"I don't see where he gets off. Just because he's never had competition before. Jesus, I think he thinks he's perfect. Steve Rogers, America's golden boy."
Rhodey snorts and Tony just scowls more, bending down to retrieve his bottle from the side of the court. It's full of something bright green but he gulps it down regardless; it's a recipe he came up with himself and he's found it improves his game, despite the incredulous looks he gets from anyone who's seen it. It's hidden away now anyway, in a black bottle emblazoned with the SI logo in gold. A little flashy, especially for a practice court, but Tony's never been one for fading into the background.
"And I'm sure you didn't wind him up at all. Just leave Rogers alone and concentrate on winning, you'll only prove him right if you lose to him tomorrow." Rhodey towelled at his face and collapsed into one of the plastic chairs, chest still heaving from the match they'd just played. "Though if you play like that, I don't see how you can lose."
"I hope not." Tony sobered up suddenly, brow creasing in concentration as he let the rant about Steve go. "I've got to win something, I've won nothing all year, my ranking's awful. Hell, with all the work I've been doing for the company, I've hardly had time to even enter anything. I might as well not be playing at this rate."
"Relax, Tony, you've got this." Rhodey stretched, wincing as the muscles in his arms complained at the movement, and pushed himself to his feet. "I've got to go, I'm needed back on base in a few hours. Good luck tomorrow."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, get out of here, I need to practice. If I lose, it's your fault for distracting me."
"I'm sure you'll do great." He grabbed his racket and towel, tossing it over his shoulder as he moved towards the exit. "Get some sleep," he called back as he reached it, shaking his head as Tony just ignored him.
Once he was sure Rhodey had left, Tony capped the bottle and drew a silver hip flask from the sports bag by his feet instead. He knew it was a mistake, that the last thing he wanted to do was drink the night before a big match, but he just couldn't help the urge to lose himself. He'd always been good at sabotaging himself and giving himself an excuse for failure before he'd even started, because part of him thought that he didn't deserve to win. That he wasn't good enough, at this, at anything, to ever succeed.
Because if he would only admit it to himself, Tony was terrified about tomorrow.
Not that he ever would. He took a swig of the whiskey and made a face as it burned down his throat, downed the rest of it anyway. There, now he felt more like himself.
He would fucking show them.
He snagged his headphones and shoved the bluetooth earbuds into his ears, using the slim remote in his pocket to turn the music back on. Almost loud enough to deafen him, but at least it silenced the doubts that threatened to creep through.
He picked up his racket and twirled it absently, somewhat soothed by the comfortable, familiar weight. It is, of course, one of his own designs, though he's waited until now to bring it out. After steamrolling through the US Open last year with the MK I, he knew he'd shocked the world by almost instantly reverting to standard equipment. They didn't know how close he'd been to fracturing his wrist and potentially putting an end to his career. The increase in power had been amazing, but his body just hadn't been able to cope.
He'd had a year to improve it, and he finally thought he'd cracked it. He'd taken to practicing with the model exclusively, and thorough examinations from his physiotherapist – not that he needed them, he was fine, but Pepper insisted he saw a professional regularly – revealed that the stress in his wrists was at an acceptable level, the force cushioned by the modified sweat bands encircling his wrists. Even his clothing, his shoes, hell, even his underwear, had been specifically designed to complement his new abilities. He could probably recite the rule book backwards now, from all the time he'd spent dancing on the fine line between legal and illegal equipment.
He's still got more ideas, more inspiration for improvement, but he forces himself to push those thoughts to the back of his mind and just concentrate on the feel of the racket in his hands. He grabs a few tubes of balls as well and heads back onto the court, settling his feet on the baseline as he falls instinctively into a ready position, imagines he's preparing himself for a return. It works to settle his head, and he half smiles as he pops the top off one of the tubes, claiming a couple of balls and letting the others fall around his feet.
He breathes in. He slips one of the balls into a pocket, though the twin stays clenched firmly in his left hand. Breathes out. Closes his eyes for a moment before throwing the ball with his left hand and raising his right, following the serve through. Feels, more than sees, that it's in, that his calculations were right. Perfect.
He can relax here. It's only him and the music and the tennis. He times his serves perfectly to the beat, body twisting with the effort of each hit; he's smaller than most players, at only 5'9, but there's a grace about him that the larger players can't achieve. One of the papers once described his style as more like dancing. They'd laugh if they'd known he'd once taken dance lessons for exactly that reason.
There were only a few hours left before someone came to find him and drag him off, to do something time-consuming like eat or sleep. He just hopes he's ready.
Every seat was full, American flags in evidence anywhere you looked, and Tony was already starting to get a headache from the noise. He smiled and waved obediently as he walked onto the court, ignoring Rogers behind him, the roar of the crowd as they screamed his opponent's name. He was never going to be America's darling and especially here, at the final of the US Open, it was clear that everyone wanted, and expected, the world number one to win.
He could work with that.
He deposited his bag by his chair and quickly scanned the crowd for the box, half smiling as he recognized Pepper. Good, she'd managed to make it. Girlfriend of the week – Katie? Carly? Kizzy? – was stood next to her, bright red dress and gold sunglasses unmistakable. Wearing his colours, fantastic, he loved seeing people he was fucking dressed up in his colours.
They were unmistakeable now. Red shoes with gold soles and laces, black shorts with gold edging, bright red tracksuit jacket with STARK embroidered in gold across the back. He unzipped the jacket and shrugged it off, revealing an even flashier shirt underneath. Sleeveless, his shoulders had always been photogenic, and dark red, with a myriad of lines embroidered in gold. He'd used a circuit board as inspiration for the design and was extremely pleased with the final result. Even the sweatbands on his wrists were red.
Rogers, on the other hand, looked extremely understated. Plain white t-shirt, boring shoes, shorts that might have been navy once but had now faded into grey, though there was a hint of patriotism in the white star and swish of red around one of the pockets. He even had bright white tennis socks pulled right up. Tony snorted and Steve scowled as he caught him looking. Tony just wiggled his eyebrows in reply.
Time to get this circus on the road. He pulled his racket from his bag and spun it once, satisfied. Rogers was already on the court, lazily hitting balls across the net. Tony jogged over to join him in the warm up, even if he couldn't resist repeatedly hitting the ball to different sides of the court. From the way his rival's shoulders tensed, he could tell it irritated him, but Rogers just kept returning the ball smoothly. Whatever.
He moved on to practicing his serve instead, deliberately holding a little back, wanting his first service game to be a shock to the larger American. He knew Rogers was used to having the fastest serve in the game, but he'd been recording his speeds recently and believed he could do better. Well, Rogers had won the toss and was first to serve, so he wouldn't know for sure until the second game.
"Time!"
Tony returned to his chair and swallowed a mouthful of drink as he kept his eyes resolutely on the floor. Two minutes and he'd be on. Couldn't let himself be distracted now.
He hoped someone would get a good picture of Rogers' face when he lost. If Tony was really lucky, he might even cry.