Chapter 5 - Andrew
Being the best wasn’t about training or talent, though both helped. Over the years, I’d learned that winning required an innate drive that couldn’t be taught.
“Kill or be killed,” as my father Roger liked to say when he beat my sisters and me in Monopoly.
My mother called them “big feelings,” which apparently you’re supposed to grow out of when you gain the ability to regulate your emotions. That happens to most people around four or five years old.
I just channeled them into a savage backhand.
“You can’t bottle determination,” I’d once said in a post-Wimbledon interview, after winning in the semis.
It had been a throwaway line, a response to the interviewer asking what I kept in my water bottle on the sidelines, but it became the soundbite that defined my career.
Especially in the years since my injury.
It occurred in the final of the US Open.
I was up 5-2 in the final set with match point on my racket, about to put the nail in Pavlovi?’s coffin.
I was returning a high ball, not even a difficult maneuver, and somehow my legs twisted beneath me and I went down, landing directly on my knee.
The pain was excruciating and immediate.
I tried to stand, and my leg crumpled beneath me.
I don’t remember much of what happened afterwards, and I’ve never watched the footage.
A dozen sports psychologists have told me I should, that it would provide “closure,” but I refuse to relive the worst moment of my life.
The one clear memory I have, the moment that pierced through the haze of pain and anger, is Pavlovic raising that fucking trophy above his head, beaming like he deserved it.
If I had been able to, I would have tackled him.
After the diagnosis of a full ACL, MCL and meniscus tear, everyone had advised me to retire. Dr. Davis, the best orthopedic doctor in Fairview, agreed reluctantly that I’d probably never be able to perform at the same level.
Even Gabriel had begged me to quit. “You have nothing to prove, amore,” he’d said multiple times as I struggled through basic PT. “Take the announcer job and make your money without killing yourself.”
“That can’t be my last match,” was always my answer.
He didn’t understand. Even with our bond that let him experience my pain and heartache, he couldn’t fully comprehend my need to compete, to push myself, to win. To control the intense emotions that would choke me if I couldn’t channel them into something productive.
I sought a second opinion, and a third, and then finally underwent a meniscus replacement in a private hospital in Croatia. The surgery didn’t go well, and I was left with nothing but a shred of cartilage.
But now, two weeks after my first injection of whatever concoction Dr. Davis had convinced me to take, my pain had receded enough for two training sessions with Roberto that left me breathless with exhaustion and hope.
“Good work,” he shouted from across the court.
We were at our place outside the city, where I’d had room to install a full indoor hard court and gym.
“Now go rest.” We’d spent most of the time drilling my forehand.
I wanted to work on my serve, but he refused, telling me to have “some damn patience.”
“Same time tomorrow?” I asked.
“Nah, you’re doing strength,” he called back. “With Julie. Good luck.”
I sighed. Julie was a sadist, but that’s what I needed if I was going to get back to top form.
It was still early morning when I wandered back into the main house.
I hadn’t bothered to put on a coat for the short walk through the courtyard, and the chill in the air made me shiver.
I paused, looking out over the bay. The house was about an hour outside the city, one of the more modest mansions that dotted the coastline, even if it was extravagant by normal standards.
Gray clouds mounted along the horizon, blocking my view of the sunrise.
We’d probably get a storm later, maybe even snow.
A thin layer of frost covered the grass and statues that came with the place: gaudy reproductions of Roman sculptures that made Gabriel double over in laughter. He refused to part with them.
Maria, our housekeeper, was bustling in the kitchen when I entered.
She was from Italy too, one of Gabriel’s old friend’s nonnas who had been looking for a fresh start.
She was gray-haired and small, which belied her fierce temper.
Along with her pleasant camellia scent, the kitchen smelled of rich spices and fresh bread.
“Good morning,” I said. “Something smells great.”
“Good morning, Mr. St. James. I am making the shakshuka you like. But you cannot eat like this,” she said, gesturing to me with one hand on her hip. “Go get cleaned up properly. How many times do I tell you not to come into my kitchen smelling like a wet dog?”
I raised my hands in surrender and smiled to placate her. “I’ll go take a shower.”
Our room was on the other side of the house. I quickened my step, thinking of my bonded Beta, wondering if he was still in bed.
We’d met four years before, when I was at the height of my career. I’d gotten death threats, the kind you get when you reach a certain level of fame, and my management team insisted I hire personal security. The agency had sent Gabriel, a beautiful Italian, and my fate had been sealed.
He was spectacularly handsome, charismatic, and friendly.
But his smile hid a much more formidable core.
Not only was he skilled with a variety of weapons, but he was fiercely protective of those he loved to the point of self-destruction.
I tried my best to be a partner who would never require him to test those tendencies.
We’d bonded two years before, but I still got a thrill when I reached for him at the end of the tether between us.
I entered our bedroom on tiptoe. He was sleeping soundly, one muscled arm thrown across his eyes. I toed off my shoes and crept across the carpet, shedding the rest of my clothes as I walked.
When I slid under the covers, Gabriel rolled towards me instinctively.
I covered his body with my own as he roused.
Sleep made his cedar scent as warm as his skin, and I brushed my nose gently along the outer edge of his throat, teasing the bondmark there.
The sight of my mark on him, where I’d sunk my teeth into him, claiming him as mine, sent a rush of blood to my cock.
“Ah, amore mio, you are insatiable,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep. But his body stirred against me as he reacted to my thickening scent. “I thought you were training.”
“I was. But now, I’m ready for another kind of exercise.” I drew my tongue along the outer shell of his ear. He shivered beneath me.
Instead of replying, Gabriel pressed his cock more firmly against my own. I propped myself on my arms so I could watch the pleasure bloom in his soft brown eyes. His mouth fell open with a small gasp as I rolled my hips, sliding my length along his. I wanted to taste him, but he enjoyed this, too.
“Cazzo, amore, é troppo bello,” he murmured, slipping into Italian like he often did when we touched.
My body reacted to the raw need in his voice.
I'd picked up a few phrases, and most were not appropriate for general use.
I loosely encircled both of our cocks with my hand, increasing the pressure.
He bucked his hips again, and I growled softly.
My knot was already swelling at the thought of cumming all over him, soaking him in my scent.
When I couldn't take it any longer, I slid down his body and took him in my mouth. He was thick and compact enough for me to take almost fully down my throat.
He cursed in Italian again and thrust into my mouth. I pressed my own hard length into the mattress and ground my hips as I brought Gabriel close to the brink.
Just before he came, I drew away and crawled back up his body to frame his face with my hands. The tip of my cock brushed his stomach, and I groaned.
“Amore, please,” he said, arching his back for me. I dipped to graze my teeth along the bond mark before reaching for the lube in the nightstand.
I slicked myself quickly, then him. I gripped both of our cocks more firmly in one hand and we both groaned again, mine turning to a growl as I stroked. Gabriel pulled me down for a kiss, and when he sucked my tongue roughly into his mouth, I came apart, cumming in hot streaks across his chest.
He followed me over the edge, painting his own cum across my stomach. Our scents mingled, his woody scent cutting through my overwhelming spice.
I leant over to retrieve my shirt and used it to clean up the worst of the mess before rolling onto my side, bringing Gabriel with me.
“You are so beautiful when you come,” he said after a long, lingering kiss. “I could watch you all day.”
“Another day. We’re going into the city, remember?”
It was the day of my follow-up appointment at the clinic.
Gabriel hadn’t been able to come to the first appointment, but he was going with me for this one.
He had plenty of skepticism about experimental treatments after the last botched surgery, and I hoped coming along would allay some of those fears.
“Ah, yes, that’s right. The mad scientists.” He rolled his eyes. “I cannot believe you are paying so much for this treatment that is not even tested.”
“I had almost no pain this morning. Even you have to admit that’s pretty good.” I poked him in the ribs.
“‘Almost’ no pain?” he scoffed. “Tell me when it is no pain at all.”
When I’d first told him about the experimental treatment that Dr. Davis was offering, he’d been against it immediately.
“What could be worth a hundred thousand per injection? Is it pure gold? The cum of San Pietro?”
We’d fought about it for a week until he finally relented.