Rafa’s jaw is mulish, and his brows are pulled down into a sulk. “Look at them,” he’s saying. “Look.” The photographer has caught something, it’s true. Rafa looks older; more solid and serious. Not as pretty, more dangerous. It’s possible to see what he’ll look like in ten years time.

Rafa yanked open the door and checked his watch. They had about an hour. “Quick,” he said. Roger stared at him, wide eyed, like he was surprised to find himself at Rafa’s place. A baseball cap shaded his eyes. He had no bag or anything with him; he was just here on his own like he’d dropped out of the sky. Rafa’s stomach did what felt like a couple of minor somersaults as Roger came in. His height made the narrow hall feel cramped. Rafa pushed the door to, and it closed with a creak of hinges and a thunk.

Roger could hear the applause and cheers over on the next court; Rafa’s game. It was, in theory, impossible to tell which players the cheers were for, but he had a gut feeling that they were for Rafa. He waved at the crowd in his own court, not quite managing a smile. Walking down the murky, fluorescent-lit, concrete ramp back into the changing area, he saw Rafa ahead. He was moving slowly and with his head down.

There were four production assistants on the shoot, three gofers, about ten people hanging around being… something, he wasn’t sure. They were all perfect looking. The photographer had taken Rafa aside and explained the concept of the whole thing at one point, something about capturing the essence of masculinity, but Rafa really was not able to focus on the words.

He stands for a while, there at the net, and watches Rafa lay in the dust and roll with the sheer joy of it all.