Sweet Spot

Andy would be the first to admit that he wasn't one of those disgustingly chipper morning people. As far as he was concerned, anything that could be done well before noon, could be done even better after noon. He hit the snooze button three times, before finally dragging himself out of bed and shuffling to the bathroom. It was only after he'd splashed some cool water on his face that he remembered there should have been another man next to him in bed. He checked the bedroom, in case he'd somehow missed a naked Paul in there, hastily donned his discarded shorts, then went searching through the rest of the house. He found Paul in the kitchen, drinking a glass of juice and looking disconcertingly alert.

"Good morning," Paul said pleasantly.

Andy grunted and bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile, then made a beeline for the coffee, which Paul had thoughtfully prepared. He poured himself a big mug and added milk and sugar, then turned around and leaned a hip against the counter. Paul had obviously showered, and was wearing white shorts, socks and sneakers. Andy felt grubby and wrinkled in comparison.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, then scowled at Paul's raised eyebrow. "I mean the second time around."

In any case, if anybody was to blame for last night, it was Paul. Andy had woken up in the middle of the night and, for the first time in his life, had realized the truth of the expression "sawing wood" in reference to snoring. He'd first tried to push Paul over onto his side without waking him, with only minimal success. He then decided that if he was awake, Paul might as well be, too. Very pleasant developments ensued, but they didn't get back to sleep until the birds had started their morning song outside.

"Better than you, if your mood is anything to go by," Paul answered dryly.

"No, I'm always like this first thing in the morning," Andy assured him. "Just ignore me until I've had my second cup of coffee."

Paul checked the old-fashioned digital watch on his right wrist. "I have to get going pretty soon. About those shirts?"

"Oh, yeah. Do they need to be all white?" Andy regretfully placed his mug on the counter, but he couldn't very well let Paul look for the shirts on his own.

"Mostly white, if you've got a couple. If not, don't worry about it."

"I should. Hold on, I'll go check."

Despite his instructions, Paul followed him into the bedroom and waited, while Andy rummaged through his closet.

"Here, these two are a bit tight on me, so they should fit you alright."

Andy held one of the shirts, still on its hanger, against Paul's torso, trying to judge the size. He raised his eyes to Paul's face, to check for his reaction, only to catch him staring intently at Andy.

"They're great," Paul said gruffly, though Andy doubted he'd even noticed the proffered shirts. "I'll get 'em back to you, once I've washed them."

"You can keep them, if you want." Andy rather liked the idea of Paul wearing his clothes. "Like I said, they don't really fit that well."

"Yeah, okay," Paul said, but he was still staring at Andy in a way that made Andy's mouth go dry, and Andy was pretty sure Paul wouldn't have been able to repeat any part of their conversation.

He finally resorted to nudging Paul, and Paul took the shirt and started to pull it over his head.

"Paul? Can I see you tonight?"

It was easier to ask, when Paul couldn't see him, but then he had to wait, while Paul went through an endless series of minute adjustments to the shirt's shoulder seams, sleeves and collar. He buttoned one button, then unbuttoned it again, then combed his fingers through his hair. Andy could tell he was about to ask for a mirror, and he resignedly pointed to the one behind Paul, and watched Paul stall some more.

"I finish at 9:00 tonight. Will that be okay?" Paul eventually asked, looking at Andy through the mirror.

Andy breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sure. Do you want to go someplace for dinner? Do you like seafood? There's a pretty good place I know at Porto Rafti, right near the water. Do you even eat seafood? Or we could stay here." He finally managed to shut his mouth, wondering why Paul always reduced him to a babbling idiot.

Paul hesitated briefly, then shook his head. "I'd rather stay here, I think. Anyway, I'll have already eaten by that point."

"Staying here is good, too. It's fine, in fact."

"Okay, great. Well, I'll see you tonight then."

With a last adjustment to his collar, Paul turned briskly and almost trotted out of the bedroom. Andy followed Paul to the front door, where his bike and bag were, and watched him squat to carefully pack the extra shirt. He once again considered telling Paul that he could wash his stuff here, and once again decided that at this point it would complicate things. One thing he'd learned during business negotiations is that you never make an offer if you're not at least 70% sure of what the response will be, and while this wasn't business, some of the same principles applied.

Paul stood, slung his bag across his shoulder, and grabbed hold of his bike, wheeling it so that it was between Andy and him. Andy opened the door, and watched Paul navigate his way down the path and through the garden gate.

"Hey," he called out impulsively, right before Paul closed the gate, and Paul looked back, but Andy had nothing to say; he'd just wanted to postpone Paul's departure if only for brief second. He ended up with "Have a nice day" and a weak wave, and Paul smiled and waved back, before riding off.

As he closed the door, Andy knew the entire morning up up to that point could have been handled better, but, even in hindsight, he was damned if he knew how. He should have at least kissed Paul, though. Or Paul should have kissed him. He'd make sure one or the other happened next time.

---o-O-o---

Given that Paul had no alternative but to go to work and face whatever the situation there was, he wished he'd managed to get out of the house before Andy had woken up, even if it would have meant wearing one of yesterday's shirts. He'd been too wound up to really interact with Andy -- not that Andy seemed to want much interaction -- and now he was wearing a shirt that he was convinced everybody would know belonged not to him, but to the guy he'd spent the night with.

A block away from the Tennis Club, he had to stop. Half-hidden behind one of the enormous oleander bushes lining the sidewalk, his stomach tied in knots, he bent over and tried not to throw up. The temperature was already in the high 30s and he was sweating right through Andy's shirt.

"Fuck," he whispered, finally straightening up. He rummaged through his bag for one of his wristbands or bandanas, and eventually gave up and just wiped his forehead on his sleeve. He gave himself a stern and unsympathetic lecture, reminding himself that this is what he had wanted, and that thousands of men had come out before him, under much more difficult circumstances. "Stop being such a fucking coward," he muttered, and cranked his head right and left, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. "This is nothing. Who the hell even cares what they think? It's none of their business. You're an adult, Pappas, Act like one." He wiped his forehead once again and climbed back onto his bike.

By the time he reached the club, he'd worked himself up so much in anticipation of a confrontation, that he was actually spoiling for one. He stomped into the locker rooms, but they were empty, which was rather anticlimactic. He banged his locker door open, and then, once he'd collected tennis racquets, water bottles and the rest of his paraphernalia, banged it shut again, but nobody was drawn inside to check what all the noise was about. He trudged out to the courts, where the tennis academy kids were already gathering around Zois and Michalis.

"Yasoo, Pavlo," Zois greeted him like he did every morning, and if his tone was any different today, Paul couldn't tell. He was adjusting a dampener on one of the kids' racquets and didn't look up, but that wasn't suspicious either. Michalis was kneeling on the ground, tying his shoelace, and he waved a hand in lazy greeting.

Paul nodded at them and bumped knuckles with a couple of the older kids, then took his position with the other two coaches to start the drills. His adrenalin still running high, he tried to concentrate on the children, but he couldn't stay focused, his emotions flying from disbelief that things were really going to turn out to be so simple -- and, if so, why the hell had he waited so many years? -- to relief to suspicion that he was somehow being set up. Zois and he couldn't quite meet one another's eyes, but by this point Paul wasn't sure if that was his fault or Zois'. Maybe he'd imagined the look of distaste on Zois' face last night. Maybe Zois had been simply trying to give him a friendly heads-up, in case it was Paul himself that might feel uncomfortable in the company of a gay man.

After the academy, Paul rode home in the late morning heat, too hot and sweaty for his thoughts or emotions to take specific shape. Overall he was feeling relieved, and optimistic, and a bit stupid, as well. He'd always expected some reaction when he came out, some Significant Obstacle that he'd need to bravely overcome; instead, life seemed to be going on as usual. Well, not quite as usual, because now there was Andy. Paul rode the last uphill kilometer smiling broadly.

He emptied his bag into the washing machine, then took a quick cool shower and went out to the small balcony to collect the previous load of wash, which he'd hung out to dry two days ago. The shirts really needed a bit of ironing, but Paul made do with smoothing them out a little prior to folding them. Not that it would fool anybody. He really missed the state-of-the-art washers and dryers his building in Manhattan had boasted, but supposed he was lucky enough that his apartment had come with a refrigerator, oven and washer, even if they were all twenty years old. Judging by the wash hanging out on balconies and terraces, not many Athenians owned a dryer.

He took a quick nap, then emptied the washer and hung out the clothes. He re-packed his bag with enough tennis clothes to last him through tomorrow, plus a pair of jeans in case Andy and he decided to go out for a drink or something later. He debated grabbing a cab to the Club, then thought of his bank account and decided to ride. Although the temperatures were still soaring, enough of his ride was through narrow streets with apartments on either side and then through the tree-lined streets of the suburbs, that he could stay in the shade and keep cooler. Or that was the theory, anyway, and it proved totally irrelevant, because even in the shade it was way too hot; Paul was reminded of that old Twilight Zone episode, where the Earth was falling towards the sun.

Paul arrived at the Club with minutes to spare before his first lesson, and hurriedly toweled dry before pulling on a fresh shirt. He rushed out to the courts, to find another instructor he didn't know too well already putting his pupil through her paces.

"I'm here now. Sorry I was late," he said in his careful Greek, but the instructor shook her head at him.

"Mr. Maras wants to see you."

"What, now?" Paul asked surprised, and only got a nod in return. "Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can. Thank you for helping."

The woman nodded again, but otherwise didn't respond.

The club manager's office was on the 2nd floor of the main building that also housed the café and the members' changing rooms. Wide windows looked down on the courts, though the blinds were drawn against the afternoon sun. The office was an oasis of cool, and Maras gestured towards one of the visitor chairs.

"Please, Paul, sit down. Can I have Maria bring you anything?"

"No, thanks," Paul responded, a bit nonplussed at the offer. Maras, a penny-pinching dapper 50-year old, hadn't even offered Paul a drink during his first interview, let alone after, once he'd become a member of staff.

"You're sure? Maybe an orange juice? A water? You must at least have a water," Maras insisted in his precise English.

"Water would be great, thank you."

Maras dialled Maria, then waited for her to pick up, giving Paul a tight-lipped fake smile the entire time, and Paul's heart began to sink. This was the other shoe dropping. Maras placed an order for coffee for himself, as well as for Paul's water, then replaced the receiver and leaned forward, an earnest look on his face.

"So, Paul, it seems we have a little problem." He nodded once and smiled encouragingly, as if prompting for Paul's participation.

"A problem, Mr. Maras?" Paul asked obligingly.

"Yes." Maras held up his hand, thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "A small one. Yet we must now manage it, before it becomes bigger."

Paul crossed his arms over his chest. "Okay."

Maras' smile was replaced by a look of deep disappointment.

"You should have told me, Paul. It is not right that I did not know. Maybe in America this is usual, but here we need to be careful. We have a responsibility."

"Mr. Maras, I'm still not quite sure what the problem is," Paul said, trying to sound calm and hoping Maras couldn't hear the slight break in his voice.

"Why, that you are a homosexual, of course! I must confess to great surprise, Paul. Great surprise! I, personally, have no problem with the homosexuals, as long as they are private and behave properly, but some of the members are not as open-minded as I."

Maria knocked on the door then, and silence reigned as she placed the coffee and water on the desk between the two men. Once she'd closed the door behind her, Maras reached for his coffee and took a dainty sip.

"And then, there are the children."

"The children," Paul repeated, his calm facade starting to crack. He pressed his crossed arms hard against his chest, as if that would somehow slow his heart down and contain the emerging rage.

"The children, Paul. The children are entrusted to us. We cannot expose them."

"Expose them to what, exactly?"

"Greek parents are strict, Paul. They wish their children to be brought up properly," Maras evaded.

"Even if that were true -- and by the way, these kids are just about the most spoiled and ill-behaved I've ever come across -- I still don't see the problem, Mr. Maras. Are you accusing me of something?"

"Accusing you? No, of course not! There have been rumors, but if you tell me that they are untrue, we shall say no more of it and I shall reprimand those who started them."

"Rumors?" Paul felt sick. What the hell had Zois said? That he'd done something to the children? "What rumors?"

Maras sat back. "But... That you are a homosexual, of course! What have we been talking about? Are you saying it's not true?" He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead. "Thank God that's resolved."

"No. I mean yes," Paul said. "I mean yes, I'm gay. That's all you're referring to?"

Maras looked worried again. "That's all? My dear boy, this is a serious matter."

"Why? I've worked here for almost three months and nobody knew, until I told somebody. Which means that I was private and behaved properly, so there's no problem."

"But..."

Paul stood up. "This conversation is over, Mr. Maras. What I am is actually none of your or anybody else's business. If anybody has a complaint about how I teach tennis or how I treat my pupils, a valid complaint, I'll be happy to listen to it." He pointed at Maras. "I don't like name-dropping," mostly because he had no names to drop, but Maras didn't need to know that, "but I still have very good friends in the world of tennis and I also have good friends that are members here. You should think about that, Mr. Maras. And while you're at it, you should also think about the fact that your coaching staff is composed of twenty-something-year-old graduates, most of whom know just enough about tennis not to totally embarrass themselves out there. I'm the only tennis name you've got. So if you want your tennis academy to grow, and if you want to host country and regional tournaments here, you should probably start figuring out how to safeguard me and keep me happy."

Maras had shrunk back into his chair. "Perhaps if we denied the rumors," he suggested tentatively.

"Yeah? How do you suggest we do that? Issue a letter to the members? Or maybe I could take them all aside and assure them that I'm straight?" Paul shook his head in disgust at the dawning hope on Maras' face. "No. I'm not denying anything. I'm not dealing with it at all. I'm going back to my class. Don't worry, she's a girl, so she should be safe enough with me."

Paul almost slammed the door behind him, only stopping himself at the last moment and pulling it to softly. He was trembling, and he concentrated on getting down the stairs in one piece, because his knees felt weak and shaky. He started out towards the courts, but at the last moment veered off towards the staff facilities, that were housed in an older one-story building that might have once been a stable. A couple of the coaches were sitting on plastic white chairs outside, drinking juices and cokes and snacking on yoghurt and fruit. They'd been talking animatedly but fell silent the moment Paul appeared around the corner.

Paul didn't have the heart for another confrontation; he ignored them and walked into the sweltering locker rooms, where he sat on a bench and stared blankly at the little square of pale blue evening sky visible through the high window. He might as well let his replacement finish this session, then he only had two more lessons and he could go home. Or rather, to Andy's home. Where Andy would be waiting for him, big and blond, with his Alfalfa hair and his smiling eyes. Paul inhaled deeply and relaxed back against the locker.

Okay, so things weren't going to be that easy, but everything would be fine. He'd be fine.

---o-O-o---

Andy calculated that Paul would need maybe five or ten minutes for any last tasks at the Tennis Club, plus another five minutes tops for the bike ride to his house. That would put him on Andy's doorstep at 9:10, 9:15 at the latest, and Andy couldn't fucking wait. He'd spent the early part of the evening at his gym, figuring he now had a reason to suffer the pain required for him to lose his spare tire -- unfortunately, Andy had always found vanity a much stronger motivator than health concerns -- and the last hour trying to recuperate from the evil treadmill and weight-machines by lying in the hammock in his back garden with a beer (a light one). He'd even ordered chicken souvlaki again, although he'd really wanted a double bacon cheeseburger, so all in all he was feeling pretty virtuous.

At 9:05, Andy roused himself from a happy fantasy, in which a naked Paul was rubbing warm oil all over him and massaging his aching quadriceps, made sure his cowlicks were all gelled into submission, and took up a post at the living room window. He didn't have long to wait; Paul wheeled his bike through the front gate and up the path to the entrance.

Andy rushed to open the door. "Hey, you!" he beamed and helped Paul with his bike and sports bag.

Paul's eyes were tired, but he smiled, as well. "Hey, you!"

Andy was well aware that he wasn't one of this world's deep thinkers. As far as possible, he liked to keep things simple and he wasn't given to second-guessing himself. He knew he liked Paul and, if it were solely up to him, would have seen no reason to hide the fact or to not proceed full steam ahead as was his usual m.o. Still, he was aware that Paul was coming from a very different place, one he didn't fully understand, and that worried him. If things ultimately got screwed up, he'd deal with it, but he didn't want to be the one to kill any chance at a longer acquaintance dead by pushing too hard too early. So he tried not to be too obvious about the rush of excitement and happiness at actually having Paul in his house again.