Chapter Text
We all start off in life with a dream, don’t we? For a tennis player, it’s being in the final of the Grand Slam. Centre Court- a high lob, a smash. Game, set and match…you’re a champion. You’re number one. But for most players, that’s all it ever is…a dream.
Not for Victor Nikiforov.
He’s been number one in the world for 5 years. I should hate him.
I look at my phone screen and sigh. The results of my frantic google search are disheartening- to say the least. My life is over. The words are blurring on the screen. I wipe the screen. No difference. Oh. Of course.
It’s not the screen that’s blurry.
“Katsuki Fell in First Round. Is this Season His Last?”
I keep scrolling down the results. Article, after article, after article. Describing my loss. The match. Articles describing why I should retire. Articles critiquing my form, my-
“Yuuri! Don’t look at the news!” Celestino, my soon to be ex-coach warns me. Too little, too late, Ciao Ciao. I don’t deserve him.
Unfortunately, I’m not Victor Nikiforov. I’m Yuuri Katsuki. I won the Luxilon Cup a couple years ago. 2 singles titles, back in the day. Presently ranked 119th in the world.
I’m one of the dime a dozen tennis players certified by the ITF. I’m 24. Not as young as I used to be.
My name makes me sound strong but it’s false advertising. I got kicked out of the first round at Queen’s by the tenth seed, Christophe Giacometti (ranked 15th in the world).
It seems like my parents had high hopes for nothing. I can’t believe I lost so early. I didn’t even make it to the second round.
I still can’t accept what happened. I had moved to a training facility in the states and worked hard to try to make it to a Grand Slam. Five years. I spent five years away from my family, my dog- Viichan, and I have nothing to show for it. My nerves really got to me. The pressure had me binge-eating before the match, on top of the fact that I can’t take my anxiety medication when I’m competing because it’s classified as a performance enhancing drug and the beta blockers I used to take have also been added to the banned substance list, so adjusting to the excessive sweating and the panic attacks and the weight gain exacerbated the situation and then my toy poodle- my baby Viichan had died. To be honest, mentally and physically I was at my worst.
The thing is, it was supposed to be my comeback. Or well…I guess not even that. I think you have to be good at some point to make a comeback.
Sport is cruel. Now, I know it doesn't sound too bad. Four million tennis players in the world and I’m 119th. But what it really means is this…118 guys out there are faster, stronger, better...younger. And it really gets you thinking, you know?
Anyway, it’s all my fault that I lost.
I close the stall door and sit down on the toilet. My fists clench. I take a couple deep breaths. They don’t help.
I’m useless.
What kind of athlete can’t even make it to a final?
I go on twitter.
What’s happening?
I start to type out a tweet.
What’s happening?
Well Twitter, I’ll tell you what’s happening. The cursor blinks then moves faster than my phone can keep up with.
I just lost in the first round of the Queen’s Tournament. I’m a disgrace to my family, my country and to the people who support me. My dog just died, probably because I’ve barely seen him in five years. I’m emotionally vulnerable and physically unsuited for my sport. I’m miserable and lonely. I’m tired. I’m tired of hotels and airports and long distance relationships that don’t go anywhere. And most of all, I’m tired of losing.
The cursor continues to blink at the end of my tweet. It’s career suicide. Not to mention that it’s over 140 characters. I mean, I’ve got a brand to maintain, after all. Minako, my agent (is she still my agent? I haven’t heard from her in months) would kill me.
No one on the internet wants to hear how sad I am…you’re all sad, too. The world is a cold, ugly place and I’m supposed to be one of those people who followed their dreams and is living them- I’m supposed to provide you with the warm fuzzy feeling that gets you through the day.
Sometimes I think, I’ve played a trick on the whole world. What's it called? Imposter syndrome? I can’t be real. Just like on the court, I’m playing another role-Mr. Happy and Grateful Professional Japanese Tennis Player. Because that’s the narrative. The only story I’m allowed to tell is how hard I worked to get where I am and how hard I will continue to work so that I can be where everyone wants me to be. I have to talk about how it’s all worth it. I can’t really talk about what I’ve sacrificed to get where I am. I can’t talk about how much I hate myself. I'm only supposed to talk about how "happy" I am, how i'm supposedly "living the dream". But the thing is…I’m alone. Sixty thousand twitter followers… sixty thousand people are watching my every move and I’m completely and utterly alone.
Sixty thousand people are watching me fail, over and over again.
I delete the tweet. The cursor blinks on the blank draft. It starts to move as I generate another tweet.
This time- I thank the people that supported me and my sponsors and my family. I talk about how I’ll do better next time.
Next time…no.
This was the last time.
My phone vibrates twice, flashes and settles down. I look at the screen. Incoming phone call.
Mom.
I’ve been away from my family for so many years. Five years. I’ve been on the senior tour circuit for five years. Training and competing in the tennis circuit. Maybe I should retire. That’s what everyone expects me to do anyway. Hell, maybe they even want me to. It’s not like 119th in the world is an accomplishment. Might as well have phoned it in. Might as well have never even tried.
I answer the call.
To make it even more embarrassing my family had set up a public viewing of the match at our hot springs resort in my hometown. My mother tries to comfort me but doesn’t she know that it only makes me feel worse? The fact that she even has to comfort me at all is problematic for me.
I let her down. I let them all down. Why am I like this? They don’t deserve this. They’ve been so wonderful and here I am disappointing them once again.
I apologize to my mother. What else is there to do? I’m a disgrace. All those years, away from them, away from Vicchan and for what? Would apologizing make a difference?
“I’m sorry, mom. I messed up.” I hang up, because there’s nothing else to say. Sometimes I think that I’m just living life in between apologies. Has "sorry" ever in the history of the world made a difference? It’s just a word. One word against five years of actions.
It’s like I never get it right. How is it that everyone else on the tour is actually Mr. Happy and Grateful Professional Tennis Player ™? I guess it only must seem that way from the outside.
All I do is lose, anyway. I should just retire now, gracefully. I should do it for my family. Tennis is expensive. And after this tournament I won’t even have a coach. It’s over. I wasn’t good enough.
The tears overflow and no amount of breathing or counting or meditating is going to stop them.
The phone falls from my grip and I don’t even care. I’m pathetic.
Someone kicks the stall door inwards.
I look up. What is even happening right now? What if I was taking a shit?
Oh. They must have heard me crying. Is someone trying to-
I see red leopard print shoes and I think I’m dreaming. Am I imagining things? No. Of course not.
Also, leopard print is not in fashion right now. I know this because Phichit has been lamenting this fact since 2013. Maybe it’s making a comeback?
Anyway.
Did he need to use the stall? There’s like 4 free ones right beside mine.
The thing is…people tend to skip the first stall and choose one farther away from the entrance. If you do, you are not alone. Experts theorize that people tend to skip the first stall in favor of stalls farther back to have a little more privacy and because they think that everyone else has used the first stall. Turns out, because most people think this way, it’s used the least often, and as such, it contains the lowest bacteria levels.
I can’t believe someone other than me has done the necessary research for this. Maybe Red Leopard Print Shoes and I can be friends. Or not.
To be fair, I wouldn’t want to be friends with me, either.
I try to avoid public bathrooms wherever possible. But sometimes, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. (What, you haven’t cried in a public bathroom before? Who even are you?) So when the time comes, and there is no other option, instead of skipping the first stall, I choose it to help avoid possible infections and well, to avoid people too. It seems that I’m not the only one.
I’m about to decline my head into a deep nod, which is my westernized version of the traditional Japanese bow and speak up but then I recognize who he is.
He has his hood up, but light blonde hair and the Russian jersey make it impossible not to know.
He’s just won the junior tournament.
Yuri Plisetski.
The Russian Fairy.
His pale hair frames his porcelain face like a halo.
The words get stuck in my throat. I try to clear it but I’m so on edge that there’s no way I can form any words right now.
He glares. The disparity between his features and his expression gives me whiplash. How could someone so cute look so cruel?
I’m already shaking. If I piss my pants at least I’m already in a bathroom.
Silver linings.
He walks closer. He’s at least two inches shorter than me but he still manages to look down on me. It seems physically impossible. He manages to do it anyway. He puts his hands in his pocket, turns his head to an angle.
Dramatic. Or maybe it’s a Russian thing?
Russia’s fairy? Yeah none of that is coming through his facial expressions. It’s all vicious apex predator.
Fitting. With the leopard print shoes, and all.
He speaks English. There’s a trace of his Russian accent, but barely noticeable. Or maybe the rage in his voice is masking anything else.
I’m confused because all I did today was lose. How the hell can that piss him off?
Did I murder his entire family on accident? No… I’ve never been to Russia other than for one or two competitions. What then? Is it really because I used the first stall and he wanted to use it?
He raises his left hand out of his pocket and points it at me.
“Oi. I’m competing in senior men’s at Wimbledon.”
He’s got to be younger than me by five or six years, but he speaks down to me. Rude.
Quite disrespectful for a kōhai. Despite living and training in the states for the last five years, you can take the man out of Japan, but you can’t take the Japan out of the man.
Also am I getting threatened by a teenager right now? Is that what’s happening? Am I a threat to him? Of course not. I’m in a slump, and there’s no way I even qualify for Wimbledon this year. Do I answer him? Should I congratulate him? When was his birthday? 18 is an important year, after all. In Japan, they just recently lowered the voting age to 18. So.
He continues. “We don’t need two Yuris in the same bracket.”
Did he just? This is some wild west ass shit. There ain’t room in this town for the two of us? Pistols at dawn? Is this happening? In real life? Did I stumble into a Clint Eastwood movie?
I’m sweating like crazy now. If I wasn’t scared shitless, I’d laugh. This kid is seriously going to kill me.
I’m going to die a shitty death in a bathroom. What a time to be alive.
He clearly has more to say.
“Incompetents like you should just retire already. Your showing here is just going to get you another wild card entry to Wimbledon. It’s such a waste that it’ll go to you. You better not show up!”
Ah.
Exactly what I was thinking. Not the part about the wild card. That’s a surprise. Does he know something that I don’t?
But the retirement part. He’s right. All I do is lose, anyway. Why haven’t I retired already?
5 years. 5 years.
5 years and what do I have to show for it?
Losses. Bad losses.
He gets on his tip toes to get in my face and call me a moron. And then he walks out like he walked in- without a word. And I’m alone in the bathroom, once again.
I turn towards the sink to wash my hands, and I faintly realize that I’m still shaking.
I don’t remember leaving the bathroom.
***
I follow Celestino out of the elevator of the hotel with my suitcase trailing behind me.
“KATSUKI!”
I turn around. It’s Hisashi Morooka. He’s a Japanese announcer and tennis enthusiast.
He says the same platitudes everyone says to a failing athlete. Don’t give up. It’s too early for you to retire. My mind blanks out. I see a woman holding a poodle with Vicchan’s coloring.
I’m sorry, Vicchan. I should have been there for you, Vicchan. I miss you, Vicchan. I wonder if you’re in a better place, Vicchan. I love you, Vicchan.
“Yuuri!”
My attention shifts from the dog to a deep, almost melodic voice. I try to identify the source, like maybe it could be someone else, but I’ve watched every interview that exists on the internet and I know that voice. I try to locate it anyway.
It’s Victor Nikiforov. Of course.
And he’s not talking to me. Why would he be talking to me? Why did I even think for a second that he would be talking about me?
He and Yuri Plisetski walk past me and it feels like they do it in slow motion. I feel the air shift and displace itself as I watch them walk by, so deep in conversation that they don’t spare a look at anyone else.
“You need to work on your backhand and your serve and volley is-”
Victor is interrupted by Yuri who just says,
“I won, so stop nagging!”
Not even a look towards me. I’m not even worth a look.
I mean. I did just get kicked out of the first round. At Queen’s. No one should be looking at me. I’m just a useless, spineless tennis player that can’t even win a match. A useless, spineless tennis player that can’t even win a match who just got yelled at by a teenager in a bathroom. So.
And they walk towards their coach, Yakov who is berating Yuri for his attitude when Victor notices me standing there. Our eyes meet. I’ve been caught red handed. Staring. A part of my brain acknowledges this. Another part is panicking. I catalogue the exits. Outwardly, my mouth falls open. Can I run out of here fast enough? No…too many people in the way as obstacles and too many people as witnesses and Morooka-san is still asking me what I’m going to do after I graduate college and so it would be too rude to leave now. Inexcusable, really. I don’t have fans. The Japanese aren’t exactly known for their prowess in tennis. I cannot alienate the closest thing I have to a fan, either. I’m stuck here whether I like it or not.
Victor is turning towards me now. He smiles his media smile and asks me if I want a commemorative photo. I think I want the photo, but Vicchan is dead and I just lost another match. In possibly in the last tournament of my career. And that smile…didn’t even reach his eyes, not like the smile he gets when he gets a service ace or a particularly nice cross-court smash or when he talks about his dog, Maccachin in interviews.
I wonder if this is what rock bottom feels like. Have I wasted years of my life? All those hours training and it’s lead to this? I had thought, finally. This is it. Queens. Two weeks before Wimbledon. We’ll finally meet as equals on the same playing field. On the tennis court. Instead I didn’t even make it close to the final.
I want to die.
I’ve never felt more humiliated in my life.
I don’t even deserve to breathe the same air as him.
A commemorative photo? I don’t deserve it. I shouldn’t be rewarded for the most shameful performance of my life. I’ve let my coach down. I’ve let my family down. I’ve let my country down. Victor Nikiforov has probably never let anyone down in his entire life. Number one in the world for the last five years. He’s probably never felt so empty. So alone. There he is smiling without the crinkles beside his eyes and I wonder if he is seeing right through me. He probably doesn’t even want the picture. He’s asking to be polite. I want to disappear forever.
I guess this is why they tell you to never meet your idols.
Sometimes it’s not them, but it’s you who is disappointing.