice. You were kind of busy winning a race.”

You let the smile linger before tipping your head slightly.

“You coming to the afterparty?”

His brows lift slightly, as if surprised. “I didn’t think I was invited.”

You glance at him sideways, playful. “Well, consider this your invitation.”

There’s a beat. A pause in the chaos, the media, the photographers yelling for one last shot, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, sweaty and sunlit and still riding the high of the day.

He smiles and his eyes crinkle and you think you just might faint.

“Then I guess I’ll see you there.”