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Juan Carlos had always loved early mornings on the practice court, before the journalists, before the noise, before the world remembered to look. It was the only time of day that still felt his.
But lately, even the mornings had changed.
Because now, when he arrived before sunrise, Carlos was already there.
The kid, though nineteen was hardly a kid anymore, would be hitting soft forehands into the quiet air, hair still messy from sleep, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. Every sound seemed gentler around him. The rustle of trees, the bounce of the ball, even the hum of Juan Carlos’s own heartbeat.
Sometimes, he would stand for a minute before announcing his presence, just watching him. It was dangerous, he knew it. The kind of quiet danger that felt too much like peace.
That morning, Carlos turned first. “You’re late,” he said, grinning.
The coach smirked. “You’re early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He tossed him a ball and they began to rally. Slow, measured, rhythmic exchanges. The light was still pale, soft as milk, stretching long shadows across the clay. Juan Carlos’s shoulder ached, his knees protested, but watching the young player move in that light, effortless and fearless way made something deep in him feel young again. He loved it. He hated it. He really loved it.
After a while, Carlos stopped, resting on his racket. “Do you ever miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Playing. Competing. Being out there.”
The older man hesitated. “Sometimes. But not like you think. I don’t miss the pressure. Or the noise. Even less the obligations. I miss that feeling of... belonging somewhere. Of knowing why I woke up every morning.”
Carlos looked at him quietly for a long time. His eyes, shy, thoughtful, searched his coach's face as if trying to read the spaces between his words. There was admiration there, yes, but also a tenderness that made Juan Carlos want to look away.
And when Carlos finally spoke, his voice carried that softness too, it was shy, careful and yet courageous: “You have that again now, don’t you?”
The words landed deeper than he could have known. Juan Carlos turned away, blinking against the light. “You make it sound too simple.”
“It is simple,” the young man said, stepping closer. “You wake up, you come here, you make me better. You push me, even when I hate you for it,” he continued, passionately. “And when I win, you look like you’ve won too. Isn’t that belonging?”
Juan Carlos let out a soft breath. The young man's words had surely hit the right spot. But what was he willing to admit? This was so messy. “You have a way of saying things that makes the rest of the world sound less heavy.”
Carlos’s smile widened. His smile... the kind of thing that had undone Juan Carlos more times than he’d admit to anyone.
“Stay close to the people who feel like sunshine,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Carlos tilted his head. “What’s that?”
Juan Carlos hesitated. For a second, he almost didn’t answer. He could feel the weight of everything he wasn’t supposed to say and the impossible tenderness that kept pulling him toward a line he had already crossed in his heart.
“Something I read once,” he said finally, his voice low, almost hoarse. He tried to make it sound casual, but the words trembled as they left him. “It stuck with me. Because when I met you, that’s what you felt like… Sunshine.”
He let out a quiet breath, his cheek were pink and a cute smile reached his lips. “And I hadn’t felt warmth in a long time.”
For a heartbeat, he wished he could take it back, or at least soften it. Make it sound like a metaphor instead of a confession. But it was too late. The truth had slipped out, and standing in front of Carlos now, radiant in the morning light, he felt both exposed and relieved. It terrified him how much one person could undo years of restraint with just a look.
The court went quiet again.
Carlos’s eyes softened, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then don’t step away from it.”
Juan Carlos smiled faintly, though his chest tightened. “You don’t understand. Sunshine can burn, too.”
“I’m not trying to burn you,” the young man said. “I just want you to stop hiding in the shade.”
Juan Carlos laughed softly, tender, almost resigned. “You talk like someone who’s never been afraid of losing.”
“I am afraid,” Carlos said. “Every day. Of losing you, of losing us, of saying the wrong thing.”
Juan Carlos’s throat tightened. He looked at the young man standing before him with his hair damp and his eyes full of that maddening mix of courage and innocence, and realized he had already lost. He had lost his certainty, his boundaries and all the careful walls he had built to survive the years. Or, perhaps, this was finally his victory.
“Charly,” he said quietly, “you don’t know what you do to me.”
Carlos smiled. He maybe couldn't grasp exactly what his coach meant, but he knew his story. He knew the pain life had put him through since a young age. And he knew, he had felt it over the years, that he was good for him. He had felt like he had the superpower to heal him. To glue together his pieces.
“Maybe that’s okay. Maybe you just need to let it happen.”
The young man's words hung in the air full of promise. They felt like future. They smelled like protection. They sounded like love.
Juan Carlos wanted to freeze that moment, to bottle it, keep it, live inside it. Because for once, the world felt simple again. For once, he wasn’t a man with too many regrets or too many secrets, he was just someone standing in the light, next to the person who made him believe it was still possible to feel alive. And for him, that was enough.