Break a Sweat: MM Sports Romance

by Joe Satoria

  “No, shush.” I yanked the cubicle door open as the two Spaniards looked my way, quiet, their lips pressing away their grins. “What are you two benders looking at?” My chest puffed out.

  “Benders?” they repeated back in confusion.

  Of course. “Two busy sucking each other off to know that one?” I asked, sticking my thumbs down the elastic of my tennis short, pushing down my thighs to kick them off. I kept my black CK briefs on.

  “I don’t think they know,” Mladen said, the shower head spitting out water to his upper back.

  “Yeah, whatever,” I scoffed back, grabbing at my washbag.

  The cubical at the end of the row was a little darker, considering the light was trapped in the centre of the room. Running the shower head, I waited for a moment, sticking my hand beneath it in wait for it to get warm.

  Slowly, the sound of running water drowned out most of the echoing voices that came through. The only voice I didn’t hear was Harvey’s, although given how soft and quiet it had been, that wasn’t a surprise.

  “Nah, my money is on Jana,” Nils said, letting out a laugh. “Have you seen her?”

  “What about the German girls?” Mladen’s voice entered. “Aren’t they sisters? Or twins?”

  “Sisters,” Sandro said.

  I sat on the lip at the back of the shower, listening as they continued to speak. Closing my eyes as the water dripped across my face and hair, some of it getting into my ears and dulling their voices further into a distant echo.

  “I support Darcey as ze winner,” Baptiste spoke up, he was in the stall beside me, his thick French accent. “She supports me. The French will win.”

  “Same for the Spanish ay?” Nils asked.

  “No, no, no.”

  I’d had enough.

  I washed the product from my hair and gave my feet a rub with the scrub from my washbag. I couldn’t take any more of them speaking around in circles, and the longer I sat there, the more my blood pressure rose—or whatever my doctor had told me to watch. Twenty-one and being told to watch your blood pressure seemed like a joke.

  With my towel loosely wrapped at my waist, I grabbed at all my belongings and left soggy sandal prints to lead the way from the bathroom all the way back to the room.

  Harvey wasn’t there when I arrived—thankfully.

  I’d managed to pack away my three suitcases. Two in the corner of the room and the third, which was my maybe pile of things I needed, that was under the bed. Thinking back to it as I took a seat on the bed in my towel, I should’ve also brought a mattress topper too.

  My side of the room was clean.

  The other side had a soggy book drying out on the bedside table, the pages crimped and stained, perfuming the room with an acrid smell. There was a pair of dirty trainers and brown-stained socks on the floor.

  I closed the door to dry myself off, hopefully he’d get the message and know I was getting changed. I slipped into a clean pair of shorts, freeballing—if I weren’t sharing a room, I’d be naked in bed.

  My phone buzzed out in the dirty shorts I’d been wearing.

  Isabelle, my girlfriend. “Baby, hi,” I answered.

  “No, don’t baby me,” she said, mocking my voice. “Where the hell are you Jordan?”

  “I told you, I’m—”

  “No, no you didn’t tell me anything,” she continued, snapping at me like I’d done something wrong. “I just got to your house and your house manager tells me you’ve gone away for two weeks.”

  “Yeah, tennis camp.”

  “Tennis camp,” she scoffed, “you’re not twelve. You—at your big age of twenty-one years old, still going to camp.”

  “Isabelle.”

  “No, don’t you dare.”

  “It’s for tennis, there’s a competition, I could win fifty-thousand euros.”

  A long groan sounded out through the phone—and I knew it wasn’t erotic. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “What? No.”

  “That’s like what—five pounds?”

  “No, it’s a lot of money.”

  “Jordan, this isn’t working, you’re—”

  “What—what, no, Isabelle.”

  “I see you once a week, Jord, every Tuesday, we have date night,” she continued. “Today is Tuesday, guess where you’re not, you’re not on date night. Consider yourself single, consider getting yourself laid while you’re away because the minute you’re back, I’m not—and none of my friends will touch you.”

  The phone stuck to my hand—pressed to my ear, I wasn’t sure if what she was saying actually sank in. It hadn’t, not really, not what she was saying—single. We’d been together for sixteen months, and I miss one date night—fine, it would two, and suddenly, I’m single.

  I laid back in bed as my arms and fingers throbbed, begging for me to make fists, begging for me to get angry. I’d never been dumped before—I’d always been the dumper not the dumpee.

  5. HARVEY

  I got lucky. Truly. When I got back to the room last night after catching up with Sasha, Jordan was asleep, passed out from the stress of not having his own en-suite.

  It made my night easy and difficult, on one hand I couldn’t call my dad, but my aunt had texted and sent me a picture of him sticking his thumbs up, they wrote entire paragraphs wishing me luck.

  I’d half-forgotten Jordan was even in the same room as me while I read through the psychology textbook with the night light on. He didn’t make a sound; he didn’t even move—perhaps the stress had put him in a coma.

  It was easy to think of these things and let myself become preoccupied with them instead of how my dad was doing. We were an hour ahead too, so, when I was checking to see if he’d had his medication, I had to adjust for the time.

  Given all that, I didn’t recall falling asleep.

  BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

  Walls were caving in and a digger was scratching at the wall, ready to crunch down on dry cement. We were being evicted—

  No—that was a dream. It was the alarm. 6 A.M. on the dot.

  Jordan was awake, flashing a glare at me as he sat on the end of his bed. He returned to looking through a suitcase opened like a book.

  “That your alarm?” I asked through a scratchy morning voice.

  He didn’t respond, even though I knew full well he turned and looked at me again.

  I attempted to lie my head on the pillow—whack, right against the headboard, followed by my elbow knocking at the textbook on the bedside table.

  “Jeez, keep it down,” he grumbled. “And keep the room clean. You’re not living in a pigsty.” He stood, shirtless, his broad chest sticking out. “Try cleaning your shoes too.” He kicked at them.

  They were new shoes. There was probably a tiny bit of dirt on the bottoms, but that was it, and now—as I peered over the end of the bed, I was even more concerned, because I couldn’t see the dirt, and the way his face pinched together as he kicked them, I didn’t want to say anything back.

  “And when the door is locked, knock,” he continued. “It’s not much to ask, but if we’re sharing a room, we’re both going to need to get changed in here.”

  “Sure, ok.” Ugh. I hated myself for even giving in, but I’d just woke up, I needed to pee and there was a ringing in my ear from where the alarm blasted me.

  He zipped his case and left with a pile of clothes in hand.

  As I stood, I let out a stretch, pushing from my toes. It was a pleasant feeling throughout. We hadn’t trained much yesterday, just played a couple games, and I got to know some more people.

  Everyone seemed nice, except for Jordan, who had it out for everyone—and maybe they were only nice to me because I was sharing a room with him.

  I got dressed, applied deodorant, and ruffed my hands through my hair with a little hair putty to keep it from growing into some thick puff in the Spanish heat.

  According to the schedule, there was breakfast, followed by the morning assessment, lunch, free training, dinn
er, then to finish the day with more free training.

  It was probably a dealer’s choice type training, work on the weak spots they tell you about during the assessment or the one-on-one sessions, those were the real golden tickets—coming from a golden ticket winner.

  I think I’d learned from yesterday, growing hungry as I sat in bed.

  Getting food first was going to be the battle, but Sasha was more than willing to elbow a couple people to get me there.

  “As soon as the doors open, we run,” Sasha said, nodding to the doors at the end of the dining hall.

  “No need to run, Sash,” Petra’s sultry voice came through with a chuckle. “There’s plenty, we didn’t think you had the appetites of racehorses. Anyway, I’m here to tell you the first session this morning will be split, like all future sessions, boys will be on the west courts with Pedro, and the girls on the north courts with me. I’ll be there in one hour, remember—bring water, bring rackets, and bring your A game.”

  Every time she was around, people were stunned to listen to every word. She’d won Grand Slam women’s singles twice during her prime years. She was an icon in every right, I’d done my research, I’d watched those dodgy YouTube videos filmed on the first ever smart phones—or potatoes, whichever developed recording technologies first.

  She was right though—there was enough food for double the amount of people in the room. I was stuffed after half my plate, even though it would’ve been empty if I’d left it at before Sasha spooned on seconds.

  I pressed an arm at my side, wiggling left-to-right. It helped with digestion. I caught Jordan’s cold glare back in my direction. I dropped focus and looked down to his empty plate.

  “This is where we part,” Sasha chuckled.

  I knew it was going to be like that, she was with the women and I was with the men, at least, I probably got along with more of them than Jordan—during the activities last night I learned that Mladen had won several local tournaments in Bosnia, that’s how he scraped together the money for the camp.

  Arriving at the west courts, a gentle breeze broke through the heat already threatening to force me into a sweat. I carried my racket in one hand and my branded water bottle in the other, following others already on their way.

  “Harvey,” Nils said, catching up to me. “How’re feeling?”

  “Huh?”

  He clicked his tongue and nodded ahead to see Jordan already talking Pedro’s ear off. “You know, I heard he’s got anger issues,” he continued to offer, smiling as he said it.

  “I know,” I grumbled, but I didn’t want to gossip.

  “Surprised he let you sleep in the room. So, so angry wanting an en-suite.”

  I was surprised too, but he wasn’t at the front of my mind, I couldn’t let him, and his issues fog the reasons I was here. “As long as I don’t have to play him, I’ll be fine, I think.”

  “Right,” Pedro started, clapping his hands once as all eight of us were on the courts. “We’ll be starting with roommate versus roommate.”

  I was officially not ok.

  The pairs were, me and Jordan, Sandro and Cesar, Baptiste and Eduard, rounded up with Mladen and Nils. And just like that, those were the orders we went in.

  Up first.

  Not that I had anything to prove to anyone.

  The only person I had to do anything for was my dad.

  I clung to the text message he’d sent and the smiling face attached to it. He believed in me, and that was all I needed, not the belief in my opponents, in fact, it was better they didn’t believe in me.

  “We will do three games, regardless of the outcome, we want to watch, demonstrate what skills you have, how you play, and from here, we can find out where to work,” Pedro said. “Let’s come together and coin toss.”

  Jordan won the coin toss—his serve.

  We parted, taking position in our quadrants of the court.

  “How do you like it?” he asked, smirking. “Hard and fast?”

  Of course, he was going to get all his rage out in his serve.

  I shrugged back, letting myself loose for the reach I’d need to take so he didn’t catch me off guard.

  Fumbling a hand in his pocket, revealing just how tight his shorts were and unfortunately pulling my gaze in that direction, he pulled a green tennis ball out. My eyes moved up from the bulge in the front of his shorts to his smirking face.

  Now I was distracted.

  He tossed the ball into the air and on its way down, he swung his racket, volleying it in my direction.

  POP.

  I sidestepped once and caught it with my forehand, hitting back.

  THWACK.

  “Foot fault,” Pedro said, blowing out a whistle from his lips.

  “What?” I turned my voice raised.

  Pedro nodded to Jordan. “Your foot was touching the baseline when you served.”

  “Bullshit!” he spat back. “Your court is just small.”

  I turned to look at all the other faces, watching from the side. While the foot-fault ruling was usually not clocked or picked up on in amateur games, this was all about training you for the real deal.

  “It’s regulation,” Pedro said with a nod. “15-love.”

  “Then it’s the stupid clay,” he came back.

  “Mr Walsh, just serve again.”

  “Take away the point,” he said.

  I looked back to him, my eyes dipping to his hand and the way he pulled his shorts tighter. Was I really thirsting after him, and I knew it was only because of how he looked at me this morning—shirtless, broad, smirking—no, I wasn’t, I couldn’t.

  “Fine,” Pedro said. “Start.”

  “Ready?” he called out.

  I nodded, my hand becoming sweaty as I clenched the racket handle. This was not ideal, it wasn’t even at peak humidity and already my body was picking up sweat like condensation—I could feel it in my pits too.

  Jordan served again, up high, followed by a whack.

  It bound with a single bounce. I caught it on a groundstroke, hitting it back.

  POP.

  Jordan chased across, racing with his racket in hand. Catching it, he knocked it back.

  THWACK.

  Another sidestep, swinging my racket.

  POP.

  It crossed the court and bounced out before Jordan could get another hit.

  “15, Grant,” Pedro called. “Walsh, remember to keep your energy tight, look like you’re a bit loose.”

  “I’m not used to clay courts,” he let out again.

  This was the second time he’d used that as an excuse. Sure, the clay courts made the balls bounce higher, but overall, I found them to move the ball at a slower speed. That didn’t mean I hadn’t used them or trained of them before—they were essential, just as the hard courts. This was an excuse, and to be playing at this level, it was a poor excuse.

  I won the first two games. The first at 15 him, game point to me, the second at 30 him, game point to me.

  “This is bullshit, I swear!”

  I could see his hand tense around the handle—I’d heard of it happening before, throwing it, breaking it, doing something I’d never dream nor had the luxury of doing.

  “Where are you going?” Pedro asked as Jordan turned away.

  “Somewhere else before I break someone’s face,” he yelled back.

  I stood there in silence, as did the others.

  Pedro reached out and shook my hand. “Well done,” he said. “We will talk improvement in our first one-on-one tomorrow.”

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Watch the others, we need to see what our opponents are good at and what they’re working to improve,” he said. “But you’re above what I had in mind, for someone who doesn’t have as much as these others, you’ve got polish.”

  Pedro Sebastian had just complimented me, he’d said my name, well, he’d said my last name, but that meant he knew my name. It was also in the handshake, a firm grip, I
knew I needed a firmer grip, even with my sweat slick palms, perhaps the powder gymnasts use in the Olympics—not that one, the other one.

  I was well on my way to feeling like I could compete amongst the greats—being amongst the greats.

  “Good game,” Mladen said, raising his hand for a high five—it was comical, he was at least a foot taller than me, and trying to give me a high-five was something I couldn’t do without first needing to jump.

  “Yeah, great job!” Nils patted me on the shoulder.

  Either they really meant it, or they were just saying it because of who my opponent had been—well, at least I knew he wouldn’t be making it into the invitational. One less person on my list of people to worry about, even if I still had to sleep in the same room as him.

  6. JORDAN

  How the fuck could I lose to him? The noise of my thoughts was unrelenting. It had always been that way. I wasn’t losing to a charity case. He barely speaks, he barely does anything but stand and watch me get changed.

  My first shot wasn’t a foul. He called it to put me off—and it fucking worked as well. Bastard. The way he basically talked me into my own head—then I nearly shattered my racket across the court. I was so close.

  In through the nose, out through the mouth. Repeating the soothing words I’d heard from the hippie anger management therapist. I’d been seeing her weekly since December—and it worked. So, thanks Mona, I guess. Don’t lose your temper.

  It helped that I was walking away from the situation. That’s what adults did—I suppose.

  Down the long path from the courts, I spotted the gym hiding behind palm trees. Through the glass, I could see it was empty. It reminded me of my own little bit of advice—work out. And I didn’t need to be told twice to get my pump on.

  Inside, it was a large square room with a wall lined in mirrors, and a view stretching out to the green metal surrounding the tennis courts. This was the above-ground gym. There were two of each machine; running, elliptical, rowing, stationary bike, and stair-stepper.

  At the far end of the gym, there was a large water cooler humming away, reminding me I’d forgotten my water bottle, it was beside two individual shower/toilet spaces. I’d forgotten about those too—maybe they’d have better pressure in them as well.