Break a Sweat: MM Sports Romance

by Joe Satoria

  “Fuck.”

  Refreshing—my finger stubbing at the reload button in the corner of my phone screen. Nothing new.

  A gentle tap knocked at the bedroom door. “You up?”

  How could I tell my aunt I was awake but not wanting to talk to anyone, unless it had something to do with my dad—but he’d been doing better, the infection on his lungs had cleared and his breathing was fine. He was still affected by MS, but my aunt was mostly taking care of him now—she refused to let me help.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ok,” she said, “would you like some oats? I’m making your dad some. Or,” her voice become hushed, “Sausages? Bacon? I won’t tell him.”

  “I’m ok,” I said back, my hand rubbing down my chest, I should’ve had something to fill my stomach, but I didn’t want it to burn my oesophagus on the way back up.

  “Well, let us know when you do,” she said.

  They were both waiting, probably sitting around trying to be quiet so I wouldn’t hear them talking. I’d been walking around the flat with a pit in my stomach and an inability to focus on what anyone was saying for weeks.

  It was a mixture of nerves but also reliving the words and memories from weeks ago. Just when I thought there was someone out there I liked—he was the same as everyone else.

  I’d grown up telling myself not to get attached to anything; my dad had told me that. He told me it after the first time my mother was going to visit, she’d left me with him when I was three, and then yearly, I was let down by her—on my birthday, at Christmas, or any time I heard she was coming. I knew better.

  Everyone always let me down—except my dad.

  It’s why I was so stressed about my aunt sticking to her word and helping out—he was her brother, after all. But she was the exception, most people let me down—my mother being prime suspect, followed by my first boyfriend Will, several sports coaches, and now Jordan.

  Refresh.

  Refresh.

  Results.

  English: B

  Ok, that made sense, I did well in the coursework—I got an A for that, not hard, but my test score definitely pulled it down.

  Sociology: B

  Again, easily done. I wasn’t worried about it. I was predicted an A, but I couldn’t focus during the test and that definitely pulled it down.

  Film studies: B

  Ok. Surprised. I only took it because I’d heard it was an easy A-level. I thought I’d failed that, I didn’t pay any attention, and skipped a lot of those classes to make sure my dad was ok.

  My finger continued to scroll, looking for the final grade.

  It wasn’t there. It was because I’d failed. One test and I’d failed.

  Refresh.

  Refresh.

  Psychology: C

  It was graded. It wasn’t bad—it was still a trash grade and I probably couldn’t get into university to do anything with it, and it wouldn’t even count to the UCAS points for university. They only counted the top three, and my top three made 120 points.

  “Harv!” my dad called out.

  I jumped out of bed, quick on my feet as I raced to the living room. “What?”

  “You have a visitor,” he said from his spot on the couch, nodding to my aunt in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “At the door? Or—” I looked back to see the front door in the hallway. I hadn’t heard it open—but I also hadn’t been paying attention to anything other than trying to google away everything and answer all the questions I had.

  “Hi.” Jordan Walsh stood, filling the frame of the doorway as my aunt moved. He wore a pair of black ripped jeans, stretched around his thighs, and a white vest top, I could see it through the unbuttoned shirt he wore.

  “Dad,” I turned to him, “I—”

  “Is he the—” my aunt said, turning slightly and smiling.

  “Can we talk?” he asked, his eyes looking me over.

  I was wearing the t-shirt he’d left. It drowned me, but it was the perfect t-shirt to wear at night. It was long, too long, making me appear naked—but I was wearing a pair of shorts, rolled at the waist band over my stomach. “I don’t want to.”

  “Harv, here him out,” my aunt said, pawing my hand.

  “Go on,” my dad encouraged, “I still have my walking stick, I can hit you.”

  Jordan smiled, and I would’ve too—but he was standing there, in the flat, the last place I ever wanted to see him—the last place I would have ever invited him.

  “No,” I said once again, leaving on a quick foot back to my room.

  It wasn’t less than five seconds later when a knock came.

  “Go away.”

  The door opened with Jordan sticking his foot between the space—refusing to let me close it again. But now he’d seen my room—he’d seen the mess; he’d seen it all.

  “It took me forever to find out where you lived,” he said, “I’ve been trying for weeks.”

  “Weeks?”

  He nodded. “The night I got home, I moved out,” he said. “I took as much as I could, anything worth anything, and my money from my bank. Then I left.” He stepped into the cramped room, closing the door as he rested against it. “I owe you more than an apology, I owe you more than just to tell you I’m sorry. I want to—to show you.” His eyes grew red, teary.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I—I want to give it all to you,” he said, “the way my dad said those things, my mum talking about therapy. I had to leave there and then.”

  “But you—but you didn’t even say goodbye, you didn’t give me your number or anything.”

  “It happened too quickly,” he said, “I didn’t want to say goodbye because I—I didn’t want to leave you. You only say goodbye to people you’re leaving, and—”

  I grabbed his hand, tugging him into the seat on the bed beside me. It was a mess, but he was vomiting his feelings all over me. “I’m used to it,” I told him, “the only real fixture in my life is my dad, and I was dreaming to myself thinking there was anything between you and I.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he said, squeezing his sweaty palm in my equally sweaty palm. “I’m giving you everything I have. I took your space at the FFT, I treated you like you were disposable when you’re the only thing that makes me feel like my feet are on the ground.”

  “I don’t want anything”

  He squeezed at my hand again. “I told you in Germany. I love you.” His eyes bubbling over with tears. “I’ve been trying to find you for weeks to tell you again, I didn’t want you to think I said it because I thought that’s what you wanted to hear.”

  I was surrendering to him, like the walls of everything I was had built were being chiselled to the ground, and I was giving him full reign to step inside. “I—I—” I wasn’t going to say it, my tongue tied at the sound.

  “Can you kiss me, so I don’t cry,” he sniffled.

  I leaned in, my lips pressed together. He tucked a hand behind my head, pressing my face to his.

  I pulled back. “No.” My tongue ran across my teeth.

  “What?”

  “I—just woke up.” I looked back to my phone. “I got my results.”

  “You pass?”

  “Weirdly.”

  “That won’t matter,” he said, “I’ve already paid for you a coach, I’ve got money for registration fees. You’ve got what it takes to go all the way. I believe in you, and you have something I don’t—raw talent.”

  His words didn’t sink in.

  He’d paid for a coach.

  “What?”

  “I’m glad I found you, because if I didn’t, I already paid for the coach—and he was expensive. So?” he sucked in, “what do you say?”

  I didn’t know—the salary of a coach was more money than me or my dad had to live off in probably three years. Jordan had thrown that down with the information I was going to be trained.

  “So?” he asked again.

  “You actually believe in me.”<
br />
  He took my hand, holding it for a moment. “Of course,” he said, his eyes looking around—left to right, up and down. “I also had another question.”

  “Go on.”

  He pulled both my hands into his, across his lap. “Be my boyfriend.”

  “Is that a question?” I gulped.

  “Well?”

  My brows raised.

  “Fine,” he smirked. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

  I leapt into his arms with his baggy t-shirt dragged behind me. He fell back on the bed. “Yes, I will,” I said. “No, where the hell are you living?”

  He tugged his collar. “That’s the thing—”

  EPILOGUE

  HARVEY

  Three Years Later

  It was no secret I loved Jordan Walsh. It was also no secret I tried not to fall in love with him, but after three years of being together, I couldn’t continue to lead him on, telling him I liked him that I liked him a lot, like a lot a lot.

  In bed beside me, his snore turned to a snort.

  I slapped at him, nudging him in the side.

  “Harv, baby, go to sleep,” he grumbled.

  “You’re snoring,” I said, raising a hand to pinch his nose.

  He choked himself awake. “What—what time is it?” he shot up in a panic. “Are you training today?”

  “Babe,” I groaned out, pulling his torso back into the duvet. “It’s Sunday.”

  Before falling back, he shot up again. “I have to open the gym.”

  I pulled him back. “No.”

  “It’s got my name on it,” he grumbled, “I have to open.”

  It was fifteen minutes after the alarm had gone off—I’d kept that from him. I enjoyed waking and being in the bliss of time and space where he was sleeping, resting on his chest recalling a time when this man ached in my heart.

  “Get up then,” I said, swotting him. “And make sure my dad isn’t annoying Ruthie.”

  “I gave Ruth the day off,” he said. “Plus, your dad is at your aunt’s house for the weekend.”

  “Oh, I forgot,” I grabbed an arm around his waist, pulling him back against me. “Then why are you going into work if you gave her the day off? I should train if you’re not going to be around.”

  “No, no, no,” he said, “no training.” He faced me, looking me in the eyes, smiling he pressed a finger on my nose. “You should come by the gym, not to train, but so I can take you out for lunch.”

  I rolled over in the large king-size bed. “Fine, but I’m going to hate spending time here without you,” I told him. “And if I tell Harbeck you let me laze around all day without getting some cardio in, he’ll make me work twice as hard tomorrow.”

  “We will get your cardio in,” he said, leaning out across to me as I stood and slipped my feet into the slippers at my side of the bed.

  Since qualifying for my first big money tournament, I’d been on quite the streak. Most recently the Nottingham “Nature Valley” Open in June, then the Hamburg Open in July at 21, last year, and the prize money that came along with it, I’d been doing pretty well. This year, I was aiming for ATP Finals in London. I was already within the qualified ATP ranking to get there.

  “Meet me for lunch, I have reservations,” he said.

  Pinched eyes, I looked back at him sprawled across the sheets, his naked body perfectly sculpted in the way it laid there, as if built from fine marble.

  “I’ll text you anyway,” he continued.

  “You didn’t mention reservations,” I mumbled, my eyes continued to trace out his body like they were the same chisel and pick used to create him. “It’ll give me time to go for a run anyway.”

  Since Jordan had left his family and the money they’d provided him growing up, and since he invested in me—I felt it was only fitting for it to work the other way. He didn’t love tennis like I did, he loved fitness, that’s what he loved, more than anything—even me.

  After paying out taxes and everyone I was employing, we set up a gym, it was my brand exclusive gym—that’s where I was supposed to train, but I still had a home gym. I also bought a house. It wasn’t large, but there was still more space than I had ever seen in my entire life.

  Each room had a room, no doubling down on rooms, and that was a first. My dad had his room here, but he spent time between here and my aunt’s house, although most of the time she was also here in the spare room.

  Ruthie was my nutritionist and personal chef, she was a necessity according to my coach—and from the look inside the fridge, there was a whole lot of stickered items with red crosses on them. I wasn’t allowed to touch them, that meant, there were also blue stickered crosses too, those were things my dad wasn’t allowed to eat.

  She’d already prepared me a breakfast protein shake, all it needed was a couple ice cubes thrown into the blender and it was good to go, a wake me up. Once blended, I added my straw and walked through to the gym room.

  “Leaving,” he called out, “don’t forget, lunch, gym, wear something nice.”

  “Wear something nice?” I grumbled back, pressing the straw to my lips.

  I thought we would have done something special today—or perhaps he’d forgotten. It was three years since he’d asked me to be his boyfriend. That was the whole point of me having a day off, not that it was a Sunday—and now I was reduced to having to pretend it wasn’t a special day.

  Chugging through my shake, slurping the bottom with the straw, I did my warm-up activities. I looked at myself and my form in the mirror. I’d worked on my flexibility and fitness for a while, left and right on my hips, bending forward without bending my knees to touch my toes and the ground.

  Three years since we’d been together. I wasn’t annoyed he’d forgot. I was annoyed because I had already planned a spontaneous trip and bought him a ring.

  My plan was to mention a hike today, in the morning, eat breakfast, go on a little walk together—then BAM on one knee, pop the question.

  That was out of the window now and I had to get ready to visit him. Of all places, we were going to a restaurant, and I wasn’t going to propose there, at least not while there were people who could snap pictures of my food—and if either Ruthie or my coach saw, it would be my cheat day for the month.

  My phone buzzed. Jordan had text.

  —reservations are at 1.

  My fingers powered to shoot him one back.

  —great, where?

  —no, meet me at the gym and we can go. He replied.

  I hated that answer, and he knew I hated it—I needed to know so I could look at the menu and see which was the best option to take. He wasn’t giving me that option, so I assumed it was on the pre-approved places.

  —see you later babe x

  —love you.

  —say it back

  He texted twice.

  —love you tooooo!

  It made me smile to no end. Every time he said it—the butterflies, even if they were marred and some had broken wings, those butterflies were still flitting around, creating caterpillars to blossom.

  The Grant Walsh Gym was a fifteen-minute drive away from the house. I would’ve taken one of the bicycles, except I was wearing something nice; a pair of form fitting slacks, a nice designer t-shirt, and the matching blazer. I’d combed a little gel through my hair and if I’d taken a bicycle, I’d have sweat patches and my hair would’ve frizzed out of control.

  Parking in the garage unit across the street, I had second thoughts. I frisked myself for his gift, perhaps I was dressed too smart for a lunch date, perhaps he’d know when he saw me.

  The glass windows looking in on the two-storey tall gym were covered. He hadn’t mentioned renovations, and if they needed blinds, the company was in the black, they could definitely afford them.

  —I’m here? Are you outside?

  —come in!

  —what’s up with the windows?

  —come in!

  I pulled on the handle and as I did, several balloons zoomed out
of the door from the suction. It took my focus for a moment, as I watched them bounce off down the street.

  Straight ahead, inside, Jordan was on one knee.

  There was a direct path without balloons, it lead straight to him.

  He wasn’t doing this—was he?

  “Harvey Elliott Grant.”

  I pushed away a silly smile, he always got my middle name wrong—except for right now. I stepped forward, continued on to him between two walls of balloons.

  Jordan let out a cough.

  “Harvey Elliott Grant, will you marry me?”

  He held a ring box out, pulling it back to reveal a golden band inside.

  I’d frozen—with everything in me, I’d frozen.

  His eyes widened as his brows knitted together. “Harv—”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” It came out, coughing from the back of my throat, sending tears down my cheeks. “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you. Yes!”

  POP.

  POP.

  BANG.

  Streamers came flying overhead as an explosion of cheers came.

  My dad—appearing at the right, pushed in his wheelchair by my aunt—crying, and for the first time, those tears weren’t sad tears. He pressed a shaky hand at his face, blotting his face.

  “Dad,” I said, as he held his hand out.

  “I’m happy for you son.”

  “Aww.” My aunt wiped her tears, “I don’t know how you kept it a secret for so long.”

  Jordan wrapped an arm at my waist, his chin on my shoulder as he pushed the box up close and personally to me. “Put it on then.”

  “Wait,” I said, turning to see the employees in the gym, Ruthie, my coach, they were all there, everyone he could get his hands on inviting.

  Mutters erupted.

  I pulled away from him and knelt, grabbing the gift from the inside pocket of my blazer. “Well, I was going to do it on a hike, but Jordan James Grant, will you—”

  “Yes!” he shouted, yanking me into his arms. “Of course I will—forever.” His words, soft in my face, pressing his kisses on my lips.

  “I love you.”

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have been writing for many years, and I had originally planned on releasing an altogether different book as my debut under Joe Satoria. Instead, I changed those plans, and I would like to thank some people for helping me.