The first time Rory MacKenna saw Andrés Solano, it wasn’t even on a court. It was on a screen.
It was the Madrid Open, 2021. Rory had just gotten knocked out in the quarterfinals—tight match, bad calls, and a sprained wrist that had turned his serve into a limp noodle. He’d gone back to the hotel with a bottle of whiskey and his physio’s warnings still ringing in his ears. Slumped in bed, one sock on, he flipped through the channels until he landed on Court One.
Andrés Solano was playing a young American.
And playing wasn’t the right word. He was dancing.
Effortless footwork. Slices so silky they looked slow-motion. He had a kind of cruel elegance, every shot precise, as if choreographed. Rory sat forward, wrist throbbing and heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with tennis. The camera zoomed in at a break point and Rory saw him clearly for the first time—curly black hair, mustache, skin golden under the Spanish sun. Shirt sticking to a chest that was startlingly hairy for a 23-year-old. Rory couldn’t look away.
He remembered muttering aloud to the empty room, “Fuck, he’s good.”
And hot.
That thought he didn’t say out loud.
He didn’t meet Andrés until later that summer, at the Cincinnati Masters. They were both doing press, both climbing in the rankings, and both starting to hear their names said together in the same breath. “The future of tennis.” “The fire and the ice.” “The Celt and the Conquistador.”
They passed each other in the hallway of the practice facility. Rory in a sleeveless tee and gym shorts, stubble shading his jaw, his signature red hair damp with sweat. Andrés in a white training kit that clung to every lean, wiry muscle. Their eyes locked like two animals sizing each other up.
“MacKenna,” Andrés said, smiling. “I’ve heard you play like a hammer.”
Rory tilted his head, smirking. “You must be Solano. I’ve heard you play like you think you’re better than everyone else.”
Andrés laughed. “Only when I am.”
That was the start.
Over the next three years, their rivalry became one of the most-watched in the sport. They met a dozen times, each match more intense than the last. Their styles clashed perfectly—Rory’s explosive serves, his raw power, his fierce baseline grit, against Andrés’ graceful finesse, his footwork, his elegant brutality. The tennis world loved them. Fans split into factions. Journalists speculated on their frostiness, their lingering handshakes, their unwillingness to trash-talk each other off court.
They were professional.
Mostly.
There were moments. Quiet ones.
A glance too long in the tunnel. A brush of shoulders in the locker room. A shared drink at a charity gala where both brought dates, but neither could stop watching the other. The world saw two young men chasing Grand Slams. Only they knew what else was chasing them—something they didn’t name, didn’t dare let into daylight.
They were both publicly straight, of course. Had to be. The tennis world wasn’t ready for anything else. Rory dated a pop singer for a while. Then a Norwegian skier. Then a French actress who called him “mon diable rouge” in magazines. Andrés was even worse—his tabloid romances were practically a strategy. A Brazilian model. A Spanish heiress. A Formula One driver’s ex-wife.
But in every press photo, Rory could tell. Andrés never looked at them the way he sometimes looked at him.
By the time 2024 rolled around, they had both made the Wimbledon final. Rory won it in four sets. They hugged at the net. Andrés murmured “You deserved it” into his neck, and Rory held him half a second too long. That night, at the champions’ dinner, Rory had spotted him across the ballroom, dancing slowly with some blonde he didn’t know.
Their eyes met across the crowd.
Andrés raised a glass.
Rory didn’t raise his back.
⸻
Now, in New York, they were both staying at The Whitmore, a high-rise hotel overlooking Central Park, two days before the US Open. They hadn’t played each other yet. They both had girlfriends in town. Public appearances to make. Media to charm.
And yet.
That night, Rory found himself wandering the rooftop bar alone, hours after dinner. Clara, his girlfriend, had caught an early flight out—an emergency with her sister, or maybe just the latest excuse. Their relationship had been unraveling for months, mostly because Rory barely noticed when she was in the room anymore.
He leaned against the terrace rail, a half-full glass of red wine in his hand, shirt loose and mostly unbuttoned. The breeze lifted it slightly, revealing his chest, tan and hard from months on tour, a silver crucifix catching the light. His khakis were rumpled. His white crew socks were still on, tucked into his usual white sneakers. He hadn’t even bothered to fix his hair.
The wind made him feel still. Quiet. Alone.
Until he wasn’t.
“I thought I might find you here.”
Rory turned. Andrés stood near the door, hands in his jean pockets, looking like he’d just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad. Black tank top, clinging to his broad chest, curly hair just messy enough to look intentional. His jeans were snug, and he wore white socks in high-top sneakers.
“You following me?” Rory asked, lifting an eyebrow.
Andrés grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
They stood beside each other in silence for a long while, watching the lights of the city blink and hum.
“She left?” Andrés asked after a moment.
“Yeah.” Rory sipped his wine. “Yours too?”
“This morning. Said I need to ‘clear my energy.’ Whatever that means.”
Rory let out a soft laugh. “They always know something’s off. Even if they don’t know what.”
Andrés glanced over at him. “You ever think we make it worse for ourselves? All the pretending?”
Rory’s grip tightened on the stem of his glass. “Yeah. I do.”
Another long silence. The air felt thick.
“You’ve got a good view,” Andrés murmured.
Rory turned, caught him staring at the skyline—or maybe at him.
“Even better from my room.”
Andrés didn’t hesitate. “Let’s see it then.”
⸻
The suite was quiet when they entered. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Manhattan, glowing gold against the dark. Rory dropped his keys on the counter, pulled the wine bottle from the mini-bar, and poured them each a glass. His plaid shirt hung open, showing the long line of his chest, that silver crucifix glinting as he moved.
Andrés sat on the edge of the couch, kicked off his sneakers one at a time. Rory followed, sliding his own off. They both rested their socked feet on the ottoman between them, bodies turned slightly inward.
Their calves touched. Neither pulled away.
For a few minutes, they talked—about the draw, about the pressure, about how long the season felt. They avoided the obvious. Let the wine work between them.
Then Rory looked at him and said, voice quiet:
“You ever wonder what it would’ve been like? If we’d met differently. No cameras. No trophies between us.”
Andrés didn’t answer right away. He just took a long sip of wine, eyes never leaving Rory’s.
“I think about it too much,” he said finally.
They didn’t kiss right away. Not yet.
The tension stretched between them, slow and quiet, like the final point of a five-set match—nothing rushed, everything on the edge. Andrés leaned in just slightly, enough that Rory could smell the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of cologne and sweat.
Their knees touched. Their arms. Their lips were close enough to feel the breath between them.
They pressed their lips against each other. The kiss was soft, almost tentative, like they were both testing the waters. Rory’s lips brushed against Andrés’, warm and lingering, before pulling back just enough to gauge the reaction. Andrés didn’t move away. Instead, his dark eyes locked onto Rory’s, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. The silence was heavy, charged, and Rory’s heart pounded in his chest as if he’d just sprinted across the baseline to return a drop shot.
Andrés leaned in again, this time with more intent. His hand reached up, fingers grazing the side of Rory’s jaw, guiding him closer. Their lips met more firmly this time, the pressure building like the tension in a tie-breaker. Rory’s breath caught, his fingers instinctively tightening around the stem of his wine glass before he set it down on the table beside them. His other hand found its way to Andrés’ thigh, the denim rough under his palm.
The kiss deepened, slow and exploratory at first, then more urgent. Andrés’ tongue flicked against Rory’s bottom lip, asking for entry, and Rory opened for him without hesitation. The taste of wine mingled with the faint saltiness of Andrés’ skin, intoxicating and wild. Rory’s hand slid higher up Andrés’ thigh, squeezing lightly, and Andrés let out a low, barely audible groan that sent a shiver down Rory’s spine.
Their bodies shifted closer, knees bumping, elbows brushing. Rory’s plaid shirt hung open, and Andrés took advantage, sliding his hand underneath it to touch bare skin. His fingers traced the hard lines of Rory’s abs, calloused from years of gripping rackets, but surprisingly gentle now. Rory shivered under the touch, his own hands tugging at the hem of Andrés’ tank top, desperate to feel skin against skin.
Andrés broke the kiss just long enough to pull the tank over his head, his curls mussed from the motion. Rory’s eyes drank him in—the golden skin, the smattering of hair across his chest, the lean muscle that rippled as he moved. Fuck. He looked goddamn perfect, and Rory couldn’t resist leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss to Andrés’ collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin.
Andrés tilted his head back, a soft sigh escaping his lips as Rory’s mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing a nipple before soothing it with his tongue. His hands tangled in Rory’s red hair, tugging gently, urging him on. Rory obliged, his broad hands roaming over Andrés’ back, pulling him even closer until their bodies were pressed together.
The heat between them was unbearable, and Rory reached for the button of his khakis, fingers fumbling in his haste. Andrés stopped him with a hand on his wrist, his breathing ragged. “Slow,” he murmured, his voice rough. “We’ve got all night.”
Rory smirked, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “Speak for yourself. I’ve been waiting three years for this.”
Andrés laughed, low and throaty, before leaning in to capture Rory’s lips again. This time, his hands went to Rory’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. His palms smoothed over Rory’s chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples, and Rory arched into the touch, a sharp intake of breath escaping him.
“Still think you’re better than everyone else?” Rory teased, his voice uneven as Andrés trailed kisses down his neck.
“Right now,” Andrés murmured against his skin, “I’m only thinking about you.”
Rory’s hands went to Andrés’ jeans, working the button and zipper with practiced ease. He pushed them down, his breath hitching slightly when he saw the prominent bulge in Andrés’ boxers. His fingers slid under the waistband, brushing against the hot, hard length of him, and Andrés let out a soft curse in Spanish.
“Off,” Rory demanded, tugging at the boxers until they joined the jeans on the floor.
Andrés complied, kicking them aside before turning his attention back to Rory. His hands went to Rory’s khakis, sliding them down his hips and letting them pool at his feet. Rory stepped out of them, his own boxers quickly following, and suddenly they were both bare except for their white crew socks.
They paused for a moment, eyes sweeping over each other, taking in every detail. Rory’s body was a map of hard-earned strength—broad shoulders, defined muscles, and a trail of red hair leading down to his cock, already hard and straining. Andrés was leaner, more wiry, but no less impressive, his bronzed skin glowing in the dim light of the suite.
Andrés dropped to his knees, his hands resting on Rory’s thighs as he looked up at him through thick lashes. “I’ve wanted to do this,” he admitted, his voice husky, “since the first time I saw you.”
Rory’s breath hitched as Andrés’ lips closed around him, the warmth and wetness sending a jolt of electricity straight to his core. His head tipped back, a low groan escaping his lips as Andrés took him deeper, his mouth hot and relentless. The sensation was maddening, every nerve in Rory’s body alight with pleasure.
Andrés’ tongue swirled around the sensitive underside, teasing the ridge just beneath the head with practiced precision. Rory’s fingers tightened in Andrés’ curls, his hips twitching involuntarily as he fought the urge to thrust deeper. But Andrés kept him steady, one hand gripping Rory’s hip while the other wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking in slow, deliberate motions.
The rhythmic combination of Andrés’ mouth and hand was unbearably good. Rory’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body trembling as pleasure coiled tightly in his gut. He could feel the pressure building, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing over him as Andrés worked him with an almost sinful skill.
And then Andrés did something that nearly unraveled him completely. Beneath the flickering light of the suite, he stepped closer, a sly grin playing on his lips. “Turn around,” he commanded softly, his voice laced with a promise that sent shivers down Rory’s spine. Without hesitation, Rory obeyed, his heart pounding as he placed his hands on the back of the couch for support. The anticipation was electric, every nerve in his body on edge as he felt Andrés kneel behind him.
The first touch of Andrés’ tongue sent a jolt of pleasure through Rory, sharp and unexpected. He gasped, his fingers gripping the couch tighter as Andrés’ mouth explored him with a hunger that left Rory breathless. Every lick, every swirl of Andrés’ tongue was meticulous, deliberate, driving Rory closer to the edge.
“Fu*k…” Rory moaned, his voice strained and ragged. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of heat and intensity that left him trembling. Andrés didn’t hold back, his hands gripping Rory’s hips firmly, keeping him in place as he devoured him completely. The room was filled with the sounds of their passion, each gasp and moan echoing off the walls like a symphony of desire.
His tongue traced every inch, teasing and exploring with a fervor that left Rory gasping for air. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of heat and intensity that sent shivers down his spine. Rory’s legs trembled under the relentless assault, his moans growing louder with each passing moment.
“God, Andrés…” Rory panted, his voice trembling with need. He could feel the tension building within him, a coil wound tightly that threatened to snap at any moment. Andrés’ hands gripped his hips tighter, guiding him through the waves of pleasure as they crashed over him relentlessly.
His hands gripped the edge of the couch, knuckles turning white as he tried to steady himself. “Andrés…oh God…” Rory gasped, his voice breaking with every word. His body arched involuntarily, pressing back against Andrés’ mouth, craving more of the intoxicating sensation.
Time seemed to blur, seconds blending into minutes as Rory lost himself in the pleasure. Every touch, every lick brought him closer to the edge, until he was teetering on the brink of blissful oblivion. His mind was consumed by the overwhelming sensation, unable to focus on anything but the way Andrés relentlessly pushed him to his limits.
The sensations were overwhelming—a mix of heat, pressure, and a deep, primal pleasure that made Rory’s knees buckle. He gasped, his fingers tightening in Andrés’ curls as he fought to keep himself upright. “Andrés… I’m close,” he warned, his voice rough and uneven.
But Andrés didn’t stop. If anything, he intensified his efforts, his tongue working faster, his hand stroking harder. Rory’s breathing quickened, his body tensing as the pressure reached its peak. And then, with a strangled cry, he came undone, his release spilling into Andrés’ mouth as waves of pleasure crashed over him.
Andrés swallowed every drop, his tongue coaxing out every last shudder from Rory until he was spent, trembling and gasping for breath. When he finally pulled away, Rory slumped forward against the couch, his chest heaving, his body still tingling with the aftershocks of his climax.
Andrés rose to his feet, a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Still think you’re better than everyone else?” he teased, his voice low and playful.
Rory laughed breathlessly, turning to face him. “Right now,” he admitted, “I think you might be.”
Their laughter mingled in the air, a temporary reprieve from the intensity of what had just happened. But the hunger in their eyes remained, the connection between them still crackling with unspoken desire.
“Fuck,” Rory whispered, his fingers tangling in Andrés’ curls as he rocked into his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, the heat and pressure building with every stroke. Andrés hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure shooting through Rory’s body.
When Rory couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled back, breathing hard. “Your turn,” he said, dropping to his knees in front of Andrés.
Andrés leaned back against the couch, spreading his legs slightly as Rory took him in hand, stroking him slowly at first, then faster as Andrés’ breathing quickened. Rory bent his head, pressing a kiss to the tip before taking him into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive head. Andrés let out a gasp, his hips jerking involuntarily, and Rory chuckled around him, the sound vibrating through both of them.
“Tease,” Andrés managed to say, his voice strained.
Rory didn’t respond, too focused on the task at hand. He took Andrés deeper, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked, his hand working the base in tandem with his mouth. Andrés’ moans grew louder, his fingers tightening in Rory’s hair as he neared the edge.
When Rory finally pulled away, they were both trembling, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Rory stood, pulling Andrés up with him before turning him around and bending him over the back of the couch.
“You okay?” Rory asked, his voice rough.
Andrés glanced over his shoulder, a wicked grin on his face. “More than okay.”
Rory grabbed a bottle of lube from the nearby drawer, slicking his fingers before pressing one gently against Andrés’ entrance. He took his time, working him open slowly, his other hand stroking Andrés’ cock in rhythm with his movements.
When he finally pushed inside, they both groaned, the sensation almost too much to bear.
Rory paused for a moment, his breath shallow, his body trembling with the effort to hold still. Andrés let out a low, impatient whine, pushing back against him, demanding more. Rory smirked, gripping Andrés’ hips tighter, his fingers digging into the soft skin just above the curve of his ass. He liked this—liked the way Andrés squirmed, the way he begged without words.
He started moving again, slow and deliberate, each thrust a controlled slide of heat and friction. Andrés moaned, his hands fisting the leather cushions of the couch, his back arching as he pushed against Rory. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room—wet, sensual, rhythmic. Rory leaned down, his lips brushing the ridge of Andrés’ shoulder blade before pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along his spine.
“Dios, Rory,” Andrés gasped, his voice breaking on the last syllable.
Rory murmured something in Spanish, the words rough and low against Andrés’ skin. He didn’t know if Andrés understood—didn’t care. The way the other man shuddered beneath him, the way his breath caught, told him all he needed to know. He pressed deeper, slower, watching the way Andrés’ body clenched around him, feeling the tight heat of him pulling him in.
Andrés turned his head, his dark eyes half-lidded, his lips parted. “Harder,” he rasped, and Rory didn’t need to be told twice.
He shifted his weight, driving into Andrés with sharper, more forceful thrusts. The couch creaked beneath them, the sound mixing with their heavy breathing and choked moans. Rory’s hands moved from Andrés’ hips to his shoulders, pinning him down slightly, angling his body so he could go even deeper. Andrés cried out, his fingers clawing at the cushions, his legs trembling as Rory fucked him with relentless precision.
“You feel so good,” Rory growled, his voice thick with need. “So fucking good.”
Andrés let out a shaky laugh, though it quickly turned into a moan as Rory hit a spot that made his vision blur. “Mierda, Rory—right there—“
Rory didn’t relent, his pace growing faster, harder, less controlled. Sweat dripped down his chest, his muscles taut as he drove into Andrés again and again. His hands moved lower, sliding down Andrés’ sides before gripping his hips once more, holding him steady as he took him apart piece by piece.
Andrés’ moans grew louder, more desperate, his body shaking with the intensity of it all. He reached back blindly, his hand finding Rory’s thigh, squeezing tightly as if to ground himself. Rory leaned over him, his chest pressed against Andrés’ back, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. The heat between them was suffocating, every inch of skin pressed together, every breath shared. Rory could feel Andrés’ heartbeat racing beneath him, a wild rhythm that matched his own.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Rory growled, his voice rough with need. He moved with purpose now, each thrust deeper, harder, drawing gasps and pleas from Andrés that only fueled his desire. His hands slid down Andrés’ sides, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his hips as he pulled him back onto his cock. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, wet and obscene, a symphony of desire that neither of them could ignore.
Andrés arched his back, pushing himself against Rory, his hands gripping the couch cushions as if they were the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely. His moans turned into cries, his voice breaking as Rory hit that spot inside him that made his vision blur. “Rory—fuck—right there—” he gasped, his words fragmented, his body trembling with the force of his pleasure. Rory didn’t slow down, his pace relentless, his hips pistoning into Andrés with a precision that bordered on cruelty.
His lips trailed down Andrés’ neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin, leaving marks that would linger long after they were done. Rory’s breath was hot against his ear, his voice low and wrecked as he murmured, “You feel so good, Andrés. So fucking perfect for me.” Andrés shuddered, his head falling forward as Rory’s thrusts grew more erratic, the pressure in his core building with every movement.
Andrés’ hand reached back again, this time clutching at Rory’s arm, his nails digging into the muscle as he tried to anchor himself. Rory’s hand slid down, wrapping around Andrés’ cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. The feel of Rory’s calloused fingers around him was almost too much, and Andrés let out a sob, his body trembling on the edge of release. “Please—” he begged, his voice breaking, his hips jerking into Rory’s hand as he teetered on the brink.
Rory’s lips brushed his ear again, his voice a rough murmur. “Come for me,” he said, and Andrés didn’t need to be told twice. His body tightened, his cries echoing off the walls as he spilled over Rory’s hand, his orgasm crashing over him in waves that left him shaking and gasping for air. Rory followed moments later, his thrusts stuttering as he buried himself deep inside Andrés, his own release hitting him with the force of a tidal wave. They stayed like that for a long moment, their bodies pressed together, their breathing ragged and uneven, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex.
Rory finally pulled out, collapsing onto the couch beside Andrés, who turned to face him with a lazy, satisfied smile.
“Carajo,” Andrés muttered, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from Rory’s forehead. “You’re going to kill me.”
Rory chuckled, leaning into the touch. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice still rough, “you’re not exactly easy to resist.”
Andrés laughed softly, his hand trailing down to rest on Rory’s chest. They lay there in silence, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, their white crew socks stark against the dark leather of the couch. Rory’s eyes drifted shut, his body still humming pleasantly, but he could feel Andrés shifting beside him.
