break point: a m/m romance novella

by Daya Daniels

  I was never the sort of man who one day believed he’d stand on the court at Wimbledon. I knew my limitations and had decided to play the game anyways. The sport of tennis teaches a person skills they probably never think they’ll ever need—patience, strategy, agility, concentration, strength…to name a few.

  I love this sport.

  I love this tennis court…

  This court is older than the boy in front of me who’s standing on it.

  In fact, I sat in the stands just to my left one day when Arthur Ashe was puttering around on these courts. He invited me to play. Of course, I declined not wanting to find myself in competition with a man who had already won three Grand Slam titles.

  Channing points a finger to his chest and walks toward the net. “I don’t think you understand, Rupert, I am an instructor, which means I teach. This court serves for teaching people how to play.”

  “Yes, I understand.” I laugh. “I’ll pay you the same.”

  “But, why?”

  I lift a shoulder. “I just love to know I have a partner who’s available on a set schedule. It beats having to call around for one.” I smile. Besides, all my friends are back in London and I can’t stand people from Beverly Hills…And you, I surmise are from Beverly Hills…The Land of Plastic People. It shows in his swagger. The way his body leans. The manner in which his fingers slide through his perfect hair. Everything is done with finesse. Like he’s too good to be in his own tanned skin.

  “Fine, then.” He turns his back on me and marches back toward the baseline. “Suit yourself.”

  Scott tosses me another ball which I shove in my pocket then lingers near the net.

  “You can sit this one out.” I gesture toward the cooler. “Maybe get yourself some more water.” I place a hand on his shoulder. “Take a seat, call the scores, don’t worry about the balls.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Scott rushes off.

  Channing tosses me a look and spins his racquet while pacing the baseline. “You can have the serve.” He blasé about it all.

  I’ve been practicing this for what seems like my entire life.

  Early preparation is always best.

  I’m wasting his precious time, filling his schedule with nonsensical and utter bullshit. I bet he can’t wait until his next student/teacher slot since it gets him closer to the end of his pointless day.

  A breath leaves me.

  I have no doubt that a guy like this one spends his weekends lazing around the pool, guzzling back organic energy drinks and playing fucking FIFA. And I’m quite sure that the last book he read was probably written by Dr. Seuss. Would a man like this one know anything at all about the works of Thomas Paine?

  A gruff laugh sneaks from me at my completely absurd question.

  “Thanks.” I make my way to the baseline, stretch and bounce the tennis ball in my hand a few times. I test the wind that’s blowing softly from the southwest. It ruffles my T-shirt and cools the sweat at the back of my neck. It truly is a wonderful day to be playing this game.

  Channing poses and sends me a smile.

  “It’s a great day for some competition.” I lift my arm, toss the ball up in the air and send it Channing’s way with my serve.

  WHOP.

  Let the games begin…

  channing

  HOLY CHRIST!

  Another rocket flies toward me. I barely have enough time to swing back and get it over the net. By instinct, my racquet connects with the ball in a backswing and sends it flying over the net. It bounces right before the baseline. Rupert doesn’t have a chance to connect with it.

  Point

  to

  me.

  “Love-15!” Scott sips more Perrier where he’s perched in the director’s chair high above us and beneath a colorful umbrella.

  Rupert smirks. “Well played, my friend.”

  Nodding, I wipe the sweat from my brow. I’m fucking bleeding out here. I’m not entirely certain if this truly beats helping moody teenagers to improve their swing since that certainly requires less effort because this feels like work!

  Rupert wipes his face with a towel.

  I’m graced with a different side of him—one I hadn’t expected.

  I grin.

  He’s a man driven by competition who’s playing a man who doesn’t like to be beat.

  Rupert certainly has my attention now and so does his angry serve.

  “I’d say you don’t need lessons, Rupert.” I walk back to the baseline and assume position.

  He offers me a blinding smile but keeps his head low.

  Humble.

  Unassuming.

  Interesting.

  “I never said I needed lessons. You just assumed I did.” He chuckles, lifting his arm, holding the ball in his hand with the other and serves.

  WHOP.

  I dash across the court maneuvering left then right. Sweating. Hit. Recover. Hit. Recover. My sneakers sliding over the heat of the tarmac which infiltrates my soles making me move faster.

  Rupert whacks the ball back.

  I rush to the baseline and connect with the neon target using a fierce groundstroke.

  Exaggerate your follow through.

  Rupert runs. He darts from left to right as we settle into a rally.

  It shouldn’t be like this…It so fucking should not be like this. It seems as if it will go on forever.

  Whenever is it like this?

  He’s good. He’s really good, better than I had expected.

  In my frustration, I flub.

  I’m Java the Hut out here! Out of place. Feeling out of shape. Maybe out of my league too. The next time this Fitbit around my wrist vibrates suggesting: Let’s move! I think I’ll take its advice!

  Running for the ball, I trip. When it makes it over the net it bounces, and I stare at it with rage when I realize there’s no way I’ll make the shot without pulling a hernia. It bounces a second time and then it’s rolling off the court…away from me like the lost chance it is.

  Two bounces and you’re out.

  Fuck.

  “15-All!” Scott takes another swig of water and makes no effort to get his ass down here to collect the balls which is his job.

  The scowl on my face feels permanent as I snatch the tennis ball up and toss it away and beyond the fence which surrounds this court.

  Another car alarm goes off.

  Whatever.

  Rupert chuckles then stands straight. His dark hair sticks to his skin. His soaked shirt clings to his pecs and allows me to see the muscular torso he possesses. Yum. I find myself lost again, somehow not believing what I think my eyes are absorbing—his baby blues alight with the intent to conquer. “Frustration will get you nowhere, Channing.”

  Using my shirt to wipe the sweat laced defeat off my face, I settle back at the baseline. My fingers curl viciously around the handle of my racquet and my breaths are frantic as I wait.

  I don’t know how long this shit’s been going on for but it’s time to end it.

  WHOP.

  Rupert sends a serve my way that collides with the corner of my racquet and goes ricocheting off the court.

  Point to him.

  Fuck.

  “30-15!” Scott gestures with a hand in Rupert’s direction.

  The old man smiles showing me teeth which are white enough to blind me.

  WHOP.

  Another serve.

  Back and forth the ball goes between our racquets and over the net left then right. I keep up the pace swinging eloquently but still with enough force to throw my motherfucking back out.

  “You might be the instructor here, Channing, but I’m clearly the one teaching the lesson.”

  Motherrrr…

  “Make sure you can keep up.” He laughs.

  So does Scott.

  A severe scowl strikes my expression.

  Why do I feel as if I’m in the middle of a war?

  But I’m unprepared.

  Infantry, cavalry and artillery are down! S
eek cover! Seek cover! Bombs overhead.

  Sweat drips from my forehead and runs its way down my neck. My clothes are stuck to me. My heart beats frantically in my chest and I frown when I realize I have no clue where this day is going.

  To Hell. Straight to goddamn Hell.

  Usually by now, I’m teaching old ladies how to perfect their back hand.

  But nope.

  Currently, I’m embroiled in an endless cruel match with a man who looks as if he wouldn’t even stand up to even Winnie the Pooh if he had to. Or, am I mistaken?

  Fuck.

  Which direction is up?

  I have no goddamn clue.

  Rupert jogs my way but when I volley the ball, he goes dashing for it and with a grunt, hits it back in my direction before it bounces off the court.

  I swing but I miss it.

  Another-point-to-him.

  Fuck.

  For an old dude Rupert sure can run so his ticker must be in good enough shape.

  “40-15!” Scott smiles seemingly impressed with Rupert’s performance.

  As

  am

  fucking

  I.

  rupert

  OH, HOW THE MIGHTY have fallen…

  Channing sprints for the shot. It slams into his racquet.

  WHAP.

  The ball hits the net, doesn’t make it over the top.

  “GAME!” Scott shoots to his feet, mouth gaped open in amazement as he overlooks the court.

  “Fuckkkkk!” Channing tosses the racquet down in a John-McEnroe-sort-of-fit and places his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. His golden strands are a sweaty mess and his shorts are stuck to his muscular thighs.

  “Wow, Rupert, no one ever beats Channing around here.” Scott rushes down the steps and extends his hand while marching my way. “That was amazing.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s just a game. I love a little competition.” I glance over at Channing where he remains in the same position—just bent not broken. “I’d say there’s no desire here…” I examine my watch. “Or time for that matter for another set.”

  Channing shakes his head, confirming my assumption, still heaving for breath.

  I march over to the other side of the court, take a drink of water and shove my racquet back in its case. Then I return to where Channing is. I keep my eyes on him and extend my hand.

  Those exquisite eyes of his flicker up to mine.

  My own narrow at what I see behind them and inwardly I shudder.

  A man like this one doesn’t like to lose.

  He’s angry. He’s humiliated. He just might want revenge.

  Something a black American Express can never buy…

  Slowly, he stands and makes me fully aware that he matches my six foot two height. But he’s slimmer and newer to the world, shinier…so. I smile at his audacity even though it’s gentle. Still, it’s arrogant as fuck.

  He sizes me up, strangely enough still, especially seeing that he just lost that game. His hand darts out and he pulls mine into his grip, shaking it. “It was a pleasure, Rupert. Honestly, I would love to play you again. My next lesson just cancelled, but still, right now isn’t the best time since I intend to finish early today.” His smile is tight.

  “Okay, then. I have more time if you change your—” I thumb over my shoulder at the court.

  Channing waves a hand around. “No, no, we wouldn’t want you to wear the soles your new sneakers out…”

  Or wear you the fuck out…

  “Well then, gents.” I take a chug of water from the bottle in my grip. “You have a good day then.”

  “Yeah, you too, Rupert.” Scott sends me a wave.

  Heading toward the gate, I gesture goodbye with a hand.

  Channing runs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw and sends me a charming grin.

  But there’s nothing sincere about it.

  Nothing at all.

  channing

  I’M FIXATED ON MY bare feet, still unable to believe my defeat.

  I’m a pro.

  A guy who’s been perfecting my skill in this sport since I was a kid.

  But everyone loses every now and again…its what the rationale in my mind tells me. Yet, I’m still pissed. The humiliation still burns. I suppose my reaction only further confirms my maturity level.

  Don’t speak on that. In fact, I beg you to remain silent.

  A laugh rips from me…one that’s strictly for myself.

  Perhaps, I could be more mature about it?

  I tip my head back and stare at myself in the mirror.

  Then, I decide absolutely not.

  Through that entire ass beating, through all the embarrassment, and the shock, and the shame, I still can’t figure out why my cock is swollen, and my balls are tight as fuck. Maybe they’re angry too?

  I shudder at the thought.

  It’s late in the afternoon.

  This massive state-of-the-art locker room with its private shower stalls are usually empty around this time.

  A cloud of steam hovers around me and licks my skin and this entire place smells of soap and disinfectant. Often, I just come here and sit in this quiet spot just to think before I head away to clean myself up. It’s quiet. It’s devoid of people. It’s the perfect respite after a grueling match.

  Esperanza Spalding’s “On the Sunny Side of the Street” rains down from the speakers above me and fills the empty space with a fine melody that I eventually find myself humming to.

  I sink into my thoughts.

  And then my heartrate kicks up a notch when a form edges into my view and heads toward the showers.

  Tall.

  Muscular.

  Dark slicked back hair.

  And those sweet blues…which I know he possess, yet I don’t get a peek at.

  All that’s wrapped around him is a towel at his waist…same as me.

  Finally, he glances over his shoulder, gifting me with a gorgeous view of his chiseled abs and lobs an unreadable expression my way. He’s pretty fuckin’ hot for an old man. I only blink and wait for something—a smile, a scowl, a blasé look that tells me he doesn’t remember me at all even though we just met a few hours ago. But he doesn’t give me anything and I find myself sitting up a little straighter, lips parted, desperate for a sign. Any sign.

  I’ve never been desperate.

  The word itself makes my stomach churn.

  Desperate is for dickless dudes who can’t fuck in the daylight because it makes them feel uncomfortable. They’re the ones who constantly beg for the words: I love you. They grovel for phone numbers and run that spiel about when’s the next time they’ll see you. They cling.

  I dumped a guy like that once, kept taking him back until I was done for good.

  God he was exhausting.

  And I’m not one of those guys.

  No way.

  No fucking sireeee.

  When Rupert spins around a second time my gaze is already on him. I bite down on my bottom lip so hard, I almost draw blood.

  His walk is slow, smooth, experienced.

  And it’s then I realize that Rupert is confident, just not in the same annoying showy way that I am. He doesn’t need to tell the world about what he knows. He doesn’t need to make a show about how hot he is. He doesn’t need to say a word about any of it. My guess is because he already knows!

  I’m in a daze, eyes on his sexy saunter.

  He makes it to the end of the walkway, turns to face me and winks.

  I shoot up from the bench so fast I almost throw my hip out. And then I’m marching through the steam, feet slapping the warm floors, heart racing, breaths desperate, terrified, excited, hard as fuck and eager to deliver the same ass-beating which Rupert had just gifted to me.

  Let’s just hope his well-seasoned heart can take it.

  rupert

  WITH MY ARMS EXTENDED behind my head and my fingers splayed at my nape, I press my forehead to the cool tile and exhale. The water beats down on my back and the shower
stall is filled with the calming scent of cedarwood.

  I shut my eyes.

  A cool breeze drifts over my skin.

  CLICK.

  “I feel um, ah, angry.” The deep voice infiltrates my ears.

  He has my attention with his admittance. But, I’m not a therapist…

  “I think it’s because you beat me.”

  I don’t hide my smile, only tilt my head back so the water can run over it. “Of course you are…because you’ve never been defeated, right?”

  “No.” He laughs. “I haven’t.”

  I glance over my shoulder and take in the sight of him through the steam. He’s standing just behind and to the right of me completely naked, already hard, his huge cock already crawling down his thigh. He’s beautiful. But I don’t give him the compliment aloud mostly because I’m certain it already swims in my gaze. My eyes regard him from his pretty toes to the top of his head. Then lazily, I face the tile wall again.

  He scoffs. “Better things to look at?”

  “Maybe.”

  He scrubs up and remains standing near the water stream that’s shooting out from the walls. I don’t bother to continue to look at him as he does, only stare up at the massive showerhead above me. The water is warm against my skin. I stretch out my adductors by leaning forward a few times.

  “I’m sorry, I know this shouldn’t bother me, but it does.”

  Inwardly, I roll my eyes a like billion times but then again, at least Channing can admit it, so that at least deserves a little credit. “A man who plays a game in which there must be a winner and a loser, isn’t supposed to just be used to being the winner, Channing. They need to be accustomed to sometimes being the loser too.”

  “I don’t lose.”

  He’s serious, completely.

  I laugh.

  The idea of never losing is absolutely absurd!

  Oh my man, losing is an unfortunate part of life.

  We all face defeat at some point during our time on this earth. Hell, I’ve had plenty of it. I’d love to one day share those stories with Channing. But I’m not sure if he’d understand them. After you pass three decades, at least, on this earth once gets use to defeat, disappointment, heartbreak. I guess I can’t forget that this man has only been alive for twenty hot minutes. And that his upbringing has likely led to his warped and super entitled thoughts which serves as a reminder that his ego is the size of San Bernardino County.