charliebl0g

[charliebl0g]

i was mistaken.

You never felt restless during training. You knew there would be photos and videos, even in the simplest moments — like drinking water after a tough practice. You knew you had to look away when someone flirted or when a fan asked you out. You had to be grateful. You had to reject them without breaking anyone’s heart. You acted exactly how he never did.

When he asked if you could warm up together, you said yes. When he walked beside you through the Australian Open hallways, you also said yes. When he invited you to play golf — and he was terrible or maybe letting you win — you wondered: Why? When he left comments congratulating you on instagram, it was never you who replied; it was your media team, but they always kept you informed. When, by chance, you ended up in the same places, he made sure to stand next to you. And when you messed up a serve or lost a set, you occasionally thought of him.

Truthfully, this whole time, you’ve been thinking about him a lot—in secret. You thought of him when you were happy, sad, anxious, frustrated, and optimistic. But it was fine: you were the same age, and you just admired him. That was all.

Your dad sometimes watched The Office on Netflix, and that’s when you remembered seeing Carlos post about his series. You watched all three episodes. You liked how he spent vacations with his family, how his tiny bedroom reminded you of your old one. He collected sneakers; you collected Monster High dolls. He loved his mom’s cooking, had siblings, and his dad was into tennis… Without meaning to, you mentally made a list about him. And yes, you also felt sad when, later in the series, he appeared in Ibiza or at other parties. Your heart burned with jealousy. You still held onto some innocence, and it choked you—twisting inside. Were you falling for him?

You thought it was strange that he never asked for your number. "He's busy, like me," you told yourself. But you’d never ask for his either — you were spoiled, and your ego was as big as your mother’s. "How silly, I don’t even care."

There was one time, during a sponsor’s charity dinner, when you were face-to-face. The table was wide, but every time you glanced at Carlos, he was looking back. Those eyes — somewhere between dark green and brown — you could never quite tell. The conversation at the table was interesting; you tried to pay attention. But when you looked at Carlos again, your eyes met. Looking at him felt like flying through clouds.

"When I met Edgar, I knew I was in love, even though he was starting to go bald. And yet, he still dances like we’re young," said one of the women at the table — you remembered her as the editor-in-chief of Marie Claire. Edgar was her husband, the sponsor and host of the dinner.

You looked away from Carlos and focused on her.

"I remember he talked about moving back to Italy. And I thought: I’m a New Yorker, I have to do something about this." Everyone laughed.

Carlos raised his hand like a student:

"And what did you do to make him stay with you? I mean… you’ve been married for over fifteen years..."

The woman smiled:

"I just asked, ‘What if we were a pair, Edgar?’ And he said yes. We’re still here today."

Carlos grinned and ran a hand through his hair, a little awkwardly. You watched it all. That answer was more than a story — it felt like a revelation, a hidden message for someone there. You looked at Carlos and smiled. He smiled back.

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Weeks before Wimbledon began, you’re scrolling through your phone when the news pops up: Carlos Alcaraz and Emma Raducanu to pair for mixed doubles at the US Open.

Your thumb freezes mid-swipe. The screen blurs for a second.

[charliebl0g]

the dance.

You were 20 years old when you won Wimbledon for the first time. You could still remember what second place felt like... the loss to Gauff in the Roland Garros final. But now, that same flutter in your stomach had returned. Even though it was all behind you — even after beating Iga in straight sets, even after holding the trophy beside the Princess of Wales, trembling, your hands cold — you always managed to find some silly reason to feel anxious...

And earlier, during the press conference, when a reporter asked if you’d rather dance with Jannik or Alcaraz in case you beat Iga, you immediately knew any answer would spark exactly the kind of buzz the media loves. You were too honest, too naive… But not an easy target. You knew how to dodge — sometimes.

“I’d like to dance with Iga,” you said.

All the journalists laughed.

“I mean… maybe we could all dance together? What do you think? We could hold hands and do a little circle dance,” you added.

They chuckled at your jokes. They were kind to you. After all, you were the newcomer, and there was a good chance this would be your first Slam.

But on the night of the Wimbledon Champions’ Dinner, you were panicking. You wore a haute couture Dior dress, designed especially by Jenny Beavan. It was stunning — a soft shade of pink, flowing, adorned with pearls and glitter, fitting your body perfectly.

“Do I look too childish in this color?” you asked your makeup artist.

“You chose it yourself… don’t you remember?” he replied, trying to stay serious. “You said it could be pink or green…”

“I was heavily influenced by Wicked...” you said.

“Has he arrived yet?” you asked, grabbing your phone to check the time.

He kept spraying your hair.

“Oh, Sinner?”

“Yeah. Sinner.” you said, practically squirming in the chair.

“Pretty sure most of the guests are already there. The only one still stalling is you.”

23 minutes later…

“Hello?” you said. “Sweetheart?”

“Mom, I can’t do this… There are so many people out there, and I’m not feeling very… very well.”

You heard laughter on the other end.

“You’ll be fine.”

“What if I trip in front of everyone? This dress is so heavy.”

“If you fall, get back up. Why is it always so hard for you to find the answer on your own?” your mom said.

36 minutes later…

There was an "X" marked on the floor, showing three positions: the emcee’s, Jannik’s, and yours. You had to memorize them — they’d be removed before the dance. The dance.

You’d never spoken to Jannik for more than two minutes. All you knew was that he was an exceptional tennis player — and Italian. That was it... Does he know anything about me? you wondered. Maybe I should ask if he puts ketchup on pizza… Or if he uses some special product for his curls… Or if he actually likes wearing those colorful Nike kits… Or if…

Someone tapped your shoulder. You turned quickly, snapped out of your thoughts.

“Hey,” Jannik said.

“Ciao, tesoro.” you replied.

He laughed, and three seconds later, you realized how ridiculous you must’ve sounded.

“Sorry, I thought…” you wished you could disappear.

“It’s okay. But we can stick to English. Or Italian — if you know it.” he said, a little shy, a little embarrassed.

“No, no, that’s all I know. I was thinking about you, actually… I mean, not you, but your match yesterday. I mean, you were amazing, congratulations! You’re an exceptional player. I think everyone’s right when they say you deserve that No. 1 ATP ranking. And I also believe your rivalry with Alcaraz is one of the best things happening in tennis right now, it’s always exciting to watch you two play and…”

“Breathe!” he said. “We’ve got the whole night to talk about whatever you want.”

And in that moment, you felt a different kind of weight — and it wasn’t the dress.