Break a Sweat: MM Sports Romance

by Joe Satoria

  Sasha knew what she was talking about, so I followed her lead.

  After changing in the hallway and throwing the soiled t-shirt down the laundry chute, we made our way to the dining hall.

  It was a large room with one single long dining table and chairs. It was set inside this white marble room with wood flooring. Stretched along the far wall there was a buffet style serving bench and window, it was currently empty, and I was growing hungry.

  There were two people seated when we arrived, speaking Spanish. I hadn’t seen either of them on the coach over, but that made sense, they weren’t flying in from anywhere.

  “Sandro!” Sasha screamed, her shoes clapping across the floor as she ran.

  I followed behind, watching as they interacted. I gave a wave, lifting and dropping my hand back to my hip in a quick second.

  “This is Harvey,” she said, snapping her fingers at me. “His first time here, but he’s a natural.” She wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “If we’re placing bets, my money is on him.”

  “Bets?” I flinched at the word.

  “You make it easy to take your money, Sash,” Sandro, the taller of the two Spanish guys said.

  The other reached out a hand for me to shake. “Cesar,” he said with a nod. He had his hair shaved into a mohawk and bleached blond.

  “Sandro, or Alessandro if you’re my mother,” he snorted as he shook my hand. He wore a bandana in the colours of the Spanish flag; red and yellow. “It will be a pleasure to take Sash’s money again.”

  Sasha clicked her tongue. “He’s lying, I predict the winners of these things each and every time they happen,” she said. “This year, I’m betting on you.”

  I wiped my palms down my jogging bottoms. “I hope I win then.”

  “Hope,” Sasha said with another tongue click, “don’t bait them, or do, they might increase their bets.”

  I wasn’t aware we’d be betting; I wasn’t even aware we’d need actual money—I brought nothing. My jaw clenched, forcing my lips to pull together a smile—or at least, I hoped I was forcing myself to smile and not appear to wince in pain.

  Slowly, more people poured in through the doors of the dining hall and we all took our seats. I sat beside Sasha, and to my right was Cesar. At least people were friendly, with the exception of Jordan seated near the head of the table, right beside the tall guy from the coach—Mladen.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Pedro said, appearing through a side door.

  “Afternoon everyone,” Petra said with a wave, her voice was soft and sultry, as if saturated in oil. “We have the pleasure of hosting you—sixteen of you, for these next two weeks.”

  “And for those of you joining us again, welcome back,” Pedro said. “If this is your first time, we hope you’ll find friendship among fellow athletes.”

  This was exactly what I wanted—this was everything I’d been dreaming of since reading the pamphlet. Every single night, I’d been dreaming of this, and then waking, I was back in the reality of the small two bedroom flat in Manchester on a housing estate—except, I wasn’t going to wake, this was actually happening.

  “We have the list—” Petra began.

  “Itinerary,” Pedro said.

  “Yes, yes,” Petra waved him away with a chuckle. “We have everything we will be doing for the next two weeks, each of you, boys and girls, will be given training, one-on-one with either myself or Pedro.”

  Pedro handed around laminated sheets of card. “We start today,” he said, “we will have a couple team activities for bonding, and getting to know each other, and then tomorrow, the training.”

  I was already eagerly going through all the information on the laminate. Each day there was a one-on-one training session with Pedro. It differed each day. My first one-on-one didn’t start until Thursday though. I looked over at Sasha’s card and hers was similar, the one-on-one wasn’t until Thursday.

  “Ok?” Sasha asked in a whisper, clocking my concerned facial expression.

  “What will we be doing tomorrow, no one-on-one?”

  “Tomorrow, is assessment stuff, more team games and training thrown in,” she replied back in a whisper.

  After they concluded their speeches and filled me with this weird sense of hope and optimism, they announced dinner would be out soon—that was before they left the room.

  “Are they—” I started, looking around as the table became alive with chatter.

  “They don’t usually sit with us to eat,” she said. “They’re really only around for the training sessions, but they’re easy to get a hold of if you need to talk to them. They have trainers around too. I mean, it’ll mostly be trainers that we see. Pedro and Petra are the faces.”

  That was—somewhat disappointing to hear, I hoped I’d get a chance to talk with them, give them my thanks for letting me be here and train under them.

  “They’re quite busy,” Sasha continued. “You have questions already?”

  I didn’t.. “I wonder who the trainers are.”

  I caught Sasha rolling her eyes. “People who don’t go pro,” she said. “They get their coaching certificates and everything, but they’re not the ones with the drive, determination, passion.” She sighed. “They asked me, one year to mentor some of their younger students, and I wouldn’t know where to begin. So, yeah, people who don’t go pro do, and they’re quite tough on you because it’s like, you’re going to live their dreams.” She let out a scoff. “Don’t worry, that won’t be you.”

  She was right—if I didn’t win this, if I couldn’t prove myself here, where it mattered or counted, I’d be finding myself on a late-start university course, or failing that, I’d have to find a job so I could get my dad the care he needed.

  As women in white coats and hairnets came through the door at the back of the dining hall, the smell of hot food wafted in.

  Sasha nearly dragged me out of my seat. “One thing.”

  “What?” I asked in a panic as all sixteen of us scraped back on our chairs and lunged for the food.

  “We’ll burn a lot, so we need to eat a lot.”

  Sasha was dragged on ahead while I let myself settle into the line near the end. It was a frenzy, but at least everyone was queuing.

  The only person further back than me had been Mladen, the tallest in the room. Still popping gum on his nose with a childish grin, looking down at me.

  “Surprised you didn’t push to the front,” I said with a smirk, looking to see who was first.

  No surprise. Jordan was in the mix, giving hooded glares at anyone who tried to push at him or complain he was taking too much food or time. At least there was one thing he had going for him, the stamina to get from one end of the table to the other.

  “I don’t want to break my bones,” Mladen offered back with a pop of his gum. “Plus, I have gum, it helps with hunger.”

  My hand clenched at my stomach. “I haven’t eaten much today,” I said. I’d had my breakfast, but I didn’t have any lunch before my flight, I’d had a coffee—or a coffee had me.

  There was still a lot of food left when the queue thinned out.

  They weren’t shy on the carbs; rice, pasta, and an assortment of different breads. Equally, the stand was filled with proteins; chicken breast, thigh, legs, and beans, alongside a near empty tray of veggies all together in a medley.

  I piled my plate with helpings of chicken, rice, and the vegetables. There was also another tray which appeared completely empty, other than a small layer of grease covering the bottom of the tin.

  Slices of steak, I gathered sitting back beside Sasha.

  “Breakfast is even better,” she let out as she stuffed a forkful of food in her mouth.

  “I’ll be faster next time,” I replied.

  “You better,” she said, “you know these pigs won’t care if you don’t eat, and they’ll even go for seconds.”

  It was needed, especially since the two-week camp promised to be intense—and that meant burning through
your entire body weight in training.

  “Tomorrow will be worse—or better,” I mumbled.

  “Working up a hunger,” she said.

  My eyes flicked back to the laminate on the table above my plate of food. Today, we were scheduled for group activity, and tomorrow, we were starting at six in the morning, or at least waking for breakfast served for seven.

  “Are they strict on this?” I asked.

  Sasha nodded back, her cheeks filled with food.

  I trusted her. She’d done this before.

  We had another couple of hours before the group activities, and I was already dreading having to spend time with Jordan; my eventual pairing in all activities.

  A young man appeared in the dining hall. “Please, change into some sports clothes before this evening,” he said, he didn’t even look around, he just appeared, spoke, and left.

  “Is he—”

  “No,” she said immediately. “That’s one of the ball boys, they’re just helpers really. They usually clean, collect balls, restock towels and t-shirts.”

  There was so much I didn’t know, especially since everyone was dressed the same, it was impossible to tell who was helping and who I’d be playing against.

  “Ugh,” Cesar groaned out by the side of me, his hand pounding against his stomach as he stuck it out. “Time to relax now.”

  “No,” Sasha said, “we have about twenty minutes before we need to be on the courts.”

  “Twenty?” I asked, reaching to my pocket. I’d forgot my phone. “Ok,” I said, standing as a knot in my stomach sprung together like dough. “I’ll see you out on the court—I need to—”

  “Relax,” she said, “they usually run late on the first day.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I need to—” the table was thinning out and Jordan had left. “I should get changed.”

  I’d told myself there were going to be rules I needed to follow, and rule number one was keep your phone with you at all times. If there was a text or call, I had to be there to answer it, if it got to a second ring they’d think I didn’t care.

  The dorm room door was shut.

  Jordan had to be in there.

  Opening the bedroom door, I noticed the suitcases weren’t there—one open on the bed and two pressed to the wall. My eyeline went from suitcase to suitcase—then to an eyeful of Jordan yanking his shorts as he bent over to reveal two thick bread roll shaped ass cheeks.

  “Get away!” he yelled, turning with a hand cupped at his cock and balls. “Fucking pervert.”

  4. JORDAN

  Great! Just what I’d signed up for, a bunch of poncy bonding games. It was definitely what I’d seen on the itinerary—not.

  It wasn’t the first time they’d pulled shit like this. They were so unprepared, and they didn’t know how to tell everyone they didn’t know what they were doing, but I knew the reality—I’d been here long enough to know.

  The newbies wouldn’t notice. Why else did they put on all that food when we hadn’t even trained—they were trying to get us tired and ready for bed.

  I tried calling my dad about it, but the phone rang out each time, and not only was this place a disaster; not putting me in my en-suite, but my roommate was a pervert. He stared right at me, although I couldn’t blame him, I had the best physique at the camp.

  In one of the empty tennis courts, west of the compound, we stood around in a circle with our tennis rackets in hand. All sixteen of us and the pervert charity case was standing opposite me, right next to Sasha North—I didn’t know why she was here, it made no sense, surely she already had her invite to the FFT.

  “Ok,” a voice called as floodlights filled the tennis court. “We have light.” He appeared through the circle, a familiar face in his thirties, David Robbin.

  “Thought you’d quit, Dave?” I asked, popping a ball against the clay court and my racket.

  “Mr Walsh,” he said, turning in the centre of the circle. “Let’s all pull focus for a second. We want to get to know one another, right?”

  The ball bounced a second time, I caught it on the come up. “Are we gonna be playing?” I asked, noting that the nets were down.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “I know, you’re all eager. I see some fresh faces, I’m glad. These two weeks are going to prepare you for one of the best and most exciting opportunities to come out of this academy.”

  Here we go—my eyes rolled, looking to Mladen at my side, attentive to every word.

  “As you know, the winner of the men’s and women’s singles will be invited by the Mitchell Agency to compete in the televised Future Face of Tennis round-robin. This is an opportunity of a lifetime.”

  Pervy roommate’s eye lit up. I bet he was all warm and inspired. “Shame they’re not doing anything for the over thirties,” I snickered, “guess it’s not the X Factor though, is it?”

  A chuckle came from my left. Nils was a dirty blond Swede, covered in sweatbands at his wrist and forehead—seemed to miss the memo we wouldn’t be playing any actual games tonight.

  “Comedy hours runs between never and—” David began, looking to his watch, “not now.” He cleared his throat. “My tennis dreams were crushed when I broke my wrist. I never fully recovered, and so here I am.”

  “Ouch, that must be tough,” Sasha said, shaking her head as she massaged at her perfectly ok wrist.

  “For those who don’t know me, I’m David Robbin, I’ll be one of your trainers, the women will also have Danielle Winter and Lucinda Lucca, and alongside me is Joachim Silva.”

  A raised hand from Mladen. “What about Pedro and Petra?”

  “One-on-one sessions,” David answered. “We’re going to go around, say your name, where’ you’re from, and anything interesting about yourself.” He inserted himself in the spot beside Sasha and Jana—the Russian. I’d seen her in action, fierce competition for Sasha, no wonder she was being kept close. “I’ll go first. Of course, I’m David Robbin, I’m from the UK, and I’ve lived in sunny Spain for four years.”

  He nodded to Sasha.

  “Hi, I’m Sasha, I’m from London. I came runner-up in the spring, so I’m here for redemption—plus, there’s a prize for this event.” I watched as she nodded around at people, the tips of her finger brushing her hair back.

  “Hi, I’m Harvey,” he spoke, waving as he pressed his lips together like he’d finished. “Oh—I’m from England, Manchester, actually. This is my first time at a sport camp, actually, my first time in Spain—it’s wow, it’s actually really hot here.”

  The charity case could speak—not well though. It was nice to know.

  Everyone spoke English, to a degree at least, should be mindful of that, I didn’t want to say anything that could get me in trouble.

  “Jordan,” David said, pulling me back from wherever my mind was going.

  “I’m Jordan Walsh, I’m from England, and I’m going to win the end of camp tournament,” I said, it was matter of fact, the camp was a formality at this point. “So, if you’re betting, because I heard there’s bets going around, bet on me.”

  I knew they were betting. I’d heard during dinner; Sasha laughing with Sandro, Cesar, and Baptiste, bigging Harvey who appeared at her side like some leech.

  “No betting,” David said, although he didn’t have the gravitas to pull it off. “Pedro and Petra could disqualify you for doing that, insider bets, you might throw a game.”

  A collective scoff came over the group and I knew all eyes were going to be on me, I was the one who breached the topic in an open forum—I couldn’t help smile as their eyes burned into me.

  “Right,” I said, nodding to Mladen. “You’re up—or, are we going to play?” I reached for a tennis ball in my pocket.

  Once everyone had introduced themselves. There were only a couple I hadn’t met before. Darcey from France, and Violetta from Italy. The others had been here—or to another camp like it with me before.

  “Touch the tennis ball,” David announced, “it’s a game of teamwork
, skill, and speed.”

  Touch my balls.

  This was a waste of my time, I could’ve been listening to a podcast on game and form, it would’ve been a more productive use of my time—or better yet, find Pedro and get him to tell me where the money was going.

  This was the only time the guys and girls interacted in the sport, these small building exercises—and I wasn’t interested in no mixed doubles. It wasn’t for me, female athletes weren’t for me, nothing against them, I just preferred my girlfriend to be into girly things.

  It was an hour of games like that, passing the ball to each other from our rackets. The same games I’d been playing in my teens coming to these places.

  Perhaps it was a mistake, the first of its type with a promise it could shoot you into sport’s stardom. They had no clue what they were doing, just throwing bits and pieces from all their different curriculums, no wonder they allowed some charity case to pass the gates.

  Once it was over, I was the first to leave.

  First to leave, first to get in the showers.

  I figured it was a genius move. It wasn’t.

  In the short pitstop I’d taken to grab my towel, washbag, change out of my tight t-shirt, and slip on my shower sandals—there was only one voice booming from the shower room.

  No mingling, we each had our own room. They were basically large wet rooms with eight individual shower cubicles and two long benches in the centre.

  It would do. It wasn’t the en-suite I’d requested, but there was privacy.

  Mladen was already there—his head visible over the cubical stall. “Hey, Jord.”

  I headed to the end cubicle. “Jeesh, keep yourself to yourself.” I looked away, slapping my towel across the cubicle door.

  “Think you’ll get it?” Mladen asked as the two Spanish lads appeared, laughing to each other.

  Yes. I spat in my thoughts. How could he even ask, of course I was going to win, I was the oldest here, if anyone were going to win—or should win, it was going to be me.

  “Are you betting?” his annoying voice came again.