The silk of Frank's robe hissed against his skin as he paced the darkened hallway outside Davis's suite. His heart wasn't just beating; it was thundering, a frantic, rhythmic percussion that made his ribs ache. The rejection in the bathroom hadn't extinguished the fire in his gut—it had acted like a draft of oxygen, turning a flicker of obsession into an all-consuming blaze. He felt humiliated, stripped bare, and desperately, dangerously alive.
He pushed the door open with the quiet, explosive force of a man stepping into a ring.
The room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp. Davis was propped up against the headboard, his massive frame dwarfing the king-sized mattress. He was wearing nothing but a pair of grey cotton lounge pants, his chest a rugged expanse of shadow and muscle. He was holding a thick, weathered book on tactical theory, his eyes scanning the pages with a calm, maddening focus.
He didn't even look up when Frank entered.
"I told you to go to bed, kid," Davis said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to crawl up Frank's legs. "The clock is ticking. You've got less than three hours of sleep left."
Frank didn't say a word. He crossed the room in three long, predatory strides. Before Davis could react, before the man could even mark his page, Frank lunged. He climbed onto the edge of the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress, and grabbed Davis's face with both hands.
Frank crashed his lips against Davis's.
It was a violent, desperate collision. Frank poured every ounce of his frustration, his newfound sexuality, and his athletic power into the kiss. He was a kickboxer; his body was a weapon of leverage and strength, and despite his slim, elegant frame, he pinned Davis against the headboard with a force that surprised even himself.
Davis's hands came up instantly, grabbing Frank's shoulders to shove him away. His grip was like iron, but Frank was relentless. He bit at Davis's lower lip, his tongue forcing its way into the man's mouth, claiming the space with a feral intensity. He ground his body against Davis's lap, his silk robe falling open, the heat of his skin searing through the thin cotton of Davis's pants. He wanted Davis to feel it—the pulse, the hardness, the absolute proof of how far gone he was.
Then, the dynamic shifted.
Davis's hands, which had been pushing, suddenly tightened on Frank's waist. He let out a low, sharp growl against Frank's mouth. Suddenly, the instructor surged forward. He didn't push Frank away—he consumed him.
Davis began to kiss Frank back with a ferocity that was terrifying. It was a physical dominance. He took control of the kiss, his tongue tangling with Frank's, his large hands sliding down to grip Frank's backside and pull him flush against his groin. Frank's head spun. He felt a surge of triumph—this was it.
He had broken the wall. He had finally reached the man behind the stone.
Frank's hands roamed frantically over Davis's chest, his fingers digging into the hard pectorals, the ridges of his abs. He was gasping for air, his body arching into the contact, his mind a white-hot blur of finally, finally, finally. Desperate for the final confirmation of his victory, Frank slid his hand down. He reached between their bodies, his palm searching for the heat, for the hardness that would prove Davis was as affected as he was. His fingers brushed against the front of Davis's lounge pants, searching for the heavy weight of the man's arousal.
He found nothing.
Frank's hand froze. He felt the fabric. He felt the muscular curve of Davis's thighs. But beneath the cotton, Davis was completely, utterly relaxed. Not a twitch. Not a pulse. Not even the slightest change in state.
The kiss didn't stop, but the fire in Frank's chest turned to ice. Davis continued to kiss him for a few more seconds—long, deep, punishing strokes that felt like they were designed to prove a point rather than share a moment.
Slowly, Davis pulled back. He looked like he had just finished a mild warm-up.
Davis leaned in close, his lips brushing against the shell of Frank's ear. His breath was warm, but his words were like shards of glass.
"See that, kid?" Davis whispered, his voice steady and devoid of heat. "You can kiss me until your lips bleed. you can rub yourself on me until you're raw. But you can't get me aroused. Not even a little bit. You don't have the equipment, and you don't have the power."
Frank pulled back, his face ashen, his eyes wide and shimmering with a mixture of shock and agony. He looked down at his own hand, still resting on the flat, soft fabric of Davis's pants. It was the ultimate humiliation. He had given Davis everything—his dignity, his secrets, his body—and Davis hadn't even had the biological courtesy to react.
"I... I can fix it," Frank stammered, his voice cracking. He reached for the waistband of Davis's pants, his fingers trembling. "Let me do a hand job. Or a blow job. I'll make you... I'll show you. Just let me—"
"Stop."
Davis caught Frank's wrists in one hand, squeezing until Frank winced. With his other hand, he planted a palm in the center of Frank's chest and shoved. It wasn't a violent push, but it was firm, forcing Frank off the bed until he was standing on the floor, his silk robe hanging off one shoulder, looking small and shattered.
"You've failed, Frank," Davis said, his voice returning to that professional, icy monotone. "You've already done enough. You've proven exactly what I told you in the foyer: you're a child playing a game you don't understand."
Davis picked up his book from the mattress and found his page, as if Frank weren't even in the room.
"I'll try again," Frank choked out, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He was trembling with a rage so hot it felt like it was melting his bones. "Tomorrow. In the gym. I'll make you see me. I'll make you—"
"There won't be a tomorrow," Davis interrupted, his eyes never leaving the text. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning. I'll tell your father that you're uncoachable. That your focus is shattered beyond repair. I don't work with distractions, and I don't work with kids who can't keep their hands to themselves."
Frank stared at him. The confusion hit him first—the sheer impossibility that Davis could just leave. Then came the anger, a sharp, jagged spike in his chest. But beneath it all was a humiliation so profound it felt like it was drowning him.
He saw the way Davis didn't even care enough to look at him one last time. He was just a footnote. A training error.
Tears prickled at the corners of Frank's eyes, hot and biting. He refused to let them fall. He wouldn't give Davis the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He wouldn't let this man see him as even more of a "kid" than he already did.
"I hate you," Frank whispered, his voice trembling with a violence that made Davis's eyes flicker toward him for just a fraction of a second.
Frank didn't wait for a response. He turned and bolted out of the room, his bare feet slapping against the cold marble of the hallway. He ran past his father's study, past the gym, past the trophies and the legacy, slamming his bedroom door behind him and sliding to the floor in the dark.
He was the son of Joel Austin. He was the most beautiful boy at the university. And he had just been discarded by a man who didn't even think he was worth a physical reaction.