A Tennis Locker Room Surprise

Everett watched from a box at the top of the grandstands as Hugo Delgado pumped his fist after a straight set sweep. He’d demolished his lesser opponent; an amateur from the US college circuit who Everett had already beaten three times this season himself. 

The crowd politely clapped, mostly unimpressed by Delgado’s expected victory early in the tournament in Rotterdam. It was dreary, being early February, and freezing in the Netherlands; the well-underway tennis season grinding from city to city across the world. 

Everett had only recently declared fully pro, departing his college program in Berkeley, California during this third year of college, one month after turning 21. Traveling the world had seemed like part of the exciting draw in joining the full time circuit, but so far he’d been stuck in shitty hotels. He’d been buried at the bottom of the bracket and hadn’t made it far enough in any tournament yet to even get a spot on TV.

Thanks to a few injuries to some of the best in the world, Rotterdam had brought the rare opportunity for Everett to advance deeper. He’d squeezed through a five set, multi hour affair in the first round before an easier straight sets victory of his own in round two. Now he knew Hugo would take out his opponent to set up the inevitable match between them in the quarterfinals, so he wanted to take one last chance to scout his rival in person before their match tomorrow.

Hugo looked like he hadn’t broken a sweat down on the court through his entire victory. He’d just crossed into the top 50 ranked men in the world for the first time in his career at the age of 25 and was in the midst of his best season as a professional. Even when Everett was back in college, dominating the university system and staying amateur potentially too long, he knew who Delgado was; everyone did. Hugo had the talent of a player destined for a long but average pro career; teetering somewhere in the 50s or 60s in the rankings. But his fame profile was of someone ranked in the top ten; a testament to his successful modeling career and endless brand deals. Every major watch, fashion, and lifestyle brand was excited to sponsor the tan, tall, dashing Spaniard, even if he was winless in major tournament ever since going pro at the age of 18. All he had to do was show up.

Up on the big board, Hugo’s name, with a ‘3’ for his seed in the bracket, advanced to the quarterfinals. The Spanish flag populated next to his name and just below it was a numberless ‘E. Pierce’ with the American flag.

Everett stood and climbed down from the stands, anxious for their match tomorrow.

—-

That night, Hugo unwinded with a glass of a Bordeaux blend over small cuts of premium beef and fresh vegetables. He’d been put up at the nicest hotel in the city, courtesy of one of his sponsors, and knew these first few rounds were purely for warming up.

A waiter greeted him in the lobby bar of the hotel, where a small section had been roped off for his privacy. “Mister Delgado, would you like anything else, sir?” 

“No, no necesito nada. Gracias.” Hugo waived him off. He spoke fluent English but often defaulted to his native tongue on the road to avoid long conversations or fan interactions. 

His phone screen was playing a loop of Everett Pierce’s forehand from his second round match, showing a stronger speed and more tactical top spin than the last time the two had met on the court, four months ago. They’d faced off three times since meeting for the first time twelve months ago but every other time, it’d been with Everett as an amateur. He’d occasionally been invited to jump up to professional competition as an amateur, on the side from his college life. The first matchup had been a clean three set sweep for the Spaniard, the second had been three sets to one, and this last time had gone the full five set distance. Hugo knew that Everett had more natural skill than him and that it was only a matter of time before the much younger player surpassed him in physical ability.

He took in Everett’s lean, muscular form and the masculine energy he projected out into the world. From his experience knowing the younger American, he knew him to be bullheaded and undisciplined, like an uncontrollable warrior with too much strength to know how to focus it. Everett was the same height as Hugo at 6’1” (185cm) but where Hugo was graceful and ‘prettier’, Everett was gruffer and wilder, with toned biceps, broader shoulders, and a more precise jawline. He had more ‘man’ in him than the Spaniard could ever hope to possess, but the American failed to realize what he had; his biggest weakness and Hugo’s opportunity.

Hugo: Ready for tomorrow?

Everett: Should we be texting before the match? Maybe let’s keep it neutral until we play?

Hugo: how boring that would be. Think you might break through this time and beat me?

Everett: that’s the plan. Maybe some of your brands will jump ship to me too

Hugo: I don’t think you really have what they’re looking for…

Everett: Winning probably trumps whatever stupid thing that is

Hugo: Sorry, did you mention winning? I must’ve missed when you’ve won something that mattered. I don’t think beating up on American college kids counts for much

Everett: we’ll see. 

Everett: but seriously, good luck tomorrow

Hugo: don’t need it but thanks

He finished off his red wine and placed the glass close by, signaling to the waiter to pour another. He didn’t need ‘luck’; he had a psychological advantage that, until now, he’d never needed to exploit, but it was time to grind Everett’s psyche down a bit.

Tennis always came first. 

—

When Hugo waltzed onto the court, he made sure to open his mouth wide, showing off his perfect teeth and winking to the ground from under a headband holding back his luscious, thick, dark blonde hair. Pointing across the net at Everett Pierce, he winked, using every tool in the charm belt to disarm the more talented American.

Everything drifted away for Everett; the stands went still and quiet, and his eyes lasored in only on Hugo. How the fuck did the older guy seem so calm? It was like he was absorbing the crowd’s energy into his bones, finding strength and confidence from the pressure. Sometimes in these moments, Everett wondered if some of his own energy was being siphoned away by his rival.

His life was so different from other players on the tour. There were world champions who’d come from nothing; earning their place from god-given ability and tireless work. Others were born into wealth or had been the son or daughter of a former professional, inheriting athletic genes via the luck of the draw. Everett’s path featured a bit of both. 

Neither of his parents had an ounce of athletic ability; his mom, who came from wealth, had stayed home his entire life, dedicating her ‘career’ to being her husband’s trophy and taking Everett to tournaments all over Florida when he was a little kid. His father was a tall, average looking man who’d started a small manufacturing business near Orlando, growing it from three employees to three hundred. When Everett was four years old, his dad ran for congress for the first time, riding that ‘rags to riches’ narrative to a conservative seat in the US House of Representatives. Living in that public eye, Everett had grown up living two distinct lives; one at a home with a down to earth and loving father, who believed in equality and the value of hard work, and one in public, where he was the son of a hardcore conservative Floridian politician who spoke with a fabricated set of values, marketable to his district.

Everett flipped Hugo off with the hand not holding his racket, then turned the gesture into a friendly wave for the cameras, trying to soak up some air time now that he was finally in front of an international audience. They were both grinning like idiots. That was the thing nobody outside the locker room ever understood; they seemed like fierce competitors who’d met an uncharacteristically high number of times. But what no one else knew was that tournament scheduling overlap was intentional; an effort to find time for hidden meet-ups, hotel rendezvous, and room service dinner dates. 

While Hugo had flown to Northern California twice over the last year, and Everett had gotten to Granada once, these scheduling coincidences were the easiest and cheapest way to find time for whatever the hell their fling had become.

But right now? This was war.

Hugo tossed the ball, that perfect little ritual he did; two bounces, spin, then a toss so high it looked like he was throwing it into space. The serve cracked off his racket like a gunshot. Everett dove, racket stretching, and managed to get a piece of it. The ball clipped the tape and dropped dead on Hugo’s side, scoring a point for the American.

“Fifteen-love, asshole.” Everett mumbled under his breath, pumping his fist. This was the match that could go his way.

Hugo threw his head back and laughed again. The first set went to a tiebreak as they trades games back and forth; Hugo’s tactical patience and intimidating stare versus Everett’s heavy, powerful forehand; Spanish smarts vs. American kill. By the time Everett finally took the first set 7-6, they were both drenched in sweat. Hugo’s band across his hair was already as wet as a dirty sponge and Everett’s shirt clung to his tan skin, scratching against his chest hair.

They met at the net in between sets, toweling off and sipping electrolytes and water. 

“You’re slow today, old man,” Everett muttered, wiping his face.

Hugo’s eyes sparkled. “I figured I’d spot you a lead this time. Let’s see what you do with it.”

Everett smirked. “Go ahead and stay cocky. Right till the end.”

But set two belonged to Hugo. He broke Everett twice, forcing Everett to hit awkward defensive backhands; something the Spaniard had warned him was his biggest weakness. When Hugo won it 6-3, he gave the crowd a soft clap on his racket and they ate it up, chanting his name. Women across the stands snapped pictures nonstop for their friends, fawning over his dashing allure.

Everett couldn’t even be mad. He took an opportunity to stare at the older man’s tight, rounded ass as they switched sides again, joining the women in gawking at the recently eighth ranked ‘hottest male athletes in the world’ by some stupid magazine.

Everett tried to dictate the terms of their tight volleys in the third set, forcing Hugo to his forehand as much as possible. Hugo stuck with his same strategy whenever he had the serve, slowing the pace down to a tactical backhand-dominated chess match. They traded holding serve until it was 5-5, then 6-6, heading to another tiebreak. Everett managed to save three set points with impossible shots. It was sign of his steadily improving play, but it wasn’t enough as Hugo finally took the set with a loud roar; a rare show of genuine emotion and rawness he usually kept out of the public eye.

Hugo walked to the net first and offered a hand to his opponent. It was half to impress the TV crowd with his sportsmanship and half to check in with his younger friend. Their palms slapped together, sweaty and hot.

“2-1. You wanna let this set go so we get outta here faster?” Hugo said, whispering so only Everett could hear and saying it with a smile so the cameras wouldn’t think he was talking shit. “We know how this ends either way.”

Everett felt his own confidence diminishing more and more by the second. Hugo’s swagger was like this suffocating boulder, slowly squeezing the American’s skill advantage out of the arena.

The fourth set was the stamina test. Hugo broke early, then Everett broke back. They were both grunting on every shot now, primal sounds that bounced around the arena. Hugo’s shirt came off at one point so he could towel off, and the crowd went feral at the sight of his smooth, tanned chest and that thick happy trail arrowing down into his shorts. Everett had to force himself not to stare. His own body was humming, every muscle on fire, but the sight of Hugo like that; glistening, breathing hard; sent blood rushing south in a way that was extremely inconvenient in tiny tennis shorts.

Everett bent but didn’t break in that fourth set, taking it 6-4. The fifth set would decide it.

They toweled off again, shoulders brushing. Hugo’s breath was hot against Everett’s ear when he leaned in. “Last set. Winner gets to fuck the loser however he wants in the locker room?”

Everett’s cock twitched so hard he had to adjust his shorts right there on court. “You’re on. Lube up before you come to see me. I wanna slide right in.”

Hugo huffed cockily. “After I win, you can wait till I arrive. I wanna loosen you up myself before I make you scream.”

The fifth set was the best tennis either of them had played all year. They held serve for the first eight games. The rallies stretched to fifteen or twenty shots and Everett’s legs felt like they were on fire, but every time he looked across the net, Hugo was right there, chest heaving, blond hair plastered to his forehead under the headband, that light facial hair shadow glistening with sweat. They were both smiling like maniacs between points and the crowd was losing its mind.

At 4-4, Hugo faltered. Everett fought back to deuce, then won the game with an ace that nearly took Hugo’s racket out of his hand. 5-4 Everett.

Hugo held to make it 5-5.

Then Everett held again for 6-5.

Hugo’s serve to stay in the match. He double-faulted the first point. The second he saved with an ace. The third point, Hugo crushed a backhand winner down the line. 30-15. 

Hugo bounced the ball but changed his routine, quickly moving to a lower toss and opting for a quicker release that caught Everett off guard and bounced over his outstretched racket despite its slower speed; 40-15. The arena had gone dead quiet except for the pounding of their own heartbeats. Hugo tossed, swung, and the ball flew by Everett again. 

6-6.

Everett walked in a circle on his side of the court, pacing back and forth. Hugo already knew the match was over. He smelled fear in the American and knew that Everett would beat himself, so that’s exactly what Hugo went for; safe, well-placed, slower shots that Everett eventually sailed in various directions, over and over, until the Spaniard took the tiebreak and won the fifth set 7-6, taking the match.

The crowd exploded. Hugo bobbed on his feet and raised a hand to the crowd in every direction. Everett stood at the net, chest heaving, sweat pouring into his eyes, but he was grinning and shaking his head. It was the best match of his young career and he knew it would help his reputation, even if it had still ended in a loss.

Hugo jogged over, sweat flying off his hair. They hugged at the net properly; sweaty, chest-to-chest, and half a second too long for television, generating inevitable social media memes and rumors later on that would only serve to raise their profiles higher. 

Hugo’s voice was rough in his ear. “Don’t shower yet.”

Everett’s cock throbbed again. “Fuck you.”

“I think I’ll be the one doing the fucking.” Hugo whispered back.

They turned to the crowd, waving, blowing kisses, and doing the whole post-match theater. Hugo signed a kid’s hat at the front row; Everett posed for a selfie, then they walked off the court together.

In the tunnel, Hugo’s hand brushed Everett’s ass once, hidden from the camera but still playing it off as an accident. “I’ll see that thing in a few minutes.”

They had private time in each individual locker room area before and after the matches. Everett waited on the bench until a knock came at his locked door a few minutes later and the second the door clicked shut behind them, Hugo was on him.

He shoved Everett back against the cool concrete wall so hard the breath left his lungs in a whoosh. Hugo’s mouth crashed into his, tasting like salt and the cherry energy drink he’d been sipping. Their bodies slammed together, still dripping, still burning from three hours of battle. Hugo’s hard cock pressed against Everett’s thigh through thin shorts, already leaking.

“Fuck, you played so good,” Hugo growled against his mouth, Spanish accent thicker now that he was turned on. “Almost had me. Almost.”

Everett’s hands fisted in Hugo’s damp hair, yanking the headband off so blond strands spilled everywhere. “You’re such an asshole. Couldn’t let me win for once?”

Hugo laughed, dark and dirty, and dropped to his knees right there on the tiled floor. The smell hit them both; pure post-match musk. Hugo buried his face in Everett’s crotch, inhaling through the soaked fabric like it was the best cologne in the world.

“God, you stink,” Hugo groaned. He yanked Everett’s shorts and underwear down in one motion. The American’s 5 inch (12cm) cut cock sprang free and bobbed in the middle of well-groomed, dark pubes. His groin was a little less tan than the rest of his body, but still darker from his heritage. Hugo easily swallowed Everett’s dick to the root in one gulp, nose pressing into the light fur at the base of Everett’s cock. Hugo’s tongue swirled, tasting salt and the intense tang of the match.

Everett’s head thunked back against the wall. “Fuck, Hugo. Suck my dick, yes.”

Hugo sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks, one hand coming up to feel the sweaty, furry chest of the hot, young American. He loved to show Everett how easy it was for him to eat all of his cock, burying it all in his mouth and holding it there for safekeeping in between their bitter competitions. Sweat dripped from Hugo’s forehead onto Everett’s thighs, and the locker room smelled like them now.

Everett’s hips bucked involuntarily. “Gettin close already.”

Hugo pulled off. “Not yet. Turn around.”

Hugo stood, stripping his own shorts off in one motion. His cock, almost seven inches (17cm), uncut, and shiny from pre cum and sweat soaking into his covered head, slapped up against his abs. Hugo spun Everett roughly, kicked his legs wide, then shoved him down until he was bent over the wooden bench in the middle of the room with his hole in the air.

Hugo spat into his palm then rubbed the slickness over his cock. No condom. They never used them anymore; they’d had the talk months ago, both clean and on preventive meds, and the raw feeling was too good to give up. Hugo lined up and with just some spit and sweat as lube, pushed into the American with one long, relentless thrust.

Everett screamed, loud and broken, just like on the court. “FUCK!” The stretch burned in the best way; Hugo’s cock splitting him open, thick and hot and still raunchy from the match. Hugo bottomed out, hips flush against Everett’s freshly shaved cheeks, and groaned like he’d died and gone to heaven.

“Fuck, you’re tight. Always so fucking tight for me. Young American college ass; nothing like it.” He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a brutal pace right away. The bench creaked under Everett’s weight. Hugo’s balls smacked against Everett with every thrust and the Spaniard felt his own furry, toned cheeks flexing; powering his animalistic need to breed the man he’d just bested on the court.

“Not. In. College. Anymore.” Everett grunted back.

“You’re still in college to me until you actually beat someone real out here.” Hugo spanked that shaved, muscular cheek once to assert his dominance one more time.

Sweat poured off both of them. It dripped from Hugo’s chest onto Everett’s back, ran down the fur on Everett’s stomach and pooled where their bodies joined. The smell was overwhelming; musk and salt and man. Hugo reached around and wrapped a big hand around Everett’s dick, stroking in time with his thrusts.

“You feel that?” Hugo panted, lips against Everett’s ear. “This is what winners get to do. My cock balls-deep in your pretty, little American ass while you moan like my bitch.”

Everett could only whimper, emasculating himself and pushing back to meet every thrust. His prostate lit up like fireworks every time Hugo’s head dragged over it.

“Harder,” Everett gasped. “Come on, you beat me…now fucking own it.”

Hugo snarled and obliged. He grabbed Everett’s hips with both hands and pounded into him. The bench rattled, threatening to break in half, and Everett’s knees shook. His dick throbbed in Hugo’s fist, leaking steadily now.

Hugo’s rhythm became more uneven. “I’m close. Can I finish inside?”

“Yeah of course,” Everett begged. “Cum inside me.”

Hugo slammed in one last time and froze, feeling his cock pulse and release his seed, hot ropes flooding deep into the American’s insides. The feeling pushed Everett over too, and he started cumming all over the bench from the calloused, rough hand stroking him. His hole clenched around Hugo’s spent, exhausted, winner’s dick the whole time. 

They stayed locked together for a minute, panting, sweating, and trembling. Hugo finally pulled out and looked down at Everett’s impossibly tight, athletic hole, which looked more closed than ever, even after taking seven inches of Spanish cock. He turned Everett around gently this time and kissed him slow and deep.

“Really played the best you ever have,” Hugo murmured against his lips.

Everett laughed, shaky. “Fuck you.”

They cleaned up just enough; quick wipes with towels and pulling fresh shorts on over still-sensitive skin. Hugo’s cum was still inside Everett, a secret only they knew. They stepped out of the changing room looking like two exhausted pros who’d just played a war; hair messy, cheeks flushed, identical satisfied smirks. The hallway to the media room was lined with cameras and a Dutch reporter spotted them first.

“Gentlemen! Incredible match. Hugo, that fifth set…how does it feel to come out on top?”

Hugo flashed his million-dollar smile, eyes sparkling, sweat still beading at his hairline. “Feels amazing. Everett pushed back and made it tight there for a minute but I finally got through him.”

Everett laughed at the innuendo and stepped up beside him, shoulder to shoulder; the picture of professional respect. Inside, he could still feel Hugo’s cum gargling around in his anal canals. He summoned his best Floridian drawl, an unnatural accent that his agent claimed might help him land unique opportunities. “Good match, y’all. He got me again, but next time I’ll top him.”

Hugo’s grin lit up again, another secretive acknowledgment. They posed for photos together; arms around shoulders, easy smiles, the kind of faux ‘bromance’ the press loved. Nobody had any idea that Hugo’s cum was still warm inside Everett; that they’d just fucked like primal animals ten minutes ago.

Hugo’s fingers brushed the small of Everett’s back as they separated for individual interviews. Until next time, they were back to being on their own.

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