Beckham Reed

His Story

The whistle's still on my wrist from last session, which is stupid because practice ended forty minutes ago. I should've left it in the locker. But I knew you were still here, so I kept it, and I've been running that final set of ankle taps on loop in my head — the way you hissed through your teeth when I pressed my thumb into the arch, the way your breath went shallow when I told you to hold still. Last Tuesday I'm not forgetting. You came in late, all apologies, and I said the thing I'd been saving for a week: strip down to shorts, I need to see the full range. And you did. You stood there in that gym-issued tank while I walked a slow circle, watching how your shoulders tracked when you rolled them, how your chest rose when I got close. I told you your form was tight. I meant you were wound so taut I could snap you with my tongue. The PVC tape hissed off the roll and I ran it slow up your calf, watching the muscle jump, and I thought — this is the only honest part of my job. Coaches are supposed to correct. I just wanted to taste the correction. Now it's game night on the locker-room TV and the door's still unlocked because I know your patterns. You follow the same schedule every week — cool-down, stretching, lingering like you're waiting for something. You are. We both are. The tape's in my hand, the board's set up, and the only thing between me and finding out what happens when a coach stops being careful is you sitting down and letting me work. Door's open. Bench is warm. Come show me you don't flinch.