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They get one hotel room, because it’s Davis cup, and with all the players from different countries and their entourages staying in just one hotel, there aren’t that many rooms to go around. And also because Carlos wants it. It’s a suite with two adjoined rooms, but that’s for optics. The second room is just for their stuff. As soon as they’re in there, Carlos wraps himself around Juanki, like a baby’s hand curling around a parent’s index finger. Finally, they’re alone. Carlos has been waiting for this. He’s earned this.
“Still sleepy? You slept most of the car ride here after we had lunch.”
“Yeah. Still sleepy.”
Juanki hums and strokes his hair. It feels so good. Carlos still hasn’t gotten used to it—it still doesn’t feel real, sometimes. Because it’s not real, not in the sense that Carlos can post about Juanki on Instagram the way he wants to, or kiss him full on the mouth when he wins like he wants to. But it also is real, because here they are, now, in Bologna, in the Davis Cup designated hotel, and Juanki is murmuring soft things in his ear. Miracle of a boy, I’m so lucky to be part of your story. Carlos lets the words sink into his skin, into his bones. It won’t be long before they’re back on a court where Juanki’s eyes will narrow in displeasure and he’ll root out all his imperfections again. For now, at least, Carlos just wants to bathe in this praise, wants to be cleansed in it and reborn in it.
Some time passes. Carlos detaches himself and goes to dress down for bed. He brushes his teeth and washes his face. Juan Carlos does the same, and then heads into the shower. Carlos passes time by scrolling on his phone in bed. He selects a few photos to post on Instagram, sends them to Albert on Whatsapp for approval and waits for a reply.
Juanki comes back into the room then, puffs of steam following him out from the bathroom. Gently, he picks up the phone from Carlos’s hand to set it aside.
“We have an MRI scheduled for you in the morning. The RFET doctor will look it over too.”
Carlos nods gravely. He wants Davis Cup badly, and he wants it this year, just like Juanki had it so many years ago. He wants all the things Juanki has had, and he wants them with Juanki there. Twenty-five years later has such a nice ring to it. He can see the headlines now, the photo ops. The interviews where they talk about their relationship. As close as Carlos can get to declaring his love for Juanki in public as he’ll ever get. But his hamstring is hurt, and that neat-and-tidy number is slipping away.
“If not this year, then the next. What do I always tell you?” Juanki asks as he climbs into Carlos’s lap. Suddenly, Carlos’s worries fade away. All he can think about is his hot coach in his lap, shirtless, tattoo peeking out of the waistband of his shorts, and his hair wet, and his skin moist and smelling like lavender.
“No need to rush things, I’ve got years, it takes time. Slow, incremental progress. No shortcuts.” But those shorts Juanki is wearing sure are short cut. Carlos can’t help himself, he trails a hand up under them and squeezes Juanki’s thigh. A grin spreads across his face. What was he worried about again?
“That’s right,” Juanki says, and then grinds back and down onto Carlos’s crotch. “Good boy, Charly. Very good.”
“Juanki, what—”
“Since you remember what I told you so well, you should have a reward.” Juanki leans in close. His went hair drips onto the sides of Carlos’s face, and his lips brush Carlos’s ear. “I cleaned up in the shower, baby.”
Later, Carlos won’t remember much of what happens next. Something in him takes over. A switch in his brain flips on, and his sleepiness evaporates. Suddenly, all that matters is the man in his lap, offering himself up as a reward, as a spoil of the war that this last year has been. Carlos grabs his waist and squeezes, surges up for a kiss. Juanki’s mouth is cool and sweet from his toothpaste, and tastes like Juanki.
Carlos flips them over without breaking away from Juanki’s mouth, like they are magnets unable to break apart. Sometimes Carlos thinks there really is something inside their bodies that makes them like this—touchy and drawn to one another. Chemical structures like keys and receptors, made for one another, like he’d learned about in middle school biology.
Juanki laughs into their kiss as he goes down onto his back. “Would tell you to take it easy, but not sure I want that.”
“Fuck, get it off,” Carlos urges. Juanki’s hips lift and Carlos pulls the shorts down his legs. They tangle around his feet.