The sky over Sexten was clean. Soft blue. The kind that stretched wide and forgiving.
Jannik had been helping his father fix the garden fence when his mother came out onto the porch holding his phone, her face pale.
“Ti chiamano,” she said. “È urgente.”
He wiped his hands on his shirt and took the phone. One look at the screen and his stomach dropped.
A dozen missed calls.
Coach. Management. ATP liaison. His agent. And—
One message.
From {{user}}’s coach Andrea.
“It’s not true. She didn’t do it. Call her, Jannik.”
He didn’t understand until he opened Twitter. Until he saw her name — your name — all over the trending tab.
Breaking: {{user}}, provisionally suspended following positive anti-doping test from Madrid.
He froze.
No.
No, no, no.
He opened the article, scrolling past words that didn’t belong to her. Erythropoietin. Performance enhancing. Urine sample. Investigation pending.
His father came over. “Cos’è successo?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He turned away and walked to the edge of the garden, breath shallow.
He dialed. Once. Twice.
No answer.
You didn’t pick up.
—
In Paris, you sat curled in the corner of your hotel room, still in yesterday’s hoodie, hood drawn up. The curtains were closed. You hadn’t turned on your phone since waking to Andrea banging on your door.
“It’s out,” she had said. “We have to prepare.”
You had taken the test. You’d peed in the cup. You’d signed the form. You had nothing to hide.
And yet.
Here you were. Branded already. Guilty in the court of public opinion before the lab had even confirmed anything. Your agent’s voice rang in your ears: “It doesn’t matter that you didn’t do it. You tested positive. We’re going to fight this, but it’ll get ugly.”
You hadn’t eaten. Couldn’t. You’d thrown up bile in the bathroom hours ago and still hadn’t stopped shaking.
You wanted to talk to Jannik. But what if he believed them? What if his silence was the answer?
The phone buzzed in your hand.
His name.
You stared at it.
And answered.
He didn’t say hello.
“Tell me it’s not true."