Me: How late were you up last night?
Gabriel: Four. And did I figure out these fucking chords?
Me: You’ll figure the song out
Gabriel: Right after I gulp a pot of coffee
Gabriel: Kick those tennis balls in the ass, hubby
Me:Destroy those chords. Absolutely murder them
Gabriel sends me a devil emoji with a blue heart. It’s his standard one-two combo, and I send back a trophy before I shove the phone back in my gym bag.
I give myself two Gabriel text breaks each day. More than that and we’d be distracting each other.
And as the days go by, just the memory of Gabriel is distracting enough. Unlike before, I now know that we’re going to hook up when we see each other on our next visit. It puts me in a state of permanent horniness.
I can’t stop thinking about what we did. The way his rim felt, tensing and puckering against my mouth. The slick penetration of his fingers into a deep, raw part of me. Cum hot between our bodies, sweaty skin to sweaty skin.
And now I know we’re going to do more. Now I keep getting ideas, this panging need to suck on his toes, a sudden drive to mount Gabriel from behind. At least three times a day, I have to jerk off and release the steam that builds in me with every fantasy.
But that’s not what really distracts me. The truly distracting thing is how much I miss him. Even with our regular texts and a few quick phone calls to tide me over, I miss being near him. Smelling him. Admiring the ways he is so completely himself.
I’m in danger and getting confused again, and I scold myself that love is off the table.
The first match of the year is in Dallas, and by the time it arrives, I have to pull myself together into the mental state I need. My regular coaching team is assembled, and with the exception of my father being absent from his occasional appearance on the sideline, nothing has changed about my actual game.
Just about the world outside of it.
I’m pretty much used to the heightened attention I get in public. There are crowds at the airport and the hotel, supporters who came specifically because I’d walk by, not just the random sports fans who used to spot me.
This is it. Tomorrow I’ll start my first match as an out athlete. The opening tournament of a new season. Another chance to prove I’m the best.
Laser focus.
All that matters is that I win.
I’m the number four seed at this tournament, already ranked near the top. That means I’ll be placed against lower ranking players in the early rounds, the high-profile matches not until the end of the tournament. My first game is against a newcomer, but I stay just as disciplined as I would to meet the number one seed.
In the hotel, I turn my phone off and focus on studying his game, reviewing his patterns at the net, going over matches I’ve been watching all week. He’ll know my game inside and out, and I need to not give him any advantage.
I need to study the way his feet tangle when he’s coming off a weak serve, and how his backhand gives out late in every set.
When I turn my phone back on hours later, I’m disappointed that Gabriel didn’t text. It bothers me, which is ridiculous because he texted me this morning. But in bed, I’m tossing and turning as I try to fall asleep, stressed by the fact that hearing from him feels like a primal need.
Just sex, I remind myself. A friend with benefits. I’m capable of enjoying sex for the sake of sex.
When I wake up groggy, I almost spiral. This is a bad start to the day, and as the cracks start forming, all the other worries have a way of leaking in, from the homophobic audience that I know is rooting against me to the question of whether or not my father is watching at home. With one of Lost Storm’s albums on my headphones, I close my eyes as I’m driven to the tournament, working to regain the focus I had yesterday.
When I step out of the car and arrive at the tournament, there are immediately younger players on me, asking for autographs. I see glares and judgmental glances in the crowd as well, though, so I make nice but hurry into the stadium. The squeaking of shoes and thud of tennis balls fills the arena as people hurry about, and I lock myself in the solitude of my locker room. There’s a television set to a sports network, and they’re broadcasting live from the tournament.
“It will be the first tournament for Spencer Wilchins since the start of his very public relationship with Gabriel Drako.”
“Lots of pressure,” the other commentator agrees. “And lots of fans wondering if he’s going to hold up.”
“Or if too many late nights out with his husband will drag down his game,” the first man says with a chuckle.
I turn the TV off with a huff. “Fuckers.”
