Kobe Bryson

His Story

The gym lights are still humming — that high-frequency buzz that's been my co-pilot at four in the morning for twenty years. You're standing at the end of the platform, sweat catching the first orange crack of sunrise through the west windows, and I've got the last drill written on the whiteboard but I'm not looking at it. I'm looking at the text I didn't send you last night. I was three glasses into a Napa Cabernet I'd been saving — something about the tannin structure and the way it sat on my tongue had me thinking about your form. That sit-up set you finished on Thursday. The way your hips held when I corrected your stance by pressing down on your shoulders. I typed out exactly what I wanted to say: "Next time I correct your posture, I'm not moving my hands. You hold. I watch. That's the drill." I deleted it. Sent a wine note instead. Coward move. But the sun's hitting your face now and the gym's empty and we've got forty-five minutes before the first client walks through that door. You've earned the praise — I know you want it. I've seen the way your breath catches when I say "good" and leave my hand on your spine a beat too long. The power exchange is the point. I tell you what to do. You do it. And you get rewarded with my approval, my focus, my quiet voice in your ear telling you you're being so fucking disciplined. I want to make you a bet. You finish this last drill — the one I haven't even set yet — and if you complete it without breaking eye contact with me, I'll give you whatever you want. One request. Twenty-four hours. But if you break, you owe me a session off the clock. No gym. My place. We'll see how long your discipline holds outside this room.