Break a Sweat: MM Sports Romance

by Joe Satoria

  BREAK A SWEAT

  A SHOOT YOUR SHOT NOVEL

  JOE SATORIA

  Copyright © 2021 Joe Satoria

  All Rights Reserved

  www.JoeSatoria.com

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  Satoria Publishing © 2021

  No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, copied, or stored in any form or by any means without permission of the author. Your respect and support of the author is appreciated.

  All characters, events, brands, companies, and locations in this story are used fictionally and without intent of slander. Any resemblance to actual people are purely coincidental.

  *AUTHOR NOTE*

  All MAIN character are ABOVE the age of 18.

  This book is written in British English. Example: Mr and Mrs - instead of Mr. and Mrs.

  SHOOT YOUR SHOT SERIES

  BREAK A SWEAT

  OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE

  NOVELLAS

  YOURS FOR CHRISTMAS

  THE HOLIGAY INN

  BREAK A SWEAT

  When your biggest competition becomes the reason you spend so long in the shower…

  Harvey

  I’d been dealt a crap hand in life, so when I was awarded a scholarship to an expensive European tennis camp, I figured my dreams were coming true… right?

  Wrong. Not only was I fighting to win the attention of a scout, but I was also fighting the thin line between love and hate—the culprit, obnoxious jock Jordan Walsh.

  He was a grade A prick, and everyone hated him—except for me. I didn’t know what it was, but the longer I spent around him, the more I wanted him.

  Jordan

  I’d been paying for tennis lessons and attending these fancy academies for years, and I still hadn’t gone pro. Now, my parents are threatening to cut me off. With my training, I should have this in the bag… right?

  Wrong. Newbie with luck on his side, Harvey Grant, is going to screw with my plans. Not only is he a charity case, but he’s stirring something inside me I can’t shake. It doesn’t matter how hard I try; every jerk, jack, and toss leaves me wanting more.

  With a history like mine, everyone is watching me, waiting for me to break. I need to get my emotions under control on and off the court—or risk losing it all.

  BREAK A SWEAT is a standalone MM sports romance novel from the ‘Shoot Your Shot’ series. Read on and you’ll find enemies-to-lovers in a gay-for-you sexual awakening with a HEA.

  1. HARVEY

  2. JORDAN

  3. HARVEY

  4. JORDAN

  5. HARVEY

  6. JORDAN

  7. HARVEY

  8. JORDAN

  9. HARVEY

  10. JORDAN

  11. HARVEY

  12. JORDAN

  13. HARVEY

  14. JORDAN

  15. HARVEY

  16. JORDAN

  17. HARVEY

  18. JORDAN

  19. HARVEY

  20. JORDAN

  21. HARVEY

  22. JORDAN

  23. HARVEY

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT the AUTHOR

  For Tonya,

  The unwavering support and friendship,

  It means the world.

  1. HARVEY

  Knocking beneath the table, my legs were restless. My hand clutched at the polystyrene coffee cup as the psychology textbook blurred before my eyes.

  Three hours had dragged by since I’d been left at the airport departures terminal. It was weird saying ‘goodbye’ to my dad and aunt. I was going away for two weeks; beating out my longest time away from home by twelve nights.

  It was also my first time flying alone.

  To say I was scared shitless was an understatement. I nearly stripped to my briefs going through security; no idea I only had to take my belt and shoes off.

  I managed to get my gym holdall through as a checked bag, and with no questions about my hand luggage; a tennis racket and a suspect sized heavy backpack. I sweat through my new t-shirt like they were filming an episode of ‘Nothing to Declare’.

  In my early teens, I’d won quite a few local tennis tournaments. I’d even been offered help from a professional coach too; we couldn’t afford that though. Then the tournaments got a little more expensive to enter and my dad needed more help around home—life happened, I stopped committing myself, and then I woke up and I was 19.

  It was much easier when I was younger, I had my name in the local newspaper and everything is cheaper when you’re a child.

  This time I’d been offered a scholarship for a two-week intensive tennis camp in the south of Spain, held by tennis power couple Pedro and Petra Sebastian. I considered this my final attempt at making it as a professional tennis player. As much as I’d made it my life for so many years, I knew the opportunities for someone like me were limited.

  We were flat broke, and any money we had went on making sure my dad was ok. He was sick with multiple sclerosis and I’d been taking care of him my entire life, until this past Christmas when my aunt arrived begging me to have a life.

  Those thoughts occupied my every waking minute; it was the end of June, and I’d tried my hardest in my A-level exams, but I knew I’d failed psychology. That’s why I was attempting to read through the third paragraph of the textbook—again.

  If my aunt hadn’t prepared everything for me, I wouldn’t be here.

  Sucking through my teeth at the hot coffee, my stomach churned.

  My eyes shifted to the departures screen. Boarding should’ve started five minutes ago.

  I checked my phone again for the seventh time, wondering whether or not they were going to call or text. It had been part of the deal; they would text regularly. Unfortunately, it didn’t feel like they would be texting before my flight.

  Reaching out for my coffee, I knocked it. The lid popped off as a brown liquid sloshed across the table, soaking into the back of the textbook—then it got me.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” I backed up in the plastic seat, nearly toppling. I grabbed at the edge, stomping my feet. The centre of my white t-shirt now splattered in large brown blobs.

  Everyone watching—the British way, of course, everyone would watch you struggle or fear imposing on your holiday. Plus, nobody would want their holiday to start with such a bang. It wasn’t how I planned on starting mine, panic blotting at the hot liquid as the heated gazes of strangers burned into my neck.

  Footsteps shuffled around me as I thought for a second someone was coming to help, but no—they were boarding. I pulled at another tissue, squeezing it in the t-shirt between my finger and thumb.

  “Fuck.” I stood, grabbing at the tennis bag between my thighs. “Fuck.” I hooked an arm around the sopping wet textbook cover, now dripping across my exposed forearm. “Fucking hell,” I said through my clenched teeth.

  I placed the textbook in my backpack, hooking it over my shoulder.

  My arm was sticky with the coffee residue, and I was ruining clothes I’d just got.

  Approaching the end of the queue, I joined the monotonous shuffling footsteps.

  Blotting was a thankless effort, I pulled at the zip of my navy-blue jacket, covering the stain. It wasn’t just a new t-shirt; it was a gift from the company who’d awarded me the scholarship. My aunt had taken me to the local Primark in the city centre, she’d bought me a load of new t-shirts and shorts—it felt a little embarrassing because I knew the types of people who went to these things.

  Spoiled children turned spoiled adults, mostly trust fund babies.

  It was the first time the Alcazaba Malaga Tennis Academy was hosting this
two-week course, and everyone between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one wanted a place. Not for the training, but what winning meant—scoring an invite to the Future Face of Tennis round-robin.

  Sounds cheesy, but it was televised right before the Hamburg Open was set to take place. Me, taking part in a televised tennis tournament—ugh, I let myself panic over what I’d do with the winnings; fifty-thousand euros.

  It wasn’t that easy, I first had to score an invite and the only way I was doing that was through this two-week event.

  Smile fading as I was pulled back to reality.

  I still had to get there yet—

  “Tickets and passports open,” a flight attendant called from the front of the queue. “Passports open, please.”

  Everyone else appeared to have their passports to hand and their printed boarding passed tucked between the pages. Mine was in my bag—somewhere.

  I swung it around on a shoulder, tugging at the zip. The immediate hit of coffee from where it had soaked in the textbook pages. In a small, zipped compartment along the lining of the bag, my passport and boarding pass.

  Ready for the flight—mentally, I wasn’t, but physically, I was here and doing it.

  This was the first time without anyone else at my side, and—ugh it knotted me inside.

  “Tickets and passports open,” the same flight attendant called, her sharp red lipstick was spread like jam around her mouth—it was jarring.

  Fidgeting with my passport, it was an effort to find the photo area of my passport, and even more of an effort to look at it for longer than a second. I had been a complete foetus when it was taken—ok, it was only two years ago, but I had spots on my forehead and chin, and my jaw seemed wider from where I had braces.

  “Afternoon,” the lady said, “can I see your—”

  I immediately handed it over. “Yep.”

  “Oh, and have you made sure your equipment fits in our overhead locker?” she asked, nodding to the tennis bag. “We might have to put it in the hold.”

  “Yes, yes,” I replied back with a fervent nod. “I checked. It all fits.”

  I hadn’t checked. But I couldn’t part with it. This was probably the most expensive piece of equipment I owned, and it had taken what felt like a lifetime delivering newspapers to afford.

  She scanned the barcode, as it bleeped on the machine, my heart became a little lighter in my chest. “Great, next—” she ushered me along with her hand.

  It was a budget airline, and I was in economy. We were all in economy, I mean, there were the front seats with extra leg room, but other than that, everyone was in the same boat—or airplane.

  Row 12, seat A.

  Side stepping down the galley, I found my seat. The overhead locker was already open, and two small bags were inside. A mutter from behind, encouraged me to be faster. I nearly dropped my tennis bag, pushing it into the locker—it fit perfectly.

  Finally seated, I was by the window.

  The middle seat was filled by a tall man grumbling over leg room as he eyed my seat, while the end seat was occupied by an older lady and her crime fiction book.

  It was a three-hour flight, and luckily I’d brought my headphones for the journey.

  I double checked my phone a final time before a crackle came through the speaker, followed by the attendant’s advisory on turning all devices to airplane mode. I wished I could’ve done the same for myself.

  Take off was easy. There was a whoosh in my stomach, it lasted three seconds.

  My fear was having to pop my ears in the middle of the flight—when you pinch your nose, close your mouth, and squeeze as hard as you can. My aunt had packed me some hard-boiled sweets—a family size pack.

  I tried going through the textbook again, but as I sat it on my lap, the cold coffee seeped through into the lap of my grey jogging bottoms. And now, I looked like I hadn’t given my dick a shake after pissing.

  I exchanged the textbook for the pamphlets from the tennis camp. I’d read through them enough times, alongside the letter they’d sent. I’d only applied on a whim, it was months ago and honestly, the amount of hoops I’d jumped through for them to even accept me was ridiculous.

  So I kept the letter, on the off chance they claimed it wasn’t real.

  Alcazaba Malaga Tennis Academy, I’d heard it of it from a couple tennis forums online. My best friend, although we’d only met like six times through competitions was going to be there—the last time I saw her was nearly four month ago. Sasha North was already a pro; she was only going to the camp for the extra training days.

  The camp boasted a large alumni of tennis players who found their beginnings there—or so their pamphlets led me to believe. If nothing came of it, at least I’d get to meet Pedro and Petra. Tickles prickled at my cheeks and neck.

  * * *

  Off the plane, sweat formed on my forehead from the sun beating me senseless. The temperature off the plane was thirty degrees Celsius. I clutched the tennis bag to my chest and hugged at my backpack as we were ushered across the tarmac to the shuttle.

  I didn’t know what to expect, I’d never been to Spain before.

  The shuttle dropped us off at passport control—another fifteen minutes as stifling air travelled through a rowdy crowd of Brits. That lead straight through to the baggage claim and the first hit of air conditioning.

  Standing away from the crowds, I waiting for notifications to come through on my phone. So far—zilch. No texts or calls.

  “Finally!” a man exclaimed, pulling my attention.

  The conveyor belt whirred before moving as the sign flashed ‘arrivals from Manchester’.

  “Suzanne! Suzanne! Grab the—the yellow bag!” another man yelled, nearly trampling a toddler in the process.

  I wasn’t cut out for front of the line action, and I wasn’t going to break through all the bodies—even if I saw my holdall come through the chute.

  Leaning against a post, I attempted for a second time to connect to the Wi-Fi in the airport. I was still waiting on a text or missed call alert form my dad or aunt, but neither came through.

  I knew they would if something happened, but the weight of his condition was something I couldn’t put aside for two weeks, even if doing so meant the world to him.

  A bright yellow handkerchief wrapped around the handle of my holdall, I noticed it immediately. A trick I learned from a YouTube video on travel hacks; I tried to prepare myself for everything.

  Lugging three bags; my tennis bag over one shoulder, my backpack falling loose over the other, and my holdall hooked in place by my elbow. This had to count as my first workout of the two weeks.

  Through arrivals, I headed straight—there stood a man in a suit shirt, tie, and thick black chauffeurs cap, at the front behind roped off bars. He held a placard with the name of the company and their logo—the same logo I was hiding beneath my jacket on the stained t-shirt.

  “Hi,” I said through a feeble attempt at raising my arm to wave. “Alca—Ala—Alcaz—”

  With a wide grin and a bobbing head. “Alcazaba Tennis Academy?”

  “Yes, I mean, sí!” That was the extent of my language skills.

  “Ok.” He held a thumb up. “We have more people, there is a small coach outside.” He slapped the logo of the placard. “Look for this.”

  I tried raising my hand and thumb to him. “Great.”

  Outside the air-conditioned airport, I was hit with the same fierce still heat like being slapped by warm honey and having to walk through it. Shoulders sinking, I dropped my holdall and let out a gasp.

  “You’re here!”

  Flinching, I looked to the left. A whip of movement as a familiar face came into focus. With her white-blond bob, pulled back with a satin headband, this was Sasha North.

  “Worried you’d got lost!” She pawed my body into a hug. “Let’s go.”

  “First time I’ve flown alone.” I attempted to shimmy out of her touch. “I’m so sweaty.”

  Grabbing at the handl
e of my holdall, she nodded to a bus a couple stands away. “The bus is air conditioned.” She paused, looking me over. “Plus, haven’t you noticed.” She shook her head, her hair whipping at her ears. “I cut it all off.”

  In the pressing heat, trickling sweat down my neck, and feeling like there was a swamp opening up in my armpits—I wasn’t paying attention. “Looks amazing.” And looking at her, it made her appear mature, but also reminded me I’d forgotten to get mine cut.

  “You know, you should take off your jacket,” she said, tugging at my sleeve.

  “Yeah, yeah, I just—”

  She yanked away my holdall and I followed.

  There was a tall guy in the same t-shirt as Sasha and me, he leaned against the front window of the coach, blowing gum through his lips. He stared as it grew with intense fascination, popping as it reached his long nose.

  “How many people are coming?” I asked in a whisper, placing my backpack and tennis bag on the ground.

  She shrugged. “Eight guys, eight girls.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it said in the pamphlets.”

  “Oh.” She tugged at her t-shirt. “You wearing yours?”

  Ugh. I tugged at the zip. “Had an accident.”

  Sasha clapped a hand to her mouth. “What?”

  The guy who’d been leaning against the coach nearly choked on his gum. “Bad times, my friend.” Standing straight, he was easily six-three with the gangly arms to match his legs.

  “It’s that bad,” I let out through a deep groan, I was one stomp away from running off and crying like a toddler. “I can’t show up like this, Pedro will think I’m a child. How can I be a future face of tennis if I can’t even be—someone who doesn’t spill coffee.”

  Sasha chuckled. “It’s looks like—a map, if you—squint and—blur your eyes a little.” She demonstrated, creating a rectangle with her hands to view through.

  “I’m Mladen.” He extended his long arm. “Or Mlad. I’m from Bosnia, you know, the place with no coastline.” He snickered, his chewing gum flicking from his tongue.