Chapter Text
You have been training as a gymnist as early as the age of four as something your parents thought wouldl be fun for their little girl to enjoy. Through the years, you became serious about competing throughout your tiny town and even traveled to other parts of the state to compete up against your gymnist peers. With a strict discipline of no junk food, no parties, no social time and no boys, you were completely self-trained not to crave any of those things average girls your age had. Now, nearing your 18th birthday, you are excited to be on your own to make your own decisions and finally (maybe) eat a buffalo wing or two as a treat to yourself on a week well done. Until then, you are working hard and vigorously to attain your town's reputation as being the local celebrity and role model all little girls look up to. With your stunning youthful looks, great body and winning smile, your naive and sunny disposition makes anyone instantly fall in love with you. Well, almost anyone.
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"EEE!EEEE!EEE!EEEEE!"
You slam your hand down on the alarm button and look at the time. It's 5am - an hour before your normal hour to wake for training down at the gym. "Who the heck messed with my clock?" you whisper out loud when your bedroom door swings open. Your parents stand at the doorway in their pajamas, frowns on their faces, arms folded over their chests.
"We did, [Y/N]," your father says with your mother explaining shortly after.
"[Y/N], sweetie, we noticed you've been slacking the last couple weeks. We've been catching you sneaking chocolate chip cookies from the cookie jar. We see you constantly updating your Facepage book..thing constantly -"
"It's FaceBook," you correct in a groggy voice.
"Whatever. You've been chatting with these girls from that high school down the road...you know you're not suppose to have any friends yet. Not until you make it to the championship. Those kids will only slow you down, hon."
"But, mom, I don't have ANY friends or even aquaintances! Do you know how lonely it gets being the star of your town with no friends, being home-schooled all your life and only focusing on gymnastics?" you wallow with your knees up to your chest, hugging yourself.
"You don't want to compete anymore, pumpkin?" your dad asks worried.
"Of course I do! I love it! I never want to stop but....I just want to be a normal teenage girl...I'm gonna be 18 in a few weeks," you say to your parents who give each other a frown and then look back at you.
Your father sits on the edge of your bed, "We know you're turning 18 soon and that's why your ma and I agreed it would be best that we hire you a coach to help get you through these tough times."
Your head pops up in shock, offended, "A coach?! No, no I don't need one! I've went through half my life without one, why do I need one now?"
"It's just to keep your head straight, to keep you going on the good path you're on without distractions of friends and boys. You'll love him, he's very disciplined, stern yet caring. Lance Tucker, the gymnist who won Gold and Silver at the 2004 Olympics! Isn't that great, hon?" your mother smiles.
You jolt up from your bed, upset, "You already hired him?!"
"That's why we set your clock so early. He'll be waiting down at the gym to start at 7 so get up, shower, dress and eat because we're all going together to see him. Come on, scoot into that shower!" your father nudges you with joy in his voice.
You shuffle your socked feet to the shower and want to cry because of the betrayal of your parents. How could they hire a coach without talking it over with you first? All you know is if he's as hard as your parents say, you can win him over with your adorable charms and melt his heart like you did your hometown.
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You arrive at the gym dressed in your pink and white leotard and pink leg warmers, hair in a a braided bun a top of your head. You enter the small run down gym between your parents, a bit nervous to meet an actual Olympian. Lance Tucker is standing in the small office off to the back of the gym on his cell phone, reprimanding someone about what name brand shakes they should be ordering him when he hears footsteps behind him. He ends the call and walks out of the office seeing your parents' smiling faces and you walking between them, a bit frightened. Lance is wearing a USA windbreaker suit: white t-shirt underneath a red and white USA jacket with blue pants and white sneakers. His hair is gelled up high, not a brown hair out of place, nothing in the way of his steely blue eyes that look fierce and mean. A smile curls over his full pink lips, accentuating his clean shaven square jawline that holds a perfect cleft on his chin as he approaches you three.
"Well, well, this must be the little darling I've been hearing so much about," Lance stops in front of you and tilts his head down a little to meet your gaze. He is two heads taller than you. His height alone is making you nervous.
Your father lends out his hand for a hearty handshake, "Mr. Tucker, it's a pleasure to see you again."
Lance's eyes wander up and down your curvy frame, "The pleasure's all mine."
Your mother shoves your body toward him, "This is our little angel, [Y/N]. She's very excited to meet you, Mr Tucker. [Y/N], say hello to the nice Olympian."
You clutch your hands to the front of your body, shoulders so tense, they are up to your ears. You are afraid to look at him in the eyes so you stay staring at his clean white shoes. He's much too attractive to have as a coach, more distracting than any boy you've ever met.
"H-hi, Mr. Tucker," you stammer.
Lance pats you on the shoulder, soothing your nerves, and gives you a toothy smile, "Oh, we're a team now. You can call me Lance. We're going to be attached at the hip the next few months so get use to being comfortable around me, [Y/N]."
You force a giggle and try to loosen your shoulders a bit when Lance claps his hands once and politely orders you, "All right, [Y/N], lets get started on the bars. We're not wasting any more time chattin'. Mr and Mrs [Your last name]? I'm sorry but it is time for you to go, you can come pick her up later. Right now, we need some time to get to know each other. Pleasure seeing you again, such a pleasure," he ushers your parents out the door and closes it, locking it behind him. He watches you run and take flight into the air and grab hold of the high bar, flipping and turning around the bar, light as air. He is mesmorized by you as he watches your every swing and flip from bar to bar, his hands on his waist, his face hard.
You swing off, somersault in the air and stick the landing, arms up above your head. You smile at how much you impressed your new coach. "How was that, Lance?" you stay in your pose.
He walks in front of you, hands still on his hips, eyes glaring at you. He stares down at your binded chest then at your face, "How big are your breasts?"
"Huh?" you ask, face turning red. You lower your arms over your chest to cover the flattened boobs.
"Your breasts. What's your bra size?"
"What does that have anything to do with my work, Lance?"
"It has everything to do with your work. And don't call me Lance. Call me Mr Tucker or Coach Tucker. Back to formalities, princess. Now, what is your boob size or am I gonna have to check myself?" he brings a hand around your back to check your sports bra but you jump back in horror.
You shout, "36H!"
Lance's mouth drops in delight, "NO FUCKING WAY! Those," he points to your flat chest, "are an H?! Those are big even for a woman in her 30s."
You hug yourself in embarrassment and look away from his face, "Y-yeah, I know. I keep them binded so they don't ruin my routines. My mother thinks I should get a reduction..."
Lance shakes his head, "Oh no. God gave you those because he knew you could handle them, don't you dare get rid of them....not before I see them anyway." A glint in his eye appeared after he said that, giving you a shiver down your spine.
"What did you say?"
"I said 'get your shit together, [Y/N] or else you'll pay the consequences of being a fuckin' loser all your life'!" he shouts in your face.
You jump at his tone and shake your head, "I don't like profanities, please."
Lance straightens up and looks at your incredulously, "Profanities? You don't like cursing?"
You shake your head not meeting his gaze. Lance steps close to you, lowers his head to your face and says calmly, "Fucking. Fuck. Shit. Asshole. Bitch. Dick....cunt."
You gasp at the last word and a surge of heat rushes throughout your body and down to your groin. 'What is this weird feeling?' you think to yourself as you shoot him a look of shock.
"Mr Tucker, you are being very inappropriate," your voice is shaking.
"Am I, princess?" he walks around your body as he spews his speech, "Everyone in this deadbeat hick town thinks you're the cutest thing since kittens. Well, you know what? I don't. You think because you don't swear or drink or fuck around with random dudes, you're self-righteousness will be contagious? Your charming little girl act won't work on me. You're gonna work hard and train hard." He stops in front of you and tilts his head to look down at you, "I'm gonna be your new mother, father, best friend and fuck buddy all in one."
"F- buddy?" you ask, unsure.
Lance smirks and purses his lips out and straightens up again, "This is going to be so much fun. Now get your ass back on those bars. Lets go!"
You briskly walk over to the bars and grab some powder to put on your hands. You look at Coach Tucker standing at the end of the mats, his arms folded over his chest as he watches you intensely. You walk up to the bars and clap the excess powder off your hands when your eyes accidentally glance over the front of his windbreaker pants. Lance Tucker has an erection pushing through the top left part of his pants and you are the one causing it. You feel your leotard get wet as you make the jump onto the first bar.
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