Volleyball was said to be a sport for women
Bull-fucking-shit
Because all the dudes that trained with me couldn’t be more straight if they had a stick up their ass
Me included
We were all fucking beasts, no kidding
Built like war machines with shoulders carved from endless serves, thighs forged in squat racks, and reflexes sharp enough to make lightning look lazy. You don’t survive on that court if you’re soft. Every spike was violence with purpose. Every dive left blood on polished wood. Every block was a middle finger to gravity itself.
We didn’t prance.
We launched.
Six men on the floor, moving like a pack—brutal, precise, relentless. Sweat flying, shoes screeching, hands stinging red from the force of contact. You stared down the net at another squad of monsters and knew damn well somebody was going home humbled.
And when the setter tossed that perfect ball?
God help whoever stood in front of me.
Because I’d rise like an executioner, arm cocked back, and hammer that thing so hard it sounded like a gunshot.
The crowd didn’t laugh.
They roared.
Volleyball wasn’t softness. It wasn’t some delicate pastime.
It was controlled chaos. Power disguised as finesse. A battlefield where discipline hit just as hard as muscle.
Yeah, we joked, swore, slapped each other’s backs, and talked obscene amounts of shit.
Good thing about our training place?
We were next to the gymnastics girls
Now that was motivation.
Every damn day, we’d walk into the gym already fired up, duffel bags slung over shoulders, testosterone practically fogging the air, and there they were—flipping, twisting, bending reality itself like gravity was optional.
Leotards, chalk dust, ponytails snapping like whips as they launched themselves off beams and bars with a kind of lethal elegance that could shut even the loudest bastard up for half a second.
And believe me—that was saying something.
We were animals, sure. Competitive, vulgar, loud enough to shake windows.
But those girls?
Jesus Christ.
They were something else.
I mean, I’m an emotionally constipated bastard, but still, all my teammates had had at least, one quick fuck with one of them
Not me, though, like i said, i’m an empty bastard, nothing gets to me
Or didn’t get to me
Not until I met her
Their new coach, young, pretty, and way too fucking good at doing that gymnastics shit
The first time I saw her, she was demonstrating something on the uneven bars—some insane release move that had every guy in our squad shutting the fuck up mid-sentence.
She flew.
No hesitation. No fear. Just pure, merciless control.
Up.
Twist.
Catch.
Land.
Perfect.
Like gravity itself was too pussy to challenge her.
Even our coach muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
And for the first time in my life?
I understood surrender.
Not because she was pretty.
Though fuck me, she was.
It was because she wasn’t trying to catch anyone’s attention, not like the rest of them, of us, no, she just… existed
The first time I talked to her I must’ve looked like an idiot while she held the ball for me
I’d just finished drills.
Which meant I was six-foot-whatever, drenched in sweat, breathing like a dying animal, and suddenly forgetting how language worked.
She glanced at me, eyebrow raised.
“You gonna keep staring,” she asked, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, “or do you actually need this?”
Jesus Christ.
My teammates behind me went dead silent, those bastards practically holding their breath because they knew.
They knew I was getting my ass handed to me.
And me?
The guy who could stare down blockers built like tanks.
The guy who could rip a serve so hard it left bruises.
I choked.
“Uh.”
Fucking poetic.
Her lips twitched.
Not a full smile.
That tiny, amused little curve that hit harder than any spike I’d ever taken to the face.
She held the ball out, but didn’t let go immediately when I grabbed it.
“Thought volleyball players were supposed to have fast reflexes.”
Behind me, I heard one of my teammates trying not to laugh.
I should’ve had a comeback
I didn’t
Just stared at her