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The first thing he registers is pleasure. The second, warmth. Warmth like a cocoon, pleasure like a dream. Kisses to the back of his neck, to his bare shoulders. He shudders, sighs.
“Good morning,” Carlos says. The most polite he’s ever been. His voice, graveled with sleep, pitched as low as Juan Carlos has ever heard it.
“Hmm, morning.”
Carlos smiles against his shoulder and nips the skin. Then he moves down the bed. Before Juan Carlos realizes what’s happening, pleasure consumes him like a deluge.
“Oh, oh, Charly, no—practice today,” is Juan Carlos’s half-hearted protest.
“I’ll make it quick,” Carlos says. The thrum of his low voice makes Juan Carlos grow hard so fast that he believes Carlos. How did they get here? What events led to this moment? Juan Carlos remembers landing in New York last night, jet lagged and exhausted, and going straight to his hotel room for a shower. He remembers Carlos knocking on his door, saying hi and then kissing him breathless. They’d had sex. And then Carlos had held him in his arms and told him about his last few weeks. They’d fallen asleep together in this bed. And now Carlos is waking him up with his hot, wet mouth on Juan Carlos, like they are newlyweds on their honeymoon.
One of Juan Carlos’s hands winds its way through Carlos’s hair, the other he bites down on to silence himself. The pain adds to the pleasure, and, despite himself, he gently rolls his hips to chase the heat of Carlos’s mouth. When did this become okay? He knows he should stop this, and God knows he has tried. But Carlos is an onslaught, is a force that won’t be denied. And for all that Juan Carlos has battled against, in this one instance, there was no fight to be had.
He winds his fingers further into Carlos’s thick hair and twists. Carlos groans with pleasure and takes Juan Carlos further down his throat. His hand grips Juan Carlos’s thigh, thumb digging into the flesh. It’s not hard enough to hurt. Juan Carlos wishes it was, but he’d never tell Carlos that. He had already crossed too many lines by letting their relationship take this turn; revealing any further deviancy to Carlos, corrupting his innocence any more than he already had, was something Juan Carlos could not bear the thought of.
“Going to come,” Juan Carlos whines. His other hand trails down and grips Carlos’s where it digs into his thigh. The soft, wet pull of Carlos’s mouth beckons him to pleasure. It is a pleasure so divine that it makes Juan Carlos feel sick with guilt. No one, least of all him, should get to have Carlos this way. Yet, when the boy was nineteen, he had cornered Juan Carlos in a hotel room much smaller and much less luxurious than this one, and had refused to take no for an answer. He had chosen Juan Carlos, had decided that that night, his desire was what mattered most—more than boundaries, more than Juan Carlos’s wish to stay professional. But still, Carlos had not been the one to blame. It was Juan Carlos who had been weak, who had given in completely when the boy had kissed him breathless.
Their trysts since then have happened not infrequently, but with the understanding that they each had other people in their lives. Juan Carlos would never willingly leave Eva and their three children. Besides, he knows that Carlos doesn’t want him to, because he doesn’t want Juan Carlos to experience any more pain than he already has. A sweet, if unrealistic wish for the man he loves. Carlos, on the other hand, is young, rich and successful, and everyone wants to bask in his light. His vacations with his friends serve as thinly-veiled excuses to indulge in pleasures of the flesh. Hedonistic days spent in the sun and water and in beds with high thread count sheets with women, sometimes, but recently, increasingly with other men. Juan Carlos tells himself he wants all of that and more for Carlos, for life to be that sweet to him for as long as it possibly can be.
When Juan Carlos climaxes, his eyes close and he gasps for breath. He revels in the pleasure, clings to its pulsing sparks for as long as he can. Carlos pulls off, finishes Juan Carlos off with a slick hand that strokes him lovingly.
“Good?” Carlos asks. If his voice was a little rough with sleep before, it is now completely wrecked. Juan Carlos laughs quietly. He reaches out for Carlos and pulls him down for a kiss. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re good. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Always. It’s a good feeling, isn’t it? Your coach telling you you’re good.”
“Hopefully not as good a feeling as winning.”
“Oh, it’s up there.” Carlos smiles into their kiss. Juan Carlos wraps his arms around Carlos’s back and strokes his spine. He’s more awake now, and realizes Carlos’s mouth tastes like toothpaste, while his own must taste like bad morning breath. Yet Carlos is kissing him like that’s the furthest thing from his mind. Affection surges inside him, and he rolls them over gently so that he’s halfway on top. Carlos goes easily. He can be so compliant sometimes, especially when he’s hoping for something.
It doesn’t take long to get Carlos off. The boy was already hard. He arches into Juan Carlos’s touch, the perfect planes of his body rippling with pleasure as he climaxes. On another occasion, Juan Carlos might marvel at it, that perfect sculpted torso. Right now, though, he just wants to keep kissing the boy.
A boy, to be sure, no matter how many times he tells Juan Carlos that he’s a man now, so treat him like one. But Juan Carlos remembers being twenty-two, and how delusional he was at that age. He remembers people around him feeding that delusion, making it worse, until one day there was nothing left to be deluded about anymore, and all that was left was the hollowed husk of glory gone unfulfilled. It’s why he tries to be so matter-of-fact with Carlos and with the media when they ask about him. He wants to be the grounded one, the safe landing place, if the day ever comes that Carlos’s fortune changes.
For now, though, there is work to be done.
-
“We’re late, Carlos. I’ve talked to you about this. You need to respect the other players’ time.”
Carlos isn’t listening. There’s music thrumming from his headphones and he’s scrolling on his phone. Juan Carlos slaps his leg.
“What?” Carlos lifts one headphone from his ear.
“I said we’re late. Don’t let this happen again.”
Carlos grins and leans back in his seat. “You sure you don’t want it to happen again?” His eyes dart to Juan Carlos’s crotch, then back up.
“Yes,” Juan Carlos hisses. “Yes, I’m sure that I want you to pay more attention to being on time.”
After Carlos had gotten him off with his mouth, and then Juan Carlos had jerked Carlos off in return, Carlos had dragged Juan Carlos into the shower and taken his time kissing him lazily. At some point, they’d heard Albert banging on the door, but just exchanged glances, laughed, and then ignored it. Juan Carlos doesn’t want to admit how turned on he got when Carlos had said Not gonna rush this morning. I missed you too much, Juanki. Then he’d pinned Juan Carlos against the shower wall and shoved his tongue down his throat.
Their van rolls to a stop and they grab all the equipment from the trunk. Musetti is already there on the practice court, stretching out and chatting with his team. He perks up when he spots Carlos. The boys and their teams greet each other. Juan Carlos is glad they were able to get this practice on the books. He hadn’t been there for Carlos’s final against Lorenzo in Monte-Carlo, no matter how badly he’d wanted to be, but he’d gotten the rundown from Samuel. Samuel had told him he’d been impressed with how Musetti could perform on clay, and by how much he’d improved recently. Juan Carlos is glad he’ll be able to observe Lorenzo’s current game in person this time, albeit on a hard court. With pleasantries out of the way, Lorenzo and Carlos take their spots on opposite ends of the court. They start hitting, and Juan Carlos takes his own place in Carlos’s shadow.
Samuel had also told Juan Carlos what Carlos said in his interviews after winning Monte-Carlo—about having had a tough year. Juan Carlos had immediately known what Carlos was referring to. After the Olympic final last year, things hadn’t gone too well. Juan Carlos hadn’t been all that concerned—dips in performance were regular in Olympic years, even for the all-time greats—but Carlos’s father had been. What had started as a small disagreement escalated with each one of Carlos’s subsequent losses. Carlos had been aware of this tension, and it had made him take the losses harder. A truly terrible, vicious cycle. Winning the Beijing tournament had been a temporary balm for all the involved parties, but even that had been too close for comfort for Carlos’s father.
Things had come to a head after this year’s Australian open loss to Novak. Carlos’s father wanted Juan Carlos out. Carlos fought his father over this. He’d put his foot down—this was his team, his career, and he had no intention of letting Juan Carlos go.
After Australia, Carlos had come back to the academy with renewed focus, with a look in his eye that was different. He worked just as hard as he’d ever worked, but with a fire in him that was beyond the normal desire for titles and success. And in private, he would find Juan Carlos whenever he could, would hold him close, would kiss him like it was the last time he would ever get the chance to.
The wins had started coming, then. Rotterdam, Monte-Carlo, Rome. And then, Roland Garros. Carlos’s miracle. He’d looked up at Juan Carlos from three match points down and nodded, as if to say I'm still here. I can still fight. Like a battle-bruised warrior, possessed by a sheer refusal to die. Juan Carlos had watched on in awe as Carlos came back to win the game, then break Jannik’s serve, then win the set. When Carlos won the match, the world faded away. The next few moments were a blur, but he remembers crouching down at the top of the stairs and holding the boy in his arms, lifting him off the ground and whispering words of praise in his ear that he couldn’t recall now if he tried.
That night, Carlos had gotten Juan Carlos on his hands and knees and fucked him gently, slowly, taking all the time in the world. He’d whispered loving things in Juan Carlos’s ear. Things like I did it for you. So that I could keep you. So no one could ever tell us to be apart. Juan Carlos had already cried so much that day, but he’d teared up again, reached back and stroked a shaking hand through the boy’s hair and thanked him, chided him, told him he loved him.
Juan Carlos is thinking of all of this when movement in his peripheral vision brings him back to the present. A group of people are entering the practice court area and making their way in. At first, Juan Carlos doesn’t recognize anyone, so he directs his attention back to Carlos’s strokes. Everything looks good. There is something in particular Juan Carlos wants to practice—returning wide serves—but that’s not for today. Today, it’s good to just get some movement in.
The group at the edge of the courts makes their way towards them. Juan Carlos looks again and sees Rublev. Behind him, a tall, unkempt figure with long, curly hair. It’s—but it can’t be.
Lorenzo wins the practice set with a nice little dropshot, and their session is over. They’ll have to clean up and get out for the next set of people who booked the practice court. Juan Carlos takes a moment to give Carlos a few notes. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes Rublev’s team moving in. All of a sudden, Juan Carlos is nervous. He takes off his cap and runs his hand through his hair several times. Then he stops by the bench to put away Carlos’s rackets. When he can no longer put off greeting the man looking at him by busying himself, Juan Carlos straightens out and smiles in greeting.
“Marat, my god, it’s good to see you. Where have you been hiding out? It’s been, what, six, seven years? Since Marbella?”
“I guess. Seven years...you don’t seem worse for wear, though. Keeping it tight, aren’t you?” Marat smirks. His eyes immediately trail down Juan Carlos’s body. His large hands pat Juan Carlos’s back, his abs over his jacket. “You must join the boy for all his workouts.”
Something about the way Marat says the boy turns Juan Carlos’s stomach. It transports him back to a different time. Back to the locker rooms of the aughts, where the men had nothing to do but make crude jokes. They’d made jokes about him, too, about his relationship with Toni. Juan Carlos learned how to change the subject fast in those days. It’s a skill he’s not forgotten.
“Yeah yeah, whatever. What about you? You’ve added some tattoos to the collection, I see.” The corner of Marat’s mouth quirks up.
“Hi Marat,” Carlos cuts in. He holds his hand out for a quick greeting. “It’s great to meet you,” he says. Juan Carlos stands back to let them have a moment to speak. He runs his hand through his hair one more time.
“Likewise,” Marat replies. “Just catching up with your coach, here. We’re old friends.”
“Yeah, go for it, I’ll join you guys again in a sec. Just gonna grab my things to make space for the next players.”
“By all means.”
Carlos smiles and returns to the bench to gather his things.
“So when did you join Rublev’s—”
“Funny you should mention my tattoos, when I seem to recall one of yours—where was it again?” Marat wastes no time grabbing a fistful of Juan Carlos’s jacket and shirt and rucking them up, exposing his bare stomach to the air.
“What are you doing?” Juan Carlos splutters. He gestures to the spectators around the practice courts. There’s people around.”
“Oh, there’s the little dragon. I always wondered why you got it so close to your dick. But hey,” Marat’s eyes narrow. “Looks like someone’s been trying to bite the little dragon clean off your body.” He looks Juan Carlos dead in the eye, and then, so quickly that Juan Carlos could almost believe he’s imagined it, Marat’s gaze flickers to Carlos.
The blood drains from Juan Carlos’s face. He’s been exposed, found out, surely. His brain scrambles to mount a defense, but he’s saved when Alberto comes in for a handshake with Marat. Juan Carlos shoves his shirt back down his pants. From the bench, Carlos looks at him quizzically. He just smiles, keeps straightening his clothes back out, and lets Juanjo and Alvaro greet Marat, too.
To say Juan Carlos was unprepared for this is an understatement. Everyone else that knew Juan Carlos from his time on tour was content to simply offer words of admiration for what he’d done as a coach when they ran into him. Their voices might be laced with a tinge of pity for his career, or maybe even jealousy for what he’d managed to add to his legacy. But overall, they behaved professionally with him. Marat had never been ‘everyone else’, though. Always a pain in his side, always a worry, a danger.
Marat settles back by Juan Carlos’s side, and they look over to the next court where Novak is practicing. “I saw the draw,” Marat says. Like nothing just happened. Juan Carlos is angry about it, but also relieved they’re not talking about it more. He can’t even talk about it with Albert or Juanjo, people he’s seen every day for the last seven years. “Your boy could play him again.”
“His name is Carlos. And yeah, he could. We’re working on it.”
“I’m sure you are, coach.”
“You’re a coach now, too, aren’t you? How is it?”
“Pain in the ass. But I was going broke, so.”
Juan Carlos laughs. “Living tax-free in Monaco not helping?”
“Oh, here comes Saint Juan Carlos to lecture me on my behavior, as if I didn’t just see a hickey on his abs. Where’s your wife right now, Juanki?”
“Stop, Marat, my god. We are in public. It’s not—it’s not a hickey,” Juan Carlos hisses. He is lying through his teeth, like a teenager getting caught by a parent. This is what he’s become. “You don’t see me for seven years and the first thing you do is—” He cuts himself off. Forces himself to take a deep breath. Goddamn.
“Sorry, sorry. I’ll behave. You know, it really has been many years. We should catch up properly.”
Juan Carlos glances up at Marat. The last time Juan Carlos had seen him for the seniors’ tournament in Marbella, he’d looked about the same as when they had been pros, just with a few more lines around the eyes. Now, though, he really does look so different from before. His beard is dotted with grey, his hair is long—Juan Carlos hadn’t even known Marat’s hair was naturally so curly because it had never been this long before. All the new tattoos, and the bigger belly too. What happened to him? Was it Covid that did him in, that made him so unrecognizable? Juan Carlos wants to ask, even though he knows it would be rude. But when Juan Carlos meets Marat’s gaze, he’s floored by the familiarity in it. He’s the same as ever—and so are those eyes with mischief and mirth in them, always finding something to be interested in. Still Marat, then. Still an old, old friend.
“Sure,” Juan Carlos says. His guard drops ever so slightly. “When I’m not at practice, we can meet.”
“Hmm.”
Finished gathering his things, Carlos greets Marat again, this time at length. Juan Carlos can tell Carlos is impressed with Marat’s Spanish. Everyone always is.
“So good to meet you, man, I can’t believe we haven’t met before. You should come to Spain, come visit us at the academy.”
“Yes, yes, I do miss Spain. Many good memories there for me. I’ll have to come again soon.”
“Yeah, and I wanna hear stories about you and Juanki.”
“Oh, I have stories. I suppose he hasn’t told you any of them, probably just lectures you. Don’t know how you can stand him as your coach. So uptight.” Carlos laughs loudly at that.
“Well, the results speak for themselves,” Juan Carlos interjects.
Carlos and Marat exchange a glance and grin at each other. It unsettles Juan Carlos. The instinct to hide Carlos behind him, to tell him to stay as far away from Marat as he possibly can, rises in him. Marat may be a hermit now, but Juan Carlos remembers what he was like. Three blonde women in short skirts in his box at the Australian open final, bar fights the nights before matches, getting fined for exposing himself on court. Back then, the world had eaten his antics up, had found him an entertaining character. But the world where Marat had had his heyday no longer exists, so he doesn’t want Carlos getting any ideas.
“Carlos, we better go,” Albert calls. There’s a lunch with a sponsor they need to get to.
“See you around, man.”
“See you around, little champ. Juan Carlos,” Marat adds. “I mean it. Let’s catch up later.”
“Yeah, okay. Yeah, I’ll see you.”
Marat nods, then joins Rublev for practice. Juan Carlos can’t help but wonder what Marat is going to help Andrey with, and if it’s going to cause trouble for Carlos. He also wonders what it would be like to spend as much time with this version of Marat as Andrey will be. And, in the back of his mind, he wonders what kind of relationship they will form.
-
That night, Carlos comes to his room again. He orders room service for the two of them. Grilled chicken and roasted vegetables for both, and plenty of it. Wine, too, but only for Juan Carlos. They eat and chat about things other than tennis as much as possible. Carlos talks about Jaime doing well in a U-16 tournament, about one of his friends entering his final year of college, about another getting married soon. Juan Carlos listens, tries not to feel sorry for himself because of how old all of it makes him feel.
“Oh, and, uh, Germán is coming in a few days.”
“Oh,” Juan Carlos pauses. He sets his wine down. “That’s—that’s good.”
It was a topic of some disagreement between them. A little over a year ago, Carlos had formed a friendship with the journalist from Murcia who had been following his career. Then, a few months later, he had invited him on one of those little vacations as a friend. One thing had led to another, and now they were sleeping together regularly. Juan Carlos wouldn’t have minded, normally, provided Carlos was taking the usual precautions—discretion, safe sex, regular testing, the works—but Germán was a journalist. It was just too close for comfort. When Carlos had told him, Juan Carlos had to fight back the urge to scream. Was he crazy? Did he want his indiscretions to be leaked to the world? But he’d forced himself to calm down.
Carlos, why? You know the risk, I don’t have to tell you. As soon as he’d said it, he’d realized the hypocrisy. Juanki Carlos had pleaded. He had sounded so vulnerable. His boy, all sunshine and rainbows, begging for understanding. Anything I do will always be a risk. I take that risk every time I kiss you, because I love you. But a few nights here and there with you—they’re more than I ever thought I could have, and I wouldn’t ask for more, and yet, I must be greedy, because they still aren’t enough. And he doesn’t expect exclusivity, like—like some of the other women or even the guys I met did. And I know the danger. But I trust him. I really do. And what could Juan Carlos have said to that, really?
Carlos clears his throat uncomfortably. He is so young, but he handles himself so well, in every aspect of his life. Even now, he is trying to be careful of Juan Carlos’s feelings.
“So, yeah, he’ll get here by the time the first round starts. And I might spend a couple of nights with him. Just wanted to let you know.”
“I still don’t think it’s a good idea. Do whatever you want.”
Juan Carlos avoids Carlos’s eyes, unable to believe the tone he’d just used. Immature, petty. Not adult at all. He picks up his wine glass and takes several deep sips. When he looks back at Carlos, he’s smiling.
“Don’t be jealous, Juanki.” Carlos reaches across the table and laces his fingers in Juan Carlos’s. “You know I love you more than anyone. I just like him, too.”
And that’s the real problem, isn’t it? Juan Carlos is jealous. Even though he has absolutely no fucking right to be. He’s cheating on Eva, on the mother of his three children, and he is almost certain that she knows, or at least he lives in constant fear of her finding out. Carlos is his mistress, his side piece, they’re nothing at all, they’re not real. He can’t give Carlos a real relationship; he can’t be his boyfriend. Germán had came along—tall, classically handsome, older than Carlos but not so old as to have a wife and children. Fit, deep voice, willing to mold himself to Carlos’s schedule. How could Juan Carlos not feel possessive of the boy he’d had in his care for seven years when Carlos started to look at someone else with stars in his eyes?
Even Albert had been supportive of Carlos, which had felt like such a betrayal. It’s good, Juanki. Less eyes on the two of you.
Juan Carlos squeezes Carlos’s hand. “I am jealous,” he says through gritted teeth. “No point in lying to you about that. But I won’t stop you. I want you to—to have fun, and to experience healthier relationships. Not just this, not just whatever I’m doing to you.”
“You’re not doing anything to me. You only ever make me better. I promise.”
“Carlos—”
“I’m not having this discussion with you for the hundredth time. Instead, why don’t you use those nights to have some fun of your own?”
That catches Juan Carlos off guard. “What do you mean?” Does Carlos expect him to go clubbing, at forty-five, with three kids who already think less of him because of how absent he’s been all their lives and a wife who accuses him of chasing the ghost of his own youth by following Carlos around the world?
“Chill, Juanki. I just meant you should go sightseeing or something. Or maybe catch up with some friends of your own. Aren’t you excited to see Marat again?”
Oh, that. “Sure, sure.”
“I mean it. It would be good for you.”
Juan Carlos extricates his hand from Carlos’s grip to reach over and smack his head. “Don’t you start lecturing me about what’s good for me. Finish your food.”
“Yes, daddy.” Carlos laughs. Juan Carlos can’t help himself; he laughs too. Then smacks his head again.
“Shut up, you little brat. God you’re insufferable.”
After they finish eating, they go about their nightly routines, puttering in and out of the bathroom. More than once, Carlos catches Juan Carlos around the waist and kisses his cheek, neck, temple. Then Carlos puts something on Netflix, and they settle into bed. It doesn’t take long before Carlos throws an arm around Juan Carlos’s shoulder and pulls him into his side. It had taken time for Juan Carlos to accept displays of affection like this from Carlos—ones where he was the, for lack of a better word, woman—at least outside of sex. But nowadays, it comes easy. He settles into Carlos’s side further, resting his head on his chest. He wonders how he is allowed to have this, and when it will all come crashing down. Vaguely, he registers Carlos kissing the top of his head, and it soothes him. The hum of the television and the warmth of Carlos’s embrace drown out the last of his worries, and he falls asleep.