Training Arc

The meeting with Xavier ended. You didn't say much. You just nodded, stood up, and walked out of the office. The headlines and Xavier's words still ran through your mind. You felt ****. You needed to train, far away from all the noise.

You went home, packed a single duffel bag, and grabbed your keys. You didn't tell anyone where you were going. You just wanted to get to work.

Your truck drove out of Atlanta. The city buildings got smaller in your rearview mirror. Then came the open roads and fields. You barely noticed the view. You were focused on getting to the training center, a place you knew. You passed small towns, gas stations, and diners. Billboards changed from city ads to signs for local farms. You kept your speed steady.

Finally, you turned off the main road onto a private drive. It led to a big, modern building. This was a top-tier facility. It was clean and built for athletes. You pulled into the wide parking lot, past a few high-end cars already there. You parked and grabbed your duffel bag.

You walked into the main entrance. It was bright and quiet. At the front desk was a young blonde. She wore a navy polo shirt, a bit too tight, with the facility's logo on it, and a pleated mini skirt to complement. Her eyes went wide briefly when she saw you. You noticed instantly and prepared for the worst.

"Roman?" she said, a little surprised. "Wow... I actually went to Duke, too! I was a big fan. I was always there to see you dominate those games."

You just nodded, relieved internally. "Hey, Brooke. Yeah, that's me." You felt a bit awkward. People usually just recognized you for your bad stats these days. Your gaze fell to her polo, which pulled tight across her chest, the fabric visibly stretched by her tits underneath.

"Welcome," she said, her smile warm. "Your room's ready. I can show you."

You followed her down a quiet hallway. She turned to grab the key fob from a lower drawer. As she bent over, her skirt pulled taut, giving you a straight shot all the way up her legs. No panties. In college, you would've jumped on that instantly. But you were here to train, not run one.

Your room was simple but comfortable, with a bed, a small desk, and a window looking out at some trees. You thanked Brooke and she left, pausing before closing the door. You dropped your duffel bag on the floor, ready to get changed and start looking around.

As you tossed your bag down, a small, folded piece of paper slipped out of one of the side pockets. It wasn't yours. You picked it up. On it, in neat handwriting, was a phone number and a smiley face. It had to be Brooke's. You tucked it into your shorts pocket, a small, unexpected distraction. It was something to think about later.

Then you took a walk to see the rest of the place. You passed a room with several massage tables, the masseuse area, quiet for now. Further down, you saw a big pool, clear and blue, with lap lanes marked. Beyond that, through another set of doors, you noticed a couple of pickleball courts, freshly lined, empty at the moment. Everything here was designed for an athlete's complete recuperation.

You ended up in the main gym. The court lights were on, bright over the polished wood. The hoops stood tall. This place had the best tools for that. You found an empty corner and started stretching a little. It was time to begin.