by Joe Satoria
Mladen let out a sigh. “Well, you sure?”
“And they’ll be held this Friday?”
“Friday?” a female voice repeated, Hanna, one of the German girls.
I turned. They were paying attention now, with the exception of Harvey, he didn’t face me at all—he was staring away, looking at Sasha.
“Yeah,” I told them, “Pedro will tell us all later, but he said the scout is coming on Friday for one day. It’ll be a blood bath. We’ve all been preparing to match each other, when in reality, we’ll play—three at most.” I had to quick count.
The cat was out of the bag now.
Relieved—this was better than becoming aggressive, watching as everyone else seemed to panic over the news.
With everyone filled in on what I’d been told, Pedro pulled ahead of schedule—it made me wonder how they kept this academy afloat—other than the expensive courses.
It started out a mess when I couldn’t put my bags on the coach, and surely it would end in the same vein. The only positive note was knowing that there would be a scout on the compound within the week.
Pedro and Petra stood outside on the west courts.
“We didn’t have much time to prepare,” Petra said in her sultry voice, “so, we have names in a trophy cup. That is ok. We pick your names, you know. Game one, game two, game three, game four.” She gestured her hands the best she could, holding her silver French Open trophy.
“Game one winner plays game two winner, game three winner plays game four winner, and the winners play each other in the finals,” Pedro finished. “I hope that makes sense.”
I looked around as everyone appeared to nod.
Looking back, I noticed Pedro’s dagger eyes in my direction.
“Guys first,” he said.
“Game one,” Petra announced, throwing her hand into the cup, “Eduard, and—” another hand reached inside, “Nils.”
Everyone looked to them.
If anyone else was on my level of getting mad, I’d say it was Eduard. He hadn’t done half the crazy shit I’d done, but he was on his way.
“Game two,” she continued. “Harvey, and—Cesar.”
The charity case would win that.
I was the first name for the third game against Sandro.
The final game was Mladen versus Baptiste.
That would be interesting.
I walked away before they started announcing any of the other matches. I knew who I was up against now, and that’s all I wanted to know. It pulled away conversation people had started about me, and now everyone was looking to each other as their competition instead of at me like I was going to explode.
I wanted to—trust me, I wanted to explode.
But now Sandro was my focus, beat Sandro, and I was easily in the finals—Mladen and Baptiste, whoever would win, weren’t that threatening.
I headed to the gym with a smile. It was less of a fight to the finish now.
“Wait.” A tug pulled at my arm as I went through the gate. Harvey, biting at his tongue, didn’t know what to say—I could’ve helped him, say nothing, leave him alone. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
He had his other hand behind his back as his shoulders slumped. “I didn’t mean what I said, I feel awful about it.”
“Well, you said it.”
“But I’m saying sorry.”
“Listen, this—I don’t know—we’re obviously not going to be training together. I’ll give you the money, whatever, I know you need it.”
“No,” he said, firmly. “I don’t want your money.”
That was a surprise, I genuinely smiled. “Then what? Because I thought we were friends, I invited you to do things with me, and instead, you’re laughing behind my back telling people shit about me like you’re King Dick.” I scoffed and turned again. Letting it off my chest, it was the most I’d said in a while that felt like a weight off my chest.
His feet marched after me in the gravel. “Wait, Jordan, wait.” His grasp was loose as he attempted to pull my arm again.
Paused. I grabbed his arm and pulled him. Chest to chest, we were touching. “What?” I let out through the back of my throat, feeling him against my skin sent a chill through the morning heat.
“I—I don’t know,” he mumbled as I let go of him. He stepped away.
“Then leave me alone.”
15. HARVEY
I felt terrible. I shouldn’t have said any of it. I should’ve told them he was great, but instead I’d overreacted—and all because he’d answered my call, because he knew more about me than anyone else—even my best friend here.
My apology was flat. He knew it and I knew it.
But he’d turned back—he’d grabbed me. His touch was a surprise, each time. It was soft when he gave the impression it would’ve been rough.
There was so much of him left in my brain too scared to explore. The way he kissed me. The way he made me touch him. The way we’d been in the water. And even the way he was trying to make plans outside of training; he asked if I wanted to eat with him, he asked if I wanted to go to the sauna—maybe he actually liked me.
Maybe I’d ruined a friendship.
Instead of going back to the group and listening to see who Sasha would be against, I headed back to the room. I needed to distract myself from him, I needed to remind myself what I was doing here and who I was doing all this for.
I wasn’t here for friends or going back to high school—that was hell enough. I was nearly in my twenties.
In the room, I looked over his things—had he even slept here last night? I’d slept on Sasha’s bedroom floor. I didn’t even think about coming back, not after what I’d said.
I felt awful—still.
I tugged at my t-shirt. I was still in yesterday’s clothes and I wanted to train as soon as possible—even though training with Jordan was out of the window and everyone else was paired up. You couldn’t really train in threes, nobody played tennis in threes—fours, sure, but a three-manned court was off—it wouldn’t happen.
On the side of the wall was my schedule, there was a lot of training in place and sure I would get through it all. I looked to see when my one-on-one was going to be today, hoping Pedro would be able to shed more light on my skills and how I’d be matched against Cesar.
It was after lunch—I’d have all morning to get prepared
Mentally mapping my morning—if I were going to be training alone I’d need to get my name down to use the ball machine. I’d only used it once, not here, but they were great for practicing alone.
In my holdall, I grabbed at a clean t-shirt, a fresh pair of underwear, and some shorts. There was a cold drying sweat at my collar and around my waist. I massaged a hand up my neck, pressing the tension at my shoulders.
I doubled down on deodorant as showering wasn’t on the cards this morning. I first needed to sweat everything out—but before that, I had to make sure my phone was charged.
It had died during the night—of course, nobody else had a charger I could use, and I feared coming back to the room.
Wrestling with the bed, I pressed my fingers down the side between the bed and the bedside table—the wire had slipped between the two. Grabbing it, I was laid flat, exhausted but comforted by the duvet.
Letting out a sigh, I plugged in my phone and waited for it to turn on.
Laying there for a moment—and before I knew it. I woke up.
THUD.
The door opened, smacking against a suitcase.
My body jumped, panicked. Half asleep, I thought we were being robbed, and standing in the door, panting his large biceped chest was Jordan—sweating through his grey t-shirt, he pulled it away to wipe his body.
We looked at each other for what felt like an uncomfortable minute.
“Sleeping?” he asked through a deep inhale.
“No, no, no,” I protested. I wasn’t—at least it hadn’t been my intention and I didn’t want him to think that
’s what I’d been doing. I wiped my eyes and brushed a hand through my hair—yeah, it needed cutting and appeared to get thicker every day. “I was just—plugging my phone in,” I said, gesturing to it on the bedside table.
He nodded, pulling in another breath. He knelt by his suitcase, unzipping it. I watched; his legs were thick as he squatted. He grabbed at a smaller towel.
“Yeah?”
Oh god. I was staring.
I glanced to my phone. It was nearly fifty per-cent charged—how long had I been asleep? It was nearly lunch. My muscles ached, my arms dropping to my sides as if the muscle would fall right off the bone.
“Train with anyone?” he asked. He wiped his face and hair with his towel, letting out another exhausted breath.
“Going to use the machine, ball machine,” I said back, stretching my arms across my chest.
He stood, pressing his chest out—pumped with adrenaline in his muscular physique. “Right, right,” he said. “You get your name on the list? Looks like it’s booked all afternoon. I’ve got my name down.”
Great. Of course he did. I’d need a plan B, and C just in case I saw him wondering around, stalking me.
He looked over his schedule on the wall, panting as he swotted the sweat with a towel.
I grabbed my racket bag in a hurry. Turning at the door, we were face to face.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Fag,” he muttered.
I froze, dropping my bag. “What did you say?”
“Look at you.” He glanced from the side of his face.
My hands made fists. “At what?” I examined his weirdly shaped face; the sharp jawline and structured cheeks. I’d probably hurt myself.
His heated gazed glossed over me, and even though we weren’t far apart, he still managed to look me up and down. He stepped closer as I stepped back.
“You’re not gonna get inside my head,” I told him, pressed flat against the door.
He extended an arm, placing his hand on the door above my shoulder. Staring into my soul, trying to get in my head. “Well?”
I looked away—to his chest, puffed out, pulsing with the sweat dripping from his pecs. My eyes followed to his muscular abdominals cutting pleasing shapes all the way to the soaked fabric of his gym shorts.
“Huh?” he grunted.
I picked my gaze back to his eyes.
Heavy breathing, I pushed my head forward and kissed him.
His hand at the back of my head, pressed my face to his as he kissed me back—his tongue in my mouth as it rolled against mine.
Eyes closed as one arm reached around his back, I squeezed his slick body to mine.
His hand fell from my head and tugged at my t-shirt.
“No, no,” I said, breaking away.
Breathless, he was wide eyed. “What?”
“What are we doing?”
He shrugged. “I thought—”
“Are you gay?”
He stepped back, wrapping his arms around himself. “What, no, I’m—”
“Bisexual?” I asked.
He turned away. “You kissed me.”
But he’s kissed me first the other day.
“I—I can’t do this,” I grabbed at the racket bag again. It was almost lunch, but I couldn’t come back here after, he’d be here—whatever this was—I needed it out of my system.
I pressed the racket bag against my cock squeezed in my underwear, throbbing with growth. Jordan didn’t say anything else as I left, I made a straight line to the front of the dormitory doors.
“Harvey!” Sasha let out, approaching from outside.
Pressing harder, my hard-on wasn’t going away. “I’m—”
“Where’d you go?” she asked as I noticed Jana standing at her side. “Guess who my first match is against.”
Jana chuckled.
“Jana?” I asked, trying to think of how I could leave the conversation.
“No,” she said, “Amelia.”
“Oh, you’ve won that then,” I said, feeling the pressure balloon in my underwear. “I should—I need to get—to—”
Sasha chuckled to herself, looking back at her watch. “We have another ten minutes before lunch.”
“Yeah, I’ve got to—got to see Pedro,” I said with a firm nod, splitting the two of them as I walked through the middle.
They spoke as I left, probably ‘see you later’, but my ears were deaf to anything other than the way Jordan had spoken to me. The way he’d had his hands on me, pulling at me, tugging my clothes.
My fingers pulled tighter around the fabric of the bag, imagining it was his skin, imagining it was anything but what it was.
I walked straight through to the main reception area—I didn’t know where I was going, but I needed to be alone before I burst, and the longer I walked, the more my erection rubbed against my clothes, throbbing as my crotch became damp.
The accessible toilets.
I threw myself inside, pulling the door and latching it shut.
The bag fell limp in my hands as I dropped it by the door.
I turned to the full-length mirror—seeing my dick bulge in my shorts. I reached it, watching myself, breathlessly sliding my hand from my stomach to the underwear waistband. I pressed a finger through the trimmed pubic hair, pressing against the hard base of my cock.
Double the tease as my eyes begged to see more, begging to feel more.
Once passed my thighs, the shorts dropped to the floor, revealing wet spots of precum.
I grabbed my cock, pulling it out, a string of sticky precum travelled with it. I scooped it with a finger and sucked it off.
My dick barely made it through three tugs, and I came—squirting across the floor and mirror. I kept cumming, giving and giving as my hips pulsed forward.
16. JORDAN
He started it that time. He kissed me.
The way our bodies were on each other. The way he looked like he hated me.
He kissed me first. I kissed him back.
It continued—on and on. A circle—a cycle.
Out on the court, swinging my racket as I beat back balls from the machine. Thud after thud. Aimlessly hard, backhand, forehand—two hands. The ball were flying everywhere. Each stroke harder than the last.
I started it—I called him a fag.
But I wasn’t gay.
POP.
I beat the ball back, my grip growing loose around the handle.
I’d skipped lunch just to get out here—and I didn’t regret it. Everyone was still eating while I powered through hit after hit, smacking the balls back with each serve the machine spat my way.
It didn’t give powerful serves, but I made sure to mix it up between groundstrokes and volleys. Each time, I lost more direction as Harvey’s face clouded my mind.
He wasn’t going to want to train with me now, he wasn’t anyway, but even now, he’d think I was the one who was trying to hurt him—even though I hadn’t meant it—calling him a fag. Kissing him back—I’d meant that.
Admitting it, I lobbed my racket across the court—caught by the net. The next ball hit the ground before bouncing up at my chest. I moved out of the way before another—glaring at the racket, wishing it would’ve snapped or splintered.
“Jordan.”
Mladen entered the closed court.
Lunch was over.
The ball machine chucked out another. I dodged it as I went for my racket.
“My name’s up next.”
Leaning to stretch out my calves, I nodded. “How about a match?”
“I want to get my practice in, surprise you on tournament day,” he replied with a wide smirk, dodging the ball flying at him.
“What about the other machine?” I asked.
He scoffed. “Girls are using it.”
I waved my racket in the air. “Might want to collect some of these in,” I said. The tennis balls covered half of court.
There were only two courts like it, one on
the west and one in the north, they were individual sized courts secured with metal fencing and the permanent machine fixed in at the back with a huge container to feed it material to shoot.
That was it for my tennis practice.
Harvey wouldn’t play me.
I couldn’t play myself.
In the corner to the right, I noticed Pedro and Harvey together. He seemed pleased with himself, smiling as Pedro spoke. I could tell he was Pedro’s favourite; Pedro’s prized pet, I could only imagine what he was telling him, exposing everyone’s weaknesses so he didn’t have to use his own mind. No wonder he was given the scholarship—everyone loves it when the poor boy makes the big win.
All the while shitting on me and as I continued to foot the bill.
It was the last year for me. Even if they catered to more adult players—my parents told me I’d be without money if I didn’t get through to the invitational, and that meant winning this. I’d nearly won something similar, then got disqualified for trashing my racket.
This was the last attempt before being cut off.
I had to stop thinking about him.
I had to stop thinking.
In the gym, Cesar and Sandro were on the running machines with Joachim barking order at them in Spanish—I assumed. It was loud enough to be heard over the speaker-thumping Latin pop music.
I doubt they even noticed me as I threw my racket and water bottle by one of the ellipticals. Taking up residence on it, I needed to catch a quick sweat to keep my head from going back—I couldn’t go back—not to what I did, and now to what I’d told myself.
After fifteen minutes the music cut, my ears were filled with the throbbing echo of my heartbeat, restless as I couldn’t pull myself away from the machine.
“Jordan, my friend,” Cesar said, pulling at his mohawk haircut, unable to stand stiff from the sweat.
My face scowling in the disturbance. “Yeah?” I slowed myself.
“You train with Harvey,” he said, “what are his weak spots?”
Great. I couldn’t escape him. Weak spots. I wondered for a moment. What were they? His serves needed work, they were predictable, the power, the strength, the way he hit in the same direction, the same style, each time. “Backhand,” I said through a deep breath—it wasn’t.
