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Summary
Jannik feels something pinch low in his chest, part laughter, part something else. “It’s ridiculous,” he says, but the words snag, almost tripping over a smile he doesn’t want to give away.
Carlos doesn’t defend it. Doesn’t dismiss it. He laughs—open, easy, untroubled—and the sound lands heavier on Jannik than he expects. “They have good taste.”
“They’re insane,” Jannik counters.
“Maybe.” Carlos’s grin deepens. “But I kind of like it.”
That stops Jannik. “You like people making up fake stories about us?”
Carlos shrugs like the question’s made of air. “They could make up worse things.”The world calls it chemistry. The internet calls it sincaraz.
Jannik calls it torture.
Because Carlos is playing the game everywhere but the court, and Jannik is losing badly.