Chapter Text
Aiden
Aiden’s knee touches the floor, fingertips braced against the rough surface of the track. He takes slow, deep breaths, gaze fixed straight ahead as he waits for the sound of the whistle. His legs already ache; it’s nearing six in the evening, and he’s been training since seven in the morning. Vaughn, his mentor, has been pushing him especially hard these past few months.
Vaughn stands nearby, arms folded. Aiden can feel his gaze, always can. He’s grown used to it over the years, the constant scrutiny, but the force of it still sometimes makes his stomach twist into knots. His legs tremble and he takes another slow breath, fighting the exhaustion that wants to overwhelm him. Vaughn promised him just three more runs, and then they’d finish for the day. Aiden only has one left.
“Focus,” Vaughn says. “Get ready.”
His deep, brusque voice carries. Aiden has been listening to that voice since he arrived at the training facility at ten years old—he could pick his mentor’s voice out of a crowd of a hundred others.
The whistle sounds. Aiden launches himself forward, feet pounding against the surface of the indoor track, legs pumping as his exhausted muscles ache in protest. It’s over quickly—he’s been practicing the 200-meter sprint for the bulk of the day today, trying to get his time down. For some reason he’s been beating his personal best on the 100-meter, but the 200-meter refuses to improve.
Aiden slows to a stop. He’s covered in sweat, beads of it trailing down the back of his neck, his clothes sticking to his body. He steps over to Vaughn, still panting a little front the run, and waits expectantly.
“23.18,” Vaughn says. He pockets his stopwatch. “You need to do better than that. Qualifying rounds are next month.”
Aiden nods. Vaughn doesn’t have to tell him that—the schedule is posted everywhere Aiden looks, on the refrigerator and in Aiden’s bedroom and on the front door of their apartment.
“We’re finished for the day,” Vaughn says. “We’ll continue working on this tomorrow.” He nods towards the far side of the facility, where every Contender—athletes in training like Aiden—each have their own separate space to change and shower.
There’s a carefully established post-training routine that Vaughn has Aiden following, of course. Every part of Aiden’s life is controlled by routine and is carefully monitored so he doesn’t stray—it’s how Contenders rise through the ranks and are chosen to be Competitors. It’s how a trainee like him becomes a professional. Aiden is used to it; he’s been here for almost nine years. He knows better than to stray from his mentor’s orders.
Still, he winces as he lowers himself into the ice bath that Vaughn has prepared for him. He never quite gets used to the cold; it pebbles his bare skin, sends shivers rippling through his sore muscles, makes his teeth chatter. He tries to hide it from Vaughn, who is going through the notes on his clipboard at the other side of the room next to Aiden’s discarded clothes, not paying attention to him.
“You’ll need to get your time for the two-hundred down by a full second if you want a chance of moving up,” Vaughn says. “Your time in the 100-meter won’t be enough to qualify, you need to supplement it with something else. If the two-hundred meter isn’t it, we need to find something that is.”
Aiden shivers and grips the edges of the tub. “My time in the 800 has gotten a lot better,” he ventures.
“Better by your standards, not the JAC’s,” Vaughn says.
The JAC—Junior Athletics Council—makes the decisions about who will move up to the senior level after qualifying rounds. Now that Aiden is finally eighteen, he’s been training all year to test and finally become a Senior Contender. Once he’s a senior, he’ll be able to compete in real competitions, ones where scouts for renowned athletics teams look for new players. If he’s chosen, he’ll finally be a real Competitor, the goal he’s been training for practically his entire life.
When he came here—to the Forsted Training Facility— as a ten-year-old, he wasn’t expecting to fall into track and field. He’d been tested in every imaginable sport, and finally assigned to Vaughn Keller when running had proved his strongest ability. Coach Keller had trained Aspen Ingram, one of the most successful track-and-field Competitors of all time, and the pressure to live up to that has always hung heavy in Aiden’s body.
Unfortunately, over the years Aiden has proved that he’s no Aspen Ingram. Aiden is good, sure—he’s developed a lithe, agile runner’s build and has built up a strong endurance, but that’s no replacement for pure, raw talent. No matter how many hours a day Aiden trains, he always seems to fall below Vaughn’s expectations.
“Drills tomorrow,” Vaughn decides. He sets aside his clip board. “Strength and endurance. We’ll return to timed races next week.”
Aiden grimaces, but nods. He hates drills. Vaughn pushes him especially hard during drills, always forcing his body past what Aiden thinks is possible until his lungs and muscles and brain are all on fire and he feels like he’s on the verge of collapse.
Vaughn doesn’t bother commenting on Aiden’s expression, or maybe he doesn’t see it. Instead he reaches over to remove a towel from its hook, and holds it out. “That’s enough,” he says. “We need to get stretches and physical therapy out of the way before dinner.”
Aiden climbs gratefully out of the big tub, icy water dripping off of him and onto the bath towel placed on the floor. He takes the towel Vaughn offers him and dries himself, then secures the towel around his waist as he follows his mentor into the next room. He climbs facedown onto the soft white massage table without a word, adjusting the towel to keep himself covered.
Vaughn isn’t gentle with him during physical therapy sessions—he presses firmly on Aiden’s sore muscles, hard enough that Aiden winces occasionally. He groans when Vaughn bends his leg into a stretch, the tightness of his limbs protesting even as the stretch eventually relaxes him. His towel bunches up against his legs, and he squeezes his eyes shut but doesn’t protest. It doesn’t matter, he knows—Vaughn has seen every inch of him, knows every part of Aiden’s body. There’s no room for shame here, no time to feel embarrassed, no secrets he’s allowed to keep from his mentor.
After all, part of the deal is that until Aiden is scouted—until he’s chosen as a Competitor—the fact is that Vaughn has control over every part of him. He chooses what Aiden eats and drinks, what he wears, and how much he sleeps. He forbids Aiden from drinking alcohol or smoking or even going off the grounds of the training facility unsupervised. Until Aiden is a Competitor, his life isn’t his. He knows that.
“Over,” Vaughn says, and Aiden crawls ungracefully onto his back. Vaughn stands at the side of the table, fingers prodding firmly at the length of Aiden’s thighs, one and then the other, before moving down to his calves and his feet. Aiden’s skin is still cold from the ice bath and the warmth of Vaughn’s hands feels nice, not to mention when his hands find a particularly tight spot on Aiden’s instep and manipulates it expertly. He gives a soft, involuntary sigh.
“You’re at the risk of tearing here,” Vaughn says. “We need to have your shoes adjusted.”
Aiden opens his eyes and looks down the length of his body. He blushes when he realizes that the towel has slipped open to bare his lower body, but before he can reach for it Vaughn is pushing his leg back into a stretch, gripping him firmly. Aiden gives up and instead focuses on relaxing into the stretch so his tight muscles will stop protesting. Vaughn isn’t looking at him anyway, focused on the stretch itself.
Aiden sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when his coach moves over to the other leg, doing the same stretch. Vaughn pauses and raises his eyebrows at the sound. “Where?” he asks.
Aiden shifts, winces. “Hip, I think,” he says. “Or upper thigh maybe.”
Vaughn sets Aiden’s leg flat on the table and places his hands on Aiden’s hip, feels his way along his thigh until Aiden winces again. He presses harder on the spot and pain shoots its way down Aiden’s leg. He groans.
Vaughn eases back. “It’s not your hip,” he says. “That’s fortunate. It’s just the muscle you pulled last month acting up again.”
Aiden huffs a breath. “It hurts,” he complains.
Vaughn gives him a sharp look. Aiden knows he shouldn’t complain, rarely does anymore, but sometimes he can’t help it. Vaughn presses down on the muscle again, probably in retaliation, and Aiden gasps.
“You need to tell me about pain, son,” Vaughn says as he works the muscle, fingers manipulating the sore spot while Aiden clenches his hands into fists at his sides. “Even small pains. You know that.”
“I’m sorry,” Aiden manages. “I didn’t notice.”
Vaughn just sighs and nudges Aiden to turn back over. Aiden lies down on his stomach and squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face in his arms. It’s not just the discomfort, although the twinges of pain as Vaughn massages his leg aren’t pleasant. It’s the other sensation that curls into his belly, something that’s been bothering him more and more often lately.
He blames hormones. He can’t control them, after all. He’s spent every year since puberty being completely focused on training, and he’s neglected all other physical needs. That doesn’t stop his stupid body from reminding him that those physical needs still exist. It’s just a plus that they tend to show up when he’s particularly vulnerable, trapped and naked and exposed on a table while Vaughn’s hands are busy touching him.
It's nothing new, of course. Vaughn has seen him naked plenty of times, has performed physical therapy on him every day for years. Aiden isn’t sure if it’s something about getting older that has made him feel more self-conscious, or if there’s just something wrong with him.
“That should be a bit better,” Vaughn says, finally withdrawing his hands, “but I want you to ice it as soon as you get back to the apartment. And I’m upping your water and electrolyte intake.”
Aiden nods into his arms. He sits up, reaching for his discarded towel and pressing it quickly over his lap as he swings his legs over the side of the table. Vaughn is wiping down his hands with a smaller towel, which he tosses into the laundry basket beside the door along with Aiden’s sweaty clothes from the day. The facility crew comes through every day to collect and wash their used clothes and towels, so that they can wear something fresh every day.
“Take a quick shower and get dressed,” Vaughn says, turning back at the door. Aiden still hasn’t moved from the table, towel clutched in both hands. “I’ll meet you back at the apartment for dinner.”
Aiden does shower, and his leg does feel better. He dresses in the comfortable gray sweatpants and fitted white top most Contenders in the facility wear. The sweatpants have the Forsted Training Facility’s logo on the hip, the letters FTF in blocky blue letters. Aiden slips into a pair of sneakers and heads out of the changing rooms.
The facility is big. Every Contender has their own apartment unit, where they live with their mentor. There are rec rooms and a big dining hall, too, but they’re only really used for occasional group gatherings. Aiden and the other Contenders spend most of their time in their individual units, too exhausted to socialize or play games or anything else.
Aiden takes the elevator up to the fourth floor. The training area is on the first floor, and the living quarters take up the next six. There’s a rooftop, above that, but it’s locked most of the time. Aiden was only there once, at a celebration for all the new athletes joining the facility. That was also the only time he’d taken a sip of champagne—which, if he told Vaughn, would get him in trouble even years later.
Vaughn doesn’t punish him for infractions often. He doesn’t need to—Aiden knows the rules, knows how to follow them, rarely strays. He doesn’t want to put his career in jeopardy any more than his coach wants him to.
Dinner is waiting by the time Aiden gets back home. The coaches provide weekly menus to the kitchen staff, who deliver their food for them every day, carefully portioned and ready to be reheated. Today there are steamed greens and chicken waiting on the dining room table, as well as an enormous glass of water. Aiden eats without argument, Vaughn across from him with a magazine article open at his elbow. The food tastes like cardboard—Vaughn won’t let them use salt or sugar in any of the food, and only minimal fat. Aiden has gotten used to it, but sometimes he thinks about the food from his childhood and his mouth waters at the memory of fast food burgers and chocolate milkshakes.
He sneaks treats sometimes, but he has to be very careful about it. Vaughn caught him with a caramel once, when he was thirteen—the gymnastics Contender had smuggled an entire bag of them into the facility after a trip to visit her grandmother—and Vaughn caught him with it before he could even eat it. He locked Aiden in his room that night without giving him dinner, and then took him to training without breakfast the next day. That was the first time Aiden fainted during practice.
“Sugar is empty energy,” Vaughn said after he’d carried Aiden off the training grounds and given him, finally, some cucumber slices and whole wheat crackers to eat. “It doesn’t do anything for your body. If you don’t eat correctly, you won’t make progress. I need you to trust that I know what’s best for you.”
Aiden nodded and mumbled apologies around the crackers in his mouth. It wasn’t the last time he smuggled himself treats, but he got better at it. And reluctantly, he had to admit that Vaughn was right. Training was always harder when Aiden had sugar, or didn’t sleep long enough, or insisted on pushing himself further even when Vaughn told him to quit for the day. Vaughn keeps such careful track of Aiden’s food and water intake, his weight, his health, his injuries—better than Aiden ever could himself. It stands to reason that Vaughn also knows how to keep him in the best shape possible.
“My leg feels better,” Aiden says as he’s finishing his dinner. He scrapes his fork along his plate. “Doesn’t hurt.”
Vaughn glances up from his magazine article. He eyes Aiden from across the table for a long moment, gaze piercing and shrewd and dark blue. Aiden always feels like Vaughn is looking straight through him, seeing some secret thought that Aiden wishes he could hide. It makes him feel exposed. “Good,” Vaughn says eventually, lowering his gaze back to his magazine. “But you still need to ice it for the rest of the evening.” He nods towards the kitchen. “The ice packs are in the freezer.”
Aiden grabs one of the ice packs and secures it to his thigh with some thick gauze. The cold makes him grimace as he does the dishes and the condensation soaks into the fabric of his sweats, but he keeps it there and ignores the discomfort. He knows it will help, after all, and with qualifying rounds coming up so soon he can’t risk a serious injury.
He spends his down time reading. When he was younger, all his free time would be taken up by schoolwork, but now that he’s almost nineteen he’s finished his schooling and can focus entirely on athletics. It’s a relief, if he’s being honest—it was almost impossible to balance both training and school. He wasn’t good at school, and he didn’t like doing homework. Sometimes he would fall asleep in the middle of writing a paper, head plastered to the desk in his room, drool pooling on the scattered pieces of paper.
Although Vaughn’s priority has always been training, he never let Aiden get away with skipping or half-assing schoolwork. He would sit with Aiden on the couch or at the dining room table, watching him do his homework, and then would check it over after Aiden was done. He would quiz Aiden on tests and check his grades regularly. It was one of Aiden’s least favorite things about his coach, that he’d actually cared about Aiden’s education.
“Why can’t you be like one of the coaches who doesn’t give a shit about whether their athlete goes to school?” Aiden once asked in frustration, when Vaughn caught him playing a game instead of writing the essay he was supposed to already be finished with. “How is a history essay going to help me become a Competitor?”
The real answer was that, actually, it wouldn’t. The only reason Aiden and the other athletes were in school was that it was the law—athletes were required to get a full education, or the athletics program wouldn’t be allowed to continue. Nobody said it outright, but the education was supposed to provide a safety net, in case they failed spectacularly as athletes and were never chosen.
It did happen. Those athletes were shunned, ignored, ridiculed. Their lives collapsed around them. Aiden never wanted to be one of them.
“You haven’t reached your water intake for the day,” Vaughn says tonight, stepping into Aiden’s room. He doesn’t knock, and Aiden glares briefly, halfway through changing for bed. He yanks his sleep pants on and steps over to take the glass, but Vaughn catches his wrist before he can turn away.
“Hey,” he says, in the voice that means Aiden is close to making him angry, “you have something you need to say?”
Aiden inhales slowly through his nose, exhales. He reminds himself that boundaries don’t exist between himself and his coach, not right now anyway. He doesn’t need to get in trouble now, when he needs to be focusing on improving his times and on keeping himself in shape. “Sorry,” he says. “Thank you, sir.”
Vaughn releases his wrist. Aiden takes a long drink of water, swallowing loud and pointed, while his coach looks on. Vaughn’s expression doesn’t change, but he nods shortly. He folds his arms, the dark hair on his skin catching the soft light of Aiden’s bedroom lamp. “Practice begins at seven AM tomorrow,” he says. “I want you up at six-thirty at the latest. Have you set your alarm?”
“Yes, sir.”
Vaughn nods again. He waits until Aiden has drained the entire glass, and then takes it back from Aiden. “You did well today, kid,” he says. He jerks his chin at his bed as he turns to shut the door. “Get some sleep.”
And that is the reason Aiden keeps up with all of it, really. Not the promise of fame or money or success, or some deep abiding love for track and field. His coach is rare with his praise, but when he does offers it, it feels like a drop of water in the desert, a warm shiver that goes directly up Aiden’s spine and into his veins. He craves those little crumbs of approval, as much as he hates to admit it, as much as it makes him feel pathetic.
That hot curl of shame is back in his belly when he crawls into bed. He balls up into a the fetal position and smushes his face into the pillow, and fiercely wills the feeling to go away so he can sleep.
He can’t afford to be distracted now.
Vaughn
“All right, Aiden, take a deep breath for me…”
Vaughn watches as the facility doctor circles the table to rest his stethoscope against Aiden’s back, listening to his lungs. Aiden’s skin is pebbled from the cool air of the clinic—he’s only dressed in a pair of briefs, after all—but his eyes are unfocused, like he’s thinking about something else entirely. Vaughn isn’t surprised. Athletes go in for check-ups every month, and it surely gets boring as it fades into every other part of their routine.
Vaughn has to pay attention, however, in a way that Aiden doesn’t. He needs to know what to be aware of, what injuries Aiden is at risk for, what health conditions might prevent him from training. He receives a full report after every exam, of course, but he always wonders if there’s something Aiden isn’t telling him, something he knows will keep him from training if he tells Vaughn about it.
“Lungs and heart all sound good,” Doctor Harris says, stepping back. He glances at Vaughn. “Any concerns from either of you?”
“The pulled muscle in Aiden’s leg from last month has been acting up a bit,” Vaughn says, before Aiden can speak. “Back of his thigh.”
Doctor Harris nods. “Scoot back up and lie down,” he says, and Aiden does as he’s asked. “Show me where the issue is?”
Vaughn approaches—he knows the place better—and bends Aiden’s knee until he can press down on the spot where the sprain occurred. Aiden squirms, visibly uncomfortable, his face turning light pink. He turns his face away, as though to hide the expression. He’s never expressed this kind of embarrassment until fairly recently, and Vaughn has an idea why, but he doesn’t comment on it.
Doctor Harris leans over to examine the spot that Vaughn indicated, and nods. “I remember,” he says. “When did it start acting up again?”
“A few days ago,” Vaughn says. Aiden squirms again, fists clenching and unclenching quickly at his sides, and Vaughn casts him a quick warning look. Aiden looks at him this time, face deep red now and eyes wide. He swallows and clutches his hands at the sides of the table, but he stills.
Vaughn can see the way Aiden is beginning to tent the front of his underwear. It doesn’t surprise him—it isn’t the first time, and anyway, Aiden is nineteen. Vaughn expected his hormones to kick in at some point, and is honestly surprised that he’s only noticed it happening over the past few months.
It’s a challenge nearly every coach in this program faces. It’s illegal to give their mentees puberty blockers, but some coaches do it anyway just so that their athletes aren’t distracted by their physical desires and so that their bodies don’t shoot up all of a sudden, throwing off their training.
It's an adjustment, the sudden growth. But it’s nothing a decent coach can’t handle. Aiden’s growth spurt happened slowly and subtly, and it actually improved his performance when his legs grew longer. It took some getting used to, of course, but once Aiden was accustomed to the extra height, he used it to his advantage.
It’s what Vaughn appreciates about Aiden, as a mentee and as an athlete. Aiden can get used to practically anything and does so without much complaint. He learns new routines after only a few days and takes to new training regimens after one or two sessions. He wasn’t always as disciplined as he is now, but he makes up for it in his willingness to learn and adapt.
Vaughn looks back at Doctor Harris, who is frowning at the spot on Aiden’s leg, prodding gently with his fingers. Vaughn places his free hand on Aiden’s other leg, a subtle warning to hold still because he can see how hard Aiden is fighting the urge to bolt up and run from the room. “I wouldn’t worry about the muscle too much,” Harris says. “It’s not at risk of being pulled again, at least. But I’ll recommend some stretches you can do to minimize the discomfort.”
Vaughn nods. He watches as Harris lowers Aiden’s leg and turns away to sit at his computer to make notes. Aiden sits up and immediately presses his hands into his lap, face turned stubbornly away from Vaughn. It’s a little entertaining, Aiden’s embarrassment. With how new it is, Vaughn never knows when to expect it.
“Last thing is just a urine sample,” Harris says, setting a plastic cup on the table. He nods to the bathroom connected to the clinic suite. “You can do that right in there. I’ll give you some privacy and be back in just a few minutes with the exam report.”
He leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. Aiden hops off the table and grabs the cup, practically running to the bathroom, but Vaughn follows and leans against the doorway before Aiden can shut him out. Aiden casts him a pleading look, knuckles white on the plastic sample cup. “Can’t I do it alone just this once?” he says.
“You know that I have to watch,” Vaughn says tiredly. “I don’t enjoy it any more than you do.”
It’s a rule that implements itself once the Contenders are old enough to qualify for junior competitions. Adult Contenders are more likely to get their hands on performance-enhancing drugs, and their coaches are responsible for making sure they’re not using. Checking that the urine test is authentic is an unfortunate part of that.
Aiden gives him a miserable look, but he stops trying to protest and instead approaches the toilet. He’s tense like a board as he slides his underwear down his thighs, and Vaughn can’t help the way his eyebrow quirks in surprise when he sees Aiden’s half-mast erection. He would have expected it to have vanished over the past few minutes from the embarrassment if nothing else, but he only seems to have grown more aroused.
Aiden won’t look at him, but his hands tremble a little as he unscrews the top of the sample cup. He holds the cup in one hand and his cock in the other and takes a few breaths, eyes squeezed shut. He worries his lower lip in between his teeth and nothing comes out. His face is red as a brick at this point, and Vaughn finally takes pity on him.
“You can’t force it like that,” Vaughn says. “Think about something unpleasant to distract yourself, and just let it happen.”
Aiden swallows, throat contracting, and casts a quick, anxious glance in Vaughn’s direction like he’s worried he’s going to be ridiculed or punished. He takes another slow breath, a shudder rippling through his body, and his eyes close again. After a few moments, there’s the telltale sound of liquid filling the cup.
“Good,” Vaughn says, and he can swear he sees Aiden shudder again.
Doctor Harris arrives back in the room once Aiden has cleaned up and dressed, and he hands Vaughn the report from the exam. “Keep an eye on the muscle in his leg and on the foot arches, but otherwise everything looks good,” Harris says, with a warm, reassuring smile in Aiden’s direction. “I hear you’re hoping to qualify for Senior Athletics next month.”
Aiden nods. He’s calmed down considerably, but he still stands with his arms curled in like he doesn’t want anyone looking at him. “We’ll see,” he says.
“Best of luck,” Harris says. “The next time I see you won’t be until after the competition, so if you have any concerns in the meantime bring them to me. But he should be in good shape.”
Training ended early for the day so they could make their appointment. As they leave the clinic and head down the hall towards the B Wing—where everyone lives—Vaughn mentally goes through tonight’s regimen now that they have some extra time. He’s about to tell Aiden to change for a Pilates session when a couple of athletes—Vaughn can’t recall their names, but one of them is the recruit for baseball and the other for soccer—pause in front of them in the hallway.
“Hey, Aiden,” one of them says. “We’re hosting a little get-together tonight in Samuel’s apartment.” He nudges his companion, the soccer player. “Want to come join us?” He glances at Vaughn. “If it’s okay with your coach, I mean?” he adds quickly, and Vaughn feels a brief twinge of irritation.
“Oh,” Aiden says in surprise. “Thanks, Jamie. That sounds fun, but…I…”
He looks up at Vaughn. Vaughn waits, knowing that his gaze is enough to express his answer, but still Aiden hesitates. His face falls and he glances from Vaughn back to Jamie and Samuel, a little helpless.
“Aiden still has some training to finish tonight,” Vaughn steps in finally, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. “He isn’t able to join you.”
Samuel and Jamie look disappointed, but Vaughn doesn’t give them time to argue. He takes hold of Aiden’s arm, gripping firmly, and tugs him past the two boys. Aiden mumbles an apology but lets himself be dragged until they reach the elevators, at which point he yanks away and glares up at Vaughn instead.
“I wasn’t going to go with them,” he hisses, probably so that the others can’t hear if they’re still nearby. “You didn’t have to drag me off like that and embarrass me.”
“They needed to be put in their place,” Vaughn replies without remorse. “And you did too, for that matter. You know you have an evening routine that you can’t blow off just to socialize.”
“I know that,” Aiden says. “And I…I was going to tell them that.”
“Were you?”
They look at each other for a long moment, Aiden’s mouth half-open, Vaughn’s narrowed eyes warning him not to lie. Aiden swallows and lowers his gaze, finally, and mumbles, “I’m sorry, sir.”
Vaughn lets his irritation go for the moment. The elevator dings open, and Vaughn herds him inside. “Stretches for an hour,” he says. “And then if you’ve performed well, perhaps you can have some time to yourself.”
Vaughn was not given a choice of athlete when he was provided a new Contender. Aiden was chosen for him when he tested well in track and field. Vaughn could have refused, of course, but then he probably would have had to wait years for a new athlete.
Besides, Aiden was teachable, if not exactly a prodigy. He was quick and took to new skills easily, and most importantly, he wanted to be a Competitor. Some of the athletes who entered the program did so with heavy reluctance, and it showed in their performances. You can teach someone everything you know, but if they don’t want it—the success, the glory, the fame—then it’s all useless.
Aiden has proved himself over the years, to Vaughn’s great relief. He’s grown from a scrawny, pasty ten-year-old into a strong, agile young man, with a slender build and a handsome face. His hair sticks up all over the place no matter how short Vaughn keeps it cut, giving him a boyish appearance, and his huge brown eyes give off the impression of a deer-in-headlights sometimes, but for all that he’s deceptively talented. Vaughn imagines that when he finally joins some real competitions, his messy-haired and innocent appearance will lull his competitors into a false sense of security.
That is, of course, if Aiden can stay motivated for long enough to get there. Vaughn has seen Aiden’s focus drift occasionally and his frustration spill out in brief bursts, often enough that it worries him a little. Aiden is close to success, and that success will be Vaughn’s as well. He can’t let failure take them down this close. He’s the best, after all.
Vaughn’s timer beeps. Aiden slows to a stop on the stationary bike he’s been pedaling on for the last fifteen minutes. He’s panting, sweating, shorts riding up his thighs, and his legs tremble a little as he climbs off the bike. He looks at Vaughn, maybe hoping Vaughn will let him off for the rest of the circuit, but Vaughn just needs to raise his eyebrows and Aiden’s hope falls away.
“Planking next,” Vaughn reminds him. “Thirty second intervals.”
Aiden nods. He kneels on the floor of the gym and braces himself on his elbows. Sweat drips off his nose and onto the mat. His arms tremble as he holds himself there, brow furrowed in concentration.
Circuit training is one of Aiden’s least favorite types of training. Vaughn doesn’t understand why, really—most athletes like the variation of the different exercises. But Aiden prefers, it seems, to just run. He’s complained that he doesn’t understand the benefit of working out his arms when all he uses is his legs.
“Keeping every part of the body in shape is important,” Vaughn explained, fighting back impatience. “Keeping the core strong is essential. It makes a long-term difference in keeping your body in its best shape—if you do the exact same exercise every day with no variation, you’ll burn out rapidly.”
Aiden collapses once the thirty seconds are up, slumping to the floor. “One more time,” Vaughn calls, “thirty more seconds,” and Aiden pushes himself up on shaking arms, lower lips caught in his teeth. He looks like he’s putting every bit of focus into just holding that planking position, but he does it.
Vaughn approaches. “Sit ups,” he reminds Aiden, who hasn’t moved. “Sixty seconds. Lie down.”
Aiden huffs, but he turns over, lying on his back with his knees bent. Vaughn braces his hands against Aiden’s feet and starts the timer, and Aiden clenches his jaw, folds his hands behind his head as he starts in with the sit-ups.
He’s slowed down quite a bit since earlier today, and doesn’t get nearly as many sit-ups in as he did before. When Vaughn calls time, he flops onto his back, panting hard, and groans. His face tightens with pain as he shifts against the floor, and Vaughn narrows his eyes.
“Your leg again?” he asks.
Aiden’s eyes fly to his face. He pushes himself up with his hands. “No,” he says, “it’s fine.”
Vaughn doesn’t believe him. He grips Aiden’s ankle, reaching beneath his leg to press his fingers against the sore spot on the back of his thigh. Aiden whimpers, a flicker of pain crossing his face. “Are you lying to me again?” Vaughn says.
“It’s better,” Aiden tries to insist. “The bike just…irritated it, I think.”
Vaughn sighs sharply in exasperation. He lets go of Aiden’s leg and stands. “We’re finished for the day,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do about that muscle.”
He runs a hot bath today to relax the muscles in Aiden’s leg, and then has him lie on his stomach on the massage table. Aiden has arranged his towel carefully across his body and lifts his head as though to protest when Vaughn removes it, but doesn’t say anything. Vaughn can see him turning red again as soon as he begins to work Aiden’s leg, flush spreading over his face and neck and down his back.
His muscles are reasonably relaxed, though, so Vaughn rubs at the muscle on his upper thigh, pressing firmly with his thumbs. Aiden flinches occasionally from the pain, but the muscle yields and eventually Vaughn is confident that he’s provided at least a little improvement. He turns his attention instead to Aiden’s feet, and arches his eyebrows when he receives a gasp of pain at Aiden’s instep.
“It hurts here?” he says.
Aiden tenses. “Just a little,” he says, voice barely a whisper.
Vaughn frowns. He works the same place, pressing harder, and Aiden groans. He tries to tug his foot away on instinct, and Vaughn tightens his grip. “How long has this spot been hurting?” he asks, his voice sharper.
Aiden is breathing heavily. Vaughn can see his back rising and falling. “I d-didn’t notice,” he stammers.
Vaughn draws back his hands. “I ordered new shoes,” he says. “But you’ll have to wait to break them in until Junior qualifying rounds. We’ll wrap your foot in the meantime.” He wipes down his hands with a towel. “Turn over.”
Aiden tenses, and doesn’t move. He glances nervously over his shoulder. “Can we just…can we skip that for today?” he asks.
Vaughn frowns. “We still need to stretches,” he says. “No, we can’t skip it. Turn over, Aiden.”
Aiden closes his eyes. He hesitates for another moment and then finally turns over with clear reluctance, lying on his back.
He’s hard again, Vaughn realizes. Harder than he was in the doctor’s office, cock flushed with blood and beading liquid at the tip. He’s looking away from Vaughn again in clear humiliation, face bright red. He almost looks like he’s on the verge of tears.
Vaughn considers him for a moment. The poor kid has to be incredibly pent up, for this to happen twice in just a few days. He wonders briefly where all that pressure is coming from. Aiden is young, he shouldn’t be able to go one day without touching himself. Even exhausted, the hormones should be encouragement enough. Vaughn wonders if he’s really so repressed that he won’t even get to know his own body.
Vaughn disregards the thought for now. He takes hold of Aiden’s knee to bend his leg back into a stretch, ignoring the way his cock twitches in response to the press of his hands. Aiden’s breathing is shallow and quick like he’s just jumped off the stationary bike again, and his hands are back to gripping the sides of the massage table. He’s watching Vaughn now, eyes fixated on his hands as they perform the usual stretches.
Vaughn finishes quickly and efficiently—no use subjecting Aiden to any more embarrassment than necessary. He hands Aiden a towel once he’s done and Aiden takes it gratefully as he sits up, wincing a little as he settles the fabric on his lap to cover himself. “Take a shower and come upstairs for dinner,” Vaughn says as he heads for the door. He tosses Aiden’s clothes into the hamper and pauses, turning back. “I need you focused for junior qualifying rounds next week,” he adds. “I can’t have you distracted, kid. Do you understand?”
Aiden nods, a little desperately, probably just so that Vaughn will leave. Vaughn regards him for a moment, his trembling limbs and flushed skin and the tight press of the towel on his crotch. Aiden doesn’t respond, just waits for Vaughn to speak again, so Vaughn sighs and turns away. The door clicks shut behind him as he leaves.