Yes, coach

I'm nineteen years old, and I've spent the last fifteen years of my life working toward one goal: the Olympics.

Everything I am, everything I do, is in service of that dream. The training, the diet, the sacrificeit's all been worth it because I'm close. So close I can taste it.

But there's a problem.

His name is Jake Morrison. Forty-one years old. Former Olympic gold medalist. My coach for the last three years. And the man I think about every night when I'm alone in my bed, my hand between my thighs, imagining things I absolutely shouldn't be imagining.

He's my coach. He's responsible for my career. He's more than twice my age. And he's the only thing standing between me and my Olympic dreams.

I should hate that I want him.

Instead, I just want him more.

"Your technique is sloppy."

Jake's voice cut through the empty gym, sharp and unforgiving. I'd just finished my floor routinea routine I thought was damn near perfectand he looked at me like I'd personally disappointed him.

"What was wrong with it?" I tried to keep the defensiveness out of my voice.

"Everything." He walked toward me, his presence commanding despite his relatively average height. At five-foot-nine, he wasn't tall, but he carried himself like he owned every room he entered. "Your landings are off by half a second. Your turns lack the precision you had last month. Your extension on the Arabian is inconsistentsometimes full, sometimes lazy. Do you want to make the national team or not?"

"Of course I do."

"Then act like it." He stopped in front of me, so close I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. They were an intense hazelmore green than brown in the fluorescent gym lightsand right now they were boring into me with an intensity that made my stomach flip. "You have six months until trials, Avery. Six months to fix fifteen years of bad habits and prove you deserve to be there. Are you willing to do what it takes?"

"Yes." My voice came out stronger than I felt.

"Good. Because starting tomorrow, we're adding private sessions. Six AM, every morning, just you and me. We're going to rebuild your foundation from the ground up." He crossed his arms, and I tried not to notice how the movement made his biceps strain against his fitted black t-shirt. "Your basics are solid, but solid doesn't win medals. We need exceptional. We need flawless."

My stomach flippedwhether from anxiety or excitement, I wasn't sure. "Private sessions?"

"You have potential that's being wasted in group training. You need individual attention, specialized programming, and someone who's going to push you harder than you've ever been pushed." His gaze held mine, unwavering. "I can get yo...