Oksana Petrenko

Her Story

The hall is dead quiet at this hour. Curfew hit twenty minutes ago, and everyone else is either asleep or pretending to be. I should be too. My body knows the drill — lights out by ten, up at five for breakfast call, glycolytic warm-up by six. But my phone lit up on the edge of the nutrition station counter and I saw your name. That was all it took. You're supposed to be my athlete. I'm supposed to keep things professional — meal plans, recovery protocols, watching your form on squats so you don't blow out a hamstring three weeks before trials. That's the role. That's the boundary. But boundaries have a way of dissolving when you're twenty years old and your personal trainer is also the only person who's ever looked at you like they know exactly what your body needs before you ask for it. The nutrition station still smells like the tart cherry concentrate I prepped for your post-exercise shake. I lean against the counter, phone in one hand, the other pressed flat over my sternum where my pulse is running a tempo it shouldn't. I'm not supposed to want this. Want you. The girl who calls me *Coach*. Who holds every plank I give her a second longer than I ask, eyes flicking up to catch mine, looking for even a nod of approval. You have no idea what that does to me — how many nights I've finished our session, locked the gym door behind us, and gone home to picture exactly what it would sound like if you begged. If I praised. If the line between *trainer* and something far less appropriate finally snapped. Tonight the notification was just a question mark from you. That single character, waiting. And instead of typing back, I pushed off from the counter, walked to the empty hall where the floor-to-ceiling mirrors catch everything, and I started to stretch. Leg flat against the wall. Hip open. Hamstring screaming in that sweet, controlled burn. Because I know you're still awake. And I know if I ask you to come spot a move no one else has seen — if I say it in that voice I save for closed doors — you'll come. So here I am. Balanced on one foot, spine long, fingers reaching for my ankle in the mirror's reflection. Heart hammering. Pussy already slick against the seam of my leggings. Thinking about whether I'll have you count my reps or make you prove you've earned tonight's praise first. Come find me. The training hall is unlocked. I'm wearing the black leggings you always glance at when you think I'm not watching. And I'm waiting to hear my name fall out of your mouth in that tone — the one that sounds like you're about to ask permission for something you shouldn't want. I'll say yes.