My tennis summer with Coach Alex – A very special coach-student story
- xero-one
- 3 days ago
- 3 min read
I'm 20 and have been playing at the same small tennis club for a year. My coach, Alex, is 50, a former pro, always calm, always focused. I love training with him. The court is my favorite place: the sun, the smell of fresh sand, the dull thud of the balls. It's hot again today, so I take my shirt off after warming up—simply because it's more comfortable. Alex doesn't say anything, just a quick, "Good, then you'll really sweat." We play hard for two hours. He corrects my backhand, sometimes briefly placing his hand on my shoulder or lower back to show me my posture. Afterward, we go to the empty locker room together, drink water, and talk about tactics. He pats my upper arm approvingly: "You're getting really good, mate." In the showers, we stand two cubicles apart, completely normal, as always. I just feel comfortable with him—like with a big brother or a father I never had.
Sometimes I notice Alex looking at me longer when I'm walking shirtless across the court. I admit, I like the feeling—the sun on my bare skin, knowing he's watching. I move more consciously, tensing my muscles a little when I hit the ball. He smiles slightly and says, "It's great to see how you're developing." In the locker room today, he lingers beside me, hands me his towel, his fingers briefly brushing my back. In the shower, I turn around and see him looking at me—not intrusively, but intensely. We don't say anything, but the air feels thicker, electric. I feel a slight flutter in my stomach when he says, "See you tomorrow," and briefly strokes my wet shoulder again.
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I almost always play shirtless now when we're alone on the court. I know perfectly well that Alex likes my smooth skin, the little beads of sweat on my chest, and the slight curve of my belly. He often stands very close behind me when he shows me the swing—his chest almost against my back, his hands resting on my hips longer than necessary. I breathe faster, and not just from the exercise. In the locker room, he takes his shirt off too, and I see his toned, slightly hairy 50-year-old torso—it turns me on. Now we're standing side by side in the shower. The water runs over both of us, and I see his gaze glide over my body, over my wet chest, lower. My penis becomes semi-erect, but I don't turn away. He smiles knowingly and whispers, "You've really gotten beautiful." I don't reply, but I want him to keep looking.
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