POV Lucian

"Today is your day off," Coach Morel announces. All eleven of us, stationed by different gym equipment of our fitness facility, break into a chorus of cheers and whistles. 

"We love you, Coach!" Roger, one of our best defenders, shouts next to me. 

"You're going to take back that statement once you learn the reason why I've gathered you here," Coach Morel replies, and silence falls abruptly. "It's your day off with me, but I'm bringing in someone else to have a few hours of intensive training with you."

A collective groan of disapproval resonates throughout the room, and one of the guys finds the guts to ask, "Are you bringing in a marines?" 

Coach Morel looks unimpressed by the obvious complaint. "She's a professional athlete. One of the best in her field. Consider yourselves lucky that she agreed to allocate time out of her busy schedule to meet you today."

Curious murmurs arise as the guys try to guess the identity of our new mysterious female trainer. As if on cue, a buzz resonates throughout the room, an indication that someone is waiting outside the automatic doors. 

Coach Morel points a threatening finger in our direction as he warns, "You better be on your best behavior today, or there'll be hell to pay."

As Coach Morel walks away, Roger nudges me to get my attention. "Ten dollars that she's super hot," he says. "If she wasn't, Coach wouldn't have bothered threatening us."

"You do realize she might be around the same age as him, right? Old enough to be your mother."

"That's even hotter. Milf energy at its finest."

"A little piece of advice Roger. The next time you're on a football field do yourself a favor and touch some grass."

He's about to retort but a sudden hush falls around the room when we hear a feminine voice greeting our Coach.

I turn my head in their direction and my jaw hits the floor when I see Akhyra walking side by side with her father. 

Only the sound of her brown ankle boots resonates in the silent atmosphere. My eyes travel slowly up her exposed legs, my heart missing a rhythm when I spot the jewelry around her thigh, made of multilayered golden chains caressing her skin with each step she takes. 

At the exact moment that I finally take in the outfit that Akhyra is wearing, I hear a low whistle from Roger who whispers, "Hot damn. The girl is packing."

Even though his salacious tone grates on my nerves I am forced to admit that Akhyra is the epitome of sensual femininity in this long-sleeve white shirt dress that she's wearing, accessorized with a brown bustier corset that flatters her hourglass shape.

When Coach Morel begins to introduce his daughter my eyes remain focused on Akhyra. What is she doing here? Is she our new trainer? Well, obviously duh. My heart is beating so fast that I've lost my capacity to think rationally.

I know this isn't the time and place but I keep hoping that Akhyra will make eye contact. She doesn't. Her brown locs are swept to the right, completely shadowing that side of her face. I snap back to reality just in time to catch the end of Coach Morel's introduction. 

"For the next few hours, I'm going to leave you in the capable hands of my daughter," he says, accentuating the word daughter. "I'll be taking a well-deserved break at the nearest steakhouse and hopefully by the time I return, all of you will be accounted for."

When Coach Morel leaves, Akhyra wastes no time in banalities and gets right down to business.

"Today we will do a series of exercises that aim to strengthen the muscles of your legs and reinforce your endurance. If at any point you feel like passing out or throwing up, simply ask for a time-out, and you'll be allowed a three-minute break."

The reactions to her declaration are varied. Some guys laugh, some fail to hide the worry in their face, and others seem offended that she'd underestimate their endurance. After all, Coach Morel isn't the easiest of coaches, to say the least.

Samuel, who is known to be our most aggressive striker, puffs out his chest stupidly as he claims, "Ain't none of us tapping out. We've got more stamina than a horde of Arabian horses."

Most of the guys roar in approval, and the moment I see Akhyra's lips twitch in amusement, I instantly know that this guy and his stupid mouth have just signed our death sentence.

"What's your name?" Akhyra asks in a suave tone that awakens a delicious shiver along my spine, though it also makes my blood boil because it's not directed at me.

"Samuel," he answers. "The "S" stands for stallion."

There are many groans of second-hand embarrassment following his lame line. Next to him, Hector says, "You've said some very dumb shit before, but this is a winner."

Samuel doesn't seem fazed by all the criticism and sports a huge grin that I'm dying to knock off his face.

"Let's make a deal, Samuel," Akhyra suggests calmly, but I know her well enough to detect the venom hiding behind her amiable facade. "If you get through the first hour of training without asking for a time-out, I will lend you my Aston Martin DB11 for a day."

Many "oohs" and "no ways" are followed by her challenge. Knowing Akhyra, if she's willing to put a sports car valued at more than two hundred thousand dollars on the table, there's not a chance in hell that my teammate is winning this bet.

Stupid Samuel looks overly confident when he agrees to the deal. "I can already see myself driving this beauty!"

All of the guys start placing bets about the odds of Samuel losing. A petty side of me that I wasn't aware existed until now is irritated that this idiot is the one who has gotten Akhyra's attention, even if it's in a bad way.

Before I can think it through, I find myself speaking up. "What if we make it through the entire training without a single time-out?"

"I appreciate the confidence. However, the chances of that happening are slim to none."

"Might be slim but not impossible. There should be a reward for whoever gets through it."

The entire team voices its approval. Little do they know I'm not doing this for their benefit. My intentions are purely selfish.

"Alright," Akhyra agrees. "If one player gets through the training without tapping out even once, I will wear his jersey in the semi-finals match."

The energy around the room shifts instantly, a thunderous chorus of male voices shaking the walls. 

Amid this chaos, Akhyra and I keep locking our gaze. There's a defiant glint in her eyes as if she's asking silently, "Are you up for it?"

I wink at her to let her know, "Challenge accepted."

She won't be wearing any other jersey than mine.

***

During the last fifteen minutes of training, there are only four of us who haven't asked for a time-out: Alex, Hector, Roger, and myself. Stupid Samuel had barely lasted half an hour before asking for his first time-out. Ironically enough, he became the one to ask for the most breaks throughout the different exercises that Akhyra put us through to the point that the guys began calling him Softie Sammy. 

When Akhyra noticed that the four of us were ready to stick it out until the very end, she decided for our last exercise to organize a little competition involving the free-standing crossfit rig in our gym. Our goal is to go through the series of monkey bars while holding a ball between our legs.

The rules are simple but hard as fuck in execution. We are not allowed to drop the ball, instant elimination, and if we falter in our progression, staying on the same monkey bar for more than five seconds, it's equivalent to instant elimination as well. 

We go one after the other, and I strategically place myself at the end of the line to give myself time to gauge how the others will fail. Alex is the first one to go down, his arms not strong enough to carry the weight of his body from one bar to the other. The same thing happens to Roger. The next to hop on the rig is Hector. As he gets into position, apprehension twists my stomach. Our team captain is a former gymnast, a bonus point for him.

Once he's ready to begin, Akhyra lets out a cheerful, "Go Captain!"

I know that she did it with the sole purpose of messing with my head, but it does nothing to appease me. 

As Hector progresses through the monkey bars, the guys chant his name louder the closer he's getting to the last one. I'm not dupe enough to imagine that our teammates really care about which one of us wins. Their enthusiasm is purely money motivated as many bets were placed. They might end up bankrupt by the end of training. 

Just as he's about to reach for the final metallic bar overhead, the ball between Hector's legs drops to the floor provoking a stream of curses and disappointed groans from the guys who had bet on him. 

When my turn finally comes, I tune out the loud voices of my teammates. Ignoring the pain in my forearms, stretched to their limit, I focus on visualizing Akhyra wearing my jersey in the stadium as she screams my name at the top of her lungs. This vision is the only motivation that I need to hop from one bar to the next one until I reach the end. 

While the room erupts in applause and reclamation of betting money, my eyes find Akhyra and remain fixated on her as I drop to the floor to walk toward her. The ongoing commotion works in my favor, allowing me a tiny bit of privacy as I get close.

"It's too bad," she says in a teasing tone. "I really wanted to wear Hector's jersey."

She probably expects me to take the bait, but I don't. Instead, I give her the information that she will need for the semi-finals. 

"Red. Embroidered. Open cup."

Akhyra's eyebrows draw in confusion. "Are you glitching?"

A victorious smirk spread across my lips as I eagerly provide the answer to her question. 

"No, Princess, I'm just telling you what color and style your bra should be underneath my jersey."