Snippet: A Tofie Tennis AU
Ok it’s been like… two years since a I dreamed up a tennis AU where Tommy and Alfie meet on the ATP circuit, Tommy the new hot shot star and Alfie returning from early retirement years after a brutal injury. Romance and angst obviously ensue. I’ve the entire thing written in my mind which means, naturally, the only part I have actually written is the closing scene.
I’ve finally decided, screw it, I’ll give away the sappy ending and if I ever do fully write it so be it— you all will know how it ends but the angst-with-a-happy-ending tag would’ve spoiled it anyways. So here we are, hope you enjoy these two lovesick idiots at the US Open Championships!
Fourth match point and Tommy’s not sure how he’s not yet passed out. He’s barely breathed since the first and now three deuces and advantages later his heart is wild in his chest, thumping so strong he could choke on it. f*ck, if the watching isn’t worse than being down there himself, nerves rattling and mind racing but at least in control.
Alfie bounces the ball. Once, twice. Three times. Then it’s sailing upwards and Alfie’s reaching, the taut lines of his body stretched and on full display, and then he’s collapsing in, racket snapping down and…
It’s a perfect serve, right up the middle, curving spectacularly after the bounce. Alfie lands with a wince and this has to be it, there’s no chance of return. But Federer stretches impossibly out, just barely meets it with his racket to make the return. The ball clips the tip of the net: for a moment it is sure to drop over. But it doesn’t. It spins back and—
“Game, set, championship, Solomons.”
The crowd is on its feet, Tommy too, his heart in his throat, eyes stinging. A deafening roar fills the stadium.
Alfie falls to his elbows and knees, head cradled in his arms, face pressed against the hard court. His body heaves with deep, long shudders.
Sarah’s wrapped around Tommy, jumping and sobbing, crying out, “he did it he did it he did it!”
Tommy holds her with one arm but he pays her no heed beyond that. His only focus is Alfie, still bent on the court. Still gasping for air and trembling. Tommy knows it well. The relief of a win. The flood of emotion that comes after so much determination, so much exhaustion; fighting through pain, both mental and physical. A battle that Alfie’s been waging for years. Tommy wishes he were there, beside him, holding him close.
Alfie sits back on his knees, tips his head to the sky and smiles through his tears. He plants his racket to the court to push himself up and falters, sinking back down, pain lancing across his face. A slight gasp from the crowd and Tommy’s lurching forward but then Federer is hopping the net, his own eyes heavy with tears, and he’s at Alfie’s side, grip under his arm, pulling him to stand.
The crowd goes even more wild.
An embrace of hands to shoulders, unheard words exchanged— for a moment Tommy’s desperately envious. It should be him at Alfie’s side, supporting his weight, sharing private whispers. But then Alfie pulls away, searches the crowd, and finds him. Their gazes lock.
Tommy's world narrows. The roar of Arthur Ashe Stadium dulls to a buzz. Alfie’s eyes are wet and red-rimmed but bright. Laced with agony but also triumph and joy and warmth.
Tommy jerks his head—get the f*ck over here— and Alfie’s smile broadens. He disengages from Federer, limps his way off the court. It’s f*cking slow motion, Alfie making his way toward them. He stumbles into the stands, makes his way up to their box under a flurry of hands and congratulatory thumps on the back. He winces with every step.
But then he’s there, just feet away.
Sarah gets to him first. She throws her arms around him and Alfie returns her embrace. He’s looking at Tommy over her shoulder, though, eyes never leaving his, lips stretched wide.
“You came,” he says.
Tommy shrugs. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
Alfie slips out of Sarah’s arms. Starts toward Tommy but then hesitates.
Well, f*ck that. Tommy's heart is too full and his arms too empty. He nods again and Alfie flings himself at him, arms gripping ‘round his waist, pulling him close and up off his feet. Tommy laughs. Tears wet his neck where Alfie sinks his face in. Tommy threads his fingers into sweat-soaked hair.
“You did so f*cking good, Alfie.” Alfie’s shaking around him. “f*cking proud of you.” A huff and Alfie’s pulling back, only just so, and there's nothing between them but smiles and shared breaths.
“I did it,” Alfie says, dazed and blinking. “And you’re here.”
And yeah, f*ck it. Tommy doesn’t give a sh*t anymore. How could he with Alfie looking at him like that and the euphoria coursing through him like the win were his own? With days spent apart that felt like months?
He leans forward and presses his lips to Alfie’s. Just a peck really. Prolonged, sure, but close-lipped and chaste. Yet it’s somehow just as fulfilling as that first time he sank down over Alfie’s hard length, so full and free.
Tommy’s only reminded of the crowd when he pulls away and the roar around him surges back in, more deafening than he’s ever heard it. Hoots and hollers that dwarf the chant of Alfie’s name. He lets go reluctantly and smiles; gives Alfie a shove. It’s his day.
“Go on, then. You’ve a trophy to claim.”
Alfie winks at him. It’s sexy as f*ck. Then— in true, cringe-worthy Alfie-fashion— says:
“Pretty sure I already did.”
Not for the first time, Tommy really hates how much he loves him.
