Chapter Text
Seven Years Ago, The Ravkan Open
Jesper Fahey is on fire.
That’s what all the headlines said, all the commentators, the audience—Jesper Fahey was on fire, and one day, he was going to become the number one ranked tennis player in men’s singles. He was still a rookie, but everyone saw it coming. Jesper Fahey was young, tall but quick, versatile, energetic, sexy, a winner waiting for a big win.
“I don’t know about all of that,” Jesper says confidently to the press conference after another winning match. The woman who asked the question—or, not really a question, moreso just a list of compliments with a particular emphasis on Jesper’s looks—tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “All I know is that I take a shot, and look good doing it.”
The journalists laugh, grin, and exchange looks with each other. From the corner of the room, Jesper can see his PR manager, Mr. Haskell, and Haskell’s intern, Kaz Brekker, give him a nod, which was as good as them standing up on the chair to shout hip-hip-hooray. It was a good answer, Jesper knew. It fit his image well; Jesper Fahey was confident and attractively cocky, he was a flirt and a good time, and his casual, nonchalant attitude towards the rules and regalia of tennis played nicely with his rise to stardom from “humble” origins (although the press liked to give anyone from Novyi Zem that origin story, so that’s hardly surprising). It would also make a fantastic soundbite and slogan, and Jesper was sure Kaz especially knew this too.
Jesper got another few questions pertaining to the match—his win would put him in the semifinals of the Ravkan Open, the second of the four Grand Slam tournaments. Jesper responds with his prepared answers on his technique (he puts a lot of power behind his shots, but keeps the ball moving fast), what he learned from his rise to the quarterfinals in the Fjerdan Open (that he was constantly getting better), and then what this win would mean for him and his family.
“It’d be incredible,” Jesper says, and he refrains from adding an obviously. “My family—they’ve always supported me, even though it hasn’t been easy. Financially and physically, of course, since I’m not… I’m not tennis royalty, like some of the players here. But emotionally too; it took a lot of convincing with my Da, but he saw how much the sport meant to me. I’m sure he’s watching this right now and telling me not to slouch, or something,” Jesper adds to lighten the mood, throwing an exaggerated wink at the camera.
The journalists laugh amicably again, and Jesper smiles. He knows how to work a crowd, and that’s even without Kaz’s thousands of hours of PR prep. And all of that charisma, Jesper knew, only bolstered his status as the hot, up-and-coming player to watch, and once he had more wins under his belt, once his player rank rose from number 14, he would be unstoppable. Jesper Fahey is on fire.
Another journalist is chosen for a question. “And how are you feeling about your next match with Wylan Van Eck?”
Jesper keeps smiling, but he thinks his eye twitches.
Jesper had had very little interaction with Wylan Van Eck, and he wanted to keep it that way. They had been semi-formally introduced at the Fjerdan Open, but Wylan had been standoff-ish and sometimes even rude, like he was looking down his nose at any player he didn’t go to expensive tennis camps with. And Jesper had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and guess that he was just shy, but Wylan didn’t seem to have any problem coldly shutting down the attempts of casual conversation Jesper had made. So Jesper had moved on—what was one more snobby, rich Kerch player amongst the several, anyways?—and tried to ignore him. Jesper never played against Wylan either, not even in practice, probably because Wylan Van Eck, Jesper decided, was too boring to have any sort of fun with the game.
Wylan was the exact sort of tennis player that Jesper hated. It was already an obvious and easy joke to make that all of the Kerch tennis players were good only because their nannies handed them a top-grade tennis racket once they were able to stand. Nearly all of the Kerch players—Karl Dryden, Elsie Radmakker, Alys Aerts—they were all rich rich, rich even beyond playing tennis at the country club when you were five. And then Wylan Van Eck—well, he may just be the poster child for all of that, Jesper thinks. But it was more than that.
It wasn’t fear. Jesper wasn’t scared of Wylan Van Eck at all. Jesper had studied Wylan’s plays, his strategies, his strengths and weaknesses. He had done all of that, and Jesper didn’t even need to; he could just look at Jan Van Eck’s matches from two decades ago and learn everything he needed to know from there. And that was what irked him the most about Wylan, his supposed rival. Wylan was a good player, even quite a talented one. But however good Wylan was, it was only because his father had been a better player, back in his time. Wylan had the best tutors, best equipment, best coaching, all from birth, practically. Wylan Van Eck was a good player, because anyone who practiced that much had to be somewhat good, but he was being lauded as the next great talent of tennis simply because his daddy had won a few of the Grand Slams. And Wylan didn’t try to hide the fact either. All of Wylan’s plays were nearly direct copies of things his father had done, and on anyone else, it would’ve come off as what it was—lazy—but because Wylan was the darling prince of Kerch tennis, the media just ate it all up. Wylan was boring, fundamentally, and Jesper hated him for it.
“I’m feeling good about it,” Jesper says, smiling. He doesn’t elaborate.
“Do you feel pressure knowing Van Eck is the only person between you and your first final at a Grand Slam?” the journalist presses.
Jesper shrugs. “I’m not really pressured about it, no. Look, Wylan Van Eck is a talented kid,” Jesper says this, knowing that Wylan is only about a year younger than him, “and I’m looking forward to playing him. But I’m not worried about him. I know my strengths, I know my abilities—and I look forward to the finals.”
*
“I think you pissed off Van Eck,” a voice whispers in Jesper’s ear. Jesper whirls around, to find Inej Ghafa standing behind him, her arms crossed. She has a racket in her hands, but she isn’t dressed to play on the practice courts.
“Where did you come from?” Jesper complains, although he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. On the courts, Inej is tiny, precise, and fast— her opponents hardly see her coming before she’s volleying the ball over the net with a sharp snap. “And what? I didn’t even say anything bad about him!”
“Oh, I heard Wylan too,” Nina Zenik says, strolling up just behind Inej and joining in their conversation. Jesper grins at her in greeting—he’s been seeing a lot of her this tournament season, somehow. Jesper likes her, but doesn’t know if they’re truly close yet, not like how he and Inej are. It’s hard to make friends with tennis players, Jesper thinks; it’s not a team sport, and they all seem naturally defensive in nature. Still, Nina seems clearly annoyed by whatever Wylan said, so Jesper can assume they’re at least friends.
“What did he—Wylan, he said something?” Jesper asks, raising his eyebrows.
“He was talking to Alys,” Inej says, her arms still folded. “And they were laughing at some of your advertisements.”
“I believe Wylan’s words were, ‘Jesper’s hardly a tennis player. He’s basically just a male model,’” Nina says, scowling. “And then Alys tacked on that she’d never do a commercial for an insurance agency unless her father needed one for his insurance company. Just in case it wasn’t clear that they’re loaded, of course.”
Jesper frowns, looking away. Jesper took every and all ad opportunity that was given to him. It was good money—and without prize money from the tournaments, it was his only income. Of course Wylan Van Eck and Alys Aerts didn’t have to worry about doing insurance commercials— they each had their obligatory sponsorships with popular athletic brands, and that was for the publicity more than the money. Jesper needed the money. And so when an insurance company wrote out a fat check for Jesper to smirk and twirl a tennis racket for 20 seconds, of course he would do it.
“I didn’t even say anything bad about him,” Jesper mutters, trying to see if he could make Wylan out in any of the practice courts set up. He couldn’t, probably because Wylan was off on some private tennis court that cost 300 kruge an hour to stay in. Jesper feels more annoyance run through him. “I bet if his daddy told him to do an insurance commercial, he would do it. Think I should tell him that tomorrow before the match?”
Nina snickers and Inej rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell him anything,” Inej says, shaking her head with some amusement. “Just beat him tomorrow.”
“That’s the plan,” Jesper says, spinning his racket. He winks at Inej. “But if the opportunity presents itself…”
The opportunity does present itself, as it goes.
Jesper’s heading to the locker room—it’s that time of evening where everyone else is gone for dinner, and with that in combination with the dwindling number of players staying in Ravka for the semis and finals, it’s nearly empty. Jesper doesn’t like that; he grew up playing tennis in after-school group lessons, the kind that had twelve kids and a stressed out teenager trying to wrangle them all. The court feels most alive with others, and anytime it’s empty like this, it just feels wrong to him, just slightly off.
“Oh—Jesper?”
Jesper turns around, taking out an earphone. He tries not to scowl.
“Wylan,” Jesper says, taking in the man. Wylan is in training clothes—all white, which Jesper finds intrinsically irritating. The traditional tennis uniform had been all white, because of some inane Kerch tradition. The Kerch Open was the only tournament that still required the all-white uniform, but of course Wylan Van Eck would wear it willingly when he was just practicing. Even his headband was white, the band standing in contrast from the color of his auburn hair and bright blue eyes. Wylan did look good in it, though, Jesper can admit begrudgingly. Annoyingly good.
Jesper doesn’t want to think about that, so his eyes flicker past Wylan, to his right where a blonde girl in a pink tennis skirt is watching him with a curious expression. “And Alys, yeah?”
“Hi!” Alys chirps.
“I don’t think we’ve actually met,” Wylan says. Jesper notes that this isn’t true, but he finds himself more distracted by Wylan’s voice. Jesper had heard Wylan speak before—post-match interviews, the press conferences—but never like this. His voice is softer than Jesper expected it to be, and almost melodious. Wylan smiles, and his eyes are warm. Jesper finds himself oddly captivated, and he isn’t sure why. It’s not like Wylan is the first pretty boy he’s seen in tennis whites. “I’ve heard about you, of course.”
Alys smirks and looks away, and just like that, the spell is broken.
Yeah, you have heard of me, Jesper thinks sarcastically. I’m the guy you’ve been ignoring for months. I was also in that car insurance commercial you were laughing at, does that ring any bells?
“Yeah,” Jesper says abruptly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jesper turns on his heel and walks into the locker room. He puts his earphone back in, heading to his locker, when the door swings open again. It’s still Wylan.
“Are you following me?” Jesper asks, irritated .
Wylan blinks. “No? I—I’m putting my stuff down…”
“Okay,” Jesper says, still annoyed but it’s not like he has actual grounds to be annoyed at that.
“Sorry,” Wylan says, and he sounds confused. “Is it bad luck for you, or something? To talk to an opponent before a match?”
Jesper turns to look at him. Wylan is asking this question—seemingly—very earnestly. It’s a fair question, too. Athletes are notoriously superstitious, but everyone seems to have different rules and rituals about it. Still, it bothers Jesper that this is the first thing Wylan jumps to, like he can’t imagine any other reason why Jesper might dislike him.
“No,” Jesper says shortly. “But I’m not very talkative.”
“Oh,” Wylan says awkwardly. “Well—good luck for tomorrow. See you then?”
Jesper pauses, staring at Wylan. He can’t help himself from rolling his eyes a bit, and then he mutters, “Thanks.”
“Are you angry at me?” Wylan bursts suddenly, and then he flushes red. Jesper raises an eyebrow. “I just—I just feel like you are,” Wylan elaborates, biting his lip.
Jesper snorts. “We’re not twelve. Or, I’m not, at least.” Wylan eyes flash in annoyance for the first time, and Jesper feels slightly vindicated. Jesper continues, his voice even, “No, I’m not angry at you. I don’t think of you enough for that, trust me. Not everyone wants to be your friend, and if that hurts your feelings, I’m surprised you made it this far into the competition.”
Wylan bristles, and then he draws himself up. “You’re being rude.”
Jesper lets out a bark of laughter. “My apologies, then,” Jesper says, putting on the posh Kerch accent that also happens to be shared by Wylan. “Forgive me for being so unseemly.”
“Hilarious,” Wylan says dryly, but he’s folding his arms tight. “Forgive me for trying to make polite conversation.”
“Make all the polite conversation you want, by all means,” Jesper says, ever-so slightly goadingly. Now that I’ve moved up a few ranks, now suddenly you’re interested in being polite? And not even actually polite— “I’m sure you talk shit in private.”
Wylan looks offended. “I don’t.” He narrows his eyes then. “I thought pretty positively of you, actually.” He provides a large emphasis on the past tense, as if Jesper would be too stupid to get that on his own.
“Oh, you thought of me positively?” Jesper asks, and he is picking a fight now. “How’d you think of me, then? What was I wearing? What were we doing?”
Wylan turns bright red again, and Jesper thinks that picking a fight with Wylan might not be anywhere near as fun as flirting with him. But then, Wylan’s eyes fill with hurt, so much so that Jesper is almost taken aback by it.
“Do you dislike me that much?” Wylan asks, taking a defensive step back. “I haven’t even—we haven’t even met.”
Jesper feels slightly guilty, and then he feels irritated at himself for feeling guilty at all. Jesper wasn’t going to baby Wylan and coo at him like the Kerch press, especially not when it was clearly all some superficial act of coy innocence.
“It’s not personal,” Jesper clips, turning back around to his locker. “I just don’t think we’re going to get along.”
“Oh, clearly!” Wylan snaps, his annoyance coming through. “Believe me, I have no desire to be friends with someone like you! But you don’t have to get along with someone to be polite, if you ever learned how.”
Jesper feels a muscle in his jaw jump. Someone like you. Players like Wylan seemed to enjoy keeping tennis an inaccessible sport, like Jesper deserved it less because he wasn’t born into money. He should be used to these pretentious Kerch players by now to know how to tolerate their snipes, and yet, it still stings. “Maybe this is my polite,” Jesper says, scowling. “Sorry it’s not up to your Kerch country club standards.”
“Is that it?” Wylan asks, crossing his arms again. “You don’t like me because… my background is…”
“Rich? Loaded?” Jesper provides, snorting. “I don’t care. I actually don’t care. You’re hardly the first spoiled rich kid I’ve played tennis against.”
“You know nothing about me,” Wylan says, and Jesper oddly thinks he’s quite attractive when he’s angry. “It’s not—You’re being so–”
“Why don’t you go cry to your daddy about it?” Jesper asks mockingly. “Maybe he could tuck you in and read you a bedtime story too, while he’s at it.”
For a second, Jesper swears there was fire in Wylan’s eyes. Then, they freeze over quickly, cold as ice.
“I’m going to beat you tomorrow,” Wylan says flatly.
Jesper laughs. “Oh, is that what it takes to get a little spine out of you? Good to know, I’ll just mention your da–”
“I’m going to win tomorrow,” Wylan says, and Jesper can make out some of the sparks from before back in his eyes. “See you then.”
He turns around before Jesper can get another word in, but Jesper thinks there’s no problem with that. Jesper will get the last word when he wins.
**
Wylan doesn’t look at Jesper even once while they’re in the locker room, which is more than fine by Jesper. Jesper wouldn’t mind it if he did though, just to give him a little extra kick of competitive spirit; he’s already feeling the first feelings of adrenaline, that competitive focus that might be the only time in his life where he’s ever able to concentrate. Jesper wouldn’t mind a little more fuel though, a glance or glare that reminds Jesper how badly he wants to beat Wylan.
After their meeting in the locker room, Wylan’s shit talking had begun in earnest. Jesper didn’t even need Nina or Inej to relay the information back to him—he walked into the club’s lobby and heard the whispers, the snickers, saw the stares. Wylan himself had been seated with a group of other Kerch players, and when Jesper passed by, Wylan had rolled his eyes at him. Wylan had said something then which made all the people around him burst into laughter, and Jesper just kept walking on ahead. Wylan’s gaze had returned to him, and Jesper felt it on his back as he walked past. But now, Wylan doesn’t look at him, and Jesper finds himself oddly disappointed in the fact.
By the time they’re out on the court though, Jesper could care less. He greets the crowd, smiling and waving. Jesper isn’t the most loved player for the Ravkan audience, but they like him more than Wylan at least. This bolsters Jesper’s confidence, and he lets himself flirt with the crowd a bit while Wylan goes straight to his chair.
Jesper wins the coin toss, and he chooses to serve first. He sends a nod in the direction of his coach, Coach Neyar, and then throws a smile at Inej, who’s in one of the boxes watching along. Kaz is also there, somehow, which Jesper will question later on after his win.
Jesper heads to his respective baseline, twirling his racket in his hands. He thinks of his father, no doubt watching the match at home even with the time difference. Jesper knows he sometimes has to miss watching the match to go out on the farm, but Colm Fahey brings a radio out with him then. His father believes in him, more than anyone else, and Jesper can’t let him down. He bounces the ball a few times, waiting for the umpire to announce the game’s start.
“Jesper Fahey to serve,” the umpire drones. Jesper grins. He spins his racket again, and he thinks of his mother. She loved tennis—watching it, playing it, just talking about it—and more than that, she got it. She never played professionally, although Jesper thinks she would’ve been fantastic, but Jesper knows she understood the game, understood what it meant to him, better than anyone else. Jesper hopes she’s proud of him. It’s what he wishes for before the start of any match. “Love-all. Play.”
Jesper serves, Wylan returns it back. They keep a rally going, effectively warming up. Now, Wylan’s body is poised to run back to the center of the court, and Jesper shoots the ball in that direction, with the strength in his forehand hit he knows Wylan could never match. The ball flies and Wylan sprints to get it, but there’s too much momentum propelling him in one direction now; when Wylan reaches the ball and hits it, it goes right into the net.
Jesper smiles, but it’s not like that was a hard-won point or anything. It’s exactly as Jesper had planned for. Wylan was a good player, a really good one—but he was all tactical. Jesper could practically see Wylan’s mind working right now, taking in Jesper’s moves and adjusting his own strategy accordingly. Wylan was brilliant at that, Jesper knew, from watching all of his other matches. Wylan played tennis like it was chess, and so long as Wylan could predict the next move his opponent could make, he’d win. Jesper just had to finish the game before Wylan caught on.
Jesper takes the next point as well, quickly and cleanly. It was a good back-and-forth for a bit, Jesper can say. Jesper keeps Wylan at the front of the court, by the nets, where Wylan’s speed and agility are a bit more limited, and eventually, Wylan hits one out.
Wylan, although he’s breathing heavily, doesn’t look frustrated or upset. He’s not a very emotional player, Jesper knows. He doesn’t whoop or cheer when he gets a point, and his plays don’t get messier when he loses a point. Wylan is methodical and subtle, well-trained and highly skilled. Wylan Van Eck is boring, and Jesper wants this game done with.
Jesper serves, Wylan backhands it back—he targets Jesper’s left, because that’s Jesper’s weaker side—but Jesper slices it over, keeping the ball low. When Wylan returns the shot, Jesper uses the full strength of his forehand to absolutely pummel the ball at Wylan. The ball dives to just in front of Wylan’s feet, and Wylan has no chance of hitting it.
Jesper’s winning now, 40-love. After his next point, he’ll win the set. It’s been, what, less than four minutes?
Jesper bounces the ball a few times and then serves, a quick and sharp one. Jesper knows that Wylan is skilled, just by the fact that Wylan can return his serve; it’s still not enough, though. Jesper hits it back, a wide shot that lands directly on the line, and Wylan can’t sprint there in time.
Jesper grins, spinning his racket—he’s not over-confident, not yet, because he knows Wylan will give him more of a challenge during the next set since he’s warmed up to Jesper’s playing. At least, Jesper hopes Wylan steps up his game. There’s no fun in beating someone without a little fight, especially not this far into a Grand Slam—
Jesper scowls, and can’t help but roll his eyes now.
Wylan is speaking to the umpire, all big eyed and demure, trying to appeal the call of the last point.
It was a wide shot, yes, but it certainly wasn’t out. Jesper aimed it to land on the line, and Jesper knows his aim is damn good. Jesper turns around, raising his eyebrows at Coach Neyar. She just shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, a gesture for him to wait it out.
There’s a pause in the game while the officials look over the play, and Jesper twirls his racket, trying to hide his anger. Wylan, of course, looks entirely innocent, waiting for the umpire’s response. He doesn’t look the slightest bit upset or angry, no, of course not—sweet Wylan Van Eck would never be rude to the umpire or anything less than sportsman like, he’s just gently appealing a proper call. Jesper just knows the press tomorrow will laud Wylan for that. Saints, Jesper can practically hear the Kerch commentators now: See, now that’s why they call tennis a ‘gentleman’s sport.’ You won’t get anywhere in the game if you’re throwing rackets or yelling at the umpire, you have to deal with it as gracefully and fairly as Van Eck does here.
“The ball landed out,” the umpire says after another minute. Jesper puts his hands up, marching up to protest.
“It was on the line—that’s what you called,” Jesper says, trying not to raise his voice. “Sir,” he adds on, lest the umpire say he’s being rude.
“I made a mistake,” the umpire says, unyielding.
“It was just off the line,” Wylan says quietly, and Jesper despises him.
Jesper wants to argue, but he knows it’s not worth it. He’ll end the set with the next point, and if he argues now, Jesper knows how it will look. Jesper isn’t Wylan Van Eck. Everyone will just find him petty and aggressive.
“Fine,” Jesper mutters, turning back around to look at Neyar. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line, displeased, but Jesper knows she’s thinking the same thing as Jesper.
The call goes out to the rest of the crowd, and Jesper is pleased to hear Wylan get some boos and jeers from the crowd. Wylan’s face goes a bit pink, and for a second he seems almost nervous, but Jesper doesn’t have any sympathy left for him. They start moving back from the umpire’s chair while the staff and ball boys reset.
“Of course this is how you’ll score your only points,” Jesper mutters under his breath.
“The ball was out,” Wylan says diplomatically, apathetically.
Jesper scoffs. “Fine, the ball was out, Van Eck,” Jesper says, glaring. “Just know that the next time you miss one of my shots, you won’t be able to cry to the chair. Or you can, but I’m not going to help you when you get jumped by the crowd.”
Wylan’s shoulders hunch forward a bit, but then he sticks his chin up stubbornly. “I don’t care what the crowd thinks of me. I’m not you. I actually focus on the game instead of preening for a crowd of strangers. Winking at every girl in the crowd won’t make you win the game.”
“Oh, I wink at all the boys too,” Jesper says, and Wylan’s ears go a bit red. Jesper rolls his eyes, taking a step closer to the net. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re not winning the game, winkless and all. Of course, from your high horse, it’s probably difficult to read the scorecards.”
Wylan stops walking, turning in Jesper’s direction. Wylan has the same expression on his face now that he does as he waits for Jesper to serve; he’s calculating something, trying to predict Jesper’s next move. Wylan’s eyebrows furrow, and Jesper maintains his unamused stare.
“I guess it all looks the same to you,” Jesper says casually, stepping back now. “When daddy gives you a participation trophy at home for trying your hardest, yeah?”
Wylan’s eyes widen a bit, the same spark from the locker rooms coming back into his eyes. Jesper smirks at him, and Wylan straightens his back.
“I’m going to beat you,” Wylan says, his voice low and burning. “I’m going to win.”
Jesper laughs, loudly. He doesn’t bother giving Wylan a response to that, he just moves back to the baseline.
Jesper takes the next point and wins the set. He rolls his eyes at Wylan a bit, for good measure.
It’s Wylan’s serve now. Jesper has to win this set and the next one, best of out five, and then he’ll be in the finals. It’d be his first Grand Slam finals.
Wylan serves and Jesper knows he should try to end each point as early as possible. Jesper knows Wylan’s strategy, how he plays the game to adjust to his skills and height. Wylan isn’t short by any means, but amongst tennis players, he’s one of the smaller ones. Wylan likes to tire his opponents out, get a rally going across the court and run them back and forth, left to right, waiting for their shots to get messier so Wylan can cleanly finish it. Jesper is quick too, but he’s not as fast as Wylan—but his hits are stronger, more powerful, and they can knock Wylan off-balance.
Jesper takes the first point, but Wylan gets the next one doing exactly what Jesper predicted, running Jesper around the court. Jesper isn’t worried, not even remotely, but the score being 15-all makes him more eager to hit hard and get a better lead on Wylan. His eagerness costs him the next point, because Jesper returns the ball clear out of bounds then. But Jesper gets the next one after Wylan hits the ball into the net, and the score is 30-all. Jesper gets the next one too by aiming it right for Wylan’s feet, and then for the next point, inspired, he hits the ball as hard as he humanly can, aiming directly at Wylan’s head. Wylan hits the ball back out of defense more than anything, and when it flies out of bounds, Jesper laughs. Wylan looks at him with wide eyes, looking so primly offended that it makes Jesper laugh again.
Jesper wins the second set.
The game is his now, Jesper knows. It’s just one more set to win. Wylan will put up more of a fight maybe, but he had barely held onto his 30 points. Jesper throws a few more winks and waves to the crowd, the crowd cheering for him. Jesper is going to win this, and then he’s going to win the whole fucking Ravkan Open. Jesper Fahey is on fire.
Jesper gets the first point, and Wylan gets the second. They keep going like this: 15-all, 30-all, now 40-all—a deuce. Jesper is panting, but he’s not out of breath—he won’t let Wylan make him breathless. Jesper is going to get the next point, and then he’s going to get the point after that because you need a two point lead to win the set, and then Jesper is going to win the game.
Jesper takes a deep breath, spins his racket and serves. He wants to get Wylan up front again to the net, get him close and then be hard with his shots, forcing Wylan to choose between getting hit in the face or missing the shot. Jesper wants to play a little dirty with him.
Jesper sends a ball flying right for Wylan’s feet again, intending to make him jump back and scramble to hit it. But Wylan does something else; the ball is coming in low and fast, and Wylan drops down to meet it, hitting a precise and powerful backhand shot so quickly that Jesper barely has time to register the ball has been hit before it lands, and the point goes to Wylan. Wylan exhales loudly, and when Jesper looks at him, Wylan is smiling.
Fine, I won’t try to lob your head off, Jesper thinks, brushing off his arms and heading back to the baseline. I’m still going to win.
But Wylan does it again. Jesper isn’t even sure what it is—he hits it on his left side, which means it lands on Jesper’s left and he’s weaker on that end and Wylan knows that. And then when Wylan swings, he swings for the shot so subtly and quickly, Jesper doesn’t have time to properly predict how close to the net the ball will land. Jesper misses the shot completely, and Wylan lets out a sort of breathless laugh when the point goes to him, because it means that Wylan won the set.
Jesper is frustrated, but he still won’t let himself get worried. He had asked for a challenge, hadn’t he? Wylan has to win the next two sets, back to back; Jesper just needs the one. Jesper will still take this.
It’s Wylan’s serve again, and Jesper can feel the potential energy in Wylan’s movements from across the court. It’s exhilarating and alarming all at once.
Wylan serves lightly, far lighter than Jesper was expecting him too. Jesper hits back lightly too, and then Wylan damn near takes his head off; he pelts the ball back to Jesper in a sharp, vicious forehand, something Jesper has never seen him do before ever, and while Jesper dives for the ball, he can’t get there in time. Wylan beams at him, and he has a look in his eyes that Jesper can’t place. He shouldn’t try to place it, because Wylan is already teeing up to go serve again.
Alright, fuck, Jesper thinks, glaring. Taste of my own medicine, fine, fine.
Wylan serves, and Jesper tries to put all his power into his next shot, something that won’t give Wylan the chance to test out any new swings. But Wylan slides in for the ball, nearly going into a split, but he hits it with that same damn backhand that Jesper can’t really see, and Jesper tries to get it, but he hits it straight into the net. Wylan is breathing heavily, but he’s smiling widely, pushing his hair back from his forehead. Jesper doesn’t think he’s seen Wylan smile like that ever, least of all during a match. It’s a distractingly gorgeous smile, and also insanely infuriating, and Jesper needs to—needs to—wipe that pretty smile off of Wylan’s face someway or another, or he’s going to throw his racket on the ground.
Jesper takes the next point, out of pure spite and desperation.
Now Wylan serves again, and Jesper manages to bring Wylan up to the net, finally, and attempts to see through his strategy. Jesper strikes the ball high and fast into the air, waiting for Wylan to try and stumble backwards, but Wylan jumps high in the air and spikes the ball down across the net, like he just made a slam dunk in basketball.
Now, Jesper has watched Wylan Van Eck play, right? He’s seen all of his rounds in the qualifiers, in Fjerda, the quarterfinals, he’s watched video recordings of him in all the other various, smaller tournaments throughout the year. Fuck, Jesper has watched all the recordings of Jan Van Eck too, to try and gain a little insight into Wylan’s copycat strategy. And nowhere, nowhere in any of those games amongst all those hours, has Wylan Van Eck ever jumped half his height into the air to spike down a lob. Jesper is aghast, and Wylan looks a bit aghast too. And then Wylan throws his head back and laughs, an incredulous, almost hysterical sort of laugh (a really lovely, full body kind of laugh that’s already imprinted in Jesper’s mind) and Jesper hates him more than anything in the world.
Jesper throws a bewildered look back at Neyar. She puts her hand over her chest, her hand signal to Jesper that means: Stay calm, don’t lose focus. Don’t get emotional. But now Jesper is a little bit emotional, and that’s the surefire way for him to lose focus.
He loses the next point, and he loses the set.
It’s the final set now, and they’re tied. They go to change off the serve, and Jesper goes to his chair to take a few sips of water. He can’t, he can’t lose this next set. Jesper gives himself 15 seconds to think of what his strategy should be. Wylan appears to have thrown all his strategy to the wind—how can Jesper combat that? Jesper glances sideways to look at Wylan.
Wylan is drinking water, pacing around. He’s got a pretty pink flush on his cheeks (Jesper really wants to stop thinking of everything Wylan does as pretty, but it slips out in his thoughts before he can think anything else) and his chest still rises and falls from exertion. Wylan’s not used to playing like this, Jesper realizes. Wylan’s had long games, sets where he’s running back and forth for hours, Jesper knows, but Wylan’s never thrown himself into a game—not like this. He’s going to be exhausted.
Jesper heads back to the baseline. It’s his serve, the last set, and Jesper decides that he has enough energy—he has enough spite in him—to make Wylan work.
Jesper serves, and then he doesn’t stop running. Wylan doesn’t either.
Their scores keep copying each other. Jesper is up 15, then it’s tied. Wylan gets two shots on Jesper—one of those sneaky backhands, again, and then Jesper hits another out—but Jesper catches right back up, and so they’re both tied 40-40, deuce. Jesper’s next serve is a stunning ace, one that Wylan had no hope to hit, and it’s ad-in now; Jesper has to get the next point, but Wylan does, and it’s back to deuce. They stay like that, back and forth between deuce, ad-in, deuce, ad-out, deuce, ad-in, deuce again, and now, finally, ad-out.
If Wylan gets the next point, he wins the set. Wylan would win the whole match.
Wylan looks tired, but his eyes are sharp in focus. There’s something in his eyes too, something so bright and awake, Jesper can see it all the way across the court. It’s like Wylan is on fire, only that can’t be true because Jesper Fahey is on fire, it’s him, that’s what everyone says, and Jesper has to be the one that wins this.
Jesper serves. Wylan returns it. Jesper sends the ball back fast, forcing Wylan to hit it back fast too—Jesper backhands it to the opposite corner, and Wylan dives for it. The ball gets over the net, but only just, and Jesper rushes forward to hit it. Wylan catches the shot in the air, sending it over, sending it back— behind Jesper, behind his reach, and Jesper tries to dive for it but—
Wylan wins.
The crowd goes up in cheers and Jesper stays on the ground. He shuts his eyes, putting a hand over his face. He takes a breath and starts to turn around.
Wylan looks stunned, but not confused. And then Wylan shouts, a happy, loud shout; he jumps in the air, like he can’t contain the joy within himself. He has a hand on his head and he looks at the crowd with wide eyes, his smile wide and magnetic and beautiful. Jesper watches Wylan take in the rest of the crowd, before locking eyes with Jesper.
Jesper looks away immediately, looking at the crowd himself. He looks to the player’s box. Neyar is smiling, although Jesper knows he’s going to get a talking to later on; she’s never been the type to sugarcoat, and she’ll be ruthless when it comes to picking apart Jesper’s playing today, but it will make him better. Kaz miraculously hasn’t been kicked out of the player’s box yet, and he’s clapping appreciatively, looking at Jesper. Inej is cheering loudly, and Jesper can make out her lips saying, ‘I’m so proud of you.’ It’s enough to make him smile, genuinely, as bitter as he feels right now. Nina is also there, even though she had her semifinals match tomorrow morning; Jesper adores them all, truly.
Jesper faces Wylan again, going up to the net to shake his hand. Jesper knows he’s going to come across as angry and upset, but he is angry and upset. But Jesper still smiles tightly, reaching his hand across, patting Wylan’s shoulder with his left hand.
“Good game,” Jesper says, and as he says it, he realizes that he does mean that sincerely. He concedes a bit of his pride to say, “I’ve never seen you play like that.”
Wylan looks almost shy now. “I—it was a good game. I’ve… I’ve never had to play like that.” Jesper smiles at him and rests his hand on Wylan’s shoulder for a second, squeezing gently—a thank you. Wylan’s ears turn red.
Jesper pulls away, and leaves Wylan alone by the net. He waves to the rest of the audience, hoping he looks somewhat more amicable, before heading back to the locker rooms and then his hotel room to cry.
***
Jesper tries not to be a miserable drag the next day, he really does. But his emotions decided it’d be better to be on a speed run of the five stages of grief instead. Denial was the shortest-lived stage, since it was pretty impossible to deny he had lost. All of the tennis recaps, the sports papers, all of them were talking about the match—and the fact that Jesper lost.
Anger came easily with that, then. He hated Wylan Van Eck with every piece of his body, he hated, hated, hated him. Jesper saw him today again at the women’s semifinals; Jan Van Eck was with Wylan too, likely having flown in now that his son was in the finals, and Jesper felt nothing but rage as he saw the two of them. Or three of them—Alys was also strangely attached to the pair, but Jesper couldn’t imagine a conversation between the three of them for the life of him.
He bargained with himself, trying to figure out how he would do better in the next tournament. That felt paradoxically less and more emotional after Coach Neyar gave him an 18-page Word document of all his mistakes. The depression came immediately after he called his dad. His Da said his usual words, how fantastic Jesper played, how he should be proud of himself—but with every word of kindness his father gave him, Jesper just felt more and more like a disappointment.
Jesper hasn’t hit acceptance yet, but he did get some happiness when Nina won her semifinals round—she’d be going to the finals. Their little group of four was going out to dinner to celebrate, quite a tame party, since Nina would have to be up early and back in the courts all day tomorrow. Jesper tries to make himself happy as he heads down for it, but he’s in the inbetween of the anger and depression stages—anguish when he’s feeling dramatic about it, or just plain annoyance.
They’re in the middle of dinner when Kaz’s phone pings, and he looks at his phone with a frown. He opens up an article, and Jesper sees a picture of himself and Wylan from the match yesterday appear on Kaz’s screen.
“Reading my fanblogs, are you, Kaz?” Jesper asks, grinning widely.
Kaz keeps frowning. Almost absentmindedly, he mutters, “I have Google Alerts set up for you.”
“Because of your internship, or because you love me that much?”
Kaz ignores him, and then looks at the group, his brows furrowed. “I think Van Eck’s been taken to the hospital.” He goes back to his phone, typing quickly.
Jesper blinks. “Jan Van Eck?”
“No. Your Van Eck,” Kaz says, moving his head in Jesper’s direction. “Wylan.”
“Wylan is in the hospital?” Nina asks, sounding slightly alarmed.
Kaz is still searching through his phone. Jesper feels a weird sort of anxiety run through him, but he isn’t sure why.
Kaz reads something on his phone, opens his mouth, and then closes it again.
“Kaz?” Inej asks, and she’s pulled out her own phone too now. “What is–”
“Apparently he’s broken his arm,” Kaz says, his voice low.
The three tennis players gasp.
“But I saw him today,” Jesper says stupidly, feeling oddly panicked even though he hates the kid. “When did… What the hell?”
“If that’s true, he won’t get to play the finals,” Inej says softly. She’s rubbing her own arm, and Jesper is stunned to realize that he’s doing the same thing too. “That’s awful.”
“Does that mean… Jesper, would you…?” Nina asks, turning to Jesper.
Jesper shakes his head. “No. I lost to him. I can’t move up. He’d just… He’d retire out of the tournament, I guess. Saints, that’s…”
“Was it his left or right hand?” Nina asks nervously. She looks worried now, and Jesper doesn’t blame her. Jesper has his own superstitions, but he can’t imagine finding out a player broke their arm the day before your competition is uplifting.
“Don’t know yet. And people are going to spread rumors that you did it,” Kaz says casually to Jesper.
Jesper’s jaw drops. “What? What?”
“That’s how it goes, isn’t it? You just lost to him,” Kaz says. His phone is blowing up now, which means the news of Wylan’s injury must be making rounds. “That’s what we’ll deal with on our end, though.”
Jesper groans, putting his head on the table. He feels a surge of irritation go through him, an anger at Wylan, but it dies down immediately just at the thought of getting to the finals, and then being forced to quit. And the setback it would be, in terms of training and ability, to recover from a broken arm. Would Wylan even be able to recover to the skill level he had yesterday, when he beat Jesper? Jesper imagines Wylan’s face, giddy with victory, his head thrown back in laughter. Jesper imagines the stubbornness in his eyes, the energy. Jesper hates him, but Wylan Van Eck was full of surprises, and full of strength too.
“He’ll be fine,” Jesper says slowly, hoping to sound reassuring. “I mean, players get injured all the time. It’s just shit timing for him.”
“The recovery period will be long too,” Inej says, her voice faint. Jesper puts his hand in hers.
“He’ll be back in no time,” Jesper says firmly. He grins at Nina. “C’mon. Cheer up, you. I promise you, this isn’t bad luck for you.”
“I’m trusting you, Jesper Fahey,” Nina says, trying to make her voice teasingly playful. The mood has been altered, though, there’s no denying that.
In the end, Nina was right to trust Jesper. She wins the Ravkan Open, her first Grand Slam title, and they go out for drinks to celebrate. There’s a few people on the internet who spread the conspiracy that Jesper broke Wylan’s arm, but Dregs PR shuts it down with surprising efficiency. The conspiracies all but fade away when Wylan releases a statement, describing the event as an “unfortunate accident.”
Jesper tries to push Wylan Van Eck out of his mind, but he can’t. Jesper can’t forget Wylan’s soft voice, the steel in his voice later on as he promised to beat Jesper. Jesper replays their match, both in video and in his head under the guise of training and learning from his mistakes, but Jesper finds he only ends up thinking of Wylan’s eyes. Jesper thinks of Wylan’s energy on the court, how Wylan surprised Jesper, plain and simple, and it makes Jesper practice harder too, like Wylan’s energy was contagious. Jesper wants to see him again, strangely, and wants to wish him a fast recovery because he selfishly wants to play against Wylan again. Jesper wants to see Wylan again. Jesper wants to see Wylan and then play against him, and he wants to win this time. So Jesper trains even harder.
And then, it’s as all the headlines predicted—Jesper Fahey is on fire.
Not immediately. He fucks up the Kerch Open, the next competition, and Jesper thinks it’s because all of the white tennis outfits somehow remind him of Wylan, and that distracts him. But then Jesper wins the Shu Open. He wins it. His first win at a Grand Slam tournament under his belt at age 20, his first real year of competing, he wins. His win gives him a nickname among the press too, after a commentator remarked on how precise his aim was and how powerful his shots were. Jesper Fahey—or, the Sharpshooter—is on fire.
Jesper’s popularity only grows following that. He gets better sponsorships—no more car insurance commercials, he lands a car commercial now—and he’s getting better too. He’s a better player, he’s more agile, he’s more clear-minded. He’s ready for the next year of Grand Slam tournaments, and he’s ready to become the highest ranked player in the world.
And Wylan Van Eck disappears.
A few questions are asked in the next year’s Grand Slams when Wylan is absent—was the broken arm career-ending?—but no one asks directly. Wylan’s name comes up again when Jan Van Eck re-enters the tournament circuit as Alys Aerts’ coach, but that too fades away quickly.
Jesper Fahey is on fire, and Wylan Van Eck disappears. That’s how it goes for seven years.