On recovery days, Fabio drops by Luca’s house, and the three of them watch old matches on Luca's TV, snacking on biscuits and fruit and debating every point at length. Julian often feels like he loses these debates on the sheer baseline volume produced by Luca and Fabio.

“Ivanov’s game is boring,” Fabio complains once when they’re watching a classic, the 2009 US Open semifinal. “He just stands around and hits the ball really hard.” 

Julian disagrees. 

“Look again.” 

He rewinds the footage and they rewatch the entire point, Ivanov moving his opponent around the court like a chess piece and finishing him off with a slice that swooshes behind him like a comet.

“Do you see it? He was setting up this point three shots ago, with that topspin forehand. He knew exactly where he wanted the other guy to go and how he wanted to finish the point.”

Fabio thinks about it for a beat. “Fine,” he concedes. “He can be a genius and boring at the same time.”

Julian snorts. “God help anyone trying to teach you anything.”

The match rolls on, the ball thumping against the New York hard court rhythmically, the only thing breaking through the quiet of the room, warm and heavy. Fabio yawns and stretches like a cat, accidentally kicking Julian in the shin. 

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry.

Julian eyes him with the hint of a smile. There's something muted about his energy, the way he melts into the cushions heavily. Julian feels his own eyelids getting heavy just from looking at him. “Are you tired?” 

“No,” Fabio says too quickly, like a child protesting bedtime. He's clearly lying, and no wonder. The lessons have been relentless — they have been getting to Julian too. Fabio must be wiped. It's kind of sweet, how he's trying to be heroic about it. Julian feels something soften in his chest, not unlike tenderness.

“It’s okay,” he laughs softly and reaches for the remote. “We’re done for the day. Go home.” 

Fabio looks between Julian and Luca, eyes narrowed with suspicion. 

“You heard the man,” Luca urges with a nod of his head. “Go home, eat something, take a nap.” 

Fabio, still looking doubtful, slides off the sofa and stands up, stretching his legs. He takes an orange from the coffee table slowly, as if for checking for any reaction, then pockets it with a swift movement of his hand.

“Well, then,” he announces, “Ciao.” He strolls away, and the door lands shut after him with a dramatic thud.

Julian shares a look with Luca, and Luca must have seen the uncertainty in his eyes because he is quick with some words of comfort. 

“You’re doing great, Julian. He really likes you.” 

This is the last thing that Julian expected to hear. He raises his head and frowns. “What gives you that impression?” 

Luca leans back in his armchair, looking pleased with himself. “He wants to impress you. And he listens to you.”

“What’s he like when he doesn’t listen?” Julian deadpans.

Luca’s laughter fills the entire room. “You don’t want to know.”