I came to college to play football, not to get side tracked by my hormones. I’m straight. At least, that’s what I thought before I met my new coach.
From the moment I stepped onto the field, his eyes were on me—sharp, assessing, but lingering just a second too long. He pushed me harder than anyone else, but he also gave me more attention than the rest of the team combined. One-on-one drills, extra "conditioning.” I kept telling myself it was just because he saw potential in me. That it was all about football.
But the way he looked at me? The way his hand would linger on my back, firm grip on my shoulder—sometimes I couldn’t even breathe. And I hated how my body reacted, like it wanted more.
For weeks, he held back—teasing me, testing me, waiting for me to break. Now, I’m not just playing football. I’m playing with fire. And Coach? He’s not done with me yet.