Hey Everyone! Got inspired by this from hearing an interesting point from my friend on rf.com: There's a seriously lack of Roger fanfics (and NONE of he and Mirka, who I think are irresistibly adorable as a couple!) So as an amateur fanfic maker, I made one: Its by no means perfect even maybe ranging on corny, but as long as we keep it PG-PG13 why not? Feel free to give feedback, add your own of them, or give ideas if you would like...this could be fun!
"The Greatest Fan:"
She felt like a two-bit groupie; watching his matches all the time, waiting until his last waves to the crowd before leaving just to catch another glimpse or picture of him before he waltzed off court. When his eyes shifted her way, their glances collided into something comfortably passionate and unspoken, and she knew; tonight was the night.
Tonight was the night she had been waiting for. As she walked down the rows of seats, she held a small tennis ball she had lunged for from yesterday's match that she had watched. He had passed it directly in her direction. She could tell by his eyes that it was meant for her; streaming with all of their glorious light. But if she didn't reach out for it, everyone else would.
After three hours, she had gone behind the gate to the press room and watched him descreetly as he took the last fifteen minutes with the last interviewer. His elegant hands reaping through his chocolate curled waves, just so they could tousle about his face again.
The woman's eyes melted to that solitary spot on the nape of his neck where curls seemed to manifest.
"We've been hearing the twins are well. And how is your wife Mr. Federer?"
The woman's breath caught, as she stood in a corner steeped in shadows.
"She wasn't feeling too well today and is probably at home asleep right now. But she's been supporting me throughout the whole tournament, like she does every tournament for me. She's very special, she sacrifices a lot. Everyday it's very important to know she's there with me; we're very much in love still...so it means a lot to have her traveling with me always."
She pressed herself against the wall slightly; what was she doing? She didn't need to do this. Everyone believed her crazy and obsessed watching him at this hour, especially when she had kids back at home. And the next tournament she would do the same and come to watch Federer play. Her friends always gave her hell for being an obsessed fan, even jokingly proclaimed her a 'stalker'.
Her eyes lightly skimmed the contours of the tennis player's body, which seemed more muscular than last season. It was more muscular than last season
She was subdued in shadows as he was bathed in light, and nearly felt and seemed as though their worlds would never collide; she clutched the tennis ball a little harder almost desperate that something would catch his eye. But then out of the blue, with a beaming sincere smile he shook the interviewer's hand, bid him goodnight and thanks for the interview. He was heading towards her; she wanted to move but she didn't. She stood right between the doorway arch which was in a small unlit corridor made up of six yards length and when he passed through it, he would not see her.
She observed as he walked a step through the doorway and before she could even utter a word, to her bafflement, despite the darkness, he saw her. Immediately, predeterminedly as though he had known she was there all along. The woman's eyes darted to both doorway entries as he strode towards her silently. She was still holding the signed tennis ball. He came to her and uplifted her with his arms, they embraced deeply; magnetically her hand came to the back of his neck where his curls jumbled about her fingers as he kissed her. A relieved smile traced her lips as she took in the familiar scent of him.
He muttered, "I thought you would have been gone by now...aren't you tired?"
She laughed "Not anymore."
Feeling more relaxed and more eager, tenderly he pressed her against the wall; she let out an exhalation that had been compressed the moment she laid eyes on him that night, perhaps the whole tournament. His hands meddled restlessly, and fell to the low of her back and waist. She was surprised, but this only made him more exuberant, more joyous, more passionate.
Remembering his answer to the interviewer's question, the 'fan' uttered breathlessly in his ear, "'Still'?"
He ceased his feverish kisses, caressing a finger against her dimpled cheek as though she were of fragile porcelain,
He compressed her against him again and Mirka pressed her hands against her husband's broad chest, in an attempt to resist, feeling it's projected definition and the race of a heart beating heavily. Yet perhaps it was simply in an attempt to prolong it all in some way or another.
She couldn't give into him now, not here.
She could envision the cameras flashing mercilessly now, exposing them in every light, and they would paint him to be something he wasn't: Obstreperous. Like he wasn't within the power of controlling himself. Yet this was one of those rare moments, when possibly neither of them could.