Private Training
"He's the star player. She's married to the coach. When she offers to help with his 'private training,' he knows he should say no."
Mrs. Patterson is at every practice.
Sitting in the bleachers, watching. Taking notes for her husband, she says. Helping him scout the team.
But her eyes always find me.
Coach Patterson is a legend.
Twenty years building this program. Championship banners on every wall. The kind of man you don't cross.
His wife is twenty years younger. Trophy wife, the guys call her behind closed doors. Married him for the money.
But I've seen how she looks at him. Like she's starving and he's too busy to notice.
"Tyler. Stay after."
Practice is over. The other guys head to the showers. I stay.
Coach Patterson is already at the door, gym bag over his shoulder. "Linda's got some video of your form she wants to review. Fix that elbow hitch."
"Yes sir."
He leaves.
Linda Patterson walks onto the court.
She's wearing yoga pants and a tank top that strains across her chest.
Full breasts. Wide hips. A softness to her body that the yoga pants don't hide. She's forty-three and built like a woman who knows exactly what she has.
"Tyler." She smiles. "Ready to work on that form?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am. Makes me feel old." She sets up the camera. "Call me Linda."
We start with fundamentals.
She stands behind me, adjusting my stance. Her hands on my hips. Her breasts pressing against my back.
"Elbow up," she murmurs. "There. Feel the difference?"
I feel something. Not sure it's about basketball.
"Good." She steps back. "Again."
After an hour, she calls it.
"Much better." She's reviewing the footage. "Your release is cleaner. Coach will be pleased."
"Thanks. For the help."
"Anytime." She looks up at me. "You're dedicated. I like that."
"Just trying to make the team better."
"Mm." Her eyes move down my body. "You're already the best thing on it."
I should leave.
I should shower, go home, forget the way she's looking at me.
"Something wrong?" she asks.
"No. I just—"
"You're nervous." She steps closer. "Around me."
"You're the coach's wife."
"I'm aware." Another step. "Does that bother you?"
"Should it?"
"Probably." She's close enough to touch now. "But I've noticed you watching me too. During practice. When you think no one's looking."
"I wasn't—"
"Don't lie." Her hand finds my chest. "I like being watched."
"Mrs. Patterson—"
"Linda." Her hand slides lower. "And you want this. I can tell."
She's not wrong. I've been half-hard since she started adjusting my stance.
"Coach would kill me."
"Coach is at a fundraiser until midnight." She finds my waistband. "And what he doesn't know won't hurt anyone."
"This is a bad idea."
"The best ones usually are."
She kisses me.
She tastes like mint and confidence.
Her body presses against mine — soft where I'm hard, giving where I'm solid. She knows what she's doing. Every touch is deliberate. Practiced.
"I've been thinking about this for months," she breathes against my mouth. "Watching you run drills. Watching you sweat."
"Months?"
"Since the first practice." She pulls back, starts walking toward the locker room. "Coming?"
I follow.
The coach's office is connected to the locker room.
She leads me inside. Locks the door.
"Here?" I ask. "In Coach's office?"
"Does that bother you?"
It should. It really should.
"No."
She smiles. "Good boy."
She strips efficiently.
Tank top off. Sports bra. Yoga pants peeled down.
She's not wearing underwear.
"Like what you see?"
I can't speak. Just nod.
"Then show me."
I worship her body.
Every curve. Every soft inch. She gasps when I take her breast in my mouth, moans when my hand finds between her thighs.
"God," she breathes. "Young men. You have so much energy."
"What does Coach—"
"Don't." She grips my hair. "Don't mention him while you're touching me."
"Sorry."
"Less talking. More touching."
I bend her over Coach's desk.
The irony isn't lost on either of us. Championship trophies on the shelves. Team photos on the walls. His wife, naked and wanting, spread across his blotter.
"Fuck me," she demands. "Hard."
I do.
She's loud.
I didn't expect that. The composed, elegant coach's wife — screaming like she hasn't been touched in years.
"Yes. Yes. Right there. Don't stop."
I don't stop. I fuck her the way she wants — hard, deep, giving her everything a man twice my age apparently can't.
"I'm close," she gasps. "God, I'm so close—"
"Come for me."
She does. Loudly. Her whole body shaking, clenching around me.
I follow a moment later.
After, we clean up.
She's calm. Composed. Like this is routine.
"That was good," she says, fixing her hair. "Very good."
"Thanks. I think."
"Same time Thursday?"
"What?"
"Private training." She smiles. "You have a lot to learn."
"Coach—"
"Will be at the booster dinner Thursday. Like he is every Thursday." She kisses my cheek. "Don't be late."
Thursday comes.
I should skip it. Should invent an excuse. Should never be alone with her again.
I show up early.
This is our pattern now.
Tuesdays and Thursdays. "Private training." While Coach is busy being a legend, his wife is busy with me.
"You're getting better," she tells me after round three. "At basketball too."
"Is that what this is? Improving my game?"
"This is stress relief." She traces patterns on my chest. "For both of us."
"Does he know?"
"Know what? That his wife is fucking his best player on his desk?" She laughs. "No. And he never will."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because you're not going to tell him. And neither am I." She rolls on top of me. "Now. Let's work on your endurance."
The season ends.
We win the championship. Coach gets his banner. I get offered a full scholarship.
At the celebration, Linda finds me in the hallway.
"Congratulations," she says. "You earned it."
"Thanks to your training."
"Some of it." She glances around. Coast is clear. "I'll miss our sessions."
"Is this goodbye?"
"For now." She slips a hotel keycard into my pocket. "Room 412. After the party."
"Coach—"
"Will be drunk and asleep by ten." She kisses my cheek. "Don't keep me waiting."
I don't keep her waiting.
Room 412. The last night of the season.
She answers the door in a robe. Nothing else.
"One more game," she says. "For the road."
We play it well.
Years later, I'm coaching my own team.
Different state. Different life. Wife. Kids. Respectable.
An email arrives. No name. Just a link to a basketball game.
I watch it. Recognize the gym. The bleachers.
A woman sits in the stands. Older now. Still beautiful. Still watching.
She looks at the camera. Smiles.
The message below: Still think about you. —L
I delete the email.
But I save the video.
Some habits never die.