Chapter Text
Louis rotated his arms in circles, feeling his joints loosen with each crack. The cold air in the training center filled his lungs with each inhalation, and as he exhaled, he lifted one knee to his chest, then the other, with the precision of someone who has repeated the same warm-up thousands of times.
After a few minutes of routine, he bent down to adjust his wristband and looked up at the clock on the wall. One, two, three... he had already looked at it five times. Harry was always late, but never this late.
He walked over to the benches at the edge of the court, taking his cell phone out of his bag with the idea of calling Harry. Maybe he had texted, or perhaps there was a message explaining his delay.
When he unlocked his phone, hoping to see a message from his best friend and teammate on the lock screen, he found the opposite: no notifications. A void that immediately made him feel that something was wrong.
He frowned and opened the chat with Harry. The latest messages were still there, so mundane that they seemed to mock him:
See you tomorrow for practice. The Olympics are coming up soon!
Yes! See you tomorrow.
Those messages seemed normal and harmless. It was exactly how they always talked. Louis's mind, unable to stay still, began to fill with terrible scenarios: an accident, a fall, anything that could explain why Harry wasn't there.
With his phone in hand, opening and closing the chat as if caught in a manic episode, Louis headed toward the administration building, convinced that he would find his coach James there. He didn't even get very far: a few feet away, the chubby redhead appeared with such a strange look on his face that Louis's stomach immediately sank.
‘Where's Harry?’ Louis interrupted before James could say a word.
‘Louis...’ the coach began.
‘Did something happen to him? Where is he? Is he okay?’ he blurted out, approaching him with quick steps. His tense, anxious hands rested on James' arms as if that contact could elicit immediate answers.
‘Louis, why don't you sit down?’ James suggested.
Louis let go of him instantly and stood up, bewildered by the recommendation. James never asked him to do such a thing, not even when he had bad news. The gesture was enough to indicate that what he was about to hear was much worse.
‘No. I don't want to sit down. What's going on?’ asked Louis, losing the desperate tone he had had a few seconds earlier.
James let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes before looking down at the paper he was holding in his hands.
Louis didn't hesitate for a second to snatch it away, unfolding it with a sharp movement, filled with anger and desperation to read its contents.
────────
Lawn Tennis Association (LTA)
London, 15 March 2012
Dear Mr. James Corden
We hereby confirm the notification submitted by player Harry Styles, who has decided to participate only in the singles event at the upcoming Olympic Games.
As a result, the Styles/Tomlinson doubles pairing is dissolved in the official Team GB registration. If he wishes to continue participating, player Louis Tomlinson may:
1. Register a new partner for the doubles event.
2. Request inclusion in the singles event, as long as there is a place available.
If no response is received within the regulatory period, Mr. Tomlinson will be excluded from the delegation for this edition.
Best regards,
British Olympic Association (Team GB)
In coordination with the Lawn Tennis Association (LTA)
────────
Louis couldn't believe what he was reading. He had to reread that insipid letter three times, like his mind was trying to convince him that it was all a bad joke. But no: the reality was that Harry had abandoned him, months before they were supposed to compete together in their second Olympic tournament.
Still holding the letter, now crumpled from the force with which he was clutching it, Louis took out his phone again, ready to call Harry and demand an explanation.
‘Louis,’ James murmured, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder.
Louis pulled away abruptly, turning his back on him as he held the phone to his ear. The ringing sounded relentless, mingling with his increasingly irregular breathing, until he realized that Harry wasn't going to answer.
He tried once, twice, five times. Always the same result: voicemail, and that pretentious voice of his partner, or rather now his traitor, saying that “he couldn't take the call at the moment and to leave a message”
‘What the hell is wrong with you, Harry?’ Louis blurted out, anger boiling in his throat. "Why the hell aren't you answering your phone? I hope this is another one of your fucking jokes.
His voice echoed around the empty tennis court as he paced back and forth, gesturing wildly with his hands.
‘What does this... this absurd letter they sent James mean? Huh!?’ Louis blurted out, almost stuttering, his chest heaving and his gaze lost somewhere on the court.
A few seconds passed before he let out a sigh and lowered his gaze to the floor. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, still clutching that piece of paper in his hand.
‘Call me when you hear this message,’ he added to the voicemail in a lower tone before hanging up.
He slowly removed the mobile phone from his ear. He stood still, looking first at the illuminated screen and then at the crumpled piece of paper between his fingers. And there, standing in the middle of the tennis court, he realized that, in less than twenty-four hours, Harry had fucked everything up.