The air in the private gym was chilled to a crisp 18°C, but within minutes, Frank felt like he was standing in the center of a furnace. The industrial lights hummed overhead, reflecting off the polished chrome of the weight machines and the pristine white canvas of the boxing ring.
"On the mat. Now," Davis commanded, looking at the stopwatch in his hand, his thumb hovering over the button with a mechanical precision that made Frank's stomach twist.
Frank stepped onto the black rubber flooring. In the tight cobalt spandex, he felt dangerously exposed. Every time he moved, the fabric shifted, the hem of the shorts riding even higher up his muscular thighs. He felt Davis's eyes tracking the movement— with the cold, judgmental scrutiny of a high-court judge.
"We start with core stability," Davis said, his voice echoing against the mirrored walls. "Plank position. High. Go."
Frank dropped, his palms hitting the mat. He locked his core, his body a straight line. Because the tank top was so tight, his ribs were clearly defined with every ragged breath he took.
"Hips lower," Davis barked.
Frank adjusted.
"Lower."
Suddenly, Frank felt a heavy, warm pressure on the small of his back. Davis had stepped in close—so close Frank could smell the faint, masculine scent of cedar and laundry detergent. Davis used the toe of his heavy training boot to nudge Frank's pelvis down. It was a dismissive, functional touch, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight through Frank's spine.
"Hold it there. Don't move," Davis said, stepping around to Frank's side.
Frank's muscles began to scream. Sweat rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He was focused on the pain until he felt a hand—large and firm—wrap around the back of his right thigh.
Frank's breath hitched. His arms trembled. Davis's fingers were splayed across the exposed skin of his hamstrings, gripping the muscle with an intensity that felt like a brand.
"Your quads are firing too hard. You're overcompensating because your glutes are weak," Davis said, his tone as flat and professional as a lecture. He moved his hand, his palm sliding up the length of Frank's thigh, the friction of his skin against the spandex making a soft, shushing sound that seemed louder than the gym's ventilation. His thumb brushed against the very edge of the short's hem, dangerously close to the sensitive skin of Frank's inner thigh.
Frank let out a strangled, involuntary gasp. His hips buckled for a split second.
"Focus, kid," Davis snapped, his voice showing zero emotion. He squeezed, his thumb digging into the muscle to "trigger" the correct fibers. "I'm not here to hold your hand. If you can't handle a simple tactile correction, you're never going to last ten rounds."
"I'm—I'm fine," Frank managed to choke out, his face buried toward the mat so Davis wouldn't see the sheer panic in his eyes.
Davis moved to the other side. Again, the touch was clinical. He leaned over Frank, his broad chest casting a shadow over the boy's trembling frame. He reached down and gripped Frank's left thigh, his fingers hooking into the crease where the muscle met the hip. It was an incredibly intimate contact point, but Davis handled it like he was adjusting a piece of luggage.
"You're shaking," Davis observed. He stayed there, his hand resting heavily on Frank's bare skin. "Is your girlfriend keeping you up too late? Or are you just as soft as I thought you were?"
"Shut up," Frank hissed, his ego momentarily overriding the heat in his gut.
"Then prove me wrong. Five more minutes. If your knees touch the mat, we start the clock over."
Davis stood up and stood directly over Frank, his legs braced on either side of Frank's torso. From Frank's perspective on the floor, Davis looked like a giant—a mountain of unyielding, straight-as-a-post masculinity.
The minutes felt like hours. Every time Frank's form wavered, Davis's hand was there. A sharp tap on the ribs. A firm grip on the shoulder. And most agonizingly, the constant, "accidental" grazing of his palms against Frank's exposed thighs as he moved around him to check his alignment.
To Davis, it was clearly just training. He was treating Frank like a machine that needed recalibrating. He talked about "kinetic chains" and "force distribution" with a monotone coldness that suggested he didn't even see Frank as a human being, let alone an attractive one.
But for Frank, every touch was a sensory explosion. When Davis's rough palm accidentally brushed the sensitive skin just above his knee, Frank felt a wave of dizziness. He was reacting to every movement—his skin flushing, his heart racing—but Davis remained a statue.
Finally, the timer beeped. Frank collapsed onto the mat, his chest heaving, his hair matted with sweat. He rolled onto his back, gasping for air, the short blue shorts riding up even further in his disheveled state.
Davis stood over him, looking down with an expression of mild boredom.
"Get up," Davis said, reaching down.
For a second, Frank thought he was going to offer a hand to help him up. Instead, Davis reached down and gripped the hem of Frank's shorts, yanking them down an inch with a sharp, impatient tug.
"Cover yourself up, kid. You look like a mess," Davis said, his voice devoid of any heat or interest. "You've got thirty seconds to get to the heavy bag. If you aren't hitting it by the time I count to ten, you're doing burpees until you puke."
Frank scrambled to his feet, his face burning with a mixture of shame and an intensity of desire that terrified him. He looked at Davis, searching for even a glimmer of a smirk, a sign that he knew what he was doing to him.
But Davis was already walking toward the back of the gym, checking the tension on the punching bag chains. He didn't look back. He didn't care. To Davis, the morning had just begun, and Frank was just a project—a "child" who needed to be led.