Fabio is a nervous flyer. While waiting fo takeoff, he adjusts his seatbelt with a white-knuckled grip. His cheeks are bloodless, pale.

“Have you been on a plane before?” Julian is careful to ask this gently, not to mock.

“Luca took me to Lisbon last year, to this same event,” Fabio explains through gritted teeth. “And then to Greece.”

“Do you have any music to listen to? To take your mind off things?”

“My headphones are broken,” Fabio shrugs, and his cheeks colour a little, likely in shame. Julian eyes him softly for a second. He pries Fabio’s hand off the seatbelt, unfolds his fingers and places half his AirPods into his palm. Fabio looks up, finally, and gives him a radiant smile.

In Lisbon, the woman at the registration desk recognises Julian but doesn’t bat an eye. Many top players end up at Challengers as coaches, and then quite a few as players, which is the worst thing that could happen to you. They are given a hotel room with twin beds and a small balcony, to be used until Fabio loses. They hit around lazily on a practice court in the setting sun, and Fabio profits of the tournament physio to get a massage.

They return to the hotel room late at night. Fabio tosses his racquet bag on one bed, throws himself down on the other, spread out like a starfish. Julian feels the corner of his mouth lift. He opens the door to the balcony and the cool air swirls in, thick with humidity. Julian feels the saltiness of it on his lips. He steps out and leans against the railing.

Fabio materialises next to him, rubbing at his left shoulder-blade.

“I don’t think that guy liked me,” he jokes. “He dislocated my shoulder.”

The ocean is lapping lazily under the horizon. Under them, the city lights spread out warmly, snaking in all directions. There’s faint music playing somewhere, the sound of laughter. Fabio pulls out his old iPhone 5 with a cracked screen and snaps a picture. It’s not a great photo, but he seems content with it. They chat quietly about practice, inconsequential tennis things, then head inside.

Julian is wary. He hasn’t shared a room with anyone since, well, Elena. For the past three years, he’s been perfectly alone, self contained. After his shower, he gently removes Fabio’s bag from his bed and gets under the covers. He picks up his phone to check the schedule.

Fabio emerges from the bathroom, his damp curls sticking to his forehead, trailing the scent of coconut behind him. His face is lit up warm by the light of the bedside lamp. He’s wearing a crisp white t-shirt, brand new, with a pair of soft-looking old shorts, black faded to dark green. He sits down on the end of Julian’s bed, leaning back onto a hand placed Julian’s shins, letting his bodyweight into it. His presence is warm and heavy, like a cat’s.

“Can I ask you something?” he says. Julian puts his phone down on the nightstand.

“Sure.”

Fabio looks down at the floor in front of him, wiggles his right foot crossed over his left ankle.

“Why did you decide to coach me?”

“Well, Luca asked me,” Julian replies, confused.

“Yes, but,” Fabio furrows his eyebrows, frustrated, “you said yes, no?”

“Well, yeah.” Julian chuckles softly at the clumsy wording. “I didn’t plan on it. He didn’t tell me why he wanted me to go Sicily. But when I saw you play… you know.”

Fabio looks up at him, gives him a blinding smile. “You think I played well?”

Julian smiles at the eagerness. “You played really well, no question about it. But it’s not just that. You’re really talented, but that’s not enough, never is. A lot of people have talent and don’t do anything with it. What he told me about you, about where you come from… I thought, you’re not afraid of putting in the work. I was always like that too. That’s why I decided to say yes.”

Fabio leans further into Julian’s shin. His weight is cutting off the circulation now, Julian thinks, but Fabio still has his disarming grin on.

“I can work,” he confirms happily. “I think I will tire you out.”

Julian huffs through his nostrils, a soft laughter. Fabio gives his shin a pat and pushes himself off.

“Good night, Julian,” he says solemnly. “I hope you don’t snore.”