Jannik Sinner Imagine - Blog Posts

Everything has changed

Jannik Sinner x Reader

Synopsis: You're the girl next door, foreign, and out of place. But you meet the red-headed boy from the house next to yours and changes your life.

a/n: 2/3 fics :p im so soo sorry for making u guys wait, tourney has been unforgiving and it's hard balancing activities hahaaa but yeah after my tournament i got to go to madrid and see matches happen in real time so yeah.. but i kinda wished jannik was playing, i miss him. BUTTT we get to see him again in a few weeks and i cannot wait for that. alright enough oversharing hope u enjoy this fic!!!🤍🤍

It all started when you moved to Italy. You were just a kid, barely twelve, when your family decided to make the move from your home country to Jannik’s small hometown of San Candido. At the time, it felt like an impossible adjustment, a different world filled with strange customs, a new language, and people who all seemed so far ahead in their lives. But there was one constant that kept you grounded: Jannik Sinner.

He was thirteen, just a year older than you, but he made everything feel easier. He was quiet, a little reserved, yet incredibly kind. His smile was rare but always genuine, and it seemed like he always knew how to make you feel at ease, even in the most foreign of settings. He spoke in his thick Italian accent, which at first was hard for you to understand, but soon enough, you’d learned his words as if they were your own.

The two of you were inseparable. Every afternoon, after school, you'd both ride your bikes through the winding streets, exploring the beautiful town together, laughing over things that seemed silly to everyone else. It wasn’t long before you realized you had developed an undeniable bond with Jannik. The friendship blossomed naturally, and you never thought twice about it, he was just the boy you grew up with. The boy who always made you feel like you belonged.

By the time you were sixteen, something in Jannik changed. You could feel it before he even said it, before you even understood it fully. You’d noticed the subtle shifts in the way he looked at you, the way his hand would brush yours when you walked side by side, the way his smile became a little warmer every time he saw you. The small things that shouldn’t have meant anything, yet they did. But you were too caught up in your own world, high school, your family, your plans, to pay much attention to it.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking,” Jannik said one evening, the two of you sitting on a grassy hill overlooking the town. He was staring at the sunset, but you could see the tension in his jaw, his lips pressed together like he had something heavy on his mind.

“About what?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, trying to read him. You could tell something was different in the way he spoke. It wasn’t the usual carefree Jannik who would joke around and tease you.

“I’ve been thinking about tennis,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure whether he should say it or not. “About how... I might want to take it seriously, go pro. You know, travel the world and all that.”

It wasn’t a surprise. He was already exceptional at tennis, the best player in town by far. You’d always known he had potential, but the weight of it hit you when he spoke those words aloud. He had always been so grounded, so humble about his talent, and now, you could see the pressure in his eyes.

"That’s... that’s really amazing, Jannik, you should go for it. I mean, whatever you feel like what works for you, you know?" you said, trying to sound as supportive as you could. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. The thought of him leaving, leaving everything behind, was too much to process.

His eyes flicked to you, reading your expression, shaking his head. “I’m not sure if I’m ready to leave here, though,” he said quietly, as though he were confessing something. “I don’t want to leave you.”

The way he said that made your heart race. You opened your mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you just nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. The moment stretched on, both of you sitting there in the silence, but the air was different now, charged with something unspoken. Something you didn’t know how to name, and neither did he.

But the day came, and Jannik left for the big leagues. It wasn’t a grand goodbye, just a quiet one. You clung to him, as if it was the last because this was the last you'd be having this. Having him. "I'll miss you." You'd say, swallowing the tears back. "I'll miss you even more," He'd press a kiss to your temple, and you'd pretend it meant something to him. Because it did to you, and maybe, it meant something to him too.

You watched him go, as he stepped onto the plane to begin his journey. And you stayed behind, your world still in San Candido, your heart feeling the loss more than you ever expected.

Years passed. You focused on your studies, diving into your work, pushing through medical school. You had dreams of becoming a doctor, helping athletes, but every now and then, Jannik’s face would flash in your mind. It wasn’t often, but it was enough for you to realize that part of you still held onto him, even from afar. You followed his career, of course. Everyone did. He became one of the best players in the world, and with every victory, you felt a mixture of pride and ache. He had become everything you had always known he could be. And as much as you tried to ignore it, you couldn’t deny that you missed him.

By the time you were twenty-four, you had finished your medical degree and started working as a sports doctor, focusing on athletes. The job was demanding, but it was everything you had ever wanted. And yet, no matter how busy you were, the thought of Jannik lingered at the edges of your thoughts. You had moved on, in a sense, built your life around your goals and your work. But Jannik’s absence, the loss of that connection, still weighed on you.

Then, one day, it happened.

You were working at the clinic, reviewing a new athlete’s file when you heard the familiar voice. At first, you thought you were imagining it. But when you looked up, there he was. Jannik Sinner, standing in the doorway of your office, wearing that familiar smile that sent a warm rush of nostalgia through your veins.

It took a moment for your brain to process it all. He had grown taller, his body more defined, his face sharper. But his eyes, those deep blue eyes, were still the same. They were the same eyes that had watched you grow up, the same eyes that held secrets in them when you were younger, when you were both too scared to admit what you had.

“Jannik?” You blinked, unsure if you were dreaming.

He chuckled, a low, familiar sound. “It’s really you. I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

The warmth in his voice made your heart flutter. You hadn’t realized how much you had missed it, missed him, until now. “What are you doing here?” you asked, standing up from behind your desk, suddenly feeling self-conscious in front of him.

“I’m here for a check-up,” he said with a shrug, as though it was no big deal. “You’re working as a doctor for athletes now, no?”

You nodded, trying to steady your breath. “Yeah, I’m actually the team doctor for some of the tennis players now.” You gestured to the seat across from you. “You can take a seat.”

Jannik did, sitting casually across from you, his posture relaxed as always. But even now, you noticed the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his eyes searched your face, like he was trying to figure something out. Something important.

“How’s everything?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but you couldn’t help the flutter in your chest. He was here. After all these years, he was here.

He smiled, and for a second, you swore you saw a flicker of something more than just friendship in his eyes. “It’s good. You look good, too. You’ve really grown up.”

You laughed softly, nervously. “Well, I did go to med school, so... there’s that.”

The conversation shifted easily from there, but beneath the surface, something had changed. You both had changed. Jannik, the young boy who had once been your best friend, had become a man. A man you couldn’t deny you still had feelings for. And as you talked about everything that had happened since you last saw each other, you realized something. Something that had been building for years. This wasn’t just a reunion. This was fate pulling you back together, as if it was always meant to be.

As Jannik stood to leave, he turned to you with a look that was both familiar and new. “It was good seeing you again,” he said, his smile lingering a little longer than necessary. “Maybe... we can catch up more? Off the clock?”

Your heart raced as you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. But you didn’t need to. His smile said everything.

And just like that, everything had changed.

In your orbit

Jannik Sinner x Model!Reader

Synopsis: Reader sets her eyes on someone. A certain red-head, tall athlete. She's only ever seen him in the ads, on TV. But tonight, reader is set to put him in her orbit.

a/n: helloo!! 1/3 of fics finished today! i had an amazing match, and i also didn't expect to advance through another round so updates may be a bit delayed :( but i write every time i get free time (if i'm not tired), so yeah! hope u enjoy this little blurb i have. i really tried my best, hope this isn't too cringe or clichè. as always, comments and asks are greatly appreciated! i love reading your feedbacks, don't be afraid to request! ♡

You step out of the car with the kind of practiced ease that comes from years on runways and in front of flashing lights. Silk clings to your hips like it was made for you. And it was. Archival Gucci, deep emerald, low at the back, dangerous at the slit. Your heels click against the rooftop tiles like punctuation marks. Eyes follow you. They always do, you learn to adapt to it quickly.

But you’re only looking for one. And you find him.

Jannik Sinner, parked near the edge of the bar like he doesn’t quite belong. Fingers curled around a glass, jacket unbuttoned, hair still slightly damp like he ran his hands through it just before stepping in. He’s speaking with someone. Doesn’t matter who, but his eyes cut sideways when you walk in.

Bam. Bullseye.

He watches you the way you’ve seen men stare at cars they can’t afford. Like touching would be a luxury. You smile like you don’t see it, but you do. You always do.

You wait until he’s done glancing, then head straight for him. No detours. No small talk.

“You’re taller in person,” you say when you stop beside him, tone light, amused, like you’re commenting on the weather. “Not that I’m surprised.” You say casually, a smile adorning your lips.

His brows lift just a little, a smirk twitching up to the side of his lips. “You knew who I was?”

“I’d have to be blind not to,” you reply smoothly. “You’re everywhere. Ads, matches, press. And on my Instagram explore page every time you so much as breathe.”

That gets a soft laugh out of him, quick and low. One that makes you bite your lip, but you conceal it with a smile. He looks down for a second, a little shy, brushing his hand along the back of his neck like he’s trying to hide the smile.

“Do you always open with flattery?” he asks, glancing back up, voice dipped in that unmistakable South Tyrolean lilt.

You shrug, eyes flicking to his collarbone peeking beneath the shirt. “Only when it’s true.”

There’s a beat where you don’t say anything. You just look at him. Let him feel the weight of your attention. It’s intentional. You know exactly what you’re doing.

“I follow you,” you add, sipping your drink. “On Instagram. Not, like, in a creepy way.”

He tilts his head slightly, watching you with narrowed eyes, amused. “No?”

“No,” you smile, leaning in, letting your perfume fill the space between you. “Though if I were going to stalk someone, I’d probably pick you.”

His ears flush pink.

It’s subtle, but you catch it. You always catch the small things, the way he shifts his stance, how he glances at the guys across the room, the way his thumb drags across the condensation on his glass like he needs something to do with his hands.

“I saw you earlier,” he murmurs. “Before you saw me. All the guys looking at you…”

You raise a brow, amused. “Jealous, Sinner?”

He hesitates. Just long enough.

You smirk. “It’s alright. I get it. I’d be jealous too.”

His expression flickers, like he wants to say something in Italian but bites it back.

You step in a little closer, like it’s natural, like you’re just adjusting your clutch, but your shoulder brushes his chest.

And he stiffens slightly.

“I saw your Rome match last month,” you say, casually now, eyes still on his. “You play like you’re chasing something.”

“I am,” he says, too quickly.

You blink, surprised at the sharpness, tilting your head. “Oh?”

“I play better when I want something.”

“Like?”

He looks down at you, quiet, his gaze dragging slow. “Like now.”

Oh.

Oh.

You chuckle, amused and smirking. You let the small silence settle before pulling your phone from your bag, licking your lips. Tap. Unlock. Hold it out.

He blinks, raising his brows in surprise. "Oh? What is this?"

“Put your number in.” You tap the phone casually, not breaking eye contact.

He stares for a second.

“C’mon,” you add. “I already follow you. Might as well make it official.” You smirk, tilting your head. You know exactly what you were doing, and it was working. Mamma Mia, it was making Jannik go feral.

His fingers skim yours as he takes it with an amused smirk. His skin’s warm, calloused but gentle hands, knuckles slightly pink from the drink. When he hands it back, your name is already saved on his phone.

You peek, another smirk plastered on your soft lips.

“You added a heart?” You quirk a brow.

“Accidentally,” he says, completely lying. His accent thickens for a second. Accidentally. Cute.

You laugh and shake your head, shameless. “Right.”

You send him a text before you even step back.

His phone buzzes.

When he reads it 'don’t be shy tonight, golden boy.' you watch his throat work as he swallows.

You turn to leave, giving him one last look over your shoulder. An innocent smile.

“Nice meeting you, Jannik.”

He’s still standing there when you disappear back into the crowd.

Orbiting.

Just like you planned.

today's mood

i literally have no time to write today, my tournament's on monday and training's been relentless. i have yet to finish 3 fics, but i just can't seem to find extra time to sit down and write.

maybe after my match i'll be able to finish these 3 fics but in the meantime, i guess you'll just have to wait.

so sorry to keep u guys waiting but i promise i'll finish and upload as soon as i can. 😭👊🏻

so for now, check out the other fics i published!

MASTERLIST

The Other Court

Jannik Sinner x Former Tennis Player!Reader

Summary: After a brutal injury ends reader's meteoric rise, she disappears from the sport. Until Jannik Sinner finds her years later in Rome, coaching a wildcard on the very courts that should've been hers. She's not the girl he used to chase, and he's not the boy she used to beat.

a/n: this is in jannik's pov

When they were fifteen, she always beat him to the court.

Morning sessions started at seven, but she’d already be through her first basket of serves by the time Jannik arrived, bag slung over one shoulder, curls still damp from a half-awake shower. She never looked up. Just tossed another ball in the air, fluid and easy, the lefty toss not quite textbook but undeniably hers. He recognized it in his sleep, that uncoiled whip of a swing, the sound it made when she timed it right: low, clean, final.

She was faster than him. Lighter on her feet. Her footwork was tighter, her hands quieter, her temper non-existent. Even when her backhand clipped the net cord and dropped out during match play, she never snapped a string or muttered under her breath. Just shook it off and walked to the other side like it didn’t bother her at all. It drove him crazy in the way that admiration sometimes does.

They trained together every summer at the academy in Bordighera, back when they were still juniors with secondhand rackets and parents who clapped a little too loudly. At first, she barely spoke to him. She was focused. The kind of focused that got under his skin, because it made him feel like he was still a kid playing catch-up. She hit with the older boys. Ran extra laps. Practiced double-handed on both sides, just in case she ever needed it.

"You're not trying to be good," Jannik told her once, wiping sweat off his chin during a break. "You're trying to be perfect."

She took a sip from her water bottle, eyes still on the court. "Trying to win."

And he remembered that. He remembered everything, actually. The way her braids would come loose halfway through drills, the neon pink tape on her wrist, the callus on her index finger from stringing her own rackets at the academy’s shed. She liked black strings and hated indoor courts. Said they made her feel like the air was too still. Trapped.

The first time they played a proper match, she double bageled him.

He was furious, but Jannik couldn't help it but to also admire her play. She was gracious as ever, light on her feet, the way she just floats across the court.

"You played well," she told him at the net, offering her hand, and he wanted to believe it wasn’t pity. Wanted to believe she meant it.

They weren’t friends exactly. But they were something. Rivals, maybe. Mirrors, sometimes. But Jannik couldn't help himself, he felt as if there was something threatening to bloom. And maybe she felt it too. He rose fast, but she rose faster. By seventeen, she had her name stitched on a Nike visor and a junior Grand Slam final under her belt. Reporters circled her like hawks. People talked about her with a kind of breathless expectation. "The next big thing", they said, like she wasn’t still a teenager trying to stay upright under the weight and pressure of it all.

And then came Roland Garros Juniors.

It was supposed to be her title. She’d made the semis look routine, dismantling the third seed in fifty-eight minutes on Court 7. Jannik watched from the top row, elbows on his knees, barely breathing when she hit a running forehand up the line that spun so hard it dropped on the baseline and skipped into the fence.

He never told her he watched. He never told her he skipped his own recovery session just to see her play.

The final was scheduled on Court Suzanne-Lenglen. It was hot that afternoon, the kind of Parisian heat that made the clay smoke beneath your soles. She started strong, holding serve at love. Jannik was in the stands again, this time in a proper seat, credentials hanging around his neck. He could see her clearly from the third row. The thin line between her brows as she bounced the ball, the way she reset after each point like she was erasing the last one.

In the second game of the second set, it happened.

She slid for a wide ball, that same smooth left-foot plant she’d done a thousand times before. But something went wrong. Her shoe caught. Her knee twisted. Her racket dropped to the ground a full second before the scream came.

It was sharp. Real.

Jannik stood before he realized it.

Trainers rushed in. The match was paused. She didn’t get up.

He watched her hold her leg like it might come apart in her hands. Watched the other girl cross the net hesitantly, not sure if she should celebrate or apologize. He watched her get stretchered off the court, face blank, mouth pressed shut like she was refusing to cry until the tunnel swallowed her whole.

And just like that, the golden girl disappeared.

There were whispers after. Surgeries, rehab. A press release about a "complicated tear." She withdrew from Wimbledon juniors. Then the US Open. Then silence. Her social media went dark. Her name stopped showing up in draw sheets.

The world moved on.

But Jannik didn’t. Not really.

Not when he won his first ATP title. Not when he cracked the Top 10. Not even when he stood on the Centre Court of a Slam final and someone in the front row wore a visor just like hers. Not even when held the World No. 1 title.

He still remembered the way she moved, the sound of her serve, the way she told him trying wasn’t enough.

He still remembered her, she haunted him. Always wondering she could be, if he would run into her during tournaments.

And then, years later, in Rome, she came back.

But not to play.

——

The clay was different in Rome. Deeper. More theatrical. Everything at the Foro Italico felt like it was made to be watched. The marble statues, the sunlit courts, the piazza where the press circled like bees. Jannik didn’t love the noise, but he’d learned how to move through it. Smile here. Interview there. Keep the routine intact.

It was just past four when he cut through the practice courts after media rounds, intending to duck back into the locker room. He kept his head down. Headphones in. Until something stopped him.

Not a sound. A posture.

He looked up. Court 5.

A junior wildcard was practicing, kid from Naples with a sharp slice and nerves too big for his frame. But Jannik’s eyes weren’t on the boy.

She was standing behind the baseline, sunglasses perched on her head, arms crossed, lips pressed together in the way she always did when she was watching. Really watching. Not just looking for errors, but timing. Effort. How much a player wanted it.

The same way she'd once looked at him.

She hadn't changed much. Older, maybe. Stronger in the shoulders. Her hair was different, tied back in a low knot, but the way she moved; that hadn’t changed. She stepped forward during a drill and mimed a motion to the kid, hips rotating, weight shifting, like she was still teaching her own body what to remember.

Jannik’s heart dropped somewhere low in his chest.

He waited until the rally ended before he called her name.

She turned before he finished saying it, and she smiles.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

“Hey,” she greets, in that soft, wry tone that hadn’t aged a day, God, Jannik could fall apart at the sound of her voice. “Didn’t expect to see you lurking around the junior courts.” she smirks, a hand on her hips.

“You never know where the real matches are,” he said, slow smile pulling at the edge of his mouth.

She laughed, quiet but genuine. “Still with the one-liners, eh?.”

“Still trying to impress you, is it working now?” he said before he could help it.

She raised an eyebrow, just stared whilst quirking a playful smile. “You used to do it by overhitting forehands. Am I right or wrong?”

“And you used to do it by destroying my serve.”

“I was fair,” she said. “Just better.”

He smiled again. Because it was true, and because it was good to hear her say it like she used to.

“How long have you been coaching?” He asks, trying to keep up the momentum of their conversation.

“Just started with him a few months ago.” She nodded toward the boy, who was now sipping from a bottle and wiping sweat off his chin like a pro. “He reminds me of you.” She looks at him with a look that Jannik couldn't quite read. Was it longing? Or something else? Jannik couldn't decipher.

“Red hair and sickly looking skin?” he offered.

“No,” she shook her head, laughing. “The way he hates to lose. And you never used to admit it, but it showed. Always trying to hit your way out of frustration. No one could tell you were frustrated, but I dd.”

He tilted his head, a small grin. “You used to smile when I did.”

“You were predictable,” she breathes out. “But not boring.”

There was a pause.

He looked at her again. Not past her. At her. At the hint of sunscreen on her nose, the fray of her old academy cap, the careful way she stood, like she still carried her injury in her bones, even if it didn’t show anymore.

“You ever think about playing again?” he asked.

She shook her head once, not unkindly. “Sometimes. When I’m stringing rackets. Or watching a late match. But I don’t miss the tour.”

“You miss competing,” he said.

She didn’t deny it.

He took a step closer to the fence, fingers curling around the wire like it might keep the moment still.

“I watched your Roland Garros final,” he said.

“I know,” she said, just above a whisper.

He blinked. “How?”

“You always sat in the third row,” she said, turning toward him. “Back then, at least.”

He let that settle. Let the honesty of it rise between them.

“Come watch my match tomorrow,” he said.

She smiled, then shook her head. “You’re not a junior anymore, Jannik. You don’t need me in your corner.”

“That’s not why I want you there.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked down, then back at him, eyes thoughtful, careful, familiar.

“Alright then,” she said, soft and certain, smirking.

“Alright.” He grins, and Jannik watches as she walks away from him and towards her protégé. Thinking, 'I found you.'

Come Back.. Be Here

Jannik Sinner x Reader

You and Jannik had a brief, intense off-season romance. It was never officially labeled, just two people gravitating toward each other in quiet moments, shared coffees, late-night hotel calls, and accidental hand touches. He told you goodbye at 4 a.m. before flying out for the season, right when you were just beginning to fall. Now, he's in New York. You're in London. The time difference stretches like a chasm, and you never realized how much he took with him until you turned around and he wasn’t there anymore.

a/n: hey guys! another fic because i got an idea when i listened to taylor. i might do alot of these, just writing fics when i listen to songs. anyway, hope u like this! here's a fic based on the song come back be here, it is sad so buckle up.

You said it in a simple way.

4:00 a.m. the second day.

How strange that I don't know you at all.

You remember the time exactly. 4:08 a.m.

The soft shuffle of his suitcase wheels against the hotel carpet. The muted zip of his jacket. The dim yellow glow of the hallway light spilling into the room as he stood by the door.

He looked at you with that same calm expression he always wore after matches: neutral, unreadable, but somehow still gentle.

“I’ll text when I land,” he said.

You nodded from the edge of the bed, legs crossed, sweatshirt drowning your frame. You wanted to say something meaningful, something about how those last few weeks had meant more to you than you’d admitted aloud. But your throat was tight, and you didn’t trust your voice.

So you smiled and nodded.

And said, “Don’t forget to stretch on the plane.”

He laughed softly. Then came over. Pressed a kiss to your forehead. One last kiss. And then he was gone.

You didn’t realize it would ache like this.

Stumbled through the long goodbye. Right when I was just about to fall.

You’d told yourself it was just a thing.

Two athletes in the same city for a few weeks. Two people who liked the same quiet cafes. Who stayed up too late watching old match footage on hotel TVs. Who held hands under tables but never talked about what it meant.

You didn’t realize how hard you’d fallen, until the moment he left.

Now, everything you do feels heavy with the absence of him. The mornings feel emptier. The coffee doesn’t taste the same. The Spotify playlist you made together? You can’t even open it. Not yet.

Not when he’s posting selfies in New York.

Not when he’s half a world away and looking fine, golden, laughing, thriving.

While you’re in London, breaking.

And this is when the feeling sinks in. I don't wanna miss you like this. Come back… be here.

You miss him at the oddest moments.

On the walk back from the gym, when your headphones shuffle to a song he showed you.

In the grocery store, when you pass the same flavor of energy bar he always grabbed.

At 2 a.m., when your apartment is quiet and you’re tired of pretending you didn’t care.

You do care.

You miss him like something vital, like oxygen.

And it hurts, because you never told him. And you should've told him to stay, you should've pulled him back to the hotel bed and begged for him to stay.

The delicate beginning rush. The feeling you can know so much Without knowing anything at all.

You knew how he took his espresso; no sugar, a little foam.

You knew the exact breath he took before his serve.

You knew he hated flying and always triple-checked his passport.

But you didn’t know his middle name.

Or who he called after winning a big match.

Or whether he wanted you to ask him to stay.

You knew enough to miss him. And not enough to hold onto him.

If I had known what I know now… I never would've played so nonchalant.

You’d told yourself to stay cool. Not to get attached.

You didn’t want to be the girl who caught feelings first.

But now, you wish you’d said something. Anything.

You wish you’d kissed him harder.

You wish you’d whispered “Don’t go.”

You wish you'd done something to make him stay.

Taxi cabs and busy streets, That never bring you back to me.

It’s been three weeks.

You’re in London. He’s in New York. Then Miami. Then somewhere in between.

You see clips of him doing press, hear the way fans chant his name.

You wonder if he ever scrolls back through your texts. If he watches that video of you two at the charity gala, the one where you’re laughing, leaning into him, like there’s no world outside the frame.

You wonder if he’s still wearing the bracelet you left behind. The navy one. The one he called your lucky charm.

You wonder if he thinks of you at all. You wonder if he misses you like you miss him, in the most grueling way.

This is falling in love in the cruelest way. This is falling for you when you are worlds away.

You go about your life. You train. You stretch. You smile for cameras.

But at night, it’s different. At night, you stop pretending.

You stare at your ceiling and whisper his name like a secret, like a prayer, like an oath.

You’re not sure why you do it.

You open your phone. Scroll up to your last message with a frown, a meme you sent him the night before he left. He replied with a laughing emoji and a "you’re ridiculous."

You type.

“New York doesn’t suit you.”

You pause. Your thumb hovers just above the send button.

Then, a second message:

“Come back.”

You hit send.

You turn off your phone.

You sleep.

And you dream of him standing in that hallway again. Except this time, he doesn’t leave.

And when it happens, you're ready to make him stay.

J. SINNER MASTERLIST

As much as I love gatekeeping my fics, I realize that the tennis community is in dire need of more Jannik Sinner fics. Here I come!

These are mostly self-indulgent. But hey, what's mine is yours.

Enjoy these works of mine, I hope you like them as much as I like them. Or not. haha!

I plan to write more of these, so look forward to more fics. Maybe about 2-3 business days, cause I've been such in a writing slump and it's horrendous.

Lights Out! – F1 Female Driver!Reader

One Love – Tennis Player!Reader

Come Back.. Be Here – Athlete!Reader (but it's not really prioritized in the fic), fic based on Taylor Swift's song

The Other Court – Former Tennis Player!Reader

In your orbit – Model!Reader

Everything has changed - Childhood fic (based off the song Everything Has Changed by Taylor)

One Love

Jannik Sinner x Tennis Player!Reader

Summary: You're WTA World No.1. He's ATP World No.1. Everyone assumes you'd hate each other; too competitive, too intense. And you did. At first. Until you were both stuck doing mixed-doubles promo for a sponsor in Rome. Until you got paired for a charity match. Until you accidentally won… and didn’t stop texting afterward.

a/n: i recently rewatched challengers today because i couldn't practice tennis today.. i got inspired. atleast i got something good out of a sprained ankle, i hope you guys like it! (im cooked i got a tournament next week)

You barely look at him as you step onto the court, eyes locked on the lines, the crowd murmuring qnd cheering in anticipation. It’s hard to ignore the tension in the air, everyone’s been waiting for this match. You and Jannik Sinner, the World No. 1 ATP, and the World No. 1 WTA, forced to team up for a mixed doubles charity event in Italy. How ironic is that?

The Nike kits cling to you both in a matching, almost absurdly coordinated way. You can feel his presence beside you. Sharp, composed, intense; but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. This is all for the sponsors, nothing more. You aren’t friends. Not now, not ever.

He’s the last person you’d choose to be paired with. You’ve fought on the court against him on practices, never yielding an inch. You know how competitive he is, how he thrives in the heat of rivalry. And yet, here you are, standing shoulder to shoulder, forced to play as a team against Aryna Sabalenka and Ben Shelton. The moment the ball is served, you’re both in motion, racing across the court with sharp precision, silently competing to outdo one another. Your hands brush as you both reach for the same shot. Your heart skips, your breath hitches, but you don’t acknowledge it. Not yet.

The crowd cheers as you win the first point, and you catch a glimpse of Jannik out of the corner of your eye. He smirks at you, just barely. You hate that smirk, that confidence. It’s too much like your own. You give him a half-hearted nod. "Nice shot," you mutter. He doesn’t respond, but his eyes linger on you a second too long, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air. There’s more between you now than just competition. A strange, undeniable chemistry. You try to shake it off, but the match is far from over, and neither of you is ready to stop playing.

You don’t expect it, that effortless rhythm. It’s like you’ve trained together for years, not met awkwardly thirty minutes before warm-up. Every crosscourt shot you angle, he’s already there, anticipating it like clockwork. You find yourself moving in sync with him, not because he tells you to, but because your body just knows. At one point, you catch his eye after a clean volley, and he gives you the smallest nod, that same unreadable expression he wears when he’s locked in during finals. It should be infuriating. Instead, it sparks something warm, something dangerous.

The crowd starts getting louder, caught up in the surprising electricity of your teamwork. You don’t even notice the scoreboard ticking upward, too focused on the way Jannik moves; fluid, precise, like a language your body suddenly understands. Aryna’s grin sharpens when she realizes you and Jannik are actually a threat, while Ben just shakes his head, laughing under his breath after another brutal rally. Still, no words pass between you and Jannik. Just glances. Just breathless seconds between points where you could swear he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. And maybe that’s safer. Because if either of you speaks, you’re not sure you’ll keep pretending this is just tennis.

A series of volleys, and backhands go by in a blur. You both won straight sets, now it's the final set. And the final point. And it's your turn to serve.

You bounce the ball, you toss it. And the ball leaves your racket with a clean, vicious snap. You know it’s good the moment it cuts through the air. Fast, flat, brutal. It kisses the service line, untouched. Ben doesn’t even move.

Silence, just for a beat. Then the umpire’s voice cuts through the tension:

“Game, Sinner and—”

Your name, sharp and clear.

The crowd erupts.

Jannik doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, really looks at you. Hus chest rising with the effort of the match, sweat clinging to his hairline. Then, in that quiet, charged pause before your teammates approach, before the photos, before the sponsor reps swarm in with cameras and high-fives, he reaches out. Not for a hug, not for show. Just a brief touch to your back. Warm. Grounding. The kind of thing you’re not supposed to feel anything from.

But you do. And judging by the way his fingers hesitate before falling away, so does he.

And for a second, you swear you could see his boyish smile, barely there, just enough to catch the light before he wipes it off, turning it into a quick flick of his towel against his forehead. But you saw it. Just for a moment.

You smirk at the thought, the coolness of his touch still lingering on your skin, even as you pat his back lightly. Your hand lingers a second too long, just enough for the feeling to settle between you before you turn away. It’s not much. Nothing serious. But it’s something. And it means a lot more than either of you will admit. You head up to the net, shaking hands with Shelton first, exhanging thank you's and congratulations', then Aryna. She raises an eyebrow, clearly aware of the dynamic she just witnessed.

“Nice teamwork, you two,” she says, voice dripping with amusement.

You return her smirk. “Same to you, Sabby.” Her hand feels solid in yours, a rival’s handshake, but you’re too caught up in the lingering heat of your own victory to care.

The umpire’s call fades into the background as you all exchange pleasantries, preparing for the obligatory PR photos. The media teams and sponsor representatives rush in, pushing cameras and microphones into your face. You’re forced into the carefully choreographed smiles, standing side by side with Jannik as the photographers capture what feels like an entire lifetime of perfect moments: smiles too tight, poses too polished. You keep your eyes steady, even when you feel his presence next to you, too close for comfort. You wonder if he’s feeling it too, the strange tension that lingers in the space between you.

The session drags on, but finally, it's over. You escape to your hotel, the silence of your room welcoming you as you collapse onto the bed. You scroll through your phone, your feed already buzzing with highlights from the match, the photos, the reposts. You share your own, a subtle but confident caption. The whole world knows you’ve won. The whole world knows you’ve had this strange, unspoken moment with Jannik on court. Your phone buzzes again, this time a message from an unexpected source: Jannik.

You hesitate for a moment before opening it.

“Good match today.”

It’s simple. It’s cold. But something in the way it’s worded makes your heart skip. Maybe it’s the timing. Maybe it’s the fact he’s reached out at all. You type back slowly, keeping it casual.

“Yeah, not bad for a forced teammate.”

The dots appear, then disappear. Then a reply, as brief and sharp as the last one:

“Not bad at all.”

And just like that, the door to something else creaks open.

Lights out!

jannik sinner x f1 alpine driver!reader

summary: you are the only female driver in the grid. on race day, you happen to cross paths with a certain red headed tennis player.

a/n: my first fic! english isn't my first language so apologies in advance if i made any errors. also, i tried my best to be non-f1 fan friendly haha

The paddock buzzes with race day tension. Mechanics rush past with tires stacked shoulder-high, engineers juggle data on tablets, and camera crews swarm like bees. The scent of gasoline and espresso clings to the air, warm with late-summer Italian sun. You barely notice the commotion anymore.

You're used to the glances. The stares. You're the only woman on the grid, the first in years. They don’t mean harm, most of them, but the weight of proving yourself has never really gone away. It’s carved into your pre-race rituals. The cold splash of water on your face, the mental visualization, the deep breath before pulling your race suit over your fireproofs.

“Y/N,” your race engineer’s voice crackles in your earpiece, breaking your focus. “Garage in ten. We’re running checks on the floor. Your left side looked off in FP3.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, and turn toward the Alpine hospitality suite to grab your bottle and gloves. That’s when you catch a flicker of ginger hair and sunglasses across the walkway. Someone tall, lean, relaxed in a way no one else is right now. Not a driver.

It’s Jannik Sinner.

You’ve seen his face before on TV, sports magazines, that tennis documentary Netflix pushed on you mid-flight. You don’t follow tennis religiously, but you know him. Italian golden boy. Calm. Sharp. Unapologetically good. And apparently, a massive Formula 1 fan. You’ve heard he’s been to a few races before, he even met some of the boys from Red Bull last year.

Right now, he’s talking to Oscar Piastri, who’s leaned casually against the McLaren garage wall, helmet tucked under one arm. They’re laughing about something, Jannik’s hand briefly clapping Oscar on the shoulder.

You march over, not because of Jannik, but because Oscar still owes you answers about that mess in qualifying yesterday.

You stop just in front of them, planting your hands on your hips. “Piastri,” you say, not looking at Jannik. “You got a minute?”

Oscar gives you that signature dry smirk. “Didn’t expect the Alpine missile this early.”

You roll your eyes. “You blocked me in sector two. Again.”

Before Oscar can respond with something cheeky, Jannik clears his throat lightly. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You finally meet his eyes. Your throat goes dry, and you don't know why.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “You’re the tennis guy.”

He laughs softly, polite. “That’s one way to put it. I’ve seen you race. Big fan.”

There’s no condescension in his tone. No posturing. Just a simple truth. For some reason, it disarms you more than any media-trained compliment ever has.

Oscar glances between you two, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. Now you’ve got Sinner rooting for Alpine.”

“Just this once,” Jannik says, grinning. “You two were brilliant in Spa. That overtake into Eau Rouge…”

He trails off, mimicking your steering motion with his hands.

You arch a brow, an amused smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t think tennis players watched F1 that closely.”

“Oh, I grew up watching. Used to pretend I was Alonso when I was a kid. Built my own track with soda cans in the backyard.” He chuckles, then pauses, shifting slightly. “You’ve got a shot today, right?”

You shrug. “If I survive Turn 1.”

“I’ll be watching,” he says, his voice a little quieter now.

Oscar nudges him. “She’s the real deal, mate. Don’t blink or you’ll miss her on the straight.”

You nod toward the garages. “I need to check in before the formation lap. But thanks for watching.”

You don’t say “nice to meet you.” You don’t shake his hand. The moment is small but electric, like the seconds before lights out. You only nod amd smile at him in appreciation before turning your back.

And as you walk away, you feel his eyes still on you.

———

Your heart is pounding so loud you can feel it in your neck.

Last lap.

The engine screams in your ears, and sweat drips down your temple beneath the helmet. You’re gripping the wheel so tight your knuckles are white. Your engineer’s voice crackles into your headset, calm but sharp.

“Last lap. You’re still holding second. Verstappen's only half a second ahead. You’ve got this.”

"Copy." You murmur.

The crowd is a blur; flags, flares, noise, just streaks of color around the circuit. You shift your focus back to the car ahead. Slipstreaming. Right behind. Just one chance.

You take a deep breath and throw the car down the inside at Turn 1. It’s risky. Brave. Clean.

You pull ahead, and before you know it, you're leading the race.

Your engineer screams in your ear: “Yes! You’re leading! Bring it home!”

You fly through the final few corners, barely blinking, barely breathing. This is what you trained for. This is everything.

As you come out of the final bend, the straight opens up before you—and then, just ahead, a figure waves the black and white checkered flag, signaling the race is over.

It’s Jannik.

He’s standing tall on the stand, waving the flag with a wide grin, hair a little messy from the wind, sunglasses forgotten in his hand. You don’t even know if he sees your car or recognizes that it’s you, but the moment feels electric.

You cross the finish line.

Winner.

You scream into the helmet. "LET'S GO! P1 BABY!" You roar in happiness, in disbelief.

“GREAT PACE! YOU DID IT!” your engineer roars. “P1! That’s a win! Take a slow lap, bring it in. You were unbelievable!”

The victory lap is a blur. Fans are on their feet. Your crew leans over the fences, cheering. You give a wave, still breathless. You can't stop cheering through the radio, turning the car into parc fermé.

By the time you pull into parc fermé, the spot where the top cars park post-race, you barely register the noise around you. You turn the engine off. The world goes quiet.

You climb onto your car, standing tall, fists pumping in the air. The crowd roars in response. You don’t take the helmet off yet. You just let the noise soak in, hands over your head. You jump off of the car, and head straight for your team. The noise is deafening, their happy cheers and chants as they celebrate this legendary win.

You did it.

———

Later, after the national anthem, after the champagne is sprayed and your race suit is soaked and sticky with victory and celebration, you make your way down the steps of the podium. You run your fingers through your hair. Hair stuck to your forehead, and wipe the sweat away with the back of your glove.

Jannik is waiting just off to the side, now wearing a pass around his neck and a smile that’s hard to miss.

“That was insane,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched a lot of races, but that finish-”

“You saw it?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“I waved the flag, remember? I had the best seat in the house.”

You chuckle, looking up at him. “You looked good up there.”

He gives you a modest shrug, but the blush on his cheeks betrays him. “I didn’t think you’d notice. You were kind of busy winning a race.”

You let the smile linger before tipping your head slightly.

“You coming to the afterparty?”

His brows lift slightly, as if surprised. “I didn’t think I was invited.”

You glance at him sideways, playful. “Well, consider this your invitation.”

There’s a beat. A pause in the chaos, the media, the photographers yelling for one last shot, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, sweaty and sunlit and still riding the high of the day.

He smiles and his eyes crinkle and you think you just might faint.

“Then I guess I’ll see you there.”