by Joe Satoria
“Don’t worry. They have more t-shirts.” She side eyed Mladen. “Pick your gum up, animal.”
An attendant appeared from inside the coach, he nodded to me then my bags. “I will take for you.”
I looked to Sasha as I tugged my jacket zip. “Ok.”
“Let’s get our seats then.”
Looking to the tinted coach windows. “Is everyone on?”
“No, we have to wait, but we need to catch up.”
That we did, although what we were catching up on was mostly tennis—she had no idea about my dad, and she probably didn’t even know I referred to her as my best friend.
Taking our seats, I heard a loud voice followed by an even angrier Spanish man shout back. He was tall with broad shoulders, his t-shirt clung to his biceps as if their life depended on it.
“Who’s that?” I nodded to him.
Sasha craned her neck to view, but quickly returned to her seat. “Jordan Walsh,” she let out in a scoff. “I thought he was too old for this one.” Her eyes pinched in concentration. “Well, just goes to show you what mummy and daddy’s money can buy.”
2. JORDAN
“What do you mean?” Repeating myself as my shoulders shrugged higher.
“No room,” the attendant by the coach mumbled back, passing his fingers over each other to form an X.
Looking into the hold of the small coach there was a level of Tetris at play—but so far only a third of it had been filled. “Clearly, there is.”
I needed the next two weeks to breeze by.
Find the scout, impress the scout, score an invite to the Future Face of Tennis round-robin event. It was easy, or at least it was the easiest way of getting my name posted as a featured player without having to mess around with all those qualifier games.
My parents called this an expensive hobby, all because I was operating in the red, but I was still trying to make it my career.
“No room,” the man continued.
I was in no mood to be arguing outside the airport with a local—someone who didn’t understand why I needed three suitcases and a sports bag. He continued, on and on. “How many more suitcases are there going to be?” I asked. Each shrug pulled at the t-shirt I’d tucked in at the waistband of my shorts. It was a size medium, but with my build, that was tight at my chest and arms, riding up my body with each turn.
“No, can’t do it,” he said.
Faces on the coach were watching me, getting a rise out of it.
Three suitcases wasn’t exactly travelling like the Queen, these were essentials, every player should’ve brought their own equipment—at least, and mine took up an entire suitcase.
“Sorry, sir,” another attendant approached, “I’m sorry.”
The set was complete; Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both repeating each other, smiling and nodding in turn.
Gesturing to the luggage sitting on the paving, I snapped my fingers at it. “I was told I could bring all of this.” I shoved a hand into my tight shorts. “I have it written down although I shouldn’t have needed to because we’re paying thousands out already, we should be able to bring what we need.” My fingers stubbed in my phone pin.
“Sir, no space for all your bags.”
“It’s a small coach. One suitcase each. These will not fit.”
Their voices yapped on. “I have an e-mail.” Or at least I did. Trying to find it now as the sun cinched the t-shirt tighter, I was growing agitated. “I’ll just call him,” I snapped back at them.
“Good afternoon,” Pedro answered my call after two rings. “Is everything ok?”
“I’m at the airport, and your—”
“Sorry, who is this?”
“Jordan Walsh, you know, my parents helped fund one of those tennis courts.”
“Ahh, Señor Walsh,” he answered. “And how is it I can help you? Have you landed?”
My lips scrunched as my teeth pressed together. “These amateurs you’ve hired won’t let me put my suitcases in the coach. You know, the people you employ to get us from A to B. I brought three bags, you said I could, and now, they’re saying I can’t.”
“Señor Walsh,” he replied softly, “it is not possible I would say this.”
“You did.” I know he did. My fingers clenched at the phone. “You said bring what you need. I have three suitcases. You said that was fine.”
Tssking through his teeth, it spiked a vein to twitch at my eyebrow. “Can I speak to the driver?” he asked.
Handing the phone over, I looked up at the tinted coach windows. It wasn’t even full. People stared back—I only recognised one or two faces, but then again, it was mostly the same people at these events.
They didn’t think they’d see me in the summer. I was still twenty-one until September, which meant I could enrol in this camp and score the round-robin invitational for the end of July.
“Ay! Jordan.” A gangly lad with his jogging bottoms pulled passed his navel to reveal most of his calves appeared. “I thought you said—”
“Mladamir,” I joked back. “I lied.” He’d asked if I was coming a couple weeks ago. We’d only met in Greece six months earlier, and he’d text me nearly every day.
“Or Mlad,” he chuckled. “Want a gum?” He fished a hand in his jogging bottoms pocket, hiking them higher up his torso.
“I’m good.”
“What happened?” he asked as the slosh of gum squelched in his mouth.
“Poor planning, as usual.” I nodded to two men as they spoke with large arm expressions over the phone—even though Pedro couldn’t see them. “I’ll probably be getting an Uber or whatever.”
Mladen shrugged. He had no idea what I was talking about; his head was in clouds. “Do you need help with your bags?”
“No, I just said. I’ll have to get an Uber, apparently I brought too much.”
“Ah. Ok.”
“I won’t be paying for it.” I yanked at the bottom of my t-shirt, as I had been most of the morning in an attempt to stretch it.
My dad’s credit card was attached to my Uber account, it was connected to most things—that made matters worse. I had a trust fund, the type you get when you fit all the criteria—the only problem with mine was how the criteria (goal posts) kept being moved around and pushed back.
Christopher, my older brother got his at nineteen—he’s now twenty-six, and Angelica, my older sister, got hers when she was twenty-one—she’s now twenty-three.
The attendant handed me my phone. “They say get a taxi.”
“Predictable,” I scoffed. “Want to give me a hand with these to the taxi stand?”
Mladen stared, wide eyed and nodding as if we were in some lengthy conversation. “Uh. Oh. I’m going to stay here. If they leave—” he puffed his cheeks, “I don’t know what to do.”
I gave three solid claps. “Wonderful help. Wish you the best of luck.” The cart I’d used had already been scooted off. Three large suitcases and my sports bag slung over the ever-tight fabric choking at my chest. I could do it alone.
No Ubers. No taxis—at least none that would take all my suitcases in one car.
Forty minutes, waiting through each airport rush before fighting off a family.
During it, I’d complained to my mother. She was in Seoul, South Korea, and she wasn’t in the least bit sympathetic, her parting words as I loaded my luggage was, “if you’re paying, make sure to get a receipt.”
* * *
Thirty minutes behind everyone else, I arrived at the compound. It was a large place out in the middle of nowhere. I’d been before, I was probably one of their first students when I was fifteen.
This was going to be my final time; they didn’t cater much to adults above the age of twenty-two—because if you hadn’t gone pro before then, you were considered a failure.
And by all means, I should’ve been playing professionally by now, I should’ve gone pro years back. I had a reason for wanting the extra practice; I’d torn my ACL and it put me out for a while. A
fter that came the shoulder blade injury, repetitive stress had me hauled up in a sling. I got through it with physio, but it’s what kept me from getting through early qualifiers.
The Alcazaba Malaga Tennis Academy was on a hill, and even though the majority of Malaga was paved in dry land, this place was covered in manicured bright green grass. There were several tennis courts, a pool, sauna, and both underground and above ground gym units—there was nothing worse than exercising in the dead Spanish heat.
Yep, this place felt like a second home.
My first home was a smaller by the academy’s standards; we had a tennis court and a gym, but no pool—unless you count the jacuzzi.
“Señor Walsh,” Pedro’s familiar face greeted me at the taxi.
Pedro Sebastian stood, clasping his hands by his chest. He wore the same t-shirt as everyone else with the logo and a pair of cream-colour trousers. He had slicked back jet-black hair and a wide smile filled with pearly white veneers.
I remembered the year he got those, the same material they used to make toilets.
“Pedro,” I said, climbing out of the car, a hand clutching at the t-shirt so not to appear like I was wearing a crop top. “Where are we being housed?”
Murmuring to himself, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He shrugged, pulling attention to the taxi driver pulling suitcases from the boot.
“Well?”
“We had a little water damage,” he said, putting an arm around my shoulder. “Nothing to worry about, you’ll be in the shared dormitories.”
“No,” I shimmied his hand from my shoulder. “Shared?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Do not worry, we have boys with boys and girls with girls.”
I pressed a fist to my face, covering the pinched creasing in my forehead. “No,” I let out through my clenched jaw. “I have the en-suite, single room, double bed. Usually the furthest away from all the noise.” It had been written, and even if it weren’t, I’d been coming here for six years, it was my regular room.
“Yes, yes, Señor Walsh,” he said, lowering a hand as if I was speaking loudly. “We had damage in those rooms. It is being fixed, summer is busy, we can’t have builders on site with our programs.”
“Is there a refund because I know how cheap those shared rooms are.”
“Yes, yes,” he continued, “we already sent out the e-mail.”
As I realised earlier, those e-mails were going to my dad—it made sense, since I couldn’t find a trace of it in my inbox. “Fine. Shared, with how many people?” Not that my dad would’ve told me, in fact, I’m sure he found it funny.
“Two,” he offered back with a piqued expression, seemingly happy to tell me it was just two. “Do not worry. Shared rooms make good bonding.”
The taxi driver was still waiting. “You need to pay him.”
“Ah!” Pedro nodded, “yes, yes, of course.” He pulled out his wallet. “You should head inside. Dario, the man with bags will show you to the room.”
“This way,” Dario said from the double door entrance, his hands on a metal pushcart.
The compound wasn’t one large building, it was all spaced apart, connected by worn pathways. To get to the shared dorm rooms and communal showers, you had to first go through reception, then out into the common area, before going through a small zen zone with a fire pit and wind chimes.
I’d never come this way before.
The other rooms were on the opposite side of the compound, much larger, much more expensive—it’s why I wanted them, the sheets were better quality, the shower pressure was heavenly, and nobody could disturb you.
Instead, I was in a room along a row of rooms, each connected by long hallway and a blinding fluorescent white overhead LED strip. It went with the theme of scratchy sheets and sharing a shower with seven other people.
“Your room,” Dario spoke again, carting the suitcases through the door.
I didn’t look into the room straight away—I looked at all the other doors across the other side. All sixteen of us, men and women now, going to be packed together like sardines. Maybe when we were younger this would’ve been fine—maybe fun, but now, it was hell.
Whoever I was sharing with was bound to hold a grudge against me, perhaps one of the guys I’d beaten so frequently they’d rage quit—or the ones who’d watched me snap rackets over my knees—unrelated to the ACL injury.
No. He was new.
“This is Señor Grant.” Dario nodded, revealing his face behind my suitcases. “He won the scholarship. Really talented player.” He stuck his thumb up to him, sitting on the edge of the bed
Standing as his jacket came apart at the zipper, I saw a giant brown stain on his t-shirt. “Hi.” He pressed a smile to his face—no doubt he’d heard everyone’s stories about me on the coach ride over.
“The charity case,” I said, approaching him. “There’s always one.”
“What?”
“I’m Jordan.” I extended a hand, looking him over and noticing the thick head of hair he wore like a helmet—sweated to his skull. “You stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
“Harvey,” he answered back, accepting my handshake—it was warm, sticky with sweat. “Nice to—”
I pulled back, wiping my hand down my t-shirt. “Let’s not get carried away. I don’t make friends with newbies, or charity cases for that matter.”
It was true, both of them annoyed me to the nth degree. Newbies were clingy, trying to ask as many questions as possible, and charity cases played sympathy cards at every match—that wasn’t for me, I didn’t take prisoners on the court.
3. HARVEY
My day started with coffee down the front of my t-shirt, and apparently a day can get worse. I was sharing a room with the same guy who got mad because he brought too much luggage—not only that, but he was the same guy Sasha told me had been removed from several matches through disqualification from breaking rackets.
I was going to die in this room.
It was a rectangular room made up of two single beds, and a three-foot gap between the two. There was one nightstand by the head of the bed, and that was to be shared. At least there was room by the doorway—or there was before Jordan arrived.
He’d dropped off his suitcases and left. He’d probably gone to shout at someone else.
I sank back into the bed after our encounter where I was sure he’d called me a charity case—twice. I didn’t know they’d be telling everyone I’d come on a scholarship, but even then, wasn’t that was a good thing? It meant I got here on my own merit, it meant I didn’t need be go bankrupt trying to afford it.
Sasha appeared in the doorway, swaying to the side as she knocked. The door had been kept open by the cases.
“So?” she said, her eyes growing wider at the three large unmistakable suitcases. “Short straw?”
“It’s going to be hell,” I said, “he looks like he might kill me in my sleep.”
“Well—”
“I mean, did you see those arms?” What I didn’t mention was how his t-shirt appeared to be suffocating his biceps.
“Nah.” She slipped through the space it allowed and sat by me on the bed. “If he’s the same Jordan, he’ll probably end up getting kicked out.”
“See, you said he has a history of exploding, that’s why I’m worried about being—uch.” I gestured with a finger across my throat.
She swotted my arm. “I’m kidding, he’d never hurt anyone—” a smirk appearing to tug at her cheeks. “But there’s always a first time for everything.”
“Filling me with so much confidence,” I groaned, flipping me phone over in my hand. No new notifications.
“Maybe he will warm to you,” she said, with a nod, her head to the luggage compared to the small holdall I’d shoved to the wall on my bed. “He should—you’ll probably be training with him.”
“What? No!”
“Yeah, in my experience, these shared rooms double as a training buddy bonding thing.”
>
I leaned back until my head and neck were flat against the wall. “Great.”
“But I don’t know—this is the first time they’ve held this camp,” she said, tucking the short hair behind her ear to view me. “There’s so many other guys here to train with, and we’re doing a round-robin style tournament at the end of camp—so you have train against each of them anyway.”
“Why can’t I be in the same room as—” I threw my hands as I threw my weight, pulling myself up, “—who was that cute blond on the coach, he had the bluest eyes.”
“Eduard,” she said, slapping a hand on my thigh as it let out a ring. “He’s mine. Not that we’ve done anything but eyefuck.”
“Eugh,” I let out. Sasha knew I was gay. I came out to my dad when I was eleven, that’s when he was trying to butch me up. We tried out a whole bunch of sports, even from an early age, and tennis was the one I liked the most, even if at the time my dad was still iffy about the whole thing—sports that were off the table had been gymnastics and dance, not that I was flexible enough for either of those options anyway.
“Is this your first-time meeting Petra and Pedro?” she asked, glancing at the shiny silver watch on her arm. “They are amazing. Petra coached me for a little while before they really got a female crowd in.”
“You’re so lucky.” She was—I wish I could’ve afforded a mentor like that, I wish I could’ve afforded to come here. I smiled back at her, nodding. “I think I should change though before I meet them.”
“Duh, definitely,” she said back, wide eyed, remembering why I’d texted her in the first place—other than to tell her my roommate from hell had gone, but also to ask if they had spare t-shirts around.
“We can get changed on the way, there’s a supply closet, it’s outside the showers.” She reached out to the stain. “Does coffee come out? Or, should you throw it?”
Oh—I really didn’t know. “It should.”
“Obviously, it’s not wine,” she said, standing. “We should go now, get their early, look eager, you know, that’s how they pick favourites.”
