Break a Sweat: MM Sports Romance

by Joe Satoria

  “You got this, Harvey!” Sasha shouted, poking around the space separating the two courts.

  Yeah. He had this in the bag.

  I took a seat by my mother.

  “Thought you might have left already,” she said, “save us all the spectacle.”

  “No, I’m going to play.”

  “Good. Because I won’t let you pull out, nothing changes, win or lose.” She patted my knee. “I spoke to your father; he’s willing to take you on and train you.”

  “Train me in what?” I grumbled. “Finance? Stocks? Selling people insurance?”

  “You know your father does more than that.”

  It was the path my brother had taken—not the path I wanted to take, numbers bored me, they didn’t get me off like I knew they did with him — that’s why he hated me doing this, I wasn’t making money, the numbers were red—and like a bull, red sent him into a rage.

  I barely paid attention as Harvey and Cesar’s match came to a start.

  Strong, Harvey batted back Cesar’s serves with quick precision, hit after hit, he was focused. Cesar was doing all he could to test his backhand, like I’d told him, but Harvey’s backhand was strong.

  Cesar did as predicted, imitating Sandro’s plays. It wasn’t a good thing. He was only trying to get to the next round because somehow Sandro had convinced him they would both be in the finals—and then—oh no, Sandro wins.

  “Game point. Harvey wins.”

  Sweat dripping down his chin. He looked to me first in the crowd. I nodded back.

  It was my turn.

  Sandro looked from the court into the stands with a fury in his eye. Now wasn’t the time to start talking smack—and I wasn’t going to let him, nor my mother put me off my game.

  “I’ll try not to embarrass you,” he said as I approached him.

  I had nothing to lose. Whatever the outcome. I’d be going home.

  “I might let you win a match, pull it out for a full three games,” I snickered.

  So far, Nils won the first two and Harvey had won the first two. Eduard and Cesar had scored a couple points, 30 at the most—or so I could see from the scorecards pinned at the far fence wall.

  “Break!” Pedro announced after conferring with the umpire in the tall chair.

  19. HARVEY

  Jordan was right. Cesar was easy. I won the first set point, being the first to reach six with a two-point lead. The score was 6-2. I won the second set point with a 6-3 win. The game was called at that—winner.

  I knew and so did everyone else, anyone paired against Cesar was going straight through the semi-finals—I guess I only believed that after I’d won anyway. My next match wouldn’t be until another two pairs battled it out. I’d be up against Nils, and that was playing for the finals.

  “Harvey Grant,” a British voice pulled me as I grew distracted gathering my things from the side lines.

  “Yeah? Hi.”

  In a suit shirt with sweat at the collar and pits, he was definitely British. I knew the pain. He wore circular glasses and had a thick head of hair slicked back—he couldn’t have been older than thirty. “I’m from the Mitchell Agency.”

  The scout.

  “Oh, hello.” I extended a hand to shake.

  “I wanted to say you played really well.”

  Playing really well didn’t always mean sweating through the sweatband on your forehead, but I think it helped. “Thank you,” I said. “Still have another round to go before the finals.” I grabbed at a towel, rubbing my face dry. “Are you with the Future Face of Tennis invite?”

  He clicked his tongue. “I sure am,” he said, “Oh, my name is Pete Morgan.” He stuffed a hand into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “We’re actually looking for tennis talent. We’re building out our tennis arm at the Mitchell Agency, in fact.”

  Was I being recruited? Was this recruitment? He handed me a glossy card, the expensive kind. “I don’t have—any money, or anything.”

  He held his hands up—the extent of his sweat was dire. “I didn’t ask you for anything,” he chuckled. “I just wanted to give you my card and introduce myself, I think you played very well. And like I say, we’re looking for tennis talent.”

  As the break was announced, I took a seat and looked over the card.

  Jordan was up playing Sandro.

  I overheard them trashing each other—trying to get in the other’s head.

  I was too busy looking over the card to care. Someone was interested in me as a talent—and he didn’t even want money. I wondered who he represented, I wondered what he could do. He obviously represented the FFT, and that was going to be televised.

  Break ended and a cold breeze passed me as Jordan walked by—I looked up, almost like he’d taken my breath. He didn’t look back. I couldn’t fault him for that—but I wished he’d looked at me.

  Jordan served harder than I’d ever seen from him, full arm swings, careful of his feet—he batted back. Silence swelled through everyone as we watched and listened to the pop and thwack of the ball against the court and the rackets.

  He looked at me—passed me, he was looking at his mother in the stand.

  We were distractions now. I could feel it in his swing, an anger, frustration, something I hadn’t seen him bring to the court before.

  “Forty. Walsh.”

  The scorecard read 2-2.

  They were dead even. He needed to create a two-point lead and hit six before Sandro.

  Back and forth. Increasingly more aggressive with each groundstroke and backhand.

  One more and—

  3-2 to Jordan.

  * * *

  I left with my phone in hand. I knew I was distracting him. I couldn’t sit and watch without knowing that I was in the corner of his eye. I met Sasha sitting outside the courts on a towel as not to get her white tennis skirt dirty—it matched her hair.

  “Sit and wait now, all we can do,” she chuckled.

  “When’s your next match?” I asked, sitting beside her.

  She wasn’t looking at anything in particular, faced away from the courts looking out at the dust coal coloured mountain region. “I’ll be waiting around forever,” she let out. “The German sisters are having a tantrum because they don’t want to play each other.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Make matters worse, one of them is going to quit—and that’s a whole issue.”

  It made my drama seem less than. “I should call my dad and tell him I won my match, but I don’t want to call until the very end in case he jinxes it.” I looked to my phone, turning it over in hand, the notifications were still unread good luck messages.

  “Yeah, I’m not even checking mine,” she said, “it’s still in my bag. I either win this or I find out I already have an invite—I don’t want to try less if I have. You know how much bragging power that would be.”

  “To be invited twice,” I let out.

  “Exactly!” she slapped my thigh. “Who’s playing now?”

  “Sandro and Jordan.”

  She scoffed at his name. “I hope he’s stopped being a dick.”

  “We barely had time to catch up,” I said, “he’s been ok, actually.”

  Since announcing the event would be held today, everyone changed up their schedule, everyone hammered into training mode—it got real pretty quick after that.

  “Think he’ll win.”

  I did. “He’s a strong player.”

  We laid outside until a loud voice echoed out—shouting in Spanish.

  The game was over.

  Racing back to the fencing. I noticed Jordan smile as he raised his racket above his head. He won two match points; Sandro won one. I entered the court with Sasha at my side, but Jordan had vanished, and she’s rushed to console Sandro.

  * * *

  The fourth game was Mladen and Baptiste, and in a shock to everyone, Mladen pulled the game out of the bag. After losing the first match point, he gave his all and used those leg extensions to really cran
e himself into winning.

  That meant the first semi-final game was up.

  Me versus Nils.

  One player stood in my way—and another player was mentally standing in my way, Jordan, I searched for him in the stands. His mother was there, but he wasn’t. She didn’t appear interested in the match anyway, her face buried in her phone—out of place.

  My serve; throwing the ball and thwack it went straight into the net.

  “Shit.”

  It landed inside the service box—my serve again.

  Nils was already looking smug.

  It only took a second serve before I found my groove with the pop and thwack of the tennis balls soothing me. But I was still distracted, looking to the stands to see if he was there, and—

  “Match point. Ahlberg.”

  Shit. I had to get the next two.

  Looking back at me, the smile, you’d think he’d already won.

  I couldn’t let him. I needed to get through to the final. I needed to clean sweep the next six sets, win the match and—

  “15. Ahlberg.”

  Ok. I’m ready. I can do this.

  And I did. Focused. I won the next match point.

  We were even. Next point was the win.

  “Good luck,” I told myself.

  His serve.

  WHACK.

  POP.

  WHACK.

  A long series of shots, back and forth before I clocked the ball with my forehand, a sharp pop, bounced across and—

  “Grant.” It was in.

  I worked a sweat, coming down in buckets, even with the sweatband, the summer sun in Spain was no joke. I hadn’t even put sunscreen on—the one thing my aunt had been drumming into me.

  We continued, up and down the court. Nils’ intense eyes staring back like he was an angry dog trying to yank control of the bone out of my hand. I wasn’t going to let him, he could try and stare me down all he wanted, he wasn’t going to—

  “Match point. Grant.”

  I did it.

  Forty minutes, and it was over. I’d won. I was in the finals.

  Nils approached the net, holding out a hand. “Well deserved.”

  Finally. I could rest but now there was the matter of Jordan and Mladen.

  Jordan didn’t appear until called on. I tried to stop and talk to him from the front of the stands but walked right by me. I wondered if he’d seen me play, I wondered where he’d been watching from—but mostly, I wondered why he was ignoring me now.

  He was tense, but even like that—I watched, I knew what the outcome would be.

  He knew it too.

  I couldn’t pull my eyes—and Jordan couldn’t look at me.

  I knew he’d have to eventually, there was one way this was ending—and I hated it.

  Jordan won.

  It wasn’t even close game. I think he let Mladen win a couple points, mostly two—called out, thirty. There wasn’t the same energy, Jordan was tense, and Mladen wasn’t prepared for all the shots and serves he’d have to return.

  “Well—” I tried as he walked by me off the court, “—done.”

  Had I done something to hurt him?

  * * *

  It was our finals, and he still wouldn’t talk to me. He wouldn’t look at me. I knew this was his way of getting himself, but it hurt to see him stare blankly ahead by his mother as she spoke—his face growing more pinched with each word.

  “I’m betting on you,” Sandro said, pulling me away from my thought graveyard.

  “No bets,” Pedro snapped.

  Mladen placed a hand on my shoulder. “If I had the money, I’d bet on you too,” he replied back in a whisper.

  I’d done it before—I’d beat Jordan. But that was the second day, and he’d ran off afterwards. He’d been training, daily with me, he’d calmed, he wasn’t going crazy when he lost a set. Maybe with everything, he’d crack.

  “Grant, Walsh.” Break was called to an end.

  On the court, I twirled my racket and looked ahead to see Jordan at the net, waiting to shake my hand. He stayed silent as he took it, firm with his shake.

  “Good luck,” I told him.

  His jaw clenched. He couldn’t say it.

  4:02 P.M. the match started.

  I’ll tell you it went on for an hour and twenty-two minutes.

  Gruelling under the sun, perspiring down the back and front of my t-shirt. He played hard, he played with his emotions, as he always did, but it felt personal this time.

  I knew we were both playing for varied reasons, but I needed this more than him.

  It was 6-5 to me.

  We had both had one match point. This one was for the win.

  “Game set. Walsh. Deuce”

  6-6.

  Next set.

  I needed four points for the game.

  40-love.

  One more.

  40-15.

  Panicked, I nearly slipped across court, batting back the tennis ball—almost doing the splits between quadrants.

  “Game set. Grant.”

  7-6.

  Angrier, I could feel it in his serve.

  If I won this, I won the game. I won the tournament. I won the invite. He knew it, I knew it, everyone in the stands knew it—watching as the caught themselves breathing loudly.

  POP.

  WHACK.

  “Out!” Jordan shouted.

  The umpire shook his head.

  “Match point. Grant.”

  8-6.

  A roar cried out.

  I won.

  “Congratulations,” everyone clapped.

  I dropped to my knees. My arms allowed to become weak, wrapping them around my head and neck—hiding my teary eyes. I’d won?

  I looked up through the net. Jordan had gone. As everyone crowded me on the court, I tried to find him—I noticed his mother’s large white hat bobbing away. He was leaving. He wasn’t lying. This was the end for him. This was his stop.

  * * *

  I wished I could’ve chased after him. People swamped me. I had to sign paperwork. Take pictures. Force myself to smile. Everything was happening all at once—except the one thing I wanted right then, to say goodbye to Jordan.

  “That should be everything,” Pete said, collecting all the paperwork. “This is your formal invitation letter. The event will take place in Hamburg, all the dates are in there, we will be in touch with hotel information and flights.”

  “Ok, can I—” I pushed on the table to leave.

  We were in the dining hall. Empty except for Pedro and Pete, quiet too.

  “One more thing,” Pedro said as Pete left. “We managed to get you on a flight home this evening, if that’s ok with you.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine,” he said. “So, you’ll need to be ready to leave in the next hour. I know, it’s short notice, we can move it to the morning, but we figured you’d want to be home sooner rather than later.”

  “Yes,” I said. I did, I couldn’t wait to tell everyone. “That’s ok. Can I go pack?”

  He gestured to the door.

  “When will the girls finish? I want to see Sasha before I leave?”

  “They’re only in the semi-finals now,” he said. “Sasha is a fierce competitor; she will make it through to the finals. I’m sure.”

  “Can you tell me when they finish? I want to see them before I leave.”

  He nodded again.

  The girls had taken a long break after Hanna knocked Mila out of the competition, sisters, playing each other. There were a lot of tears, from what I’d heard, before and after the match.

  Raced back to the dorm room with my tennis racket bag on my shoulder and my sweaty hands wetting the envelope he’d given me—I just wanted to see Jordan.

  The door was shut. He had to be in there.

  He wasn’t.

  Gone.

  His suitcases. Removed.

  He’d left without a goodbye.

  The room looked how it did when I arri
ved, except for my mess.

  Laid across my pillow—his folded t-shirt, the one I’d been wearing.

  Was that the end forever?

  Bubbling at my eyes, tears found their way down my face. I collapsed to the bed, clutching my phone bag to my chest. I had so much to do, and part of me was lost—the part that could do things.

  My phone buzzed inside the bag.

  I grabbed at it. It paused—cut off, returning to the notification screen.

  My aunt had been calling.

  Ten missed calls.

  I wondered if she’d heard, good news travels fast. I wanted to surprise them with.

  BUZZ.

  I swiped the answer button.

  “You’ll never guess,” I immediately vomited the words through my mouth, still sniffling back my stifled breath.

  “Harvey, sweetheart,” she said, her soft voice.

  “Yeah?”

  “Your dad’s been taken to the hospital.”

  “Wh—what?”

  “Sweetheart, they’re doing everything they can.”

  Everything they can.

  My body froze. I was numb.

  20. JORDAN

  How could I have faced him after that? I couldn’t. It was either me or him. I was happy he’d won—my fate was the same either way. My mother’s appearance made me realise how foolish I was being—and to have stayed awake at night, imagining a life with him because a part of me felt like it belonged in him.

  That was it for me.

  I’d never find that again.

  I didn’t say a word to my mother as we sat in first class on the British Airways flight home. I didn’t say a word as we were picked up by our driver at the airport. And I didn’t say a word during the hour it took to get to the family home in Oxford—middle of bumfuck nowhere.

  It was after midnight, every was sleeping—except for the dogs, their excited yapping, and tails wagging as we arrived.

  As we entered the large foyer, my mother turned to me and pulled away her glasses. “You should get yourself to bed.”

  Now it was all—yes sir, yes ma’am like I worked for the family. “Going,” I grumbled. “I could’ve gone to the flat in London.”