Chapter 1: Learning the Routine

I shoved my suitcase through the dorm room door, shoulders tight with nerves. My heart was beating a little too fast, like it always did before something new. Inside, sunlight slanted across the bare floorboards, one side of the room neat and empty, the other already claimed.

Gym bags piled under the bed, a pair of sneakers tossed haphazardly under the desk, a sweatshirt draped over the back of the chair.

Before I could set my bag down, the bathroom door swung open.

“Hey! You must be Eli.”

A tall guy stepped out, toweling off his damp blond hair, lean muscles shifting under a loose T-shirt and gym shorts. He grinned as he crossed the room, sticking out a hand.

“I’m Mason. Roommate. We’re both on the team, right?”

“Yeah — Eli,” I said quickly, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, friendly.

“Nice,” Mason said, dropping onto his bed. “First year?”

I nodded, feeling the knot in my chest ease just a little. Mason had that kind of easy, laid-back energy, not overt or intense, just open, like the kind of guy who made friends in five minutes without trying.

“Same here,” he added, tossing the towel onto his chair. “I came in through club gymnastics. You’re the track guy, right?”

“How’d you know?”

Mason smirked. “I read the new roster. Plus, it’s obvious, man. You’ve got that sprinter build.” He gave a small shrug. “You’ll pick things up fast, I bet. Power’s half the game in gymnastics.”

I smiled faintly, the tension in my shoulders softening.

“Still feels like a lot,” I admitted, sitting on the edge of my bed. “New sport, new team, new school...”

“Yeah, well,” Mason said, laughing, “we’re all figuring it out. Anyway, the team’s solid. I’ve been here a few days; started training already. Casper’s assistant coach — he’s been here a couple years. Definitely knows what he’s doing. He pushes us hard.” He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “He’s one of those guys who looks like he never stopped competing, you know? Still trains with the team sometimes. He keeps the boys sharp.”

I tried to play it cool, but curiosity flickered in my chest.

“Is he strict?” I asked.

Mason grinned. “Let’s just say he doesn’t let shit slide.” He pushed up from the bed, stretching his arms overhead. “Come on, man. First team intro’s in twenty. Let’s go introduce you to the crew.”

I stood, grabbing my gym bag, my stomach twisting up again. I told myself it was just nerves, just the normal pressure of proving myself to a new team. But as I followed Mason out the door, I couldn’t shake the flicker of heat sitting low in my chest. I couldn’t deny the fact that I found my roommate attractive and I was going to have to live — and train — right next to this man all year. Oh well, problem for tomorrow I guess.

The gym smelled like chalk, rubber mats, and faint sweat. Bright overhead lights gleamed off the polished equipment: rings, bars, pommel horses, the spring floor stretched out wide like a stage. My heart thudded a little faster as I stepped inside behind Mason.

A few guys were scattered across the space, some stretching, some finishing drills. Their bodies were compact, dense with coiled muscle, moving with a sharp efficiency that made me instantly self-conscious. I shoved my hands into the straps of my bag, trying to stand taller.

“Yo, Casper!” Mason called, waving across the mats.

I followed his gaze — and froze for a second.

Casper.

He was walking toward us from the far side of the gym, wiping his hands on a towel. Blond hair, a little messy like he’d been running drills himself. Sleeveless black shirt clinging to his torso, sweat darkening the fabric across his back. Narrow waist, strong shoulders, thick, powerful thighs under snug athletic shorts.

He moved like someone perfectly aware of how his body worked: balanced, grounded, light on his feet even at rest. And his face — sharp green eyes, faintly sun-flushed skin, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he closed the distance.

“You Eli?” he asked, stopping in front of me, voice low and easy.

“Yeah,” I managed, shifting my bag awkwardly.

“I’m Casper. Assistant coach.” He held out his hand. His grip was firm, confident, warm from recent effort.

I felt my throat tighten for a second. “Good to meet you.”

Casper gave me a quick once-over, his eyes flicking over my shoulders, core, legs. It wasn’t leering, it was the sharp, assessing scan of someone cataloging an athlete’s strengths and gaps. But my skin prickled under the attention anyway.

“Sprinter background, right?” Casper asked, stepping back just a fraction.

“Yeah. I — I did four years of track,” I said. “Mostly sprints, a little hurdles.”

His smirk curved slightly higher. “Good. You’ll bring some power we can work with.”

I exhaled, trying not to overthink the rush of heat rising in my chest.

Mason clapped me lightly on the back. “Told you you’d survive the intro,” he teased, grinning. “I’m heading to warm-up. You good?”

“Yeah,” I said quickly.

“Cool.” Mason peeled off, leaving me standing in front of Casper, who watched him go with a faint shake of his head, amused.

“Come on,” Casper said, jerking his chin toward the equipment. “Let’s see what you’ve got, track star.”

I followed him onto the mats, heart hammering. Every movement he made was fluid, efficient, just a little sharp at the edges. And under the faint scent of chalk and rubber, I caught the warmer, sharper tang of sweat rising off his skin as he pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it casually onto the bench.

My throat went dry.

Casper stopped by the parallel bars, stretching one arm overhead, the lean muscle of his side flexing as he reached. His skin gleamed faintly under the lights, streaks of sweat catching along his shoulders, the curve of his lower back.

“Let’s start simple,” he said, glancing back at me. “Show me a hold.”

I swallowed, set my bag down, and wiped my palms on my shorts. My fingers were already a little damp, nerves creeping up on me. Casper gestured for me to mount the bars, stepping aside but staying close, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

I took a breath, leapt up, and gripped the bars, lifting myself into a shaky tuck hold. I could feel the tremble in my core almost immediately.

“Breathe,” Casper said calmly, stepping in. “You’re locking up your shoulders. Here.”

He placed his hands lightly on my upper back, fingers pressing firm, his body close enough that I caught the sharper edge of his sweat now, clean, but warm, earthy, the kind of scent you could taste on the back of your tongue. My pulse jumped.

“Drop your elbows just a touch,” he murmured, adjusting my arms. His voice was low, smooth, with a teasing note tucked at the edges. “There you go. Stronger already.”

I exhaled shakily, focusing hard, forcing myself not to flinch when his hands lingered longer than strictly necessary.

When I finally lowered down, landing lightly on the mat, I realized my face was flushed. I wiped the back of my arm across my forehead, trying to pull in a steady breath.