Atp Tennis - Blog Posts

Morning cuddle with big ben.

(Here is a little drabble since I cant finish my main one shot. :))

Ben had always been a very sleepy boy, so the noise of the alarm clock was so unbearable that it surprisingly managed to wake him up. The girl in his arms seemed to be awake for a while, and the expression on her face did not seem to be happy. She was trapped in her boyfriend's arms, unable to move, just listening to the horrible sound of the alarm clock that was placed on the bedside table that Ben's back was turned to, and the brunette's snoring that was destroying her ears. "What is that noise?" he mumbles, his voice hoarse and annoyed. "The alarm, Ben, it's been ringing for half an hour." "And why don't you turn it off?" The boy's sleepy, confused expression just made her roll her eyes, thinking what a fool her boyfriend was when he was asleep. "Maybe because you've got me trapped in your arms?" the moment she said that, Ben let her go immediately, but she didn't move to turn off the alarm, she ran to the bathroom, her bladder about to explode. "What are you…? ma'am your something." he frowned, confused by his girlfriend's movements. he reached for the clock to turn off the alarm and lay back down, waiting for her to come out of the bathroom. "You need to stop trapping me in your arms, Ben…" she said as she opened the bathroom door. "I almost pissed myself in there." Ben moves to give her some space in the bed as he laughs, she trapped in and lay at Ben's side, resting her head on his shoulder as he passed an arm around her waist. "Always so exaggerated, my love…" She and Ben lay in bed for a while longer, both very relaxed and rested from the busy night before. Ben had played a small local tennis match and then they had gone out to dinner, no matter how tired the boy was, he insisted on taking her out to dinner. They had only started dating a few months ago, but had been too reluctant to make it official due to Ben's busy schedule. What neither of them expected was the arrival of Ben's parents, as both had left the day before to celebrate a small family party that Ben had skipped, and according to Ben's parents' words, both were to return two days later, not the next morning as it was happening now. "Ben...what's that sound?" The boy's face seemed to have gone through every possible color, adrenaline started coursing through his veins and they both jumped out of the bed as if it was on fire. "my parents..." The girl's eyes widened like saucers, her hands began to tremble and her heart pounded in her chest. "what!?...but you said the wouldn't come until tomorrow!" she whispers loudly "I know, I know!...fuck...what do we do?" he turns to look at her, ironically, because the house was his and the parents were his, not hers. "why do you ask me that, shelton!? they are your parents!" To make matters worse, they were both half naked, but their heads were so full of panic that they couldn't even fix that. They only came out of their bubble when Ben's mother's voice echoed down the hall and Ben pushed the girl to hide under the bed. Ben's mother's face peeked through the door of Ben's room and the brunette sat on the bed trying to hide his nervousness. "Hey Mom…"

"Hey honey…im sorry we are this early but there were a lot of people at your aunt's house and your dad and I were so uncomfortable…" The girl under the bed did her best not to make any noise, even though the space was so small. "No, don't worry Mom…I'm glad you're both here" of course Ben's mother noticed the nervousness in her son's voice, and of course she had to ask. "Ben, is everything okay?…why do you seem so nervous?" "No, no, everything's fine, I just…I just woke up and…I had a bad dream," which is the worst excuse you can ever give someone."Oh honey…" Obviously Ben's mom was worried so she entered the room completely, she walked over to Ben and sat down right next to him. Ben's heart rate increased and all he could do was accept his mother's hug. "I'm fine Mom…you don't have to do this…" his voice was muffled and shaky, his girlfriend knew immediately that everything was fucked when she saw the other pair of feet along to Ben's.

So, in just one second, things got even worse: the girl under the bed made a wrong move and his head hit the wood of the bed, leaving only the evidence that someone was in the room. Ben tried to cover it up with a cough, but the damage was already done. "What was that?" "Nothing!" The look on Ben's mother's face was one of suspicion combined with a frown. "Ben…what was that noise?" she spoke slowly and treathningly. "Shit." was all Ben could say as a sneeze was heard…under the bed. "I'll give her 10 minutes to get dressed…and the same for you too." were his mother's words when she realized the real situation. the older woman walked out of the room downstairs and Ben just stayed sitting on the bed as his girlfriend crawled out from under the bed. "We're fucked, aren't we?" Ben just shakes his head and pulls her into his arms to calm her down. "It's okay baby…they'll understand, I'm sure they will" she rests her head on his shoulder as he caresses her hair. The ten minutes passed faster than the thought and they only start to move when Ben's mom's voice is heard again. "You two better get downstairs before I come and get you!" the couple immediately begin to dress with a deep blush and fear running through their veins. Ben's dad had an amused smile on his face as he watched the whole show, he knows his son perfectly.

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Note: hi! this is my first drabble posted and i got to confess that it take me more time than expected. I'm currently making a one shot, which I had planned from the beginning, but the plot got too long, so it won't be ready for now. I decided to make a small drabble to introduce myself and here it is.

ptsd: If you want to make any adaptation or translation, write me to the DM to ask for permission.

Little chef 🦊

I thought it was really cute, so I drew it😉

Also, congratulations to Carlos for winning the match🎉🎉

Thank you Louis Vuitton 🙏🙂‍↕️😭

Self-made Fedal merchandise💓🫶

Missing u like crazy 🥺😭😭😭😭

#cry my eyes out #roger can u come back #how do i live without u

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐭𝐫𝐲

Roger i miss u everyday😭😭😭

will forever remember how Roger’s face expression was changing over Rafa’s response 😢😭

I’ll wait for you.

Baby Carlitos 🥵🥵🥵

See even Toni Kroos agrees!

someday - i'll be able to let you go. (vortex - lizzie mcalpine)

jannik sinner second round roland garros 2023 roland garros final 2025 ao 2024

carlos alcaraz - final perspectives

- via @rolandgarros post on ig 06.09.25

jannik sinner inspired magazine page 📰

after all that we’ve been through, why do we have to be enemies?

carlos alcaraz wins the french open 2025

sincaraz, a heated rivalry 2022 / 2025

sincaraz parrallels - semifinals rg25 sinner v djokovic / musetti v alcaraz

Dear God x Ben Shelton

In-short: lovers-to-exes-to-fwb inspired by Dear God from Tate Mcrae (+ a little angst)

Word Count: 6k bc apparently i have too much free time

Warnings: NSFW

Noties: wrote this when the So Close To What album just dropped and i had Dear God on loop. ngl it feels weird to write about Ben now that he has launched his relationship lol, but i digress! i do this for the girlies and the gays.

the story is in 1st POV bc i can never write in 2nd. wattpad did numbers on my back in the day haha. first time writing in a long time, so pls enjoy and lemme know how you like it <3

Author: my twt is @hyunhocrumbs if you wanna be moots >.<

- Dear God - Ben Shelton -

“You’re really red now.”

Coming from the other side of the net, his voice has a hint of enthusiasm interlaced in it. Dear God. I let out an annoyed breath, while my doubles partner, Arthur, chuckled from the baseline.

European clay court season on a late May afternoon felt like an early summer. Our breath was ragged, footsteps heavy and what was supposed to be a simple hit session with two other players had turned into a full practice match. Arthur had insisted we hit with Taylor Townsend and Ben Shelton, although they weren’t even running for mixed doubles in Roland Garros that year.

So, we did, and it was fine. It was casual. Until I saw Ben and the way his eyes twiddled with amusement every time I had something to say. How he strolled into the court, curls bouncing on his head in the humid heat, and nonchalance rolling off his shoulders. How he flew these little playful comments my way and followed through with deep cross shots. 

To me, this was a simple hit session - clean footwork, clean shots. In and out. To him, it was entertainment, amusement, and even a little competition.

Normal baseline hits turned into strong, deep forehands. He was intentional in the way sent the ball flying, wanted to know how well I would take it. How competitive I could get with it.

Once I ignored it. Twice I entertained it. The third time around I let it fly past me and instead approached the net.

He was already grinning. “Sorry ma bad. Need a little break?”

It was funny how our partners were just there. However, I was the only one he was interested in talking with. “Thought this was going to be a hit session.”

Taylor asked if we wanted to switch it up a little. I could already see Arthur jumping in agreement. Ben’s brown eyes were fixed on mine, observing, anticipating. “C’mon, afraid of a little competition?”

Something about how he had said it, the playfulness resting on his tone. That smirk toying at the edge of his lips. It irked something in me.

A practice match has very low stakes. But I liked a good game.

“It’s on then.”

From there it was always on with him– bumping in the player’s lounge, his curls sticking to his forehead and a coy grin on his face when he would congratulate me on my win. The little smirks he threw here and there while passing on the corridor, playful comments about my game and how he could not stop staring when I was playing. The way he would purposefully lean in closer every time we were talking. How I could feel his breath on my cheeks and see his dazzling brown eyes up close playfully staring at me.

Ben made it so easy to like him. He was charming - so awfully charming that he had everyone wrapped around his little finger. He would flash them his gummy smile or his sassy smirk and people would swoon in a puddle. He was soft, witty, funny and so annoyingly aware of what he was doing.

He would joke I’m his lucky charm and manage to bring me up in interviews I was not even part of. Mid-game when I would raise my eyes to the crowd, it was his gaze that would always be following me. 

Ben would search for me right after his matches, head full of damp curls, and his arms still glistening in sweat. Mid-sentence, his shirt would come off and nothing could make me miss his smirk as he would catch my breath hitching.

“I watched your last set today.”

His toned arms would twist and flex as he searched in his bag. “Oh, yeah?”

I rolled my eyes. Dear God.

“Sorry, pretty hot out there.” He would say and not mean it in the slightest. He would look at me as if to let me know that he wanted me to see, wanting me to gauge at him, to play his game.

“You were playing like shit.” I would raise at him.

Pulling the new shirt over his head, he would flash me a mischievous grin. “Wanna give me some private lessons later then?”  

Before I knew it, we were having dinner, sneaking out of hotels late, calling until the sun met us again. I would watch him drown to sleep, his curls covering his features as they softened, exhausted from the intensive training. Watch him again flex his giant limbs lazily and flash me a witty grin in the morning.

He was ferociously flirty and such an incredible sight to see, it was impossible to deal with him. We would rush to one of our hotel rooms right after gym, mouths colliding and hands rushing to touch, to feel. Chuckles and giggles as he would struggle with my sports bra and then hoist me up easily.

Dear God, how I loved feeling his body pressed against mine, skin to skin. How Ben’s soft lips would find my neck, while his fingers trailed my chest to then hook under my knees. How he’d make me see stars like it came easy to him.

Always afterwards, he would hold me there, pressed against him. I’d smile at his silly jokes and tug at the silver chains resting against his chest just to make him go again, and again and again.

There was always breakfast with him, rushed warm hugs at the player’s lounge with him, late nights at masters’ events with him. Bustling through the cameras as we rushed to his car, dodging questions and comments from all sides. It was the way he’d kiss my shoulders and say goodnight. How he would cross continents on his free time just so he could say ‘I love you’ in real life.

A lot of people loved Ben, but at the end of the day, he would only come home to me. It felt addicting to have his smiles and grins all to myself - his soft teasing comments and his stupid dork moments. To have him obsessed with my scent, trailing behind me in everything I did.

“You look gorgeous today.” He’d say and lean it to capture my lips.

I would dodge, smiling at his failed attempt. He would release an exasperated sigh like it hurt him for me to even consider not allowing him a kiss.

“I’ll beat you today. Then, it’ll be more than a kiss that you owe me.” Always a game with him.

But no matter what, he was always there. I remember when I lost one of my biggest finals and how he held me as I could not stop shaking from crying. Roland Garros was supposed to be mine, my first grand slam victory coming home. Yet it slipped out of my grip, and I watched it happen. I couldn’t stop it.

I sat for the debrief, went to the team dinner, had a call with my parents even. I told them I was fine. They saw me angry and frustrated, but my composure was straight, my shoulders squared up and my chin high, unwavering.

Later that night, Ben found me curled up on my hotel room couch. Crouching in front of me, he reached out his hand to trace circles on my cheek. “Hey, love.” It was so soft, so delicate. His eyes knew, and that broke me.

“You can let go now. It’s just me.”

I did. The first tear fell down and then the other. They kept on coming, pouring violently down my face in streams. Ben hugged me tight in his chest, his hands caging me in as my body kept shaking. Pressing his lips against my temples, he let me have it and kept whispering sweet nothings into my ear as I poured out all my vulnerability.

When the crying and shaking stopped about 3 hours later, he had me still in his arms, drying away the tears with his thumb. All I could feel was the warmth of his solid body grounding me as his voice lulled me to sleep.

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That year’s Roland Garros changed everything. I started chasing another grand slam high, while his ego started dangerously brewing. Ben had more titles under his belt, he was getting greedier, his mindset shifting and his competitiveness growing.

There were fewer late-night calls then. Less joint practices. Sometimes I would not hear from him for days. But his charming voice would be all over social media, his laughter light-hearted, gum smile flashing at interviewers. After his matches, he would wink at the front rows filled with girls who adored him; get the crowds to scream his name.

It drove me crazy. Made me feel as if I had something to worry about.

“Didn’t think you’d be so jealous.” He said and I could almost swear to him this was just teasing.

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head and doing my best not to let my voice rise to levels I would regret. “You were out there forever.”

“I was just signing some stupid tennis balls.” Ben’s hands were already reaching for his tennis bag. His tone unfamiliarly dismissive.

“Well, you could have spent those stupid minutes with me.”

He sighed like this conversation was such a burden to him. “I can’t do this right now; I have to go to physio.”

I heard the door slamming before I could even concoct a retort for him. Ben loved to leave like that. Middle of the conversation, no accountability. Hitting balls was easier than facing responsibilities for him. I’d feel the walls caving in and a tear or two drop. It was exhausting.

He was everywhere on the news, on the court, in the lounges. Just not next to me.

But then he would come around apologising, saying how he would do better, try harder. For us. How his lips would search mine, teasingly at first, but then impatiently, intensely. As if eager to prove that he missed me so much, that he always thought of me. In the shower, in his car, on his bed - moaning my name.

He would pull his shirt off and suddenly I would forget how I cried for hours because he wasn’t there when I won. His lips would trail my neck, and my hands would find their place in between his curls to tug him even closer. As if it would make up for the distance that already existed between us

It grew. It only grew deeper and sharper. We started fighting more. He would lose and we wouldn’t speak for weeks. I would lose and he would be my first target. We would end up slamming the door in each other’s faces after the entire staff and tournament had heard us screaming.

“Can’t you just listen for a moment?” He was pacing in front of me, my legs hurting as I chased him down, the weight of my bags cutting my shoulder.

“I’m not a fucking kid.” Ben hissed.

“Well, fucking act like it then.”  

When he turned around, he was fuming. Chest rising rapidly, his eyes a fire so dangerous. His head dipped as he leaned close to me, and it took all my strength not to push him away.

“You will shut that pretty mouth up right now, Y/N. You’re not my fucking coach, so stop treating me like I’m one of your little projects.”

The door shook from Ben’s forceful impact. A few heads perked around the corner. I couldn’t even blame them for wanting to know. Hot tears streamed down my face and my cries were silent. Muted. I couldn’t even bring my feet to turn away and go somewhere to be alone in peace.

Always, after 15 minutes, he would unlock the door and leave it open so I could shamefully sly into our room. Late at night would be the only times I would feel him again. In all darkness, laying in bed. He would lie down, and I would pretend sleep had already taken me.

The mattress would dip, and his warm breath would send shivers down my spine. I hated it. A beat or two would pass in complete silence. Then I would hear him sigh and feel his lips press tenderly against the skin of my shoulder. I would wait for him to say anything, do anything. Instead, he would roll over, our backs facing each other to wake up to another day fighting.

Not even an ‘I’m sorry, goodnight’ anymore.

Then the Australian Open mixed doubles draw came. Our coaches thought we had a chance at winning. How cruel, to have your distance attempted to be fixed by forced proximity.

Practice started, yet we were still seeing each other less. It was all nerves, fumes, exhaustion. Day in and out. The season was brand new, yet we were already losing it. We would scream at each other like crazy and then fuck numb as if that would fix how fragile our team play was.

R1. Joint effort.

R2. We were tolerating.

The deeper into the draw, the more competitive we started getting. The easier he made it for me to pick at his mistakes, the easier I made it for him to pick apart my confidence. I would savour every moment we were at peace off the court, and that was not a lot – because despite playing doubles, I did not trust him to have my back anymore.

Quarters. We had a close call.

That evening there was no debrief. Just dreaded silence.

There were cameras everywhere on us. Not that they weren’t always, but now there was something special worth watching for them. Two young singles players geared up to make a run for a Grand Slam final. Ben and I were walking on eggshells.

Semis. We had two close calls.

His backhands were hitting the net one after the other. Double faults. He was playing with anger, and I could not tolerate it. I threw irritated glance after irritated glance at him. My volleys marked out. Higher court coverage and we would end up bumping. Moon balls. Dear God, could I not even trust him to play reliable tennis. We barely scraped the last set and yet no one was celebrating. 

Finals.

I breathed his cologne that morning when I walked into the bathroom. I usually let him shower alone now, but today I needed to prove myself something. Ben was lying in the tub, water hiding his body all the way to his chest. His arms spread on the edges, silver chains sticking around his neck. His features were soft, an unreadable expression resting on his face.

His eyes followed me as I closed the door behind and, for a moment, I forgot. The memories, the pain, the screams. The fact that we were aimlessly hunting for a gold trophy. It was just me and Ben. My old Ben.

Crouching next to the tub, I reached out to touch his shoulder.

“Hey there.”

Even now his voice would take my breath away. I stared at him just like I used to stare when he would bump into me on the lounge after my plays. When he would look at me with that stupid grin of his and flirted his way into my lunches and my dinners, my hotel room even.

I sat on my knees and my other hand reached under the water. His breath hitched when he felt me on him. When I started stroking him his eyes were on me. Up and down, feeling him twitch under my touch. His mouth parted a little, his tongue wetting his lips. I looked at Ben as his head leaned back and eyes darted from the ceiling at me.

I would feel him grow hard around my fingers, feel the blood coursing through his length as my pace grew. “God, Y/N.” How I loved it when my name rolled off his tongue like a prayer. He grabbed my other hand, burning my skin with his touch as he brought my fingers to his mouth.

Fuck, how I loved it when he was a mess. When we would do this more often when I would be inside the tub with him, and we would laugh and giggle as I struggled to place my knees somewhere comfortable. How he would look at me like I was the only thing that could fulfil him.

His breath was heavy, chest rising and falling at the pace of my strokes. His moans filling the damp air as with one last stroke, he chased his release with my hand wrapped still around him. Ben relaxed against the tub wall, his body disappearing further underwater. A beat skipped before he moved towards me and gave my shoulder a kiss. “Thank you love.”

He didn’t use to call me love anymore.

I smiled.

He thought this was for him. But this was for me. Because whatever happened on court that day, reminiscing about the past was more secure than worrying about whether we would even survive the future.

Later that night, we lost the Australian Open mixed doubles final. Ending our intense Grand Slam run and together with it, our relationship.

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Two years. In two years, a small knife can turn into a seething sword.

Training, practice, gym, sleep, repeat. There was something so refreshing when your most important point of focus became success.  

Photoshoots, campaigns, new friends.  I was no longer a new kid in the draw. I was a force to be reckoned with.

Porsche, Nike, Cartier.

Glittering image of a new star who cemented her place. Not sharper and reckless. But sharper and brighter. I played with confidence, having conquered the Australian Open a year before. Consistently being in the Top 5. It was ruthless but in a kind way. A motivating way.

I had more control, but less at the same time. Training intensely, practising hard. Then, fooling around. Sometimes.

Two years since the Australian Open mixed doubles final. Two years since I did not see his face, did not hear his voice. This was tennis, a small world, and we were bound to see each other. However, I made sure we wouldn’t.

No social media, no interviews about each other. I blocked not only him but his entire team. When Bryan would walk the corridors, I would only greet and change my way. He understood. There were no mutual friends' hangouts, no funny jokes about getting us back together.

There was no accidental sight in the player’s lounge, at the player’s gym or during hit practice either. My team made sure we wouldn’t even cross paths outside of arenas; far apart hotels, private dinners, and separate transport. The only thing I could not control was the draw. Yet, we found a way to also make that work. Scarcer doubles, and pull-outs when we would be in his and his partner’s quarter. 

He left my life. Yet, we still breathed the same air, and I hated it.

I hated that sometimes his image would burn into the back of my head. How I would curl up after losses and I would wish, even for a little bit, that he was there. How I would sit and think about how he looked now. How his kisses would feel now.

It took only a split second of distraction. Two years and I made no mistakes. One thoughtless decision and we were standing on opposite sides of the net at the US Open mixed doubles semi-final. My team saw us on opposing sides of the draw. We didn’t give it a second thought. There was no way he would make it that far.

But one thing about Ben is that that lucky bastard can crawl his way up in incredibly disadvantageous situations. Next thing I knew, it was afternoon in New York, and I was preparing to return his serve.

I tried not to stare. Not to seem taken aback by how much he had changed. How he had grown bigger, stronger. His shoulders lean and sculpted. His black ON shirt clung to his figure for life, emphasising his every curve, every muscle. His legs moved at a speed I had never seen before.

Ben would hit his cross forehand with a precision that made it hard to even reach for a return. My backhand was spectacular, but he knew how to go deep and fast on a new level. He had gotten quicker, swifter, more intelligent and more precise.

While I was too busy reminiscing the old Ben, this Ben in front of me was hitting winners like it was his pastime. I could not read him. But I decided I didn’t need to. On the second set, Carlos and I started advancing with confidence. While Ben’s forehand might have gotten sharper, so did my backhand and my drop shots.

He would cross and I would return with equal loathing. Carlos would volley back to Iga and we would go into long, intense volley-rallies like psychos. Crazy shots and crazier saves. Push and pull. Running cross-court like every point was a match point for all of us.

The game lasted 2h and 49 min. Three sets, all three tiebreakers. By the end of it, all four of us were breathing like madmen.

Carlos was sprawled on the court floor, while I was resting my forehead on my racket, barely being able to focus. Sweat dripped from my forehead as I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. On the other side of the court, Ben and Iga were equally exasperated. Both panting as they hugged each other for the last time on their run.

Carlos and I had scraped the victory narrowly.

The crowds were roaring. This was tennis, this was fire and passion and high-level performance.

Carlos got up and I followed his suit to the net. I hugged Iga, still unable to regulate my breathing. She had been phenomenal. Carlos then reached for her, and I went behind him. It had been 2 years. I could be civil. I had to be civil.

I looked up at him with my face burning, and my heartbeat drummed in my ears again. Dear God, how much he had changed. Ben’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his cheeks red and his damp curls sticking all over his forehead. When we shook hands, his fingers brushed against my wrist.

His eyes lingered on me for a second too long. Why was he always like this?

Carlos and I waved at the crowd and approached the interviewer. My eyes were on the camera, yet my mind was holding on to the image of the man I was meeting for the first time in two years. I could only hope his eyes were lingering on me too.

But the adrenaline of the match did not stop there. We had played like crazy, given it our all. I was on the bike, yet I felt like I could go another time. My heart was pounding, my thoughts were racing. Cross backhand, then drop-shot. Carlos’  volleys. Iga’s dunk. Neutral rally. My backhand again.

Ben’s forehand. Ben’s arms. Ben’s curls. Ben’s lips. Volley. Volley. Volley.

I cursed under my breath. Fuck. I was going too fast even on the bike. When we went back to change and debrief, my legs were still restless, my mind still racing, my feet still pacing. My blood was coursing through my veins like I was running in the woods.

I made my way to the players’ lounge for dinner. Another thoughtless decision. He was there - of course, he was there. Sitting next to Iga and across from his team. His hair was still wet from the shower. Someone must have said a joke as he threw his head back grinning.

The morning of the Australian Open mixed doubles finals ran through my brain. Dear God!

Our last time together, and the first time I craved him like a crazy woman.

I was staring at him like a hawk, yet he didn’t even bother to spare me a thought. I even walked directly next to him to get to the food line, yet he did nothing. Didn’t stare, didn’t look. Didn’t even turn his head.

My legs sped past his table. I didn’t hear his breath get caught up like mine did. I didn’t even know what I needed from him - to look at me, to acknowledge me? To tell me he sent all those forehands my way with persistence because he wanted to prove a point?!

It felt infuriating to be upped by a man who did not spare me two cents of his undivided attention.

Back to the hotel corridor, my mind was racing. I was sprinting to my room. Struggling to get rid of this feeling, of this match. I needed to rest. I need to forget this. Pump this out. I had a final coming up and I was going to win it.

Until I saw him. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall next to my room. The dim lights cast shadows on his face as he played with his feet. I stopped dead in my tracks near him. It was 11 pm. Why was he here? 

He was biting his lip as he looked up at me and it took me a second to gather myself. I began walking past him while he silently followed me with his eyes as I made my way to my door.

“Hey.”

I stopped. 11 pm after our mixed doubles semis match. 11 pm after nearly 3h of hell. My heartbeat was up in my ears again. My thoughts were racing like a tornado. One thoughtless decision and we were on opposite sides of the net. One thoughtless decision and he was at my door at 11 pm.

I swallowed and looked up at him. How his shoulders had widened, how his jaw had sharpened, his lower fade and his curls pouring over his forehead.

“Ben…”

His fingers circled against my wrist. The way they did at the end of the match. His eyes lingered on my face and then on my lips. My eyes darted to his silver chains, to the way his chest rose and fell. To his eyes, searching - thinking of a way to stop this.

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeats.

What’s one more thoughtless decision?

His lips crashed down on me. My back hit the door. At first, his kisses were lingering, full but tentative. As if searching to make sure I was here for them, the way he was here for me. He was barely doing anything, and I was already suffocating. My hands reached for his silver chains, and I tugged at them urging him closer.

It sent him feral.

His kisses were not caressing anymore. They were devouring. He was aggressive and confident and rough. Just like he had been on court today. Ben kissed me like I was his last breath, like he had meant it for a long time. His hands were already everywhere, touching, grabbing with intensity. My eyes fluttered shut, my heartbeat rising to my ears again as I could feel the adrenaline pumping through me.

Two years and this man was starving.

We barely made it to my bed before both of us were stark naked. My back tattoo flashed in the mirror, and I knew his eyes caught it. I knew he would love it, would go crazy for it. He traced it with his fingers, his touch burning every single piece of my body like it was hell. I savoured the sight of him like I would no longer see the light of day. 

There was no fiddling, no giggling. Just pure commitment to this. To this bit, to burning whatever this was off.

Dear God, how much I had craved this Ben.  

The one whose lips touched in all the right places. The one whose movements were fuelled, demanding. Hands pushing my thighs apart without a doubt that this is what I wanted. His hot mouth leaving bite marks up my tits and my neck. His breathy grunts filled my ears as my nails dug into his back to pull him impossibly closer.

It was maddening. Whatever this was that we were getting off our chest, whatever we couldn’t say out loud, it was excruciating. Pushing us further, deeper. Dear God, I didn’t want him to stop.

He fucked like a man now. His body all muscle, hard like an anchor. He made me see stars. Fucked me until I went numb. Fucked me like he meant every single thrust.

In. Out.

In. Out

In. “Ben!”

Out. “Oh, fuck, like that yeah.”

Then, we did it again the next day after I won the final. And the tournament after that. And the one after that.

It became our new routine. No commitment, no complications. Just the man I used to be in love with buried deep inside me every now and then. Then, silence. Radio silence. Then he would reach out again. Sex on his car. Sex on my shower.

God knows, I left Christianity a long time ago, but he’d bring me to my knees in one breath.

How I would milk him dry. How he would breathe against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “You take me so good.”

How he would fit in me like he belonged there.

How Ben would go down on me in the middle of the room, let me ride his face until I could take it no more. His pace would tear me to pieces. Stronger. Rougher. Deeper. How he would press his hand against my lower belly while I took him just so he could feel himself in me. 

His name would roll off my tongue like a charm. My name would hitch in his breath like a curse. Dear God, how I hated to admit that I missed him like this. I liked him like this. When he was in between my legs, in the locker room, and we’d grunt as I took him full. When we would sneak out so I could feel his lips on mine. It was almost fun.

No love and it was almost working.

Almost.

Because at times, I’d fall asleep to the warmth of his chest and his arms wrapped around me, and wake up to the coldness of the reality that he was not mine. That this was a temporary fixture. Two athletes pumping out adrenaline. It was convenient.

Yet when he’d stay, I would be lying if I said a part of me was a little bit happier. He’d kiss my forehead like it was second nature and cook us breakfast because now he was not so terrible at it. We would joke around, fool around. I’d even wear his shirts again.

He’d flirt his way into my bed as if I wasn’t already waiting for him to consume me.

No one knew. No one needed to know. There were no cameras because this was no longer a love story. This was meant for the backstage, for the locker room where we would sweat it out, high on the adrenaline of getting caught.

In the player’s lounge, we would not even spare a glance at each other. Tables apart, separate entries and exits. No interactions, no unnecessary shared spaces. I hated him in public and moaned his name in private.

No love, and it was almost working.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the new season started, our old habits stayed. It was hotel room after hotel room. Silence. Sneaking out. But now, there was not just sex. I’d run to Ben whenever things became too much. He’d hide in my arms whenever his losses would weigh his shoulders down.

It became intoxicating, how I would wait for him to show up and wish for him to stay after - stay longer. This was convenience, yet I conveniently wanted him next to me at all times. “No one else makes me feel like this.” He’d whisper into my hair, and I would almost believe him.

It was fine.

Apart from when I would see his face plastered on social media with a new girl he was talking to. Flirting with, charming his way into whatever he wanted with her. It was fine. Apart from the drop in my stomach - how I felt a little sick, a little pissed, and a lot of anger.

So much for someone who wasn’t even mine.

Later when he’d show up to my room, it was ice waiting for him. “Not tonight, I’m not in the mood.”

Ben would raise an eyebrow. Rolling the leather jacket off his shoulders, he’d approach my bed in slow strides. “Is that so?”

I would barely look up from my phone from where I was sitting. “Thought you had company tonight.”

He would smirk, his eyes glinting with confidence. His hands would snake around my bare legs while his lips left an unforgiving trail up my thighs. Slow, measured, tempting. It would stop right before it reached my core. Ben would rest his face in between my legs and look up. “You know…in you is the only place I belong.”

Fuck him. It was the way he would say it, with such ease, with that raspy breath and glinting playful eyes.

“Then show me.”

It was all he always needed. He’d take me like he was starved. Put my panties away and eat me until my body was shaking. I’d fist his pretty curls, and his name would roll off my tongue like a prayer.

After Miami Open that year, we didn’t see each other for long. No sight of him with only a towel, water droplets decorating his glazed skin and tight pecks. Couldn’t feel his back muscles flexing at my every touch. His shoulder was not there for me to cry on when I felt exhausted. His lips could not soothe my nerves away.

It was fine. It didn’t matter. That he wasn’t calling or texting. Radio silence was usual for us.

“You look like you’re about to scream.” My physio said handing me a bottle full of electrolytes.

“I am not?!” I scoffed at her while downing the liquid all at once, almost too fast.

She shook her head. “Has that boy still not texted you yet?”

I shrugged, maintaining a calm expression. “Does it matter?”

“Y/N, do you miss him?”

“What?”

She was looking straight at me. “I said do you miss him? Because last time you told me this was not serious.”

“It’s not.” I answered almost too quickly.

My physio did not seem convinced. I did not like where this was going with her. “Yet, here you are checking your phone every 5 minutes. Make sure that boy does not ruffle your feathers too much.”

“He doesn’t, don’t worry.” I smiled, tight-lipped.

I didn’t miss him. My brain was simply just burning with the memory of us pressed together, his lips smiling against mine. How he’d use to whisper sweet nothings into my ear for me to fall asleep. The faint smell of cologne that Ben would spray right after a shower.

Dear God, I hope it ain’t him I’m missing. Just his body and his touch and his voice. It hadn’t even been that long since…

Strong arms wrapped around me, and I felt the notes of cedarwood in the air. “Hey, baby.”

Fuck.

Dear God, I hope you’re listening.

As a gift to everyone waiting for the next chapter of The Deal (which I promise is coming) I wrote Carlos smut about Roland Garros…you’re welcome? It’s here 🫣

WIDE AWAKE || CA

summary: Carlos Alcaraz survived a gruelling five-setter to win his second Roland Garros title, he should be exhausted, but suddenly he has more energy and a few ideas on how to celebrate.

warning: smut, diabolical smut, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

a/n: He won. From two sets down. Three championship points saved. I've never been so in love. So a gift to everyone...Carlos x Roland Garros smut

Your hands were shaking. The heat in Paris had quickly faded with the afternoon, instead making way for a gruelling chill which left everyone around you to put on layers and pull out blankets.

But you were sweating. Every nerve ending over your body was alight, and every serve, rally and drop shot had you catching your breath.

Carlos was losing. The first set had been slow, but it was a decisive win from Jannik. The second, Carlos clawed back. No doubt the state that he'd never won from two sets down racing through his mind.

But it wasn't enough. After a painful tie-break, Jannik took the second set and Carlos was looking at a long and hard fight to taking back to back Roland Garros titles.

You were sat behind Juan Carlos, next to his parents. This was only your second slam, sat in Carlos' box, but it was your first final. Carlos glanced over between points, a quiet 'vamos' leaving his lips with each point won and soft murmurs to himself when he conceded.

You tried to conceal the diabolical nerves on your face throughout the match, putting on a beaming smile every time you caught your boyfriend's eye.

Then he won a set. The dream was alive again, and you watched as the energy shifted in the box. Juan Carlos sat up and alongside his parents you stood and cheered when hit the winner in the third set. But it was far from over.

Three championship points. Jannik had three championship points standing between him and a first Roland Garros title. But Carlos wasn't ready to give up.

Your chest was tight, the silence in the arena was suffocating. You were scared even to breath.

One championship point saved.

A sigh of relief, and cheers from the crowd.

A second championship point saved.

Waves of Carlos' name flooded the air, a soft grin making its way onto your face.

A third championship point saved.

He lived. The entire audience erupted, and you couldn't help but join them. On your feet, clapping for your boyfriend as if it would push him to the end of the match.

He looked up and grinned, his smile sending flutters to your stomach. He could do it, He nodded with his arm up and you both knew, this was his game now.

It wasn't easy from there, far from it. Dragging the final set to a tie-break.

A mini break. Carlos' mum grabbed your hand, her gaze a silent support as you both held your breath.

Carlos moved across the court like it was subconscious, like it would be more unnatural for him to stand still than hitting shots other players could only dream of.

9-2

You whispered prayers to gods you didn't believe in as Carlos dove on the court, reaching the ball like it was oxygen.

10-2. The crowd erupted and Carlos fell to the floor. Five and a half hours. Doing what the Spaniard had never done before, coming from two sets down to win his fifth grand slam title.

You jumped to your feet, immediately wrapped in the arms of his parents and brothers, jumping up and down as if it was you who had won the title.

You turned back to the court, Carlos eyes gleaming at his box, the smile on his face so large it looked like it might tear his cheeks.

Your hands covered your mouth, laughing with disbelief at the match you'd just watch, and only as your hands grazed your cheeks did you notice you'd been crying.

Tears were streaming down your face, blurring the sight of your boyfriend disappearing into the tunnel to come see his family. To come see you.

The second he emerged, Juan Carlos had him in his arms, your boyfriend folding into his coach as they jumped, both men unable to hide just how much this meant to them.

Carlos fell from JC's arms and turned to his family and team, each member being wrapped in a hug. Then his gaze set on you.

Your tears were still falling when his arms fell around your waist, lifting you into his arms. Your hands cupped his face, pressing your forehead to his. "You did it. My god, you really did it."

He captured your lips in a suffocating kiss, his arms lowering you to the ground to find purchase on your neck. True to Carlos, his tongue slipped against yours, deepening the kiss and pulling a groan from both you and the Spaniard.

The crowed yelled around you, and you pulled away reluctantly from Carlos, a smile still stuck on your face. Just as you went to pull away from the Spaniard, he seized your lips for one final kiss. "Te amo" [I love you]

Carlos lasted half a millisecond once he stepped away from you before he was swarmed by his friends and family, all taking their turn in ruffling his hair and wrapping him in their arms.

You watched as he went back to the court, gazed with nothing but unadulterated love as you watched his hold the trophy.

Time blurred as Carlos was dragged from interview to interview, the smile on his face undeniable. Carlos' family and team joined Carlos on court for photos, the hugs still being shared and tears in his mums eyes.

You hung back, letting them soak in the moment, taking photos you know Carlos would enjoy seeing later.

When the photos were finally over, the Spaniard bounded over to you, his hands planting themselves on either side of your face as he pulled your lips to his.

You couldn't help but giggle at your boyfriend, his lips leaving yours as he peppered kisses aggressively all over your face.

"Carlos!" You laughed, pushing away the Spaniard's puckered lips, his face immediately switched to an overly dramatic frown,

"No puedes ser malo conmigo, gané." [You can't be mean to me, I won]

"This is not mean, we have plenty of time to celebrate," Your hand slipped into his hair at the back of the neck, pressing a light kiss to his cheek, "later...in our hotel room."

You pulled away to catch the glint of something cheeky in Carlos eyes, He shook his head with a smirk on his face.

"You'll be the death of me, Mi amor." His arm slinked around your waist, the heat from the match radiating from the six-foot tennis player.

But the club was calling and Carlos Alcaraz was ready to party.

...

Getting Carlos out of the hotel room and keeping his hands off you was near impossible, his lips meeting your neck, trailing down your shoulder as you put in your earrings.

"Carlos, everyone is waiting for you. We have all night." He groaned into your shoulder, his hips firm against yours, tempting you to fall back into his grasp.

"And if I want to spend all night right here?" His hand slipped between your thighs, the skirt you'd opted for doing nothing to stop his attempt to convince you to spend the foreseeable future in bed.

His fingers moved softly over your underwear, your head fell back against Carlos chest as a soft groan falling from your lips. Just as you were finding your self-control slipping, pushing your hips back against the Spaniard, a knock came at the door.

"Carlitos, Vamos!" [Carlitos, let's go] The familiar tone of Carlos' coach coming from the other side of the door. Carlos groaned, his hand falling from your thighs and finding your arm.

"Joder." [Fuck.] He pressed a kiss to your neck, a silent promise to continue what he started, "en nuestro camino!" [On our way!]

He pulled away from you, a shiver flooding through you at the loss of his body heat. He slipped on his trainers, and you slipped on your kitten heels.

Carlos slipped his hand in with yours, pressing his lips to your forehead and pulling him with you out of the hotel door.

...

The restaurant was packed, the private room filled to the brim with Carlos' friends and family for the second year in a row. The atmosphere was buzzing, and you knew from the moment stepping into the room, it was going to be a long night.

The champagne flowed and music blasted through the speakers as the room had shifted from a celebration room to a makeshift club. Carlos' laugh flooded the room, somehow cutting through the rest of the noise.

You'd be enjoying the music, swaying with some of your friends who had joined you on the trip when you felt heavy hands on your hips, Carlos pulling your hips against his as he moved your hips against his.

You looked back, your eyes catching his, the alcohol fuelled haze left a lopsided grin on the Spaniard's face as his arms slipped under your shirt, his warm hands sliding across your stomach.

You turned in his arms, smiling as the Spaniard immediately pulled you into a messy kiss. Your hands fell to his neck as his hands found purchase on your ass, deepening the kiss as you threaded your fingers through his hair and pulled.

For the first time that day, it felt like it was just the two of you, despite being in a packed room. His lips trailed from your cheeks to your ear, each kiss setting your skin alight.

His teeth grazed the spot below your ear, which had you tightening your grip around his hair and a soft groan falling from your lips.

Carlos tightened his grip, pulling you closer into his body, and whispered in your ear, "Nadie se daría cuenta si desapareciéramos." [No one would notice if we disappeared]

You let your head fall onto Carlos' shoulder, pressing a kiss to his neck. "This is your celebration, I think they'd miss you."

Carlos grinned, the type of smile that had your stomach fluttering and your thighs clenching out of instinct. His hands, pressed against your skin, travelled up your torso, his thumb brushing the lace edge of the bra you'd slipped on.

"Quiero probar esa teoría," [I want to test that theory] He grabbed you in a bruising kiss, whispering in your ear, "Nos vemos en cinco minutos." [See you in five minutes]

His hand tapped your ass as he pulled away, disappearing into the crowd in what you could only assume was the direction of the bathroom.

Your heart was pounding, the feeling of his hands on your skin burning into you. It wouldn't be the first time Carlos and you had disappeared into a bathroom for a few moments of peace. But it would be the first time next to a room of people celebrating him.

However, you couldnt find it in yourself to stop yourself from moving in the direction of the bathroom, waving off your friends and focusing your mind on the image of Carlos on his knees looking up at you with those big brown eyes.

Not even four minutes later you pushed open the bathroom door, the sight of Carlos leaning up against the sink bringing a grin to your face.

You twisted the lock, and immediately as the click sounded Carlos made a move towards you. His hands reached for your face immediately, kissing you like a man starved.

Your hands slid around his neck and that was all the Spaniard needed, he pulled away, his lips trailing down your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin drawing a whine from you.

His hands slid down yours body finding purchase on your ass and lifting you onto the counter. He wasted no time pushing your skirt up your thighs exposing you lacy underwear that had Carlos swearing under his breath.

"Joder," [fuck] his hands slip up yours thighs, lips meeting the soft skin previous covered by the skirt. He brought his lips back to yours the desperate kiss sending shivers down your spine.

Carlos' hand slipped between your thighs, tracing his fingers softly over your core. "Please Charlie." You whined, his touch bringing out a new kind of desperation.

"What do you want, mi amor?" Your head fell back against the mirror as carlos moved your underwear to the side running his finger through your folds.

"Your hands, please Carlos." As if your words were confirmation his fingers dove into you, curling at the perfect angle.

Your arms shot out bracing themselves on the Spaniards shoulders, gripping his shirt as his fingers moved at a pace which had you back arched and your vision blurring.

"Thought about this since the second I won. How good you'd look falling apart on my fingers, tongue and cock."

You moaned, the words the spaniard uttered going straight to your core. His forehead rested against yours, messingly kissing your boyfriend as his thumb moved lazy circles on your clit.

Every thrust of his fingers pushed you closer to the edge. Carlos added another finger diving deeper with each thrust and capturing your lips between each movement.

The stretch was perfect but nothing compared to how Carlos felt. He sped up his movement over your clit, your moans rising with each brush as you teetered towards the edge.

"Please Carlos, I'm so close." Your begging met with Carlos' fingers curling and hitting the perfect spot.

Carlos attacked your neck with kisses, no doubt leaving marks across them which would result in a turtleneck in the coming days. But he groaned into your ear, "You're going to cum on my fingers like a good girl and then im going to fuck you in this mirror."

His words pushed you over the edge, his name falling from you lips like a prayer as your legs shook around his waist and your vision went white.

Carlos continued moving his fingers through your high, letting your head fall to his chest as sighs racked through your chest as you came down.

But there was no time to recover has Carlos lifted you off the counter, spinning you round to face the wall of mirrors over the sinks.

Carlos stood behind you his hands immediately getting to work on moving your skirt futher out of the way and getting his trousers out of the way.

He kissed your back, "Eres hermosa," [You're beautiful] You turned your head to catch Carlos' lips the angle awkward but worth it. You pushed your hips against Carlos begging for the Spaniard to do something.

"Carlos please, don't tease me." The Spaniard laughed behind you, Lining himself up against you. You whined, and Carlos took the words to heart, pushing into you with one swift thrust.

His forhead fell to your back as you moaned at the feeling of him deep inside you. Carlos allowed you to adjust for a moment before he began moving at a blistering pace.

"Oh fuck, Carlos please." Your begging only incentivised the Spaniard, his hand making harsh contact with your ass, a yelp drawn from you.

"Dios, te sientes tan bien. Podría morir feliz enterrado dentro de ti así." [God, you feel so good. I could die happy buried inside you like this.] Each word egged you on, your stomach pushing against the counter.

The Spaniards hand gropped at your chest, every touch adding to the overwhleming stimulation throughout your body.

Carlos ploughed desperately into you like his life depended on it. Your moans reaching a volume which threatened to draw attention to you.

"Need you to be quiet, mi amor. We don't want JC interupting us." The thought of Carlos' coach catching you like this, bent over a counter being detroy by his star player ignited something in you.

Carlos' hand fell around your mouth, the only way to lower your volume as every thrust seemed to hit deeper inside you.

Carlos' other hand slipped over your stomach tracing tight circles on your clit which had you quickly seeing stars.

"Carlos, shit, fuck, I'm so close." Carlos took your words as a challenge, speed up his thrusts.

"Joder, me too," His hand left your mouth and lifting your chin and gaze to the two of you in the mirror, "I want to see you when you cum."

His words sent a rush to your core, the band that was already so tight, tightening even further.

You watched carlos' brown eyes, His hair tousled and his grunts going straight to your core.

He moved his fingers over your clit faster and you grasped the Spaniard's arm, a warning through your helpless moans that you couldn't hold on much longer.

"Cum for me." His voice was desperate and rugged, and with it you fell over the edge, your second orgasm racking through your body, you hands falling to the counter you body following suit.

You felt Carlos stutter behind you his thrusts faltering as he finished inside you, his hands finding your hips to steady himself as he groaned against your shoulder.

You stayed just like that for a moment, fucked out and in each other's company. Carlos refused to pull away instead grabbing your face to connect your lips. "You're better than any trophy."

He pulled out from you both whining at the loss of contact. He fixed his appearance and fixed your skirt, spinning you back round to face him.

His hands slipped into your now messy hair, a smile beaming on his face.

He may have won Roland Garros but he also won something far more important.

————————————————————————

masterlist

Pictures of Carlos you haven’t seen before because I TOOK THEM!

Monte-Carlitos! VAMOS!

ALWAYS THERE || CA

————————————————————————

summary: As Carlos’ childhood best friend you’ve been by the side since the beginning. While Carlos insisted he only saw you as a friend you couldn’t help as your feelings for him grew.

pairing: carlos alcaraz x fem!reader

warning: angst, fluff

a/n: been thinking about this plot for a while.

MASTERLIST

The first time you met Carlos, you were four years old. Meeting when your parents move a few houses down the road.

You had approached the door holding onto your mother's hand, and when it opened, you saw a short boy with messy brown hair and large brown eyes gazing at you from behind his mother's legs.

You were too young to remember clearly, but Carlos's mother and yours loved to tell the story of you two cuddled up on the floor of his room when they came to take you home.

From that moment it seemed you were inseparable. You sat through each of Carlos' early tennis matches, encouraging his passion and indulging in his dream of being one of the great.

While he was on the court, you were in the studio. Painting and drawing with every chance you got and for every art show you attended Carlos was there ready to wrap his arms around you and tell you how proud he was.

Every memory from your childhood has his big brown eyes as the prominent feature, and he’d engraved himself within your soul.

When Carlos was 16 and told you he was making his ATP debut, you had screamed, he lifted you into the air wrapping his strong arms around you.

You’d placed your hands gently on either side of his face and pulled his forehead to yours. Uttering over and over again how proud of him you were.

You had sat in his player's box for that match with your hands sweating and legs shaking as you analysed every movement and hit the Spaniard made.

Your head cutting from one side to the other watching carefully every micro movement made by both Carlos and his opponent.

With the final shot in Carlos’ favour, you couldn’t hold back the tears. You couldn't help but rise to your feet, clapping and screaming with pride.

He had beamed at you from the court, and you knew that he would be part of you forever.

...

You had always thought Carlos was attractive, you were his friend - not blind. But for the longest time it had never phased you, laughing off every comment that people made about the two of you ending up together.

But something changed after his professional debut. With him travelling, you spent more time alone in hotel rooms around the world together.

After a particularly gruelling tennis tournament for Carlos you had retired to his hotel room. He lay beside you as a movie droned on in the background. His hand tracing absent minded patterns across your arm.

Completely content in each other company, your whole body at peace with the state of your lives, you had turned to him and asked about the future.

“Do you think you’ll ever get sick of me?” You had quietly muttered, your eyes avoiding his questioning gaze instead watching his eyebrows as they knitted together.

Gently he reached his hand up brushing a stray strand of hair from your face and smiled sweetly, “I couldn’t live without you, even if I wanted to.”

You closed your eyes and sighed, nodding as Carlos’ hand settled on your cheek. “plus, I plan on being your biggest pain in the ass for a long time.”

You laughed, playfully shoving the Spaniard away from you. He rolled back underestimating the space left on the bed and he plummeted to the floor with a thud.

Your laughs turned to wheezes and Carlos gasped in mock anger grasping his heart dramatically. “Laughing at my pain, I can’t believe you.”

Through torrid giggles you managed to collected enough composure to speak, “for a tennis player you aren’t very graceful.”

Carlos bolted up, a scream came from your lips as you rushed in reaction dashing out of the room as quickly as possible. The Spaniard followed, his long legs reducing your escape attempt to a measly ten steps.

His arms circled your waist pulling him tight against his chest as he lifted you off the ground. You’d spun round you push him away but his grip remained firm, his large hands settled just under your t-shirt setting your skin ablaze.

Your eyes met his big brown gaze, watching you with a look of something that you couldn’t quite place. Your stomach flipped and a wave of something akin to nausea hit you.

Suddenly it felt as though you’d forgotten to breathe, electricity buzzing in his watchful gaze. Your heart raced as Carlos began to close the gap.

You felt your heart skip a beat as you thought for a second he was going to kiss you. You could’ve sworn you watched his gaze fall to your lips but just before that vital point of no return he pulled you in for a hug.

the tension from the desperate moment before dissipated, replaced with tender appreciation.

But as his lips brushed your ear and shivers rushed down your spine. “I’d be no where without you.”

Your arms slid around his shoulders holding him close, fingers running softly through the hair at the back of his neck.

“And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” You held him close, soaking in each other’s presence.

He nestled his head in the crook of your neck and with every brush of his nose against you had your heart racing.

He pulled away, his lips sweetly meeting you cheek as he made his way back to the bedroom, calling your name.

You stood in the hallway, your breathing ragged as you ran your hand over your face. Your body was tense and you could still feel the ghost of Carlos’ hand on your waist.

You stared silently at the open bedroom door, trying to ignore the looming feeling that something had changed.

From there, something was ignited within you. You wondered if you'd always harboured these feelings for the man who you'd grown up with.

You'd never really been in a relationship, struggling to find a man that measured up to Carlos. At first you thought it was just because Carlos had shown you how you deserved to be treated - not to mention he rarely approved of the men you liked.

...

In your final year of school before heading off to University, you had a big formal to celebrate. The excitement had been building over the year and as the months drew closer your friends urged you to find a date.

A date hadn't particularly interested you, with none of the guys you knew ever giving you butterflies, or making you nervous. You travelled a lot with Carlos and it meant you struggled to find time for an active love life outside of the boundaries of school.

But your friends had laughed when you suggested going alone, sending you a list of guys who would love to take you to the dance. You resisted as much as you could but they refused to let up.

One of the guys suggested was a guy who you'd been friends with throughout school. He was sweet, funny and could hold a conversation. You were doubtful you'd leave the dance with the love of your life but he seemed like he'd be fun to spend the dance with.

Carlos should've been at the dance but the commitments of his professional tennis career called him away.

He demanded you have the best time and call him to debrief after. You laughed and agreed, wishing him luck for his tournament.

Your date had arrived promptly, bringing flowers and shooting you a charming smile with a slew of compliments at the sight of you in your dress.

The evening had started well, with drinks and laughs filling the hall where the Formal was held. Your date had been a dream. Being respectful and beaming at you when you made a joke.

You danced with your friends and giggled your way through the night until the music shifter to being more romantic. The tune slowed and the groups dancing on the floor morphed into pairs.

Your date asked if you wanted to dance, extending his hand to you. taking his hand you moved to the dance floor and settled with your arms on his shoulders and his hands tentatively reached for your waist.

You both laughed and talked as you swayed to the music. You fell into a comfortable rhythm. His hand moved to the side of your face and he leaned forward.

Panic flooded your body as you realised what was about to happen, the characteristic gaze in his eye that you’d seen before in men. Your body went rigid and your mind went to the tall Spaniard who was in a hotel somewhere winding down from a day of playing tennis.

Before you let his lips meet yours you turned your head, shifting the almost kiss to your cheek. Unease settled in your stomach and you suddenly felt the need to get away.

You politely excused yourself from the dance floor, making your way to the exit in desperate need for some fresh air.

You stormed through the hallways pushing open the doors and letting the cool air hit you. Your lungs gasped for breath and you doubled over, hands finding your knees to support yourself.

Your head was pounding, your heart was racing and as you pulled yourself up. You could still feel the boy's hands burning into your side, your face alight from his touch. But you didn't find comfort in it, instead, it sent a sick feeling through you.

You sat down against the wall, your hand finding your phone in your bag. Silently, you dialed his number, putting the phone to your ear, and waited as the phone rang.

He picked up after just two rings. "Hola amor." (Hi love). His raspy voice signified you'd just woken him up, but you couldn't help the pang of warmth rushing through you when his words hit you.

He’d been calling you love since you were children. An innocent nickname which you would laugh off when people questioned. “We’re just friends” would echo through your mind every time that boundary felt as though it was shifting.

But if the nickname was so innocent why did it feel as though your heart was being ripped from your chest as the words. The quiet mumble of his voice, knowing he was on the other side of the planet while you’re here in the cold.

This wasn’t how friends felt about each other. Maybe you’d always known that, but you were just too afraid of what reality meant for you to face it. Too petrified by what a life without Carlos would look like if he didn’t feel the same.

You sat on the floor in your expensive dress as Carlos coaxed you from the ledge you felt you were sitting on. His soft tone burrowed deep into your soul, and a sense of calm flooded you.

Despite him clearly being exhausted, holding on to any slither of being awake to talk to you, he managed to rouse his consciousness. All because you'd called.

It was only when you finally left him, letting him get the sleep he so clearly craved, that you found your mind racing. You couldn't deny the feeling you felt anymore. But you sure would try.

…

Things changed after school. You went off to university, and your workload quickly increased, while Carlos flitted around the world, growing adoring fans everywhere he went.

You knew things wouldn't stay the same forever, and just a year after you had called him from your prom, he was slipping away from you rapidly.

Nightly calls shifted to weekly, then monthly. Soon, you heard from him sporadically usually in the middle of the night at whichever timezone he was in.

Quickly, the boy who you had grown up attached to, had turned into a man that you were beginning to not recognise.

You held on to the tethers of your friendship with every part of you. When you could, you would fly out and watch him play, organising your calendar carefully around the ATP tennis schedule.

Staying up late, texting him after a good game, calling him after bad ones. Sometimes he picked up, other times he didn't.

Then you saw her. The tall, drop dead gorgeous, must-be model draped off of Carlos' arm after one of the matches. His lips me there cheek in a video captured by a fan and you felt a pang of something you reluctantly recognised as burning jealously.

He had a girlfriend. A stunning, famous girlfriend. Who he hadn't told you about. It had been about a month since the two of you called, a five-minute conversation about the Spaniard's last tennis match.

He hadn't mentioned this girl then. Did that mean it was new, or just that he hadn't thought to tell you?

After seeing one photo on your phone, it was like you couldn't escape it. Every slide and swipe revealed more fan photos of Carlos, your Carlos, with this random girl.

You knew you were overreacting, he was 19 year old and one of the 'up and coming' tennis players. Of Course, he was going to find himself swarmed with beautiful women.

But the more you saw his hand around her waist or her hand draped across his chest. You couldn't help that the fire raged beneath your skin.

You reached for your phone desperately. The time was 8pm, and for once, Carlos was in a similar timezone, so you knew he should be awake. Your phone was ringing before you even had time to stop yourself. The phone rang mindlessly, and you waited.

After what felt like an eternity, you heard a gruff voice on the other end. "Y/N?" His questioning tone cut into you more than you'd like to admit.

Just 12 months ago he'd welcomed random calls, your nickname had fell so easily from him lips and you would slipped into conversation that harboured no specific topic.

But now, just you calling him had to have a reason. You sighed, "¿Tienes novia?" (Do you have a girlfriend?) He laughed, but you couldn't find it in you to find it funny.

"Que?" (what?) He was in disbelief. After being all over this girl on Instagram and twitter and every social media you opened, and HE was in disbelief. Over the girl he hadn't even deigned to tell you about.

"¿La chica? ¿por todo Instagram?" (The girl? All over Instagram?) your voice was lined with aggravation. You knew he could sense it as he paused, carefully thinking on where to step next.

His voice was quiet. "Ella no es nada. Ella es casual." (She's nothing; she's casual.) You scoffed,

¿Entonces ahora eres uno de esos tipos? (So now you're one of those guys?) Your words were laced with something vicious. You weren't mad at him. I mean, you were on the surface, but beneath that basic level of irritation, you were clearly mad at yourself.

While you had been sitting around waiting for Carlos to notice that you had been right there the entire like like an 80s rom-com, he had been forgetting you even existed, falling into some other woman's bed.

"Ah, de verdad Y/N" (Oh really, Y/N) He was annoyed, you weren't surprised. "No necesito esto de ti." (I don't need this from you)

Your blood boiled, your tone became increasingly sharp and distant from the soft mannered person Carlos knew so intimately.

"¿Y eso qué significa?" (And what does that mean?) You were acutely aware of every small sound coming from his side of the phone.

"¿Por qué te importa? No eres mi novia." (Why do you care? You're not my girlfriend.) It was like someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over you, which pulled you back down to reality. Why did you care?

He was right. He owed you nothing. You weren't together, and he'd made it clear in every passing comment and mistake friends made. That he saw you only as a friend.

Meanwhile, you found yourself moving further past the point of no return with every interaction. Unable to hide the way you searched for his brown eyes in every crowd, even when you knew he wasn't there.

The way your heart raced with every phone call and you found yourself counting down the minutes till you would next see him. You were well and truly in love with your best friend and he had no idea.

His tone had cut into you, his soft demeanour replaced with a sharp and vicious manner. It hurt. Even beyond your newly realised feelings you had first and foremost been friends.

Sure, maybe in the last year, you had let the distance infiltrate the once disgustingly close relationship you two held. But you were still friends, and friends were supposed to tell each other things.

Your voice lost its edge, and the hurt manner came through, "Tienes razón. Pero se supone que somos amigos." (You're right, But we're supposed to be friends.)

You heard him call your name before your finger slid to the red button, but you didn't want to hear anything more.

You fell back onto your bed, your phone slipping to your side as you took a deep breath, desperate to clear the weight that felt like it had settled in your lungs.

Your eyes burn with tears, and you rub your hands harshly against your eyes, trying to displace the violent urge to cry. Your phone rang next to you, Carlos' goofy smile shining on your screen, but you couldn't bring yourself to pick it up.

…

It had been months. Without a single message, call or letter sent between you two. Carlos had been having the best season in his career so far, and you were trying to block that out.

For the first few weeks after the tense call, Carlos texted and called you daily. With profuse apologies and begging you to talk to him. But you stayed strong.

You needed space, not just to deal with your emotions from the argument but also to get over him. You couldn't be his friend when every glance he gave you made your heart race.

You still watched every match he played, shouting at the television for every slight misstep or mistake and cheering for every point won..

You couldn't help but wonder if maybe this was your destiny. Watching Carlos from the sidelines as he succeeded and outgrew you.

You had always assumed that you'd always be by his side, there to celebrate his success and wallow in his failure - it wouldn't matter if you were together.

But he had her now, and you had the hope of what could've been.

It came to a head at the US Open. Carlos had an incredible start to the tournament, breezing his way into the quarterfinals. You'd watched all the games from the comfort of your home and fought off the urge to message him daily.

Then he won the quarters. It was far from easy; Jannik Sinner had put up a fight, dragging Carlos into two tie breaks. You'd sat on the edge of your sofa, pleading to gods you didn't believe in for Carlos to win. When 'game, set, match' was called, you were flooded with relief.

Your parents called you the next day, announcing that they would be flying out to watch Carlos play and that you should be going too.

Your chest constricted at the thought, but you forced out, "Él no me quiere allí" (He doesn't want me there.) Your parents scoffed in disbelief at the current state of the relationship between you two.

"Sí, cariño. Probablemente seas la única persona que quiere allí." (Yes, he does, honey. You're probably the only person he wants there.) Your heart picked up at the idea of Carlos wanting you there. But you knew it wasn't in the way you wanted it.

If he wanted you there it was the same way it always was. As his childhood best friend, who he kept around because he always had and not because he couldn't imagine a world without you.

"No puedo ir, tengo clase." (I can't go I have class) You heard a sigh through the phone, but you wouldn't let your resolve crumble. You helped your parents pack and fielded more pleas to watch the match before they left to go to the airport.

You sat down in your silent living room inhabited by just the sound of the tennis commentary to watch Carlos' semi-final game. It was another grueling five-setter, with Carlos conceding tie breaks once again.

When the game had started, you felt solidified in your choice to stay home, but with every point won, you watched as Carlos' gaze flitted to his box, over the faces of his family and yours. He wasn't smiling and cheering; he was...looking or searching.

You mother knew you'd be sitting at home watching the game no matter how much you had pretended to move on. Which is why halfway through the match, she sent you a text that broke your heart.

Mama: "Te está buscando. Le preguntó a Virginia si vendrías antes del partido." (He's looking for you. He asked Virginia if you were coming before the match)

Carlos took the final point, confirming his place in a grand slam final and putting himself on the brink of making history. But he didn't celebrate as much as you'd expected.

His eyes watched his family, a smile beaming on his face, but as someone who knew Carlos intrinsically, you could see the way the smile didn't quite reach his eyes and the way he seemed deflated rather than on the top of the world like he should.

Your heart plumeted to your stomach. You wanted to be there, wrapped up in his arms, celebrating his achievements.

You wanted to stay up that night to discuss the grand slam title on the horizon and remind him that no matter what happened, the results wouldn't change how you felt.

Before you knew it, you were booking a flight. Even if Carlos didn't feel the same way and couldn't love you the way you loved him, this was bigger than that.

This was the same Carlos who was always there for you when it mattered, even with the distance that had grown between you. This was your way of fighting for him and the friendship that had seen you through your entire life.

...

You arrived at the stadium with nerves coarsing through you. Though you had told Carlos's family and yours that you were showing up so they could get the right passes for you - you'd kept it from Carlos himself.

The crowds swarmed towards the stadium, but you made your way towards the locker room where you knew Carlos would be getting ready.

You knocked on the door, and you heard the voice that had followed you for 19 years calling you into the room. He had his back to you, talking to Juan Carlos as he stretched out his hamstrings.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, clearing your throat as the nerves started to find you again. What if he didn't want you here?

"Alguien me dijo que tal vez necesitas algún apoyo extra. (Someone told me that maybe you need some extra support.) Carlos's head immediately snapped around to face you, getting out of stretches and closing the distance between you before you could process it.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him, burying his head into your neck. It was like coming home. The warmth that blossomed in your chest as you felt the Spaniard's stubble brush your neck.

Your arms slid around his neck, holding him close to you. One hand slid up to his head resting in his hair. He sighed against your neck, and you smiled as you whispered, "Lo siento, no vine antes." (Sorry I didn't come earlier.)

He shook his head against your neck, his voice coming out as a murmur, "Es todo culpa mía. Me alegra que estés aquí. No puedo hacer esto sin ti." (It's all my fault. I'm glad you're here. I can't do this without you.)

He pulled his head from your shoulder, his hands finding rest on the sides of your face. He rested his forehead against yours, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.

His touch burned your skin, every word sending shivers down your spine. "No quería hacerlo sin ti." (I didn't want to do this without you.)

You couldn't stop the words from leaving your mouth as Carlos's gaze bore down on you. "Te amo, más de lo que un amigo debería" (I love you, more than a friend should.)

Confusion darted through Carlos's face as he took in your words. His hands fell from your face, and you took a step back, your heart shattering at the look on the Spaniard's face.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stopped him. You grabbed his hand and ran your thumb gently over his hand. "Ve a ganar y podremos hablar más trade." (Go win. We can talk later.)

He beamed at you, wrapping you up in a final hug that left you smiling. His lips met your cheek, and his mouth rested by your ear, "Nos vemos allí" (See you out there).

You nodded, fighting against the urge to move your head slightly and kiss the man who had plagued your mind for so long. Instead, you stepped back turning and headed toward the court.

You gave Carlos a final glance as you let the stress of the match begin to build.

The match was tense. You could feel the atmosphere drowning the crowd. The precipice of history being made calling.

Carlos played phenomenally. Every point was careful, precise and planned out. Casper Ruud never stood a chance. With every win, Carlos would turn to you, meet your eyes and cheer.

Your hands began to sweat and the nerves reached their peak in the final set. Every mistake moved you further the the edge of your seat but Carlos refused to lose.

One break and then the second, and before you knew it, it was a championship point. The crowd was silent. The tension was palpable, but as Carlos reached up for his serve, you felt a wave of calm rest over you.

He had it. You saw the gleam in his eye as he hit the ball, the grunt escaping his mouth with the hit. He darted across the court, each movement perfected.

Then it hit. The crowds screamed and Carlos fell to the floor. The screams rang in your ears as you watched him. He sobbed on the hard court, and your hand reached to your mouth.

It was only as your hand touched your cheeks that you noticed you were crying. The sight of Carlos blurring through the streaming haze of tears.

You felt his family and yours wrap their arms around you, bringing you back into the present. Looking back to the court, you could see the Spaniard beginning to climb through the audience towards you.

His mother by your side was whispering, "El lo hizo" (He did it.)

You grabbed her hand, laughing and smiling, and you spoke, "él realmente lo hizo" (He really did it). She wrapped you in a hug and told you how happy she was you were here and you couldn't help but agree.

You couldn't imagine not being there to celebrate this moment with Carlos. When you turned back to look for Carlos, he was climbing into the box, immediately being attacked by his team.

They cheered, and his shoulders shook with sob,s but he didn't stop moving. He found his family letting them shower him in praise but his gaze fixed on you.

He moved towards you, and your heart rate picked up. The look in his eyes was the same unidentifiable emotion you had seen before.

But before you had a moment to consider what it meant, Carlos's hands were on your face, connecting your lips.

You froze at first, shock radiating through you at the feelings of his lips on yours. But as Carlos went to pull away his hands slipping from your face, your hands found purchase on his neck pulling him closer.

You kissed him like he was oxygen, and you had forgotten how to breathe. The way his hand found your waist and the other slid into your hair.

The kiss was messy and desperate, but it was 19 years in the making, and you needed him like you needed water. The world around you disappeared as he pulled you impossibly closer to him.

It was out of a movie, like fireworks inside your chest and under the surface of your skin.

He groaned into your mouth but reluctantly pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, matching your deep breaths. His smile split across his face, and he sighed, "Por cierto, yo también te amo." (By the way, I love you too)

You laughed loudly, taking in the cheers from the audience around you and the unadulterated smiles from your family and his team around you.

You glanced at the screen to see you and Carlos projected on it, your cheeks immediately turning red at the realistation that everyone had seen that moment.

You turned back to Carlos, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, which elicited another cheer from the crowd. Your hand rested on his face, and you beamed, "Te amo campeón" (I love you, Champion).

————————————————————————

This got away from me a bit, actually. I'm sorry/you're welcome.

I currently have a five thousand word draft of a Carlos childhood friends to lovers fic sat in my drafts and it's almost finished.

Do people want it?

Am I working on a Carlos childhood friends to lovers fic…..maybeeeeee

THE DEAL || CA

————————————————————————

Pt. 3 (previous part)

summary: Carlos hated having a PR manager, especially one who was his age. Convincing her to leave was the best plan he'd ever had, but what happens when he realises he doesn't want her to go?

pairing: carlos alcaraz x fem!reader

warning: none.

a/n: Asking politely everyone ignores how long this took me to write, turns out I had actual uni work to do which is lame. Also, look at them not arguing the WHOLE time is there a civil colleague relationship forming?

MASTERLIST

You had been avoiding Alcaraz since the moment the two of you shared in the hallway after the press conference. Spending the rest of the afternoon hiding from his gaze and pushing him through interviews as fast as you possibly could.

Each time he brushed past you from one interview to the next, Your cheeks flushed with your mind drifting back to his body so close to yours.

Despite being invited to the team dinner that Juan Carlos had urged you to attend, you found yourself leaving the Rod Laver arena with no intention of detouring from your hotel bed which was firmly on your mind.

The halls were bustling with people, tennis players, physios and staff rushing from room to room. As you wandered aimlessly towards the exit of the building your eyes caught a bundle of red curls bounding towards you.

"Y/N" the Italian called your name and you spun round to face his towering figure. You'd met Jannik many times before while working in the world of Formula 1 and he had been one of the first to convince you to take the job with Alcaraz.

"Jan!" The tennis player wrapped his long arms around you lifting you into a familiar hug. The warmth from his body a comforting hug which saw the tension in your body immediately dissipate. "How's media day going?"

"You know how us players feel about all the interviews and content. We'd rather be on court." A smile beamed across the young Itlian's face and for once it felt nice to not be constantly on edge in this job. You laugh and let out an exasperated groan,

"Trust me, on behalf of all media and PR people - we also wished you'd be on court instead of annoying us." Jannik gave you a playful shove, his laugh bringing a smile to your face.

"I'll try not to take that personally, though I'm pretty sure it was aimed at him." Jannik nodded his head further down the hallway. Stood against the wall, with his eyes trained on you and the Italian was Carlos Alcaraz.

His arms were crossed over his chest and while you couldn't be sure if it was Jannik or you he was staring at it was clear he was trying out the whole 'if looks could kill' theory.

"Trust me, I'd much prefer to spend a media day with you than him." You turned back to Jannik trying to block out the presence of the Spaniard in the background.

"Trouble in paradise?" Jannik tilted his head looking down at you as you scoffed.

"If this was paradise I shudder to think what hell is like." You felt Alcaraz's gaze burning into the back of your head, certain he was now staring you down.

You didn't even know why he was still hanging around, you left him after your last interview and thought he'd gone off to meet the rest of his team.

Jannik laughed loudly, "He can't be that bad, it's Carlitos. I'm surprised he hasn't been flirting with you." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively but you couldn't help but laugh and roll your eyes.

Truth is, the Alcaraz that Jannik was explaining was what you'd expected when you'd started.

Warned about the Spaniard's bubbly personality many people who knew him would smile and say 'Watch out for the flirting'.

Instead, you'd met a different Alcaraz, one who constantly saw you as a waste of space on his team and far from flirting with you, you were met with constant coldness.

"Yeah that's not a problem." You sighed deeply. "You should go, I don't want to be the cause of another PR Manager's troubles." Jannik smiled, wrapping his arms around you and giving you a soft kiss on your cheek.

"If you need anything, or want me to slap some sense into Carlitos, just let me know." You grinned softly, pulling away from the Italian.

"I might take you up on that."

Jannik turned to make a move down the hallway in the direction of Alcaraz, who's attention had switched to his phone. He looked over his shoulder briefly and beamed, "Ci vediamo presto, tesoro" (See you soon, darling.)

Your heart warmed, smiling as you watched the lanky tennis player bound down the hall. He stopped when he reached Alcaraz, the usual warm greeting between the two seemed colder.

Alcaraz nodded dejectedly before his gaze fell back onto you. Uncomfortable under the harsh gaze you turned away and made your way back towards the doors of the arena.

...

You reached your hotel room and fell on the bed releasing a deep sigh. You stretched out your arms and rolled onto your side. The mattress caved under your weight and cradled your body.

Your phone buzzed and you reached lazily for your phone, fighting off the sleep and flipping your phone over.

Alcaraz: You coming to dinner?

You paused, then rolled your eyes.

Y/N: Don't worry, I won't be there to ruin your evening.

Three dots appeared, and then they disappeared. Your eyebrows furrowed softly. The three dots appeared a second time, remaining on the corner of your screen for a few seconds before they went once again.

You sat up slightly, the relaxed demeanour you had now shifting as tension flooded your body.

For a third time, three dots appeared. You watched them intently waiting as they slowly moved on the screen. But like each previous time, the dots disappeared.

You scoffed, shaking your head and moved off your bed. You left your phone resting on the bed as you made your way to the bathroom to shower.

The hot water pelting down on your body instantly soothed you. The knots from your shoulders disappearing with the stress of the day.

The argument with Alcaraz still weighed on your mind but you were determined to push through and get this tournament done with.

You were just so sick and tired of him constantly taking everything out on you. For once you wanted to be the one to frustrate him, and as you stepped out of the shower you smiled brightly, with a genius idea crossing your mind.

ATP was asking for a bunch of the players to do extra content ahead of the tournament - usually, you only signed Alcaraz up for one to reduce the amount of complaining you had to listen to.

But with an evil smirk on your face and a towel wrapped around you, you walked back into the bedroom. You immediately found your phone, opening your message to text the ATP's PR manager who you got on well with.

Y/N: Hi Amy, Alcaraz would love to do the extra content. Sign him up for as much as possible. Thank you!

As you clicked send you laughed quietly to yourself, you couldn't wait till he found out.

...

You were in comfortable clothes, makeup off, sat cross-legged on the sofa when you finally got a response from Amy sending over the schedule for the next day's media.

You forwarded the schedule to Alacaraz with the headline 'Surprise!' and closed your laptop.

Settling into the sofa you switched the TV on and called room service. The buzz of TV made your eyes heavy as you lay further into the sofa. Before you knew it you were drifting off to sleep.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your head was cloudy as you were pulled from your slumber. The furious knocking woke you up violently. You sat up form the sofa, your stomach rumbling as you made your way to the door.

The knocking persisted, "I'm on my way!" you called out, opening the door with a smile.

But when you opened the door, instead of being met with room service, an angry Spaniard was staring at you.

"Alcaraz?" He brushed past you, stomping into your room. "Aren't you supposed to be at dinner?"

"¿Quieres decirme cuando acepté hacer medios todo el día mañana?" (Do you want to tell me when I agreed to do media all day tomorrow?) His glare went right through you as you closed the door and faced him.

You fought the smile that was trying to take over your face. "Look, I just thought it would be good for you to remind everyone how charming you are."

At the sight of Alcaraz's angry stare, you let out a laugh, shaking your head lightly as you moved back towards the sofa. As you passed the Spaniard, he grabbed your arm stopping you from going anywhere.

His chest was pressed against your back and he leaned down to you.

"Cancelarlo" (Cancel it) He towered over you and you turned to face his, you reached your hand up sliding across Alcaraz's chest. You watched as his gaze faltered at the action a glimpse of something indistinguishable passing through his eyes.

You slid you hand up his neck and to the side of his face. You watched him carefully, focusing on the way his breathing deepened. Then a devlish smile took over your face, tapping the side of his face and pushing him away.

"No." You walked to the sofa and sat down, leaving the Spaniard at loss watching you. "Oh and you can leave now."

He stood there for a moment while you set up a new film to watch. As the film blared through the hotel room, you turned your head to see if Alcaraz was still behind you. He watched the screen with a curious look on his face.

"What film is that?" his voice came from behind you, you laughed.

"Notting hill." The absent look on his face caused you to turn fully toward him leaning on the back of the sofa. "You've never seen Notting Hill?!"

He shook his head and looked down at his feet awkwardly. A silence fell across the room only broken by Hugh Grant's voice in the background.

Without thinking you started speaking "Um, you could stay...and watch it, if you wanted?" You regretted it as soon as you said it. The Spaniard looked at you, his brown eyes focusing on the gentle gaze you sent him.

"Um," For a second you thought he was going to join you. His shoulders fell and he look as though he was about to take a step forward when his phone buzzed, pulling it out of his pocket he glanced at it.

He took a step back and any softness in his eyes hardened. "Team dinner remember."

His sharp tone settled in the pit of your stomach as you stopped your disappointment from showing. He left without another word and the door slamming made you jump slightly.

You were about to turn back to the TV when there was a knock on the door. Hope bubbled in your chest and you rushed to open it, part of you waiting to be met with those brown eyes on the other side of the door. Instead, it was your room service.

They brought your food in and you thanked them, leaving you in the peace and quiet of your own company. You leaned your head against the back of the sofa and sighed.

You kept finding yourself unable to escape Alcaraz, not just in a work capacity. In the last few days you'd had his body pressed against you more times than you wanted to think about.

But today, that glimpse in his eyes at the suggestion of the movie. You couldn't help but think he wanted to join you. You laughed and shook your head, you couldn't believe he was getting to you. As far as you knew it was all part of his plan to make it easier to get rid of you.

You quietly watching your movie and ate your food when your phone buzzed. It was around the moment Hugh Grant walked through Notting Hill with the season changing around him that your phone buzzed.

Glancing at the screen you spotted it was a notification that Alcaraz had posted an Instagram story. You clicked on it, ready for another PR crisis when you were met with a picture of him and the team laughing at dinner.

Of course, you chose not to be there but the sight of them all smiling and laughing. It hurt. You couldn't help but think maybe you should've listened to Juanki and gone. This was going to be your final two weeks with the team and you were wasting them sat in your room.

You quietly made a promise to yourself in that moment that you'd enjoy the final weeks. Alcaraz had to put up with you as part of the deal and you intended to make the most of that.

...

You dreaded the day ahead. You knew Alcaraz was going to make everything more difficult than it had to be because you were forcing him into this busy day where you knew he wanted to be on the court.

You were ready waiting outside his hotel door. You also had a sandwich with you, getting ready to bribe the no-doubt grumpy player who would emerge from the room.

You shot him a quick 'I'm outside' text and waited patiently. After just a few minutes the door swung open and the tall Spaniard appeared in front of you.

"Morning, Alcaraz!" You shot him a smile and you were met by a slight grimace.

"How do you always have so much energy this early in this morning." You handed him the sandwich which he took with a curios look.

"I'm excited for a full day of media, and the sandwich is a peace offering." He looked down at the sandwich with a funny look on his face. He glanced up at you and quirked his eyebrow,

"A peace offering?" You beamed at him.

"It's going to be a long two weeks, I just suggest we aren't at each other's throats the whole time." His gaze softened ever so slightly but he still looked tentative. "Please, I just want to know what it is like to actually like my job."

He paused and watched you carefully. He took a bite out of the sandwich you had given him and he nodded.

"Fine. But I want more of these." He held up the sandwich with a smile and you shook your head.

"Perfect, let's go then." You made a move down the hallway with Alcaraz following closely behind as you settled into the elevator.

The journey to the stadium was quiet, a trip that was mostly filled with Alcaraz greeting fans, players and staff while you led him through the halls.

You arrived at the ATP's makeshift studio and spotted Amy in the crowd of staff. "Amy!" She turned and smiled at the sight of you and trying to pretend he was happy to be there Alcaraz.

"Y/N, Carlos, thank you both so much for this." The Spaniard shot her a coy smile as he carefully watched the different aspects of the studio, his gaze paused on the box of what looked like props sat by the edge of the set and he turned to look at you.

He sent you a look of pure fear his eyes widening and head lightly shaking that pulled a soft laugh from you.

"Alcaraz is happy to help, he loves all this stuff." The Spaniard pinched your arm and you muffled a yelp sending him a stern look.

"Perfect, you can grab yourself a coffee and there are snacks over there too - and Carlos if you come with us!" Alcaraz politely nodded and just before he began to follow Amy to set he let down and whispered.

"Te arrepentirás de esto." (You will regret this) You laughed and waved him off with a shit-eating grin.

"Have Fun!"

You knew that the next opportunity he got, Alcaraz would make you regret this but the sight of him with silly glasses on filming promo just seemed to make it worth it.

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let me know if you want to be on the taglist :)

taglist: @kcharlyy @champagnecoastca @ilottcountry @austin-butlr

When is deal part 3 coming pls

I swear I’m writing it 😂 my actual work just got on top of me a bit - expect it in the next few days!!

Carlos I said PLEASEEEE

THE DEAL || CA

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pt. 2, (previous part)

summary: Carlos hated having a PR manager, especially one who was his age. Convincing her to leave was the best plan he'd ever had, but what happens when he realises he doesn't want her to go?

pairing: carlos alcaraz x fem!reader

warning: diabolical tension

a/n: this is kind of all over the place because I’m trying to build up enough foundation before the tournament starts. I hope you like it (please tell me how much you like it, I need validation)

MASTERLIST

You sat in an uncomfortable silence typing away on your laptop. In your peripheral, you could see the Spaniard slowly moving to lie down on the sofa from his seated position.

"Don't fall asleep." A frustrated grunt came from Carlos as he repositioned himself slightly resting his head against the back of the sofa.

"Okay and if they ask you about potentially facing Djokovic?" Your eyes watched the screen intently scanning the prospective questions on your laptop.

"I tell them I've beaten him before and I believe I can again, especially with my new serve and resetting over the break." His tone was dull and his eyes watched the ceiling.

"Perfect, any questions about the back end of last season or concentration just try to redirect and talk about the work you've been doing over the break." Carlos nodded, scrutinising you're every movement with his gaze.

You wrote down notes that you could send Carlos on everything you'd been discussing. You leaned back against the sofa, gently falling into the cushions as you moved to sit cross-legged.

Carlos' eyes observed you as you intently stared at the screen, "D'you get bored doing this?" Your eyes flitted to the Spaniard briefly for the first time since you began going over questions,

"What do you mean?" You returned to doing work, shaking your head at the silly question as you watched the time in the corner of your screen tick by.

You were desperate to get this done so you could return to your room and sleep, doing your best to ignore the looming tension of the deal you had earlier agreed to.

"I get bored at you asking me questions, and I'm the player. Don't you get bored of writing up answers and managing my media presence?" You paused briefly, the condescending tone grating on you. You met the brown eyes that hadn't left your frame.

"I love my job, I get to see behind the sports in a way no one else does. Plus I'm good at it." He looked sceptically,

"I'd rather play." You shook your head in amusement, finishing up the final question.

"Unfortunately we can't all be professional tennis players Alcaraz." He smirked at your response, getting up off the sofa and heading to the kitchen area.

You emailed the Spaniard the work you'd done the evening, finally closing your laptop and letting relief flood your body.

"Luckily for you, we're done for the evening. I'd like some pyjamas and then I'll get out of your way." You stood up moving slightly towards the door, begging to leave the company of the man who held you with such contempt.

"Gracias a Dios" (Thank god) His thankful tone stung slightly, envying the time when your clients enjoyed your company, and you'd stay long after the work was done due to the friendships you had founded.

He disappeared down the corridor and you stood by the door awkwardly. The night had ended up being the easiest day you'd had since you started, and all it took was promising Carlos you'd quit.

You knew the next issue would be telling his team and Juan Carlos would no doubt try to convince you to stay. But the thought of enjoying your job again loomed in the back of your mind and pushed you forward.

Just over two weeks. That's all you had to get through and now with Carlos actually cooperating it should've been simpler.

You checked the time and the massive 00:00 glared at you on the screen. It was a busy day tomorrow that involved you waking up with the sun and the dream of a full eight hours sleep has slipped from your grasp.

Just as you began to mentally plan for the content and work you needed to do tomorrow, Carlos reappeared his 6-foot stature looming over you.

"I don’t have pyjamas, so this is just some joggers and a t-shirt." He handed you the clothing, his hand brushing yours which jolted through your nervous system. In the last six hours, you'd been closer to the Spaniard in the entirety of your time working for him.

You avoided the brown eyes looking down at you, taking the items and moving towards the door. "That should be fine."

You walked to the door, reaching for the handle and standing in the open doorway. Just before stepping out into the hallway, you turned to face the Spaniard, shooting him a small smile that he didn't return.

"See you tomorrow Alcaraz." He nodded and the door closed in front of you.

Defeated you trudged back to your room, slipping into the far too big-for-you shirt and joggers that the Spaniard had lent you. They were bathed in his cologne and the musky scent filled your nostrils as you climbed into bed.

As you lay there waiting for sleep to hit you, you thought of what this job would've been like had Carlos not hated you from the outset.

Watching him play was magnificent and you wanted to be a part of the team that helped him achieve greatness, not to mention his Spanish charm had won over so many.

Every cold glance he gave you cut deeper and as you drifted off to sleep you were haunted by the way he had looked at you the first time you met.

...

The sun beat down on the outdoor courts. You watched Alcaraz move diligently from edge to edge of the light blue tarmac. The heat permeated through your body as the light summer dress you wore did nothing to alleviate the temperature.

You gaze fixated on the Spaniard's taut muscles and how he slid to seemingly effortlessly receive the ball. You had your phone up, taking photos and videos to go on Instagram later, but really you found yourself distracted by each noise that left his lips.

Your sunglasses rested lazily on the edge of your nose, and as Carlos' arms hit the ball over and over, your eyes watched his biceps carefully.

You understood why he had a flock of women watching his every move, his physique and tennis ability pulling so many in. Then there was his annoying smile.

The ball hit Juanki's torso with Carlos letting out a loud laugh that echoes through your mind. Carlos looked to his team who also laughed over the moment and his eyes flickered to you.

When he saw that your eyes were already on him, he smirked. A smug look took over his face and he shot you a wink, your face turned red and you quickly moved your gaze back to your phone.

You sent the photo to Carlos and picked up your bag, heading onto the court.

"Alcaraz, interview time let's get going." The clock was ticking down and media day was calling, with Alcaraz lined up for a fairly full day of pre-tournament interviews.

"cinco minutos más." (five more minutes.) The Spaniard called to you calmly as he continued hitting the ball back and forth across the court.

"Alcaraz. Now. We're already late." Carlos rolled his eyes, Juan Carlos telling him to go. The Spaniard headed towards you, the smile long gone replaced with his usual grimace.

"Disfruta la vista allá atrás" (Enjoy the view back there?) he taunted, his large hands reaching down to grab his tennis bag that was by your feet.

While he bent down to grab the bag, he brushed your side, your breath catching in your throat as you felt his arms brush yours. Then leaning into your ear as he stood back up. "You were blushing."

"I was doing my job, you know, filming content for you. Plus it's hot out here, I was just flushed." Your tone stood strong, but your eyes were telling a different story. Your body was covered in goosebumps, the bench behind you stopping you from stepping away.

He finally took a step away, which allowed your shoulders to fall in ease. He began to walk off with the same smug look as before back on his face, "¿No tenemos una entrevista a la que llegar?" (Don't we have an interview to get to?)

You shook your head, annoyance for the man filling your body. Not only was he being difficult, but now he'd resorted to teasing and taunting which was somehow worse than his angry indifference.

You turned to face Juanki as you began walking off the court behind Alcaraz, mouthing 'I'm going to kill him' which elicited a laugh from the coach.

"Have fun you two!" He called out and was met with two frustrated groans. Carlos stood at the exit waiting for you to catch up and began trudging behind you.

Walking through the grounds, he smiled, waved, and took pictures with the multitude of fans who spotted him. You'd silently stand to the side or offer to take the photo when needed.

The consistent stopping slowed you down, but you didn't mind when you saw the giddy smile of every fan's face as they met with Carlos' warm demeanour.

You eventually made it to the conference room. Before stepping into the room, you grabbed Carlos' arm, pulling him out of the doorway. He turned to face you, his eyes analysing your fingers wrapped around his bicep.

As his gaze focused on your hand, you pulled away as if his skin had burned you. "Sorry. I just wanted to remind you of everything we went over. This is just pre-tournament chatter so you should be okay."

"I've got it. Why won't you just let me do it." His tone was sharp and you rolled your eyes, your arms crossing in front of your chest in annoyance.

"It's not that I think you can't do it, I just want to help." Carlos took a step back from you, scoffing at your plea.

"Well I don't need your help." He left your side, walking into the room before you had a chance to respond. You threw your hands up in pure frustration, but the Spaniard had his back to you so the action was mostly for yourself.

You moved inside the room and sat down in the front row, ready to take notes.

The questions started light and easy, talking about the Spaniards off-season, the changes to his serve, the added weight in his racket. He answered the questions diligently, following everything you'd been through the night before.

You couldn't help but smile as he answered perfectly time and time again, showing you how easy this job could've been and subsequently how needlessly painful the Spaniard had been making it.

But then it fell apart. The questions began to get more pointed. More trying, asking him about losing to Jannik, losing to players outside the top 20, another year of struggles at the US Open. Then the straw that broke the camel's back came.

"So Carlos, your performance declined rapidly at the back end of last year, especially after your loss to Novak in the Olympics. How does that affect your mentality coming into Australia knowing you could face him?"

Shit. You knew you'd prepared Carlos for the question but you also knew how painful the Olympics loss had been. You knew how he was dreading facing Novak and you knew by the look in his eye that he was caught off guard by the question.

Your breath shallowed while you tried to stay calm as he sat there looking from the interviewer to you, the unease clearly written on his features.

"Um." He paused, he caught your gaze and you tried to send him a reassuring look. He looked down to his hands, lifting his head to meet the interviewers' gaze.

"I think to say my performance declined rapidly is stupid." Shit. Your head fell into your hands and you held back an audible groan. Some in the press conference laughed but Carlos didn't join in.

"I also beat Novak at Wimbledon, so maybe he should be the one scared to face me, no?" The room fell into a tense silence. The stone cold look on Carlos' face put off any follow up questions.

Carlos stood up, his demeanour clearly agitated, ringing his hands at his sides. He left the room and didn't slow down for you like he usually did. You quickly left, thanking the interviewers and apologising for Carlos before you rushed after him.

"Alcaraz, wait!" He didn't turn around, instead turning a corner and disappearing out of sight. You turned the corner and found him resting against the wall, shoulders slumped and hands covering his face.

"What was that?!" You stood in front of him and he pulled his hands from his face.

"Oh come on Y/N, He was out of line!" Carlos raised his voice in frustration, a clear sign of how much the interviewer had got to him.

"And we had prepared answers, you didn't need to be an asshole about it." You rested on the other side of the hallway, your annoyed facade matching the Spaniard's.

"You have no idea what it's like to sit there and have everything you do, questions and torn apart." Carlos stood up straight, closing the distance between you with his angry ranting.

"Maybe I don’t, but I do know what it's like to have to deal with you being an asshole." His face was mere metres from yours. Your hands moved to rest on his chest as he moved his mouth down to your ear.

"Then it's a good thing you won't have to for much longer, isn't it?" His spiteful tone sent a cold chill down your spine as his hand slid to your waist.

"Counting down the days Alcaraz." His breath hit your neck and you snapped, pushing away the tennis player's large figure. He had a smirk on his face as he stumbled back slightly.

You moved away from him, turning away from him quickly and storming away from the interaction. Your heart was racing and your chest was pounding, unable to sense if it was blinding rage or maybe something else.

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taglist: @kcharlyy @champagnecoastca

Mourning Carlos’ hair rn