Break a Sweat: MM Sports Romance

by Joe Satoria

  “You know your sister is there.” She waved a hand at me—my dismissal. “You’ve had a little break, now it’s time to get stuck into some real work and education.”

  “Tomorrow is Saturday,” I said, watching as Ronald the house manager and butler carted suitcases in through the front door.

  “Well, Monday,” she said, “and please, when your dad wakes in the morning, I’ll be the one to beak the bad news.”

  “Oh, no,” Ronald gasped.

  My mother pouted. “Dreadful, he failed in the finals.”

  “I didn’t fail.”

  That’s what I’d told myself, and I didn’t—I’d played as well as I could, but the better man won, even if I lost, and I lost more than a match, I lost the warmth in my chest right by my heart.

  I hated home but try explaining to your family you wanted to move and buy your own place for the space—I was told I had plenty of it and moving out before I could afford it on my own terms would strip me of my trust fund.

  Everything decision I made was out of fear.

  Tennis was all I had.

  No, that was a lie.

  I had other things, and my bedroom walls were a memorial for all those things I’d done before now sat in frames on the wall. I’d tried running, football, rugby, and even swimming—that’s where I learned I couldn’t quite swim.

  Tennis was where I found myself, it was one opponent with a small area to work in, and I could use my strength—but it was over now.

  I flopped across the duvet of my king-size bed.

  I’d missed it.

  But it was even more lonely now. I thought I’d like to stretch in all direction as I laid slap bang in the middle of it—turns out, I was missing the feeling of someone else beside me, on me.

  And it was different—I hadn’t felt that about anyone else.

  My ex-girlfriends would pull away, go to their side of the bed, or perhaps that what I’d been doing. There was something in the way Harvey touched me, the firm softness in his hands—I’d never been touched like that.

  And it was gone forever.

  I’d left him a souvenir.

  But I never left him my number.

  Maybe for the best, even now as I told myself, I knew it wasn’t. I’d lost myself the moment my mother arrived. Her words were haunting, even winning I knew I’d lost—so I figured I’d lose a much as I could.

  * * *

  A knock hammering on my bedroom door woke me. I stretched out, stifling a yawn as I looked across myself—dressed in the clothes I’d arrived in, the large hoodie with the fabric to my nose—I’d swore I could still smell him.

  THUMP. THUMP.

  “What?” I groaned out, smushing my face into a pillow.

  “Hey,” a soft voice called out as the door clicked opened.

  No. No. No.

  Isabelle Carlyle, my ex-girlfriend, dressed in a mini skirt and a crop top, carrying a large designer handbag on her arm. “Your mum said you were home.”

  “We broke up,” I reminded her, planting my face into the pillow again.

  Clicking her tongue, approaching. She planted the bag on the bed before climbing on beside me. “Silly.” She brushed a hand through my hair. “We do that all the time.”

  I flinched, pulling away. “No we don’t.” We’d never broken up.

  “In my head, sometimes we do,” she scoffed, eyes rolling, “but your mum doesn’t know we broke up, and she said you’ve quit playing tennis.” Her hand grabbed at my forearm, squeezing my bicep. “Hope you don’t lose these.”

  I shrugged her hand away. “No.” I turned, pushing myself from the side of the bed. “This is over. You’re only interested in money—” I looked her up and down, her fancy bag, clutched at her side, the jewellery and expensive bracelets she’d been given nearly monthly.

  “What? No I’m not.”

  Out of my bedroom, kicking passed the suitcases at the door, I headed down into the foyer. The smell of coffee told me my mother was in the dining room, and she was, sat by my father as he peered above the newspaper.

  “Good morning,” my mother said.

  My father didn’t say a word.

  “You invited Isabelle over?”

  He peered over the paper once more, looking to my mother.

  “She’s good for you,” she said.

  Her boots on the stairs pattered behind me.

  “No,” I said, “we broke up. She broke up with me.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” my father let out in a grumble, flicking through the paper, dropping his gaze. “She’s good for you.”

  “We’re broken up,” I said again, turning to see her in the corner of the dining room. “That’s it. It’s over. You want me to come into work with you, Monday, then you’re gonna stop trying to control me.”

  “Control you,” my mother scoffed, “it was an innocent mistake, I thought she was still your girlfriend.”

  “We’d hope you’d be settling down soon,” my father added, still reading his paper.

  “Sixteen months,” she said behind me. “This is over, you’re breaking up with me?”

  “No,” I snapped.

  “Then it’s settled, shall we start preparing for a wedding?” my mother chimed in.

  “No, you broke up with me,” I said as my throat clenched on what I was about to say next. “I found someone else.”

  It was the first time I’d said it. The first time I’d admitted my feelings aloud, they didn’t know who I was talking about, but to have my voice travel and tell the universe what I was feeling. I smiled; the weight lifted from my shoulders.

  “Who?” they all asked together.

  “I can have some private life,” I said, “you’ve taken my money, my hobby, let me have one thing.”

  Isabelle continued to pout and sulk. She brushed back her hair over a shoulder. “Fine then,” she said, slapping her hand against the buckle of her bag, pulling it open. “I won’t outstay my welcome.”

  I grabbed an apple from the table and left, listening from my bedroom door as Isabelle whined to my parents, waiting for her Uber. I didn’t even like her anymore, I saw her, really saw her, and as I saw her—I was seeing myself.

  I wasn’t gay.

  But I liked Harvey.

  I’d liked one guy before—Nico, and I’d always found myself turned on by certain parts of men’s bodies, just as I did with women, except, now I wasn’t thinking about those, I was thinking about one person.

  I grabbed at my suitcases, hauling them inside.

  I’d taken a pair of his underwear, the blue ones, they were so snug on him—I told myself I didn’t see it when he was changing, but I had, and I’d watched in secret. I had looked at him and found myself wondering, I found myself wanting.

  Three suitcases, and I couldn’t find them.

  I’d definitely put them in.

  I’d thrown them in.

  They smelled like him—I needed it.

  And I wanted that closeness.

  I didn’t know where he lived or have his number, my fault really, he’d asked, and I’d been vague. All my dreams had been crushed near that time, and now after sleeping on it—the dreams had been taken to some impound and squeezed into nothing.

  Falling back on my bed—I’d been defeated.

  I couldn’t find him in anything. Even staring at my ceiling, I tried to find his face in the shapes of the shadows cast across the white.

  I missed the tennis camp, I missed feeling the spring in the mattress and those last few nights where he’d lay beside me, placing a finger in my belly button then using them as if they were stepping up my chest.

  It wasn’t fair we’d had sex and now I knew what he felt like—I couldn’t have it anymore. Even the clothes he’d touched on me, they we clean, they weren’t the same.

  Bouncing upright—there was one way I’d see him.

  He won. That meant the next place I knew he’d be would be the Future Face of Tennis round-robin in Hamburg three weeks from
now.

  My head dropped back against the pillow—I didn’t have the money for that now.

  I smothered the pillow at my face, letting out the muffled scream of anger. I was going crazy—there had to be some way of finding him. I had to apologise for leaving and not saying goodbye.

  I should’ve done so much more—so many things differently. I could’ve left a note—but that wouldn’t have worked, not with my mother watching over, snapping at me to hurry.

  Harvey Grant.

  I grabbed at my phone, buried inside the duvet where it had spilled out of my pocket. Social media, everyone had social media, everyone was searchable on the internet. I put in his name—too many results; unless he was a retired basketball player. Another search. ‘Harvey Grant tennis’ and—no results.

  “Jeez, Jord,” a laugh came from the entry of the bedroom door.

  Christopher, my older brother stood with wide eyes in shock—probably at the mess I’d made looking for a pair of Harvey’s briefs—the pair I knew had to be in there somewhere. Chris was already dressed in a shirt, loosely buttoned at the top with his hair combed and gelled in place.

  “What?”

  “I tried talking dad out of it,” he said, stepping over all my shit. “The trust fund stuff.”

  “No,” I grumbled back. “I’m being irresponsible.”

  I knew the look—it was the ‘well, you sort of are’, and I knew I was. “You’re doing a good thing by taking the job,” he said. “I had to, I mean, I wanted to, so that’s different.”

  My walls were still littered with sports paraphernalia. I felt childish now, being told my childhood dreams were all for nothing—and being surrounded by those same hopes even when they were out of my reach—it was childish.

  “Plus, we still have the tennis court,” he continued, “so, you’ll be able to play.”

  “Why don’t you move out?” I asked.

  “When Cassie and I have kids, yeah, we’ll move into our own place, but right now, we’re happy being rent free, food cooked for us, clothes washed and dried. The minute we move out, we’re on our own.”

  Wasn’t that the dream? “Happy for you, but I wanted to be in the flat, mum said Angelica is there.”

  “Yeah, she fell out with dad.”

  “Mum didn’t say that,” I grumbled back, “what about?”

  He shrugged. “It’s Angelica, it could’ve been anything.”

  True. Dad and Angelica both butted heads, they had done my entire life. Christopher was the golden child, and I used to be the spoiled one, the one who could get away with doing whatever they wanted—until they started threatening to cut me off. They probably shouldn’t have led me to believe I was special my entire life.

  “You should get this place cleaned,” he continued. “If dad comes by, he’ll give you his whole growing up from nothing speech and—”

  “Ugh. I know.”

  I knew how it went—I’d heard it repeatedly: the house manager and the maid weren’t here to clean up after my mess.

  BUZZ. BUZZ.

  Unknown Caller.

  Isabelle, probably.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, stepping over more of my shit.

  Maybe now I could get my anger out, the anger I’d been holding back for the last two weeks. I hadn’t smashed a racket once—and I had three going spare, sitting on the floor, waiting to be stepped on and pulled at the strings.

  BUZZ. BUZZ.

  Same unknown number.

  I wasn’t going to answer.

  Isabelle was crazy, and relentless.

  I let the phone continue to buzz out as I scanned across everything spilled out on the floor—where to begin? I’d never let the small room at the tennis camp get this way, in fact, I’d complained about Harvey making less of a mess.

  BUZZ. BUZZ.

  Throwing myself across the bed, I grabbed the phone.

  “What?”

  “Good morning, is there a Mr Jordan Walsh there?”

  It wasn’t Isabelle. I rolled over and sank into the bed with the phone against my ear. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Hi, I’m Julie, I’m contacting you from the Mitchell Agency.”

  Sounded familiar. “Ok?”

  “And we would like to extend the invite to the runner-up, in this case, that’s you,” she said, “so, you would be taking the place of the winner in the Future Face of Tennis round-robin tournament start date second to last week in July.”

  “The winner?”

  “Yes, I will need to take some more details from you though, if that’s ok, Mr Walsh?”

  Harvey had won. Harvey had got the spot. “I’m sorry, did someone drop out?”

  “Mhmm, due to unforeseen circumstances it seems,” she said, “I take it you’re wanting to take the place?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll—I’ll—” my heart raced through my chest, I was going to explode. “Fuck. Absolutely, yes, what do you need?”

  I answered all her questions before racing out onto the hallway landing in a panic. I stood there for a moment, the excitement swelling in my vocal chords, begging me to scream.

  Then it faded.

  What about Harvey?

  21. HARVEY

  I couldn’t do it. Any of it. I had to let it all go.

  Touchdown at the airport, I was straight to the hospital.

  She claimed he was fine—repeatedly, telling me he’d need plenty of sleep while on the new medication. She didn’t want me to see him straight away—but that’s not something you say to someone.

  I’d taken everything with me. Sitting by his bed. Unable to sleep. Unable to think. Unable to do anything but stare ahead as the systems whirred and bleeped, monitoring him.

  My aunt arrived with a coffee in hand; a polystyrene cup and a smile.

  “You barely said a word all night,” she said.

  It had been an entire night—and it felt like it had been a blink in my sore eyes. “Thanks,” I mouthed, accepting the cup.

  My aunt had this curly afro of hair, it made her look like a Christmas tree with her large earrings as ornaments. I’d been thinking it for a while, every time she spoke as her head wobbled.

  I hadn’t told them I’d won, but I also hadn’t told them I couldn’t do it. The one time I left and my dad was in hospital. He was on antibiotics now and being monitored closely. They were strong, but he was already sick, they had to take him off some tablets to put him on these.

  “Talk to him,” she encouraged me.

  I didn’t want to. He was asleep. And even if he wasn’t, he looked too weak to even speak back. I just wanted to be there for him—I didn’t even care I’d won—it meant nothing if I’d be winning without my dad at my side.

  “Fine then,” she said, planting a hand on my knee.

  I couldn’t look at her in the eye. I knew the face, the sad face; red eyes, a wincing mouth ready to curl at the flick of a beat.

  “You could at least talk to me,” she said. “Tell me about camp.”

  I wasn’t saving her from tears, I was saving myself. The tears came anyway, delivered by a huff from my chest—they were slow but heavy, bubbling at my waterline.

  “I can’t,” I whimpered, “I can’t do it.”

  By my side, an arm around my back and shoulder as she squeezed me. “Come here,” she said, pressing her face to the side of mine. “It’s going to be ok. Next few days might be a struggle for your dad, but you’ll get through it.”

  “We will,” I offered back with more optimism.

  “We will, now, tell me about camp.”

  Three Weeks Later

  I had withdrawn that morning—my aunt tried talking me out of it, but my mind had been made. I didn’t regret it. My dad came first. He was in no shape to be on his own, and I was in no shape to leave him.

  In my mind, there was always another tournament, and I had the card for the Mitchell Agency, even if the scout was interested in everyone at the camp—most of them were paying the privilege of getting hi
s card.

  He’d been home two weeks after his stay in the hospital. It felt like old times, except, now I couldn’t let him do as much as he previously liked—and he wasn’t allowed to leave the flat, which was on the umpteenth floor.

  He sat in the living room by a fan, watching reruns on an old detective show. He complained more too: “it’s too hot” and “it’s too cold now.”

  I wouldn’t have been any good if I’d taken the offer, the first week I couldn’t do anything but sit by his side. The second week, he was under constant care, I didn’t want to leave him alone; waking to the medication alarm on my phone, even if my aunt was still showing me she had it under control.

  If I’d gone to the round-robin tournament, today would be the first day, and I had the live feed on my phone.

  “I told you, you could go,” my aunt said as I leaned against the kitchen counter. She was cutting the crusts off the whole-grain bread for my dad.

  “I already gave up my place,” I said, “and I wouldn’t have felt right, leaving you here.”

  “What about the boy?” she asked. “Will he be there?”

  “What b—” I’d told her I’d met a guy and he liked me—that was probably stupid on my part, I’d been emotionally raw, and everything came out when I was crying. “I’m sure he’ll be there.” In fact, I knew he was, I’d seen his name on the match fixtures, JORDAN WALSH with the union jack by his name.

  “Your dad doesn’t want you to wallow around until you get your results in August,” she said, “then what? You didn’t even apply to any universities.”

  I wasn’t surprised to see Sasha’s name, looking to my phone. She’d failed to cinch an invite at the camp, but she already had one with her name on. I think she failed on purpose so Jana would win—and she did. The female’s final was between her and Violetta.

  “Harv,” she said, snapping a finger at me. “Your dad doesn’t want you to waste your life here, you have so much opportunity out there, and if he has to see you in sadness while he’s sick, it’s going to hurt him.” She said through a whisper, her teeth near gritted together.

  The kitchen was only a couple feet away from the living room—he’d heard everything she’d said, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t told me himself.