Summary: Whatever. They play tennis, except for Niall who's Louis' physio. And there are cameos by actual tennis people. And Harry's still a minor, so. And Liam and Zayn are signed by Adidas. Together. Because they play Doubles, of course. They are all so gay, except for Niall again who really needs to get some. /Side Larry
By: Retts.archiveofourown.org
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Louis Tomlinson wiped the sweat from his forehead and dribbled the ball once, twice, three times, paused, and again twice more. He tossed it high up, head tilting back to follow the trajectory, and then flinched away from the glare of the unforgiving sun. The ball bounced on top of his head before rolling away. His overlong fringe swept over his eyes.
Across the court, Niall burst out laughing. He wrapped an arm across his midsection and pointed his racquet at Louis. 'Oh god, you look so daft! I told you to cut that infestation you call hair before the tournament starts. It's too late now, you've become all superstitious.'
'Hair can't be an infestation, you wanker, don't insult my beautiful hair,' said Louis as he picked up the ball. He lobbed it above him and hit it across the court towards an unsuspecting Niall, who yelped and dove away just in time for the yellow blur to miss his groin. Louis grinned and stuck his tongue out at his physio.
'Oi you fucker!'
Louis ignored him and cupped a hand over his eyes and glanced up. The sky was a stretch of perfect, perfect blue. He tugged on the soggy collar of his shirt. 'Fuck, why is Australia so hot?'
Niall huffed and pulled out a ball from his pocket. 'Stop obsessing over the heat. I told you to play in Brisbane and do like Murray does but nooooooo, you wanted to stay in abysmal London weather. Worst preparation for a Grand Slam ever.'
'Shut up, Niall. We came here a day early, didn't we?'
'No respect at all. Come on, then. Practice, practice, practice since you got the worst draw. Ferrer, Del Potro, and Djokovic? Fucking hell. Well, no Murray and Federer but let's aim for third round at least, eh?'
Louis shrugged and dragged his wristband across his forehead. He wanted to go far in the tournament, even win it because he bloody well could, but it was sweltering, making it hard to care about anything else other than finding someplace cool to rest. 'Let's take a break, yeah?' Louis suggested, walking over to the net. His Nikes squeaked on the asphalt surface.
'Cowell is going to give you hell if he catches you slacking.'
'He's not here yet. Come on, Nialler, I'll buy you ice cream.'
Niall looked torn. 'Well – '
'And whatever else you want,' cajoled Louis with a sweet smile. He tapped his racquet on the net cord. 'Then we'll go see how the Dynamic Duo is doing.'
That clinched it. Liam was Niall's favourite. 'Fine,' he muttered as he took off his cap, 'but if Cowell asks, I'm telling him you dragged me away kicking and screaming.'
Louis rolled his eyes. 'He's still flying in, Ni. How's he going to know over the Pacific?'
They grabbed their bags and tins of Slazenger balls and headed out of the practice court. Wozniacki waved at them from the other side. 'Done already, Tommo?' she asked, uncapping her water bottle, racquet pinned under one arm.
Louis grinned. 'My fair English skin can't handle this much sun, love!'
Wozniacki laughed prettily. 'You vain, vain person.'
