Page 36 of Cruel Legacy

“Damn, she has a nice ass.” The class is finishing up on a run, and the two guys from the basketball team were the first ones finished. They’re standing behind me, watching everyone else complete their last few laps.

Thea came in fourth on the run, and is bending over, stretching out her calves. I should’ve continued with the lesson in the syllabus today, but I couldn’t.

Yesterday was torture enough. I had to watch her partner put his hands on her lithe little body as I taught them the first set of wrestling moves.

It wasn’t a complicated hold, but it takes work to learn the right foot and hand placements, which means when the opponents are mismatched in height, there’s a lot of accidental touches to the wrong parts of the body.

A few of the female students have already asked for extra tutoring. I told them I’d be happy to arrange it. I watched as they walked off, chatting excitedly and casting flirty looks my way.

They’re gonna be sorely disappointed when they realize tutoring for my class is peer tutoring, just like every other subject. If they want me to personally guide and train them, they have to pay and show up at my gym.

The last student crosses the finish line and I clock their time before blowing the whistle to signal the end of class. “Make sure you stretch out before leaving,” I yell to the students already making a dash towards the locker rooms.

My head is down and I’m staring at the school issued tablet, reading the error message I’m getting trying to work in this new digitized grade book.

This Prospectus software program they insist we use integrates with student’s email, financial records and social media platforms. It’s a one stop shop for future employers and schools to see what a student did in and outside of class.

Grade inputscouldwait until later, but I’m intentionally avoiding eye contact with the female students walking by. I ignore the pair of shoes that stop in front of me, waiting for them to walk away. She doesn't.

“Coach Wolfe.”

“What?” I bite out. I hate that she’s making me talk to her, because whenever I hear her voice, all I can think about is how it sounded when she was moaning in my ear.

“I heard some of the other students saying you have a gym and teach classes for mixed martial arts?”

“Yup.” Clipped answers are the easiest way to run off co-eds. She should be walking away any second now.

“I was wondering if you’re taking on new students?”

I have a few openings, but I don’t give those out to just anyone. “My classes are intense and take discipline. It’s not a beginner class and we don’t pull punches. It takes heart, stamina, and you have to be fearless, even when a guy twice your weight and height is pounding the shit out of you. If your boyfriend sent you to ask me if he can sign up for classes, then I already know he’s not a good fit.”

“I’m asking for myself.”

I grit my teeth. She didn’t dispute the boyfriend comment. She lied when she said nobody was waiting for her. My classes are definitely not for women who pick me up in a bar and fail to disclose they’re undergrad students at the school I teach at. “Liars aren’t a good fit either.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

My gaze snaps to hers. “This is college, LaReaux. If you lack basic comprehension skills, you shouldn’t be here.”

“And if you lack basic manners, you shouldn’t be a teacher.”

“I’mnota teacher. I’m a fitness trainer.”

Her eyes are defiant little slits when she hisses, “You’re dealing with students, so it’s the same fucking difference. I asked a simple question, anowould suffice, instead of acting like you’ve got small dick syndrome.”

One step is all it takes to close the distance between us. “You thinking of my dick is not the way a student thinks of ateacher, and I don’t recall you complaining about the size when your drenched cunt was clenched around it.”

“If you rememberthat, then you remember I can take a beating.” Her eyes shine bright with her challenge.

My dick perks up because, yes, she took the pounding I gave her and something tells me she could have taken more. Her chest is heaving, her hands clenched at her sides, ready for a fight. Fuck, she looks hot like this. All stubborn and ready to go toe to toe with me. I’m one step away from pushing her behind the bleachers and testing those words.

She smirks up at me as if reading my thoughts. Shit. This is getting out of hand. I already have to deal with her in my class. There’s no way I’d be able to maintain my professionalism if she’s working out in my gym.

This little interaction we’re having is testing my resolve more than a naked stripper on my lap ever could. I take a step back, regaining my composure. “Like I said, my class isn’t a good fit for you.”

“Understood, sir. Then can you recommend a gym and trainer that you thinkwouldbe a good fit?”

I know some good gyms, with great trainers. I think about her asking them for extra sessions, and how those lessons would lead to extra touches and lingering looks.

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