Learning the Routine
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
I shoved my suitcase through the dorm room door, shoulders tight with nerves. My heart was beating a little too fast, like it always did before something new. Inside, sunlight slanted across the bare floorboards, one side of the room neat and empty, the other already claimed.
Gym bags piled under the bed, a pair of sneakers tossed haphazardly under the desk, a sweatshirt draped over the back of the chair.
Before I could set my bag down, the bathroom door swung open.
“Hey! You must be Eli.”
A tall guy stepped out, toweling off his damp blond hair, lean muscles shifting under a loose T-shirt and gym shorts. He grinned as he crossed the room, sticking out a hand.
“I’m Mason. Roommate. We’re both on the team, right?”
“Yeah — Eli,” I said quickly, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, friendly.
“Nice,” Mason said, dropping onto his bed. “First year?”
I nodded, feeling the knot in my chest ease just a little. Mason had that kind of easy, laid-back energy, not overt or intense, just open, like the kind of guy who made friends in five minutes without trying.
“Same here,” he added, tossing the towel onto his chair. “I came in through club gymnastics. You’re the track guy, right?”
“How’d you know?”
Mason smirked. “I read the new roster. Plus, it’s obvious, man. You’ve got that sprinter build.” He gave a small shrug. “You’ll pick things up fast, I bet. Power’s half the game in gymnastics.”
I smiled faintly, the tension in my shoulders softening.
“Still feels like a lot,” I admitted, sitting on the edge of my bed. “New sport, new team, new school…”
“Yeah, well,” Mason said, laughing, “we’re all figuring it out. Anyway, the team’s solid. I’ve been here a few days; started training already. Casper’s assistant coach — he’s been here a couple years. Definitely knows what he’s doing. He pushes us hard.” He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “He’s one of those guys who looks like he never stopped competing, you know? Still trains with the team sometimes. He keeps the boys sharp.”
I tried to play it cool, but curiosity flickered in my chest.
“Is he strict?” I asked.
Mason grinned. “Let’s just say he doesn’t let shit slide.” He pushed up from the bed, stretching his arms overhead. “Come on, man. First team intro’s in twenty. Let’s go introduce you to the crew.”
I stood, grabbing my gym bag, my stomach twisting up again. I told myself it was just nerves, just the normal pressure of proving myself to a new team. But as I followed Mason out the door, I couldn’t shake the flicker of heat sitting low in my chest. I couldn’t deny the fact that I found my roommate attractive and I was going to have to live — and train — right next to this man all year. Oh well, problem for tomorrow I guess.
The gym smelled like chalk, rubber mats, and faint sweat. Bright overhead lights gleamed off the polished equipment: rings, bars, pommel horses, the spring floor stretched out wide like a stage. My heart thudded a little faster as I stepped inside behind Mason.
A few guys were scattered across the space, some stretching, some finishing drills. Their bodies were compact, dense with coiled muscle, moving with a sharp efficiency that made me instantly self-conscious. I shoved my hands into the straps of my bag, trying to stand taller.
“Yo, Casper!” Mason called, waving across the mats.
I followed his gaze — and froze for a second.
Casper.
He was walking toward us from the far side of the gym, wiping his hands on a towel. Blond hair, a little messy like he’d been running drills himself. Sleeveless black shirt clinging to his torso, sweat darkening the fabric across his back. Narrow waist, strong shoulders, thick, powerful thighs under snug athletic shorts.
He moved like someone perfectly aware of how his body worked: balanced, grounded, light on his feet even at rest. And his face — sharp green eyes, faintly sun-flushed skin, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he closed the distance.
“You Eli?” he asked, stopping in front of me, voice low and easy.
“Yeah,” I managed, shifting my bag awkwardly.
“I’m Casper. Assistant coach.” He held out his hand. His grip was firm, confident, warm from recent effort.
I felt my throat tighten for a second. “Good to meet you.”
Casper gave me a quick once-over, his eyes flicking over my shoulders, core, legs. It wasn’t leering, it was the sharp, assessing scan of someone cataloging an athlete’s strengths and gaps. But my skin prickled under the attention anyway.
“Sprinter background, right?” Casper asked, stepping back just a fraction.
“Yeah. I — I did four years of track,” I said. “Mostly sprints, a little hurdles.”
His smirk curved slightly higher. “Good. You’ll bring some power we can work with.”
I exhaled, trying not to overthink the rush of heat rising in my chest.
Mason clapped me lightly on the back. “Told you you’d survive the intro,” he teased, grinning. “I’m heading to warm-up. You good?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly.
“Cool.” Mason peeled off, leaving me standing in front of Casper, who watched him go with a faint shake of his head, amused.
“Come on,” Casper said, jerking his chin toward the equipment. “Let’s see what you’ve got, track star.”
I followed him onto the mats, heart hammering. Every movement he made was fluid, efficient, just a little sharp at the edges. And under the faint scent of chalk and rubber, I caught the warmer, sharper tang of sweat rising off his skin as he pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it casually onto the bench.
My throat went dry.
Casper stopped by the parallel bars, stretching one arm overhead, the lean muscle of his side flexing as he reached. His skin gleamed faintly under the lights, streaks of sweat catching along his shoulders, the curve of his lower back.
“Let’s start simple,” he said, glancing back at me. “Show me a hold.”
I swallowed, set my bag down, and wiped my palms on my shorts. My fingers were already a little damp, nerves creeping up on me. Casper gestured for me to mount the bars, stepping aside but staying close, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.
I took a breath, leapt up, and gripped the bars, lifting myself into a shaky tuck hold. I could feel the tremble in my core almost immediately.
“Breathe,” Casper said calmly, stepping in. “You’re locking up your shoulders. Here.”
He placed his hands lightly on my upper back, fingers pressing firm, his body close enough that I caught the sharper edge of his sweat now, clean, but warm, earthy, the kind of scent you could taste on the back of your tongue. My pulse jumped.
“Drop your elbows just a touch,” he murmured, adjusting my arms. His voice was low, smooth, with a teasing note tucked at the edges. “There you go. Stronger already.”
I exhaled shakily, focusing hard, forcing myself not to flinch when his hands lingered longer than strictly necessary.
When I finally lowered down, landing lightly on the mat, I realized my face was flushed. I wiped the back of my arm across my forehead, trying to pull in a steady breath.
Casper gave a slow nod, lips curving faintly. “Good for a first day.”
I forced a smile, heart pounding way too hard for something as simple as a hold.
“Hey, don’t overthink it,” Casper added, stepping closer again, eyes gleaming. “You’ve got good base strength. The rest will come. But you’re gonna need to relax, Eli.”
His fingers tapped lightly at my lower back. “You’re carrying tension here. You’re stiff — locked up. That’s gonna slow you down.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but all that came out was a thin breath. I could feel the imprint of his touch like a brand.
He grinned slightly, a spark of amusement in his eyes, then stepped back, clapping once. “Alright. Let’s run through some basics before we kill you with drills tomorrow.”
I followed him across the gym, wiping my palms again, heat prickling low in my stomach. Mason was across the room, joking with another teammate, completely oblivious. I forced my focus forward.
But the whole time, I felt it — Casper’s presence just at the edge of my awareness, the lingering weight of his hands, the droplets of sweat forming on his body and pooling along the ridges of his taught muscles.
Casper turned to walk ahead, and I caught myself watching, heart thudding hard in my chest.
It wasn’t just his physique that caught me, it was the way he moved.
His body flowed. Shoulders slim but strong, rolling smoothly under skin that caught the light in faint sweeps of gold. His back shifted in gentle, deliberate waves as he walked, every motion efficient and balanced, the narrow taper of his waist leading to dense, powerful thighs. His calves flexed lightly with each step, clean and sharp.
Even the sweat on him seemed like an extension of his body’s elegance — a light shimmer along his upper back, a faint trace under the curve of his arms, glistening faintly at his neck where a few strands of blond hair clung damp. He walked like someone who was entirely at ease, every movement precise and economical, like his body knew exactly what to do without thinking.
I forced my eyes away, my face heating, forcing myself to focus on the equipment in front of me. Mason’s laugh drifted from across the gym, easy and unbothered, but my own pulse stayed too fast, too tight.
Casper stopped at the pommel horse, glancing back over his shoulder with the smallest tilt of his mouth. “You coming, Eli?”
I wet my lips, nodding quickly, and moved to join him.
Up close, the fine details were even more distracting. His forearms were lean and corded, light veins tracing over smooth skin, his fingers long and sure where they rested lightly on the horse. His chest moved in a slow, steady rhythm, the edge of his ribcage visible under his fitted tank, sweat darkening the fabric in faint, delicate patches. He didn’t loom, he was just… there, quiet, poised, perfectly balanced, like a dancer on the edge of motion.
“Let me see your hold,” he murmured, nodding at the horse. “No pressure. Just form.”
I exhaled, forcing my focus inward, stepping forward. My hands found the grips, body rising into a tentative hold. I felt the tremble almost immediately in my core, the slight shake in my elbows.
“Breathe,” Casper said softly, stepping in. His fingers touched lightly at my back, the warmth of his hand sliding featherlight across my lower spine. “You’re tightening up here. Let it go, there it is.”
His voice brushed against the edge of my ear, low and almost amused. My pulse tripped, chest tightening sharply, his praise like a reward.
When I finally lowered down, shaking out my arms, I realized I was breathing hard — and not just from the effort.
Casper smiled faintly, head tipping. “Good. You’ve got some natural skill. We’ll shape the rest.”
I swallowed hard, nodding. My skin tingled where his fingers had touched, my face warm as I wiped sweat off my forehead.
And as I followed him to the next drill, I couldn’t stop noticing it, the way he moved, every step a study in grace, his body a quiet study in control.
The session wrapped up an hour later, my muscles pleasantly sore, my shirt clinging damp to my back. Casper ran through a few final pointers, voice calm and light, his mouth quirking into the occasional smirk when I tripped or stumbled. It wasn’t cruel, more like he expected it, more like he knew where I’d falter before I did.
We packed up near the bench, me wiping my face with a towel, Casper slipping off his sneakers to stretch barefoot on the mats. I caught myself watching again, not the raw strength, but the precision. The clean lines of his legs, the sharp flex of his calves, the gentle roll of his ankles as he worked through his stretches. Even at rest, he looked like a body built for discipline, for tight, impossible shapes.
“You did alright today,” he said, tipping his head to look at me, green eyes glinting faintly. “Bit stiff. But we’ll loosen you up.”
I laughed softly, awkwardly, feeling my cheeks warm. “Thanks. I — yeah, I’ll work on it.”
He rose smoothly, tugging his shirt over his head, the move casual, unthinking, and wiped it down his chest and shoulders, damp blond hair falling slightly forward as he scrubbed at the back of his neck.
Then, as I bent to grab my bag, I felt it: his hand, light and firm at the small of my back, just for a second, steadying me.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice low, smooth, near my ear. “Don’t overdo it on day one.”
I jerked slightly, blinking, but by the time I straightened, his hand was gone, his expression easy, the smallest flicker of a smile playing on his mouth as he turned away.
I stood there for a beat too long, heart thudding, heat licking up my neck. Had that been…? No. No, it was just casual, just a coach making sure I didn’t fall over after a long session. That was all.
Still, the skin where he’d touched felt charged, hypersensitive, like it remembered.
Mason caught up with me outside the gym, slapping my shoulder with a grin. “Told you you’d survive.”
I laughed breathlessly, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, it was good.”
“You coming to dinner?” Mason asked, adjusting his gym bag. “Some of the guys are hitting the dining hall.”
“I might catch up,” I said quickly. “Need a shower first.”
Mason waved me off, heading toward the crowd, easy and laughing. I watched him go, then turned, making my way slowly back toward the dorm.
The air felt cool against my skin, sweat drying under my clothes, but my body still buzzed — not just from the workout, but from something sharper, tighter, coiling low in my stomach. I couldn’t shake the faint weight of that hand at my back, the smooth brush of Casper’s voice, the way his body moved when he thought no one was watching.
Most of all the way his hand had felt when he’d touched my skin.
And then there was Mason…
I swallowed hard, pushing open the dorm door, wondering how the hell I was supposed to focus on anything else tonight.
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