The party is everything Roger expected, glittering lights, an elegantly decorated room; nothing new or special. He’s been here for the last two years after all, so surprises are unlikely, and he wonders - with a hint of nastiness that he regrets instantly, he’s not to the point of bitter malice, he’s not - if the Wimbledon directors are too old to remember surprises anyway. All he sees as they drift past is grey hair over wrinkles, congratulations echoing one after the other and they don’t mean it, aren’t thinking about the words. It’s the easy thing to say and he’s heard it more times than he can count, heard it to the point where he doesn’t hear it anymore, thanks automatic and he’s already looking for the exit. He’s a fixture, an exhibit or maybe a circus freak; come and see the Tennis Man, see him with a racquet in hand, unbeatable, unnatural, you won’t believe your eyes. On display at the Savoy Hotel from nine onwards and Roger thinks he might know how goldfish feel, trapped in a tiny bowl with countless eyes from the outside, watching you beat your fins uselessly against glass.
Screaming for somewhere to hide in silent fish words maybe. He’s never going to visit an aquarium again.
People pass by him in a parade of suits and glittering dresses and faces that blur together along with their opinions, everyone seeming to have a comment on his performance today that he has to hear because it’s so witty, so clever, so unique they think when really, the last five, ten people have said the same thing. Natural talent… wonderfully modest… best in the world… you’ve raised a fine son there Mrs Federer, what’s your secret? Something in that Swiss chocolate? Joke after flat joke, one faceless blur after another and he’s heard it all before.
No one mentions Andy. Roger thinks he might cry if they did.
He dances with Venus as tradition requires and doesn’t know where to put his hands, her giggles worse than Maria’s blushes last year. The relief at escaping back to their table – central, in full view, easy access for everyone who wants to see the Champion centrepiece of the evening – lasts the minute it takes Mirka to drag him back to the dance floor. He knows she thinks she’s helping, taking him away from all the conversations he couldn’t care less about, but it’s worse out here, the pretend harder to maintain when he has to concentrate on not falling on his face. He fixes his gaze on the lights around the room as they spin by, opening his eyes wide so the tears can’t fall. It makes the lights blur into shooting stars, razor edged with spiked points and he idly wonders if they’d shatter if he let out the scream trapped in his throat, the noise so alien in this glittering bubble of two dimensional people. So fake and unreal and Roger knows he’s part of it, the latest attraction in their exclusive show.
But he won’t scream, only because it’s not what they expect of him, their champion. He’ll dance and smile and accept their empty congratulations like they mean something, because he’s supposed to. And because he can’t stand the thought of their faces, their eyes narrowed in disgust if he broke their rules. Their pet freak acting out they’d whisper and he can’t, because if he does, the whispers won’t be whispers anymore. Won’t need to be when he’s proved them all right, he is a freak and everyone in the room knows, the many eyes on him accusing and his breath starts to come faster. The lights are too bright, air too hot, suit tight in all the wrong places and it feels like everyone’s staring at him, Mirka asking him what’s wrong-
- And the echoing huge room is suddenly too small, he has to run and the last shreds of coherent thought agree, get the hell out before he does something he’ll regret. Stumbling out an excuse to Mirka, he pushes through the crowd fast enough that no one stops him and he’s relieved through the panic, can’t swear he wouldn’t hit someone who tried. Avoids his parents and Tony out in the hallway without having to think and he almost-sprints past startled women in their glittering dresses, searching, desperately, – biting his lip to stop himself begging anyone who’ll listen - for a way out until he finds it, ducking through a side door marked Exit with a mute whimper of relief.
Dropping into a sweat-soaked heap on cold, reassuring concrete, Roger gasps in the July-warmed air, smelling traffic fumes and the cigarette butts littering the floor, bitter and musty but still sweeter than anything he’d breathed inside. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, ignoring his pounding heart and the shaking, making himself relax. Which is much easier out here, on his own. First time I’ve been alone for weeks, he realises, really alone since Mirka or his parents in the next room counts as company. There’s an entire hotel full of people behind him and around him but here, in – he glances around, realises he’s sitting on concrete steps in what looks like a tiny courtyard, rubbish bins to his left and what sounds, from the clang of pots, like the Savoy’s kitchens on the other side. He’s sitting with the rubbish and scraps and he couldn’t care less because, in the stale London air made staler by the enclosing walls, there’s just him.
“Guess maybe I’m anti-social,” he whispers out loud, just to prove he can speak again and the none-attempt at humour is enough to make him smile. “Talking to yourself. First sign-“
“It’s the first sign of madness you know Rog."
Andy’s teasing voice, sing-songing through his mind. They’d been in the member’s lounge in the first week of Wimbledon, Andy coaxed up there for an interview though he protested all the glamour made him edgy and couldn’t they talk to him in the basement, a remark that only Roger knew was serious. Everyone else laughed it aside but Roger knew Andy had never liked being given things he hadn’t earned, something he’d discovered from conversations he hadn’t realised he was listening to, casual questions he hadn’t meant to ask. Sitting on the sofa beside a laughing, flirting American who every so often would let a hand casually brush Roger’s thigh as if by accident, he’d had started to wonder just how long he’d been watching Andy before he noticed himself doing it.
Too long maybe. Long enough that when tennis and winning and Mirka, everything he’d once wanted seeming pointless, it was the American he clung to. The thought of a passing smile from Andy had been enough to drag him out of bed for two weeks, every friendly “Well done” reward enough for making it through another match. Walking in on the American and Marat on the first day of the tournament had shocked him into a state of numb calm for days, to the point where Mirka had quietly asked what he was taking. Roger had stared at her in mute shock for almost a minute before starting to laugh.
Which really hadn’t helped. If she’d ever come close to slapping him, it had been then.
“Obsessed,” Roger mutters quietly, drawing his knees up and resting his forehead against them. He’s calm now, panic faded to the softest buzz of adrenaline humming through him and he could stay here all night in the warm July air. “You’ve got a crush Federer. It’s pathetic.”
And maybe it was, but it had kept him going through the last two weeks. Months maybe; he’d been having a bad year. Losing in both Australia and Roland Garros, crushing, heartbreaking defeats when he’d worked so hard and with every point he lost, every set, he felt his once-assailable confidence crumble just a little more. Then, suddenly, getting to the grass and he couldn’t lose, every ball he got his racquet to sailing across the court in impossible shots and the whispers he’d heard last year had started again, the sideways looks and the way the other players fell silent when he walked into a room. From rock bottom to top of the world and he didn’t know now, if he was good or bad, normal or unnatural, losing what he wanted most one minute and shocking the world with near-impossible tennis the next. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted anymore, except Andy to look at him with something other than the blank coldness of today, to see the American’s eyes look at him like they had in the showers, laced with a smirk and lust and the half-narrowed concentration of sex. At the thought, the now-familiar shiver of arousal runs through him and he bites his lip, because, after today, Andy wouldn’t want him even if Roger offered.
Not that he would offer of course. What with the not being -- inclined that way, Mirka in her beautiful dress probably looking for him right now and-
- and Roger has to pause for breath, suddenly confused. Andy’s flirting over the last two weeks had never really hit home until it was gone and hiding disappointment at the deprivation is harder than fooling himself over the flirting has been. He’d pretended he loved the attention, told himself Andy’s sense of humour was simply impossible not to like and it was okay for sometime rivals to be friends, of course it was. He hadn’t let himself realise that sometime-rivals probably didn’t flirt like Andy, probably wouldn’t smile when said rival walked in on him having sex in the showers. Probably wouldn’t have groped Roger’s ass that time they passed in the corridor when Roger was being interviewed, and god, he hopes the TV crew had the sense to edit that out. It had been embarrassing enough without it being seen by millions of strangers, and he’d never been so anxious for an interview to end so he could take a cold shower.
A long, cold shower and that should have raised questions but he’d forced himself not to think about it too closely. Just like everything else about these last two weeks.
Because ‘just’ a rival probably wouldn’t have filled Roger’s mind with thoughts of being fucked against water-slick tiles, replayed over and over, to the point where fantasy’s become so well-worn, he couldn’t swear for sure he’d never felt those tiles under him, Andy’s mouth on his with the hardness of possession. It’s kept him from throwing things, from running from the eyes and the cameras; kept him sane for two weeks but he’d never followed the thought of the attraction through to its logical conclusion, actually asking or maybe just slamming the American against the nearest wall and kissing him till they absolutely had to come up for air. Never thought he might actually want…
… because hasn’t Andy been simply a sweet distraction, a rock to lean on when the whispers got too loud, the thing holding him back when Roger closed his hand around something heavy and the temptation to throw it was almost unbearable? Roger had fantasised about fucking him, about being fucked, in the comfortable knowledge that, though it would never happen, the possibility would always be there. That Andy actually liked him enough to flirt had been enough to balance out the jealousy and bitterness he encountered everywhere else, without him having to ask for more.
But today, the American had barely looked at him. Congratulations whispered through the sound of applause, an empty little word that belongs to the old men in suits in the ballroom he’s just left, not the laughing, quick-tongued Andy. Something had changed Andy’s mind, being beaten so soundly perhaps, or Roger’s lack of response to his flirting or maybe, just maybe, Andy had been as scared by Roger today as Roger had himself.
Because no one should be able to play tennis like that. “Freak,” hissed at him from the crowd as he passed, ‘abnormal’ whispered through the eyes of the press as he answered their slightly stunned questions. Andy refusing to say his name when talking to Sue after the match and Roger closes his eyes, pressing his forehead harder against his knees as misery tightens in his chest, again.
Please don’t hate me. Not you too.
“Hey mate, you okay?” A hand lightly touches Roger’s shoulder and he flinches away, catches himself on the very edge of the step he’s sitting on, heart abruptly hammering with something like panic. “Whoa, sorry. Want me to get someone for you?”
“N-no. Thank you.” Roger glances up, sees a young man who looks like a waiter staring at him curiously. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? Had a bit too much or something?” The waiter mimes drinking with one hand and looks almost disappointed when Roger shakes his head wordlessly. “Out here for a fag then?”
“For a- I’m sorry, what?” Dizzy panic for a second, wondering if it’s an accusation, doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say before the waiter produces a box of cigarettes and suddenly he gets it. “Oh. No. I don’t…” The box is offered, the waiter dropping down to sit on the step below Roger and, for a second, he’s tempted. Memories of teenage rebellion, homesick and miserable, smoking behind the gym at the Tennis Centre when he was fourteen, until a boy he later found out was called Yves Allegro caught him and beat him to a bloody pulp for it. It’s enough to have him shaking his head though Yves isn’t here and no one would ever have to know. He’s learned his lesson.
Has a few scars to prove it too, because Yves had really been furious with him for risking everything he was working towards. “No, thank you.”
“I know, I know, it’s bad for me.” The waiter lights up anyway, curious eyes on Roger the entire time. “Only thing that gets me through the twelve hour shifts. Hey, you with the tennis lot?”
“Yeah.” Roger manages a smile. He wanted to be on his own to think but there’s no way to leave without it being rude and besides, going back inside means having to face Mirka and everyone else. “You?”
“Nah, I’m just a grunt.” The waiter ignores Roger’s frown of incomprehension. “Had to get out, before I lost it.” He takes a long drag on the cigarette and Roger has to stop himself inhaling too, knowing it’d be stupid and Mirka would kill him, but still wanting it because they’d helped a little, when he cried himself to sleep for the first six months at the Tennis Centre. He wants that same feeling, knowing it’s bad for him and not caring but the request hovers, caught in indecision on the tip of his tongue.
Oblivious to Roger’s thoughts, the waiter flicks ash from his fingertips. “It’s no fun being a slave for the rich and famous you know?” He assumes a sneering tone. “Hey you, fetch me a drink! This glass is dirty. The soup is cold. My wife dropped her eyeliner behind the buffet, go get it back for us if you will, here’s no tip thanks.” More glowing ash, flicked away down the steps and Roger watches that rather than make eye contact with him, embarrassed on behalf of his social circle. “Oh hey, I’m sorry.” Genuine mortification in the waiter’s tone and he shifts uncomfortably, shuffling a few inches away along the step. “I was only joking. Please, don’t-“
“It’s okay.” And it is, Roger realises, because it’s probably true and who is he to argue when he’s been sneering inwardly at everyone all night? “I’m a nobody. Don’t worry about me.”
“Right.” Palpable relief in the agreement. “So you’re not drunk and you don’t smoke. Why’re you sitting in this arsehole of a courtyard?”
Because he thinks he likes the man he beat today more than he should. Because he might be going insane. Because he won Wimbledon and realised that winning doesn’t matter, not really, not when there’s something you want more. He settles on a muttered “Avoiding everyone,” and gets a nod of understanding.
“Don’t blame you. Bunch of toffs.” Another drag on the cigarette and Roger’s left wondering if he’s meant to be following the conversation at all. “Any particular reason? Girl trouble?”
Are all waiters as bad as journalists? Roger wonders silently, a little resentfully because he can’t seem to be left alone anywhere and because all he’s done lately is answer questions. He doesn’t remember Tim asking this many, so it can’t be a British thing. “Um. Not really. I was-“ He pauses, rephrasing what he was about to say, choosing his words more carefully. The guy clearly doesn’t know who he is, and Roger has no intention of correcting the ignorance. As much as he’d rather be alone, it’s almost nice in a way just to talk, knowing the other person couldn’t care less that he’s just won Wimbledon. “Do you ever feel that people are judging you, because you’re good at something?”
“Man, I’m a waiter. If I was that good at anything, you think I’d be serving soup to people whose dog probably cost more than my house?!” A shrug, half-amused, a little bitter and Roger flushes at having asked at all. “Seriously though, people are bothering you ‘cause you’ve got talent? Tell ‘em to fuck off. They’re just jealous.”
Easy for you to say Roger thinks and the resentment is back, lacing his tone with bitterness. “What if I can’t?” He laces his fingers together, staring at the calluses and, absently, he wonders what smooth hands would feel like. “I’d like to, but sometimes, I can’t.”
“I get it. Like, if I told my boss to fuck off, I’d get fired.” The waiter drops the cigarette end, grinding it out with his heel. “Only thing you can do then is not let them get to you, ‘cause then they’ve won. You have to ignore them.” He stands up, brushing his hands clean on his trousers. “Sure that’s all that’s bothering you? You look more depressed than that, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Roger half smiles. “I don’t mind. And I’m fine, really. Thank you.”
“Well if you say so.” Clearly unconvinced, the waiter steps past him to the door. “Hope you work out what’s bothering you.” A fresh cigarette drops into Roger’s lap followed by a lighter, the cheap, plastic kind that’s as likely to light your fingers as the cigarette. “You look like you could use it.”
“Thanks.” Roger hesitantly reaches for the lighter as the waiter disappears back inside, the quick burst of music and light cut off as the door slams shut. More temptation and for a moment he hates that he can’t give in, or be just another face in the crowd. Wonders if he’d be happier as just another ‘grunt’, serving drinks.
But even as he thinks it, he knows how much he’d hate it – because fame has its benefits, it does, and he is grateful, never having wanted to settle for mediocre. He’d wanted to stand out, every broken racket, every screaming fit as a child a mark of how much he wanted to succeed, and the number one trophy says he’s got there. Everything he’d wanted, everything he’s spent a lifetime looking for, he’s got it, and can keep it, unbeatable, untouchable-
“So why am I miserable?” he whispers to the empty courtyard but he’s not expecting an answer. Doesn’t need one, not when he’s known for two weeks and it’s easier to be honest with no one watching, no need to keep up the pretend.
It doesn’t matter how good he is or what he can do with a racquet in hand. Doesn’t matter if he wins or loses, if he’s number one or fifty or two hundred. Doesn’t matter when winning isn’t what he wants anymore, not really.
Winning is a hollow comfort when it doesn’t make you happy.
Roger’s on his feet, forgotten cigarette tumbling unlit to the floor and he takes a deep breath against the sickening twist of nerves. He has to go back inside because he has to know, can’t go home tomorrow wondering, if only. Can’t tell the world to fuck off but can’t keep hiding, not when he - desperately – wants to know if the comfort he’s had these last two weeks is gone for good. He pretends not to notice his hand trembling, as he reaches for the door handle. He has to know.