the interviewer

You stepped off the plane in Melbourne, the warm Australian sun on your skin a welcome respite from the chilly European winter you'd left behind. As a tennis journalist, you'd been lucky enough to score a press pass to the Australian Open, one of the biggest events in the tennis calendar.

As you made your way through customs and baggage claim, your mind wandered to the players you'd be interviewing over the next fortnight. One name in particular stood out: Alexander Zverev, the young German tennis star who'd been making waves in the tennis world with his impressive skills and charming smile.

You'd had the chance to interview Sascha (as he was affectionately known) a few times before, and you'd always come away impressed by his intelligence and wit. But you had to admit, you'd always felt a little flutter in your chest when he looked at you with those piercing blue eyes of his.

You pushed the thought aside as you made your way to your hotel. You were here to do a job, after all, not to get caught up in some silly crush.

The next day, you arrived at Melbourne Park, the Australian Open's venue, bright and early. You spent the morning watching some of the qualifying matches and taking notes, before heading to the press conference room to attend Sascha's pre-tournament press conference.

As you took your seat at the back of the room, Sascha walked in, looking relaxed and confident in his sponsor's gear. He smiled at the assembled press corps, and your heart skipped a beat as his eyes met yours for a brief moment.

The press conference was the usual mix of questions about Sascha's preparations, his expectations for the tournament, and his thoughts on his opponents. You listened intently, taking notes and planning out your own questions for when you got the chance to interview him one-on-one.

As the press conference drew to a close, Sascha fielded one final question from a journalist in the front row. As he finished his answer, he scanned the room, his eyes locking onto yours once again.

This time, he smiled, and you felt your face heat up as you smiled back.

The next day, you found yourself assigned to interview Sascha after his first-round match. You arrived at the interview room, a small, windowless space tucked away in a corner of the stadium, and took a deep breath as you waited for Sascha to arrive.

When he walked in, looking flushed and exhilarated from his win, you couldn't help but notice the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at you.

"Hi again," he said, dropping into the chair across from you. "Thanks for coming to talk to me."

You smiled back, trying to play it cool. "Thanks for taking the time, Sascha. Congratulations on your win today."

Sascha grinned. "Thanks. I played well today. I'm feeling good about my game."

You launched into your questions, asking him about his strategy, his opponents, and his goals for the tournament. Sascha answered thoughtfully, providing insightful commentary on the game.

As the interview drew to a close, Sascha glanced at his watch. "I'm sorry, Y/N," he said, "but I have to run. I have a hitting session scheduled for this afternoon."

You nodded, smiling. "No worries, Sascha. Thanks again for your time."

Sascha stood up, towering over you as he smiled down. "Thanks, Y/N. It was great talking to you."

As he turned to leave, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Hey, Y/N?"

You looked up, meeting his eyes. "Yeah?"

Sascha smiled. "Would you like to grab dinner with me tonight? Maybe we can discuss the tournament... or something else?"

Your heart skipped a beat as you processed the invitation. Was Sascha asking you out on a date?

You smiled, trying to play it cool. "I'd love to, Sascha."

Sascha grinned, looking pleased. "Great. I'll pick you up at your hotel at 7pm?"

You nodded, still smiling. "Sounds perfect."

As Sascha walked out of the interview room, you couldn't help but feel a little excited. You had a feeling that this tournament was going to be a lot more interesting than you'd initially thought.

Over the next few days, you found yourself running into Sascha more and more often. You'd catch glimpses of him on the practice courts, or see him walking through the stadium, always smiling and waving at fans and journalists alike.

You couldn't help but notice the way he looked at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. You found yourself feeling drawn to him, more and more, with each passing day.

Finally, on the night of his fourth-round match, Sascha took you out for dinner