I thought fourteen days of training camp would be straightforward.
My head coach had other ideas.
Bennett Shaw. Forty-two. Built like a man whose body had been shaped by work that didn’t need an audience. He’d been watching my game footage for eight months before I ever walked onto his field. He had a rule — never used his hands for corrections, always a foam roller, always a barrier between his palm and a player’s skin.
He made that rule because of me.
I didn’t know that on day one.
Day three I walked into the recovery room at six in the morning and found him in the ice bath with his eyes closed. I stood there for forty-five seconds. He knew I was there the whole time.
Water’s still cold if you want in, he said. Without opening his eyes.
I’ve been straight my entire life.
He knew that. Waited anyway. Eight months of professional distance and foam rollers and two-second eye contact limits, all of it maintained with the patience of a man who understood exactly what he was waiting for.
On night nine I knocked on his door.
I knew exactly what I was doing.
Explicit MM. Straight to gay. Forbidden coach and player. Age gap. First time. Adults only. 18+
