Lonely At The Top:
The balls made dull but heavy
staccato sounds against the barely sturdy wall. Over the net, a single bounce
and smack! - hard enough to leave yet
another dent on it. It groaned beneath the punishment it was receiving as if
protesting the way it was being abused unnecessarily.
It was a relatively cool night;
the private tennis club now empty save for a few members strolling into the
nearby pub for a drink or two. No one paid much attention to the young man who
was dressed in only a pair of dark shorts and a pair of sneakers. No one seemed
to care that he was still out there, this late at night, practicing with an
unseen partner with a torrent of brutal serves that could weaken a lesser man.
His curly black hair was now
stuck to his scalp and forehead with sweat. His handsome features were flushed,
the muscles of his shoulders and back, rippling with each toss of the ball and
the subsequent and almost effortless motion of his serve. In his mind, he
counted – one thousand two hundred and one, one thousand two hundred and two –
his arms beginning to ache with his exertion. His knees were also beginning to
protest the strain, throbbing painfully with each movement he made now. However,
he paid no attention to any of his physical ailments for all he could see and
hear were the tabloids, the press and the commentators.
“A disappointing loss for Marat…”
“He definitely didn’t come out to win today…”
“He looked so flat-footed and kept missing his shots…”
“Quite a pathetic display of tennis after such a
brilliant performance the other day…”
“It’s true what they say. You never know what Marat to
expect…”
“At this rate, he’s never going to win
“Better yet, he should take care of his knees or he’ll
end his career.”
With a loud roar, he tossed
the ball as high as it could go and barely waiting for it to come back to
earth, he leapt to smack it into the net as hard as he could. He watched with
pained satisfaction at the hole it created before watching it slam into the
fence and remain there.
“I know that,” he muttered to
himself. “I know all that! Don’t you all fucking think I know that?!”
He limped towards the basket
of balls, seeing that he was almost running out. He would have to go around the
court to pick up the others and begin all over again. He didn’t care. He’d
continue to play all night long if he had to. This was his last night in
He was sick and tired of
hearing the same things from those people over and over again. His supposed ‘genius’
was always touted. They were always so quick to praise him and yet eager to
trash him down again when he wasn’t at his best. He frowned and scratched the
grass with the stub of his shoe, eyeing the green patch in quiet contemplation.
He could play on grass. He knew he could play on grass! Hadn’t he
reached the finals at the Gerry Webber Open just last week? Hadn’t he taken
Roger to a three setter when everyone had thought he would be a walkover? And
with a knee injury too! How come no one was talking about that anymore?!
“Don’t need them,” he
muttered with a glare. “I don’t need any of them to tell me what to do! Fuck!”
He reached for his racket
again and was just about to swing, when his knees finally gave way sending him
sprawling to the ground in a heap. Never was he so glad that he was alone and
there was no one around to see him in this state. It really was pathetic of
him, wasn’t it? He sat up slowly, biting his lower lip as he began to move with
his buttocks across the slightly damp grass. He didn’t stop until his back felt
the sturdy strength of the wall behind him.
He closed his eyes and lifted
his gaze to the heavens, trying to breathe evenly to ease the mind-numbing pain
creeping up his spine. He knew without a doubt now that his surgery could no
longer be delayed. He was frightened – terrified of going under the knife. Who
knew what awaited him after it all? Would he even be able to play tennis again?
If anything went wrong…it would be the end of a career that had made him into
what he was today. He couldn’t afford to lose that. All he had was tennis now.
He could still try his hands at soccer but it wouldn’t be the same. He really,
truly enjoyed the surge of adrenaline that came from playing one-on-one with
his opponents across the net.
“I can’t…I don’t want to lose
it all…”
“Marat?”
Lashes flew open at the
tentative voice and his sharp brown gaze met the curious ones of none other
than Roger Federer – the golden boy who was still cruising through his matches
enroute to another
Marat felt like gagging.
“Roger,” he greeted politely
enough while managing a small smile. He would have loved to have risen to his
feet to show the real ‘genius’ that he was doing all right, but his knees
seemed unable to cooperate with him. The Russian knew he’d have to sit this one
out this time around.
“I wasn’t sure it was you,”
the Swiss was saying as he pushed open the gate to let himself into the court.
He was dressed in a pair of casual dark slacks and a pale blue dress-shirt,
which Marat had to reluctantly agree, looked good on the other man.
He stubbornly kept silent,
simply not in the mood to talk this evening. However, it didn’t seem as if that
was going to deter Roger. The Swiss smiled softly and walked up to his touted
rival, wondering again for the one-millionth time why he was out here. He had
come to the club to have a few drinks with his coach and two up and coming
tennis stars. His girlfriend had refused to join him tonight, saying she was
too tired. However, it still didn’t explain why he had told the others to leave
without him so he could come here to meet the Russian. It felt as if a part of
him ought to apologize for some reason.
“Do you mind if I sit with
you?” he asked quietly and not waiting for Marat’s response, he made himself
comfortable on the grass…hardly caring that his expensive pants would be messed
up as a result of it. Marat simply raised a brow, watching the Swiss for a
moment before shaking his head softly.
“What do you want, Roger? I
am not really in the mood to…”
“We can just sit here and be
quiet then,” Roger interrupted with a small smile. “I’m not much of a talker
anyway.”
Yeah, you aren’t, Marat thought with a bitter smile. “You just bulldoze your way through
the draw.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh…”
They fell silent again,
neither player looking at each other and yet both knowing that there was so
much to say.
Roger swallowed tightly and
raised his knees to his chest, wondering yet again why he almost always felt
this awkward around Marat – at least when they were alone. There was an obvious
magnetism around the Russian that Roger would have been a fool to ignore. That
infectious charm and his dashing good looks had got him on the covers of many
magazines all over the world. Everyone liked Marat even if he wasn’t playing
his best. He was a crowd pleaser and could easily win the hearts of everyone he
came in contact with.
“Why the sigh?”
Roger blinked at the
question. He hadn’t even been aware he had done so. “Ah…I was just…thinking…”
he finally replied with a light shrug. “My match tomorrow…”
“Which you will win,” Marat
stated flatly. The pain in his knees wasn’t so bad now but he didn’t feel like
getting up either. Roger sitting this close to him was kind of…nice. And besides,
whatever cologne he was wearing smelled just as good too.
“It’s not going to be an easy
match,” Federer began quickly as if trying to apologize for playing so well.
“He’s a tough opponent and…”
“And you’ll win the match in
straight sets as usual,” Marat interrupted, turning his head a little to pin a
somewhat fierce gaze on his rival. He watched Roger’s cheeks flare with color
and he shook his head lightly. “What you need is a good workout.”
Roger’s heart skipped a beat.
He knew what Safin meant but another stray and all too naughty part of his mind
thought of something completely different. He made a small sound that was
almost like a whimper and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he opened them
again to smile softly. “You make it sound like I don’t even try.”
“Well do you?” He didn’t
really mean to sound that cold, but he couldn’t help it. That damn cologne and
Roger’s sudden shyness around him was beginning to affect Marat in a way he
didn’t and couldn’t really explain.
“That’s not fair, Marat,”
Roger protested with a pained look in his eyes. “I do train hard just like you
do. Do you think being in my shoes is that fun?”
When Marat said nothing,
Roger sighed and continued quietly, his gaze fixed ahead and yet staring at
nothing. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be shunned in your own
country? Most of them don’t like me because I win too much. I even hear that
there are people who wish I was never a tennis player at all and that I’m a
disgrace for making all my matches seem so…easy.”
“Well you do…”
“Is it a bad thing now to be
good at what I do?” Roger suddenly flared up in frustration. Those usual calm
black eyes now blazing with an intensity that sent Marat’s cheeks turning a
dull red. “You all make it sound like I’m some…plague or something. It’s hard.
You have no idea how tough it is to walk into the locker room with people
whispering behind your back and insulting you just because you try to be nice!
What have I ever done to anyone to deserve that?! I’m just like you guys! I’m a
human being too and I feel pain and hurt and…mmmphff!”
His eyes widened, his mind
refusing to accept what was happening to him right now. But there was no
denying it and already his hands were beginning to creep up those strong arms
to hold on tightly - never wanting to let go.
Gradually, his lashes grew
heavier, his lips parting a bit more to allow Marat’s hot and…
Oh god…
… so delicious tongue to find
his. He moaned and moved even closer, a part of him screaming that this wasn’t
right at all! They were two men for crying out loud and this was in public!
Anyone could come walking up the grounds and catch them and knowing the British
tabloids, they would have a field day writing about this.
‘Hot and Steamy Scene caught on Tape. Roger Federer
and Marat Safin are lovers?!’
If only!
As for Marat, he could only
blame it on the cologne…and that blasted hurt look on Roger’s face. He had
tried to tell himself that he didn’t give a damn what the Swiss was going
through personally, but how could he ignore that tone of helplessness and
frustration? His intention had been to give the other man a soft peck on the
lips as a sign of understanding but somehow…things had gotten out of hand. He
gasped as he felt Roger’s body press against his in obvious need. That undeniable
swell of their erections within their constrictive clothing was more than
enough to tell them that they both needed the satisfaction and now.
He released Roger slowly,
licking at the thin trail of saliva between their swollen lips, eyes hooded and
glazed with lust. “Roger…” he began thickly, not really sure of what he was
going to say, but the Swiss was already taking the initiative as his lips began
its fevered journey down Marat’s neck and shoulders. His tongue laved at the
skin still flushed and damp with sweat, tasting the mingled salt and that
unique flavor that was purely the Russian. He muttered something in Swedish and
Marat, too far gone in his pleasure to take note, could only groan and arch his
back as he felt Roger’s teeth graze his nipples.
Shit. Who knew the genius had
other ‘talents’ besides tennis?
Roger knew he should stop
this – that tiny voice at the back of his mind still warning him about his
decision to do something as risqué as this. But he knew that he wouldn’t be
able to stop anyway and realizing that Marat had no plans to stop him either
was a big boost to his confidence. He worshipped the Russian’s body with his
tongue – a body he had always admired from afar, staring longingly during
changeovers whenever Marat had to change his t-shirt. How he would have loved
to touch just an inch of his skin and now…
“Delicious,” he murmured in
his native tongue, completely forgetting the English language in his heightened
state of arousal and desire. He whimpered as he felt Marat’s fumbling hands
tugging his belt buckle and with a quick kiss to a swollen nipple, Roger pulled
back a little to help in getting rid of the clothing.
Their heated gazes met for a
moment, breathes harsh, shallow and uneven, both knowing that they were about
to thread on rather dangerous ground.
“Roger,” Marat began softly –
a weighted question within that name.
The Swiss’s answer came in
the form of a hot kiss that completely took Marat’s breath away. Their tongues
dueled fervently, hands reaching for each other’s swollen erections to begin
the eager process to gratification. Their moans and groans were lost in their scorching
kiss, hands eventually finding what they longed for.
In tandem, they moved –
Roger’s hand within Marat’s shorts and vice versa. Together they stroked, from
slightly bushy roots to swollen and already sticky tips. Up and down, faster
and harder, they worked each other to mindless completion.
“Aah!” A breathless cry from
Roger as he tore his lips away to rest his fevered forehead upon Marat’s
shoulder, thrusting wantonly into his lover’s touch as he felt the incredible
rush of heat surge from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.
“Marat…Ma…rat….coming….ah fuck….coming…”
He couldn’t hear what the
Russian said in his tongue but whatever it was, it sounded damn sexy to him. He
could feel Marat’s cock swelling in his hand as well and sinking his teeth into
the taller man’s shoulder, Roger’s body stiffened in anticipation of his
orgasm.
He could barely speak or let
out a sound as it ripped right through him. His mouth was a soundless O of
undeniable ecstasy, the world beginning to swim before his eyes as his body trembled
and shuddered in response. He came and came and came until he felt like he was
going to pass out very soon. Marat’s responding grunt of satisfaction and the
subsequent sensation of that thick cum against his hands was more than Roger
could stand.
He had never felt this good
before and he never wanted it to end.
“Marat…” he began in a
trembling whisper before allowing himself to fall into a blissful oblivion he
was powerless to resist.
I think…I just might…love you…
__
Marat eyed the sleeping man
beside him and sighed softly to himself. His body was still not recovered from
the impromptu make-out but he definitely wasn’t complaining either. He still
couldn’t believe that Roger had actually done something like this with him.
Looking back at it, it seemed almost surreal and yet the most explosive
lovemaking he had ever experienced so far. This was just going to be another
random incident that should never have happened and Marat was determined to
tuck it away in his memories – never to forget.
Roger had passed out in his
arms after coming so quickly and he had the arduous task of wiping them both
clean with his towels. His knees had finally eased up a bit and he could limp
towards his bag to grab them. He had dressed up the Swiss carefully unable to
stop the small smile that came to his visage at how utterly cute Roger looked
while asleep.
Before he could stop himself,
Marat leaned close to place a soft kiss on his rival’s forehead before leaning
back against the wall with a weary sigh. He thought over what Roger had said
earlier and wondered if it was true. He guessed that people would resent Roger
for being so good and making his wins seem so easy and that he would have so
many enemies/rivals waiting in the wings to rip him apart.
Hmm…perhaps it really was
lonely at the top after all.
“But you should enjoy it
while you can,” Marat whispered softly, as his fingers began to thread through
Roger’s hair gently. “Because one day I’ll join you there and take what is
rightfully mine.”
~The End~