Chapter Text
Stepping out onto the court felt surreal. Derek knew he’d done it with no problems over the course of the tournament, but none of those matches were the finals.
This was insane.
Derek wasn’t ready.
Then Derek looked to the crowd, scanned the countless faces for his family and, finding them, felt a little more grounded. He tuned into the crowd and heard, overwhelmingly, his name being chanted.
His entire life had been in preparation for this moment. This was where he was meant to be. Derek threw his shoulders back; he belonged there. He deserved this.
He smiled.
When the umpire settled the crowd to introduce Derek and Jackson, to make sure they understood the rules and were ready for a clean match, Derek almost thought that Jackson wouldn’t shake his hand. After all, this close to him, Derek could see where his punch had created a bright bruise on Jackson’s sharp cheekbones. The bruise had been skillfully covered—no press had managed to report on it—but Derek could see it.
That bruise galvanized him. Derek was going to take Jackson down again, in a sanctioned match this time. No matter what they were being tested again, Derek was better than Jackass Whittemore. He would happily prove it again.
The match started with Jackson’s blazing serve, the ball flying across the court over a hundred miles per hour. Suddenly, Derek wasn’t smiling anymore.
He was, however, filled with grim determination and Jackson wasn’t going to scare him off. Derek imagined the way Jackson had crumpled when Derek had punched him and funneled all of his energy into humiliating Jackson once again.
Jackson’s focused, aggressive style of playing had Derek sprinting all over the court, fighting for every point in every game. Derek battled back with a little more power and unpredictability.
They were game-for-game; even when Jackson got lucky and won a game straight through, Derek battled back and swept the next one. It was vicious and frenetic and everything Derek had been dreaming of in a game of tennis.
Jackson managed to win the first set, sneaking past Derek’s defenses with a well-placed lob. Derek shook it off and prepared for the next set.
Shaking it off wasn’t enough, and Jackson took the first three games, almost effortlessly. Jackson started the process all over again, tossing the ball high in the air, his serve unimaginably powerful. Derek lunged for it, but didn’t quite make it, the ball flying past him on its way out of bounds.
Instead of harmlessly striking one of the padded walls, the serve hit the ball boy. The meter on the stadium wall clocked the serve at 144mph and Derek felt sick as he rushed to the boy’s aid. Looking down, Derek recognized the boy, whose face was already forming a welt, much like the one Jackson has hidden under make-up. But the boy sat up, seemingly ready to get back to work, and Derek felt a knot of tension in his chest loosen.
“You were with me at my first match,” Derek said, hoping to distract the boy from the pain.
“Yes, sir.”
“You did a good job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Ready to go again?”
The boy grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, yes sir.”
“Well, let’s get to it then.”
Derek gave the boy a hand up, and the kid resumed his place at the wall, still in the line of fire.
When Derek walked onto the court, he thought he was committed. It had seemed like he had all the fire in the world burning inside him to win. Seeing Jackson’s punchable face had stoked that fire but it wasn’t until the ball boy stood back up to resume his post that Derek snapped.
He was going to evicerate Jackson, and he was going to enjoy every second of it. It no longer mattered that he hadn’t seen Stiles in almost 48 hours, the pain in his back was something he would force himself to ignore. The only thing that mattered was this: beating Jackson.
Unfortunately, all of the drive in the world didn’t make Derek a markedly better player. He still strained, and sprinted, and tumbled, and missed. Jackson did, too, of course, but Jackson had the lead. Jackson had the luxury of missing shot or two because he had the upper hand. It was Derek who had to claw tooth and nail for every single point.
Jackson was up a whole set. Their current set was a heated affair; Jackson ahead four games to Derek’s one.
Derek was flagging, the struggle only made worse when it began to rain. What started as a quaint afternoon sprinkle quickly evolved into a fierce shower, but the game hadn’t been halted.
Jackson had Derek locked in a volley at the net, the ball ricocheting between their rackets. Derek got lucky, managing to turn his racket just so to send the ball out of Jackson’s easy reach. But Jackson wasn’t ranked best in the world for nothing; his footwork was quick and sure, even on the damp grass, his sight obscured by the then downpour of rain. Jackson reached, reached and sent the ball hurtling back toward Derek who was forced to scramble for it. The slick ground put Derek to at a disadvantage, wiping his feet out from under him just millimeters from the ball.
Derek went down, hard. The point went to Jackson, making the score now five games to one in the second set. It was tempting to just lay there, thinking about what he could do better, differently, if only he hurt just a little less. But the umpire halted play as the rain beat down, sending an army of courtside assistants sprinting ever closer to Derek’s prone form with a tarp to protect the court from getting any more wet.
At the last second, Derek rolled to his feet, sprinting out of the way of the tarp and back into the player’s tunnel. He retreated to his locker room where he managed to towel off a bit, but he was still dripping wet, drowning in self-pity when he heard footsteps approach.
“I thought you’d gone,” Derek said from where he sat, shocked to find Stiles casually leaning against a row of lockers.
“Me too,” Stiles smiled, but it looked sad. “Having a rough day?”
Derek huffed a laugh. “Disastrous.”
“Except you didn’t go soft when the ball boy got hit.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Why are the British apologizing all the time? Don’t apologize for not going soft Derek.”
Tension hung in the air a moment, as both of them heard what Stiles had just said. Then the moment broke, and they were both laughing. Giant, rolling laughs that burst out of them, filling the room with mirth, bolstering them.
Stiles crossed to sit Derek’s side, leaned into him as their laughter petered out. Derek relished Stiles’ heat, his contact, the idea that maybe he hadn’t irrevocably fucked up after all.
“I’m sorry,” Derek said again, and Stiles hoped he understood everything he was trying to infuse in those two words. I’m sorry for leaving; I’m sorry for not listening to what you needed; I’m sorry for hurting you; I’m sorry I broke your trust; I’m sorry I outed us on national TV when you said you wanted to keep things lowkey.
“Derek, you don’t need to apologize to me. I love you. Apologize to the hundreds of thousands of people who are rooting for you.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you’re in a packed stadium of people who love you and want you to win. Don’t let them down. They’re the ones who deserve your apology, not—“
“Not that part, idiot,” Derek said.
“Oh, that. I love you, Derek. And, yeah, maybe we’ve barely known each other a few weeks and maybe we’ll implode, like, immediately, but I love you. You make me happy. You make me want to play better. And maybe make me reckless but you also make me feel alive, and I love you. You came out for me, Derek. That’s not the kind of thing a guy takes lightly.”
“I love you,” Derek said. “I’ve never felt more myself than when I’m with you. You make me laugh and have fun in a way I haven’t in years, Stiles. I had forgotten that I could be so careless, but I don’t ever want to be careless with you.”
“Glad we cleared that up, then,” Stiles said, collapsing into Derek and kissing him senseless. Derek could have stayed there all day; he didn’t care that he was sopping wet or that a stadium of people were waiting for him. When Stiles’ mouth was on his, it was all he could do to keep breathing.
“Okay,” Stiles sat back, clapping his hands. “Real talk, why the fuck is your game so messed up?”
“God, Stiles,” Derek said, deflating. “I’m just so tired. He’s wearing me down at every turn. My back is killing me and I just don’t know how I’m going to finish it, let alone beat him.”
“Pull it together, Hale,” Stiles snapped. “You’re defending my honor again. You better fucking beat him for me.”
“Stiles—”
“Shut up, I’m kidding. Mostly. But he’s honestly not that hard once you know his tells.”
“I studied his game tapes, I can’t find any.”
“Well, what did I tell you, Derek? I love research. I could’ve been a detective in another life. So, here’s your cheat sheet. If he bounces the ball once instead of twice, he’s going for the body. If he shifts back on his left heel and shows you his toe, he’s going to hit deep. Got it?”
“One bounce, body. If I see his toe, he’s hitting deep.”
“That’s it,” Stiles said. “You’ve got this, Derek. The fans have your back. And so do I. No matter what.”
“You’re right. I can do this,” Derek said, pushing to his feet. Every part of his body ached, but with Stiles standing next to him, he could ignore it.
Derek would win or lose on his own merit, regardless of the fact that Stiles had come back. But his support sure did a lot to bolster Derek, giving him the surety in walking back onto the court, head held high, ready to play his heart out once more.
Derek had walked into the locker room disheartened, but he returned invigorated.
It was a long, arduous battle. When Derek returned to the courts, they were still wet; the balls would be slower, their footwork sloppier. To keep alive, Derek had to battle down Jackson, and come back to win the set.
Stiles’ advice didn’t keep Derek’s back from hurting, his breaths from coming out in ragged pants, or the sweat from dripping down and burning his eyes. Instead, it gave Derek the confidence and insight to claw back toward victory.
The other ace up Derek’s sleeve was that he was used to playing on grass courts. The terrain, no matter how damp, was familiar from all his years of training. Jackson, on the other hand, was used to clay courts and it showed. He had a harder time adjusting his footwork and finding his balance. He would over extend on a swing, used to his feet gripping firm, but instead go sprawling. Derek was ruthless as he kept aiming balls just out of Jackson’s reach.
Derek managed to win the second set, and the third, but Jackson seemed to rally halfway through. He became accustomed to the slick grass and was back in top form. Derek was flagging, and Jackson took the fourth set, forcing them to go for a fifth.
They took a quick break between sets, just long enough for them to catch their breath and guzzle some water. Derek should have known that Jackson wouldn’t take the turn of events quietly.
“First Argent, now Stilinski? What’s your plan, fuck your way through the best players in the world then ruin their careers? You’re a piece of shit, Hale.”
“How’s your eye treating you, Whittemore? Just because you put make-up on doesn’t mean I don’t remember.”
Derek kept walking. A week ago, what Jackson had said may have riled him. Hell, even a couple hours ago. But Derek knew that Stiles loved him. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the crowd, and found Stiles’ eyes. Stiles was cheering just as hard as the rest of the arena, if not louder. Stiles loved him, and was an amazing tennis player, and Derek hadn’t ruined anything for once.
He served the ball.
The set was fierce. Derek was pretty sure he was bleeding from somewhere, but he ignored the pain, he couldn’t feel anything over the surging adrenaline. Game one went to Derek, but Jackson took the second and third. Derek responded by winning the next two. Then Jackson won again, but for every one game Jackson, took, Derek took two more. Suddenly, Derek was one game away from winning Wimbledon.
He bounced the ball, ready to serve. He could do it, he could do it, he could do it.
“Ace,” the umpire called. “Fifteen-love.”
That’s it, Derek told himself. He just had to keep up the rhythm. Just three more serves and it’d all be over.
He tossed the ball and served again, sending the ball hurtling straight toward Jackson, who didn’t manage to get out of the way in time. The ball struck him in the chest.
“Thirty-love.”
Two more, Hale. You can do it.
Derek wound up again, but this time, Jackson managed to return the ball just out of Derek’s reach.
“Thirty-fifteen.”
That’s okay, Derek told himself. No problem. Two more, that’s it, just two more serves and it’s all over.
Derek let loose, sending Jackson scrambling across the court. Jackson parried, and Derek hit back. Then he was lobbing the ball just over the net and Jackson couldn’t quite make it.
“Forty-fifteen. Match point.”
One more. Just another serve. You’ve done it a million times.
Derek faulted. The ball struck the net; it wasn’t even close to clearing it. Derek knew without looking that Jackson was smirking but Jackson didn’t get the last word.
He reset.
This time, the ball cleared the net. But Jackson was ready, darting quickly to lob it back over the net. Derek hit it back, then so did Jackson; they were locked in a volley that felt like it would never end and then Derek did it. He hit it just out of Jackson’s reach.
It was over.
“Out!” It didn’t matter whose call it was, it brought Derek crashing back down to Earth.
“Excuse me,” Derek said, striding towards the umpire’s stand. “The ball was good!”
“The ball was out,” the umpire repeated.
“How could you possibly say that? It was in. Everyone saw it!”
“The ball was out. Please resume play. Match point.”
Derek spun back to the starting line. He closed his eyes and counted down, three, two, one.
He served.
Jackson zigged when he should have zagged and that was it.
Derek had won.
Derek Hale, ranked 119th in the world at the start of the tournament, had won Wimbledon in a true underdog story.
Thoughts weren’t concrete, it wasn’t Derek’s choice to collapse to the ground, but when he came to after blacking out from pure joy, he was knelt on the ground, hands clenched in victory.
The battle was over, the war was won.
Derek stood to the immense cheers of what seemed to be the entire stadium. Everything was just raucous white noise as Derek approached the net to shake Jackson and the umpire’s hands.
Jesus, it didn’t feel real. Derek hit a ball or two into the stands before spinning, eyes searching for the ball boy. Derek saw him, bruise bloomed bright on his face, but his smile incredible, and handed him his racket.
The kid’s face lit up and Derek was glad to have made that happen, but his mind had already moved on. He vaulted the wall that separated the stands from the court, and made a beeline to his family. His father was weeping, his mother had a smile that threatened to crack her face, and Cora was jumping up and down.
“I thought you bet on Jackson,” Derek said.
“Never bet against family,” Cora said, continuing to bounce around. Derek noticed the way her hand was clasped tightly in Lydia Martin’s, who stood, seemingly unaffected, next to Cora.
“Congratulations, Derek,” she may have seemed unaffected, but her tone was kind and Derek would take it. He needed to sit down with Cora and have a serious fucking discussion about boundaries, but right now he was too happy to care.
After hugging his parents, Derek kept moving. He’d seen Stiles in the stands earlier, knew exactly where he’d be; Derek just needed to get to him. The crowd parted for Derek, as if he were Moses and they were the Red Sea and sooner than he thought possible, Stiles was in front of him, smiling stupidly and Derek had never thought he could be this happy in his entire life.
“Good game, Derek,” Stiles said.
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Derek replied. And then he was kissing the life out of Stiles, clutching him desperately; happy that for once, everything had turned out all right.