For the final, he and Luca take the same seats as the day before, out front, this challenger’s equivalent of a box. He’s not talked to Fabio before the match. He doesn’t know yet what to say. He’s going to observe, he’s decided, and they will go from there. 

Fabio enters first and gives them a small wave with his racquet. Julian nods at him. As soon as he sees Fabio’s opponent, though, he knows it’s going to be trouble. He’s a German, older than Fabio, with clearly more match experience. Julian stealthily looks him up on his phone, sees a list of challenger titles. This guy knows how to win a final. 

Resigning himself to the fact that Fabio is not likely to win today, can lean back and focus on the details of Fabio’s game. His serve is powerful for his small stature but not precise, producing aces and double faults alike, and could be made more effective by simply adjusting the range of motion of his shoulder. His forehand is a little loopy and hard to control, overshooting more often today. He has a steady backhand though, and a beautiful slice. He’s good at the net, and sometimes he lucks upon a beautiful drop shot that makes the entire audience go “oooh”. 

His game today is not as varied as the day before, and his opponent is clearly dominating the game. In the first set, Fabio chases down every ball with some level of desperation. He manages to take the set to tiebreak, which he loses only just.

The second set is a horror show, with the same point playing out again and again in an endless loop: Fabio will hit to the German’s backhand, who will hit it back down the line to Fabio’s forehand, who will try to hit it straight back down the line. This repeats until Fabio’s forehand slips and the ball goes out. The unforced errors begin to stack, and as Fabio gets visibly more frustrated, the points get shorter and shorter as well. He loses the second set 6 to 2. 

After the handshake, Fabio walks up to them dejectedly, his expression dark, the ends of his hair dripping with sweat. Julian can physically smell the disappointment on him, knows exactly how he feels, being so close and letting it slip away. His own first challengers feel like a lifetime ago now, and yet his body remembers the ache of it, just as sharp as losing a semifinal in a fifth-set tiebreak at Roland Garros. Julian watches on as Luca pulls him into a hug, ruffles the hair at the back of his head, piles encouragement over encouragement, soothing words in Italian. He himself is not good at this part, he thinks, he will need to learn. 

Fabio pulls back from Luca and gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Julian tries to catch his eyes but Fabio seems to be doing his best to avoid eye contact. 

“Fabio,” Julian says softly, and after a moment of hesitation, Fabio looks at him, the smile wilting from his face. “I know exactly how you feel,” Julian begins, not quite knowing himself what he’s trying to say. “I know it feels like the end of the world now, but you really did well today. And the things that didn’t go so well now, we can all improve on, together. That’s what I’m here for, okay? I want you to relax tomorrow, and we can talk more about the match and how you feel about it on Tuesday.”

Fabio listens attentively for a while, then draws his eyebrows together. 

“So you still want to train with me?” he asks hesitantly. Julian, surprised, stops himself from laughing at the last moment.

“Well, of course. Did you think I wouldn’t? This wasn’t an audition. It was a match in which you played well but happened to lose anyway. It doesn’t change what we’ve agreed on. Of course I want to work with you.” 

Fabio laughs, letting happiness flood his entire face, and then does something unexpected. He launches himself at Julian and pulls him into a hug, and it takes a baffled Julian a good second to remember to put his arms around him. Cultural difference, Julian reminds himself, although Elena, for example, was never much for displays of affection like this — her Mediterranean temperament, if there is indeed such a thing, mostly showed itself during their rows. 

Fabio steps back, the corners of his eyes still creased with a smile. “When do we meet on Tuesday? My job starts at 8 so I can —”

“Don’t you understand, Fabio?” Luca interrupts. “This is your job now.”