Sweet Spot Ch. 01

His parents, brothers and sister had disagreed with his decisions to drop out of the family import business and move to Greece, and they'd picked every opportunity to express their objection. For months, every single conversation had revolved around their trying to figure out Paul's reasons for, as they termed it, his desertion. Paul's responses were evidently unsatisfactory. While they were sorry that he wasn't feeling happy or fulfilled, they were convinced that absconding from his duties to his family would only cause him more unhappiness, not less. And finally, his personal happiness didn't matter, because in the large scheme of things, doing what was right for the family (or maybe what the family thought was right) was more important than personal feelings. He hadn't planned on moving without having found a job in Greece, but he could no longer stand the recriminations or attempts to change his mind. So he'd accepted the highest offer on his apartment, one which at least fully covered his outstanding mortgage if not much more, purchased a one-way ticket, made sure his providers and clients knew he was leaving the business, and had landed in Athens on a sunny mid-March day, nervous but optimistic.

Three months later, results were mixed. He had underestimated how tough the job market was in recession-hit Greece and none of his business contacts could provide him with leads, or even ideas as to where he might turn. His savings had been dwindling dangerously low, when he finally managed to land a position as a coach at one of the more exclusive tennis clubs in a northern suburb of Athens.

"Your Greek is terrible, of course, but that will work in your favor," the club manager had blithely explained. "A tennis coach and English language instructor all wrapped in one. Parents around here will really like that."

The pay was shockingly low, and Paul had hoped to be doing something other than lobbing balls at a bunch of pampered and talentless kids, but it was either that or return to his family's bosom in defeat, and he wasn't quite ready to do that yet.

So here he was, still trying to make a go of it, still not really addressing the one part of himself that had driven him to make all these changes in the first place, tossing and turning on a bed in a hotel room he couldn't really afford.

An unknown while later, he jerked awake, disoriented and sweating heavily despite the cool air. He pressed the indiglo button on the trusty Timex he'd had since he was a teenager. It was only 5:00, which explained why he still felt so drained. His first tennis lesson wasn't until 8:00, so he had some time, but despite his exhaustion, he doubted he'd fall asleep again, and breakfast was no longer the strong lure it had been earlier, when he'd still been buzzed with drink and sex. After a quick shower, he checked out and walked home.

His apartment was located near Pedio tou Areos, one of only two large green parks in central Athens, and, still restless, he took advantage of the early morning empty paths and relatively lower temperatures to go for a quick jog, before biking the approximately six hilly kilometers to the tennis club. One thing was for sure, he was getting back into the best shape of his life and without the hard demands of professional sports on his body, he was enjoying himself a heck of a lot more. Even though he'd tried to stay in shape after leaving tennis in 2005, he hadn't realized how far he'd slipped and how good, by comparison, he felt now.

"Yasoo, Pavlo," Zois, one of his fellow coaches greeted him as, after his third shower of the day, he was pulling on his tennis whites. Zois' English wasn't much better than Paul's Greek, so conversations between the two of them generally never went beyond the weather and fairly simple gossip about club members, during which Zois expressed his appreciation of certain female members with a lot of eyebrow waggling and cupping of hands to indicate the size of specific body parts, and Paul nodded and smiled weakly in response. Although Paul hadn't intended on hiding the fact he was gay once in Greece – after all, that was the reason he'd moved, to come out of the closet and get used to living openly, before returning home – he didn't think coming out to his fellow coaches, with whom he shared locker and shower facilities, was the best course of action, either. And anyway, he was still hoping this was going to be a temporary job. At 32, he was much older than the rest of the coaches, most of whom were either still in university or had only recently graduated.

Paul nodded and smiled back in greeting, and Zois let loose with a stream of Greek that Paul didn't have a hope of following. He shook his head to indicate that he hadn't understood, and Zois repeated more slowly that Paul's first lesson of the day had called in to cancel.

"You could have slept an extra hour," Zois said, enunciating clearly and carefully.

"It would have just been hotter riding here."

Zois twirled his forefinger by his temple, the common Greek gesture for indicating insanity, and grinned. Paul just shrugged, well aware of what his colleagues thought of his riding a bike everywhere. It never crossed their minds that he couldn't afford a car or even a motorbike; after all he'd been a professional tennis player and, more importantly, he was American, and it was a well-known "fact" in Greece that all Americans were wealthy, or at least wealthy enough to own a car. Truth be told, it hadn't occurred to Paul himself that he wouldn't be able to afford one, until he'd seen the prices of even the most used clunkers, and of the parking space he'd have been forced to rent. Public transportation was both slow and unreliable, without a direct or convenient connection between home and work, neither of which were near a Metro stop, so for the time being his bike and the odd taxi ride were the best options.

Paul took advantage of the unexpected free time to grab an iced coffee in the small club café and calculate his budget for the rest of the month. Coaches were allowed to take on private pupils, provided they paid the small fee for using the tennis courts past a certain number of hours per week and also devoted the minimum required time to the free tennis academies provided through mid-July and again in September. Paul had counted on getting more pupils when schools let out in early June, but his fellow coaches explained that summer actually meant fewer pupils, given that many families moved to summer homes and that lessons were rarely booked from mid-morning to late afternoon, due to the heat. If he lost rather than gained coaching hours during the next two to three months, he wasn't sure he'd be able to afford even the miniscule rent he paid.

The barista, Maria, wandered over to see what he was scribbling and practice her English on him. Once she understood his problem, she also had a constructive idea.

"Why don't you post something on those internet expat sites? Unless they send their families home in the summer, there could be children, and maybe even wives, that want to learn or play tennis and would prefer somebody with your experience."

"Are there still a lot of expats? I thought with all the financial problems here, many of the foreign businesses had moved out."

Maria shrugged. "Well, even if that's true about business, there are still all the embassies and diplomats' houses around here. It doesn't hurt to try, right?"

Paul nodded and sat tugging absently at his earlobe as he considered Maria's suggestion. He really had nothing to lose, especially if he could post a free notice on the expat sites.

"By the way, what happened to your face?" Maria asked.

"Oh, uh, I tripped over a bag strap and fell." Paul stuttered in a failed attempt to sound nonchalant and matter-of-fact. "My knees, too, see?"

"You fell on your face?" Maria asked in disbelief, then shook her head. "Good thing your glasses didn't break."

"Yeah," Paul choked out, and gulped his coffee, hoping the cold drink would help both his blush and his sudden erection subside.

Another thing Paul had learned over the years was that the more he tried not to think of something, the more he thought of it. Since the result was ultimately the same, he felt free to indulge in thinking about Andy and wondering if their paths might cross again. He was actually feeling optimistic, because at 6'4" and with hair so blond it was almost white, Andy would be hard to miss in even the darkest dance club. And next time around, Paul intended to get his last name and as many contact details as he possibly could.

**********

"I do hope we're not boring you, Andrea."

It took Andy a couple of seconds to parse the content of the comment and realize that it was aimed at him and not entirely on topic.

"Not at all," he responded smoothly. "I was just thinking of the ramifications of your proposal."

Adding that he thought better with his eyes closed would probably be laying it on a bit thick, so he decided not to explain further, even though it was true. He did think better with his eyes closed, particularly if he was thinking of a certain tallish, dark and handsome Greek American, and not about how to recuperate on a relatively small, but ultimately ill-fated, investment in a US retro-style diner. God, he was so sick and tired of these meetings. He would have far rather been working in the diner than making decisions about it. But then, the heirs of the Giannopoulos name didn't do menial work; Andy's dad has just about disowned him, when he'd taken a job a short-order cook during college. And Andy knew enough about himself to know that he preferred bored but comfortable to challenged but possibly barely scraping by.

"I don't think we've given it enough time," he said finally. "People will go for this if the prices are right, and they are. We just need to give word-of-mouth a chance, maybe jack up our presence in the social media."

Nikolaos Harissis rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, no doubt to make a snide comment. Andy hated the guy, but as his first cousin, he had an equal say in the business, plus he had an MBA from Tuck, whereas Andy hadn't moved past a BA, something Nikos never missed an opportunity to rub in.

"This is more of your socialist sentimentality," Nikos sniffed. "You just don't want to lay anybody off. Never mind that we're losing money every month."

"You're right, I don't. Especially since we haven't given the diner enough time," Andy insisted. "I want us to wait until after Christmas. It's only six more months, and we'd pay penalties for breaking the leases on the equipment and the property anyway."

"We're throwing good money after bad."

Andy sighed. "We're not going to come to an agreement, Niko. Let's just put it up for vote at the board meeting next month."

Nikos sneered his assent and moved to the next order of business.

Andy just managed to suppress another sigh and leaned back in his chair. He didn't like being here, but at least he could occasionally make a small difference. He let the rest of the meeting drone on without paying much attention, and then made his way back to his office, wondering how soon he could make a graceful departure for the day. Three hours of sleep just didn't cut it for him anymore, especially when followed by the disappointment of finally deciding to contact the hotel, only to find out that Paul had already checked out, and that the hotel naturally refused to provide any contact details. He guessed he could hang out at S-CAPE every night in the hopes that Paul would show up again at some point, but at 42 years old, a daily regimen of loud music, alcohol and late nights would probably kill him within a week. No, that bird had flown, and it didn't matter now how many times during the day Andy's dick has stiffened at the memory of Paul's mouth and body or how much he wished he'd taken more time and done more things to Paul before they parted.

He frowned at his laptop and then, without much expectation of anything but how pointless it would prove, he googled Paul Pappas. Over six million results. Okey dokey. He tried again, enclosing the name in quotation marks, and narrowed the results down to slightly over forty thousand. Hopelessly, and feeling a bit too much like a smitten teenager again, he scrolled down and suddenly there Paul was, glaring at him from a photo. A much younger Paul, his face narrower and his hair longer, but Paul nonetheless. Andy clicked on the photo, and from there to a Wikipedia link. He suddenly became aware that his mouth was hanging open, so he snapped it shut and continued reading and clicking through more links.

Although Andy was a member of the same tennis club his grandparents, parents and assorted other relatives had been members of since its inception in the late 1920s and although he still played fairly regularly (if once every six months or so could be called regularly), he'd never been that interested in following the sport, or any other sport except for basketball. He racked his brain trying to remember if he'd been aware of Paul's name, but he couldn't come up with even the vaguest memory. Pete Sampras, he remembered. Ditto Mark Philippousis. Not Paul Pappas though, although from the articles it appeared that he'd also made a fair name for himself, before retiring for undisclosed reasons in 2005.

Andy wondered what kind of effect, if any, his complete lack of recognition had had the previous night. On the one hand Paul hadn't mentioned tennis at all, so maybe he liked flying under the radar screen. On the other hand Andy himself always felt a brief kick of disappointment and subsequent animosity, when somebody, who should have recognized his name, didn't. Or did that just make Andy shallower than most other adults in the world? Be that as it may, the one thing Andy didn't find in any of the articles, even though it was what he wanted most, was how to get in touch with Paul now.

**********

After he placed his ads on two different expat sites, Paul started to receive a trickle of interested calls. Two people even actually asked him if he was "the" Paul Pappas, though neither panned out, because they both lived in the southern suburbs of Athens and didn't want to trek all the way north for lessons. Still, at the end of two weeks he was able to add five pupils to his roster, and one, a Czech eight-year-old, showed real talent. Paul spent a lot of time boning up on coaching techniques; he couldn't stand the thought of letting that drive go to waste or somehow turning little Libor off the game, as one of his coaches had almost done to him.

"Same time Thursday?" he asked Libor's mother as he was seeing them off, and she nodded. He tracked them to the club exit, then strolled to the café to get a drink. At 7:30 in the evening the courts were all full, and he tilted his chair back against the wall and idly observed. He didn't have any more lessons and should probably head home, but he was feeling too relaxed and lazy to move for the moment.

"Jesus, Andy, will you stop doing that?"

Paul sat up straight, his chair landing back on its front two legs with a thud, and stared towards where the indignant woman's voice had come from. And there he was, big, blond and laughing even as he danced around trying to avoid a small woman swatting at his butt with her racket. Andy.

"Mom! This is domestic abuse! I'm reporting you," Andy yelled, just avoiding another swat.

"I'm going to serve whether you're ready or not," a thin, dark-haired teenager threatened from the opposite side, and Andy and his mother both took their positions, although both were still laughing.

Paul observed them with a concentration that the level of play hardly merited. A younger woman about Andy's age made up the foursome; all were fairly competent though, with the exception of the teenaged boy, hardly dedicated. Andy repeatedly bumped into his mother, and Paul couldn't tell if he was doing it deliberately or not. With his long legs, he could certainly cover a lot of ground quickly, but he either didn't seem aware of where his mother was, or she simply wasn't getting out of his way soon enough.

After forty minutes the foursome gave up the court, and Paul, mouth dry and palms suddenly damp, watched them make their way to the café. Andy had an arm around the teenager's shoulders and was talking to him, and the boy was laughing and trying to squirm away. Paul suddenly wondered if this was Andy's son, and his gut clenched at the thought. Was his family rather than the distance involved the real reason Andy hadn't invited him to his place that night? If so, he'd wasted a lot of time looking for Andy and even more stupidly day-dreaming about possibilities once he found him.

For everything they'd done together a couple of weeks ago, Paul hadn't actually looked at Andy all that long. He remembered him more as a composite of body parts: gray eyes with laugh lines radiating out, platinum blond short hair, generous wide mouth, large warm hands. Then it was more of a sense of Andy holding him, of his chest lying against Paul's back, of his legs between Paul's. And his cock, of course. Long, uncut, pink against his blond pubic hair and white skin, fitting just right in Paul's mouth and hitting all the right spots in his ass. He hadn't bottomed since his first lover, over eight years ago, but somehow with Andy it hadn't occurred to him that it would be otherwise.

Now though, he could take in the whole man, the way he carried himself so easily, despite his height, his athletic build, broad shoulders tapering to lean hips and long, muscular legs. He was probably carrying about six or eight extra pounds, more obvious now in his T-shirt than they had been when he was wearing a dress shirt, but they hardly made a difference on a guy his size.

They were now close enough for Paul to hear the boy complaining about something to the younger woman, whom he called "mama". Although he was speaking Greek, Paul understood enough to grasp that he referred to Andy as his uncle. The relief he felt was less surprising to him that the disappointment he'd felt earlier.

He still hesitated about coming forward. Though he'd seen both women and the boy at the club pretty often, he'd never spoken to them, and he'd obviously never seen Andy. What would be his excuse for approaching them? He briefly considered offering some feedback on their play, but with the exception of the boy, he doubted they'd be very interested.

He was still stalling indecisively, when Andy finally noticed him, his gray eyes widening in surprise and then narrowing in a brilliant smile.

"Hey, Paul! How've you been?"

He strode over and was towering over Paul, before Paul even had a chance to get up.

"Good. I've been good. You?"

He clasped Andy's outstretched hand, and stared up into Andy's eyes.

"I was hoping like hell I'd find you again," Andy murmured, then pumped Paul's hand once more before letting go and turning to his family.

"Mom, Anna, Kosta, this is Paul Pappas. Paul, my mother Elaine and my cousin Anna. And this skinny matchstick is Anna's son, Kostas."

The two women smiled, while Kostas blushed a bright red.

"Nice to meet you," Paul said politely, then smiled at Kostas. "Hey, good game. You certainly ran circles around your uncle."

"That's because I let him," Andy defended himself, and both Kostas and Paul booed.

"Are you a member here?" Andy asked, still smiling, and suddenly both women looked uncomfortable, though Paul couldn't immediatly figure out why. It became a little clearer after a second, when Andy's cousin turned to him.

"He's a coach," Anna said, and then, in Greek: "I thought you knew him."

Andy's smile slipped for a split second, before returning, though not quite as bright as before.

"I do," he responded in English, and even Paul recognized the want-to-make-something-of-it tone of voice.