shotajoyyy
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Summary
For a suspended, surreal second, the Spanish clay is July-grass green. The spray of crushed brick underfoot is a wisp of white lifted off the grass—titanium dioxide, a groundskeeper told Jannik once, painted on with a transfer wheel every morning. It’s Wimbledon, and Carlos is falling.
Jannik hears a muted thump.
He watches the ball connect with Carlos’s outstretched racket. Soft hands, a deft change of grip, and every ounce of pace melts from the ball. It bounces off Carlos’s strings, sails just over the net, and lands mere inches inside the opponent’s court. An impossible shot.
Championship point.
Jannik hears the clatter of Carlos’s racket dropping to the ground. But it must only be in his head, because the crowd is rising, roaring, all around him.
Series
- Part 2 of Bone, Muscles, and Even the Soul
Bookmarked by shotajoyyy
03 Jul 2026