Zhang Wei stood at the gate of their apartment complex, one hand gently on his daughter’s shoulder as the morning sun slowly climbed above the buildings.
“Eat your breakfast properly at school,” he reminded her. “And don’t forget your water bottle.”
Yuting nodded, swinging her backpack. “I know, Baba.”
His wife, Wang Mei, adjusted the strap of her handbag and gave Zhang Wei a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be home around seven. There’s a report I need to finish tonight.” She turned to Yuting. “Be good for your father.”
She gave them both one last smile, then walked briskly toward the subway station two blocks away, her office attire neat and professional. Zhang Wei watched her disappear into the morning crowd before turning back to his daughter.
Another ordinary Beijing morning.
Once the school bus finally arrived and pulled away with Yuting waving from the window, Zhang Wei walked back up to their third-floor apartment. The place was quiet now. He closed the door, exhaled, and began his usual routine.
As he washed the breakfast dishes, his mind wandered — as it often did in these quiet moments — back to the path he didn’t take.
Twenty-five years ago, I was ranked No. 17 in the country. Coaches said I had a real shot. Fast hands, strong baseline game, mental toughness. Everyone told me I could make it to the ATP tour.
He smiled bitterly as he wiped the counter.
Instead, a torn rotator cuff at 19, followed by chronic shoulder pain and two major surgeries, had quietly ended everything. No wildcard entries. No sponsors. No glory. By 24 he was just another former prospect teaching rich kids how to hit forehands.
Now at 43, he was a tennis coach and part-time property manager at Sunshine Tennis Club. Respectable. Stable. Enough to support a family. But sometimes, late at night, he still watched old highlight videos of himself — the teenage Zhang Wei who moved like lightning and dreamed of playing at Roland Garros.
He shook the thought away and changed into his club uniform: white t-shirt with the embroidered logo, navy sweatshirt and sweatpants, and well-worn court shoes. While waiting for his green tea to steep, he checked the day’s schedule.
Only two bookings. A light, peaceful Tuesday.
First, two hours with the energetic group of eight-year-olds. Then, at 11:00, a one-hour private hitting session with a new client:
*Nick Ongko – 1 hour*
He finished his tea, slung his racket bag over his shoulder, and locked the door. As he rode his electric scooter through the familiar streets toward the club, the cool morning air brushed against his face.
This is enough, he told himself, the same quiet mantra he repeated most mornings. A loving wife. A healthy daughter. A job on the court I still love. Not everyone gets to live their childhood dream.
Life was good. Simple. Peaceful.
Nothing special was going to happen today.
--
The two-hour kids’ class passed in the usual chaos of squealing laughter, wild swings, and endless balls flying in every direction. By 10:50 a.m., Zhang Wei was sweating lightly under his t-shirt as he herded the last eight-year-olds off the court.
“Great job today! Remember to drink water and stretch at home,” he called out, waving as the children ran toward their waiting parents.
He wiped his face with a towel and checked his watch. His 11:00 private session would be here any minute. He grabbed a fresh bottle of water and walked toward the main entrance of the club.
That was when he saw him.
A tall, athletic young man was walking through the gate carrying a Wilson racket bag. Smooth golden skin, sharp jawline, clean-cut black hair, and an easy, confident stride. For a split second, Zhang Wei felt his stomach drop.
No way.
He did a visible double take.
The young man looked almost identical to Xiao Liang — his best friend from junior tennis days. Same height, same lean but powerful build, same symmetrical features and quiet intensity in the eyes. Even the way he carried himself — shoulders relaxed, head slightly tilted — was eerily familiar.
Zhang Wei stood frozen for a moment, towel still in his hand.
Xiao Liang. The one who had actually made it.
While Zhang Wei’s shoulder injuries destroyed his career, Liang had fought through and reached a career-high of No. 187 in the world. He played Wimbledon and the Australian Open (lost in the first round most times, but still — he played them). Now he lived in Shanghai, married to the daughter of a real estate tycoon, and worked for his father-in-law.
They had been inseparable as teenagers — training together from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m., sharing hotel rooms at tournaments, dreaming about turning pro together. But after Zhang Wei’s forced retirement, the friendship slowly faded. A few WeChat messages every few years. That was it.
And now this stranger walking toward him looked like a younger, polished version of the friend he hadn’t seen in over fifteen years.
“Mr. Ongko?” Zhang Wei called out, forcing a professional smile as the young man approached.
Nick smiled politely and extended his hand. “Yes. Hi, Coach Zhang?”
“Zhang Wei,” he corrected, shaking Nick’s hand. His grip was firm, warm. “Welcome to Sunshine Tennis Club.”
For a brief second, Zhang Wei couldn’t help staring at Nick’s face. The resemblance was uncanny.
He even has the same slight dimple when he smiles.
He quickly snapped out of it and gestured toward Court 4.
“Ready to hit? Let’s warm up first.”
--
As they walked toward Court 4, Zhang Wei couldn’t stop the flood of memories.
Xiao Liang.
His best friend. His brother on the court. The one who actually made it.
Zhang Wei still remembered watching Liang’s first Grand Slam match like it was yesterday. It was the Australian Open, fifteen years ago. Liang had qualified and drawn a seeded player in the first round. Zhang Wei had stayed up until 4 a.m. in Beijing, streaming the match on a terrible connection.
Liang had lost 6-4, 6-7, 3-6, 6-4, 4-6 in a brutal five-set war. But he had fought like a lion. There was one rally in the third set — 27 shots long — where Liang hit a backhand down the line that made the entire stadium gasp. For a few magical minutes, it looked like the underdog might pull off the impossible.
After the match, Liang had called him from Melbourne, voice hoarse and tired but proud.
“I lost,” he’d said, laughing weakly. “But damn, Wei… I played on Rod Laver Arena. Can you believe it?”
Zhang Wei had been so happy for him he almost cried.
There were three more Grand Slam appearances after that. Wimbledon (lost first round in straight sets to a big server), the US Open (took a set off a top-20 player), and another Australian Open where he finally won his first Grand Slam match before falling in the second round.
Every time, Zhang Wei had watched alone in his small apartment, heart swelling with a complicated mix of pride and envy. Liang had lived the dream Zhang Wei had lost to injury. While Zhang Wei was teaching toddlers how to hold a racket, Liang was walking onto the grass at Wimbledon wearing the white uniform, hearing his name announced to 15,000 people.
They had slowly drifted apart after that.
Liang’s life became sponsor dinners, training in Spain, and eventually marrying a wealthy Shanghai heiress. Zhang Wei’s life became parent-teacher meetings, mortgage payments, and coaching rich kids who would never know what it felt like to step onto a Grand Slam court.
Sometimes Zhang Wei wondered if Liang ever thought about him anymore.
Now here was this young man — Nick Ongko — walking beside him, looking like a ghost from the past. Same height. Same fluid athleticism. Same quiet confidence.
Zhang Wei shook his head slightly, trying to push the memories away.
Focus. He’s just a student.
But as Nick took off his jacket and revealed those clean, powerful shoulders, Zhang Wei felt an odd tightness in his chest.
Just another ordinary Tuesday.
Yet for the first time in years, it didn’t feel so ordinary.
--
The first fifteen minutes told Zhang Wei everything he needed to know.
Nick Ongko moved like water.
His footwork was light and graceful, his strokes smooth and elegant rather than powerful. There was a natural fluidity to his game — long, clean swings, beautiful follow-throughs, and excellent timing. Even when Zhang Wei fed him harder balls, Nick absorbed the pace beautifully and redirected it with effortless-looking topspin.
He plays like Liang did at his best, Zhang Wei thought, unable to stop the comparison. But prettier.
By the end of the hour, Zhang Wei was genuinely impressed. Nick’s game was graceful and elegant — long, flowing strokes with excellent timing and natural athleticism. It was simply beautiful to watch.
“Alright, that’s time,” Zhang Wei said, catching a ball. “You have very nice technique. Very elegant. Where did you train in America?”
“USC club team and some private coaching,” Nick replied, breathing steadily as he walked to the net. “I wasn’t serious enough to go pro, but I loved playing.”
Zhang Wei nodded. “I can tell. Now, before you go — let me show you something on your kick serve. Your motion is good, but you can get more spin and margin.”
They moved to the baseline. Zhang Wei stood close behind Nick to demonstrate the toss and pronation. As Nick practiced the motion, Zhang Wei stepped in even closer, reaching around to adjust Nick’s grip slightly.
That was when he noticed it.
The scent of Nick’s sweat.
It wasn’t the usual sharp, salty smell most players had after an hour on court. Nick’s sweat had an oddly sweet, almost clean fragrance — warm skin mixed with something faintly tropical, like coconut or light cologne mixed with fresh exertion. It was strangely intoxicating.
Zhang Wei suddenly became hyper-aware of how close they were standing. Nick’s broad shoulders, the damp fabric of his shirt clinging to his back, the smooth golden skin of his neck. A strange, uncomfortable warmth spread through Zhang Wei’s chest.
What are you doing? he thought, stepping back quickly. He’s a student. Half your age. Married father, remember?
Nick seemed oblivious. He tried the adjusted kick serve and landed a nice one.
“Better?” he asked, turning with a bright smile.
“Yes. Much better,” Zhang Wei said, clearing his throat. “Keep practicing that.”
Nick switched back to English, looking a little embarrassed. “Sorry… my Mandarin is still very bad. I’m studying every day but… still slow.”
Zhang Wei smiled kindly. “It’s fine. I speak pretty good English. I traveled a lot when I was a junior player — tournaments in Europe, Asia, even a few in America.”
They walked slowly toward the bench together.
“Really?” Nick asked, curious. “How was your career?”
Zhang Wei gave a small, humble laugh. “I was good, but not good enough. Reached top 20 in China as a junior. Shoulder injuries ended it. My best friend Xiao Liang made it to the pros though. He played a few Grand Slams.”
Nick’s eyes widened. “That’s amazing. I only played college tennis at USC. It was competitive, but mostly for fun. I wish I had your discipline.”
They sat for a moment, towels around their necks.
“So… who’s your favorite player?” Zhang Wei asked.
“Novak Djokovic,” Nick answered without hesitation. “Mental strength. The way he fights. Yours?”
Zhang Wei smiled softly.
“Roger Federer. Pure elegance. When he was playing, it didn’t even look like tennis. It looked like art.”
Nick grinned. “I can see why. You play a bit like him yourself.”
For a second, their eyes met. Zhang Wei felt that strange tightness in his chest again.
He stood up abruptly.
“Same time next week?” he asked, a little too quickly.
Nick smiled, wiping sweat from his face. “Thanks, Coach. I really enjoyed it. Can we do this regularly? Maybe three times a week? Monday, Wednesday, Friday at 11?”
Zhang Wei nodded. “Sure. That works.”
The club was unusually quiet. Most courts were empty, and the staff had gone for lunch. Nick set his bag on the bench and casually started changing right there courtside.
He peeled off his damp white T-shirt first, revealing a smooth, toned golden torso still glistening with sweat. Then, without any hesitation, he untied his trackpants and pushed them down to his ankles.
For a few long, dangerous seconds, Nick stood there in nothing but a pair of tight red briefs.
The bright scarlet fabric clung tightly to his body — hugging his firm ass, outlining the clear shape of his cock and balls. The contrast against his smooth golden skin was shockingly vivid.
Zhang Wei’s breath caught in his throat.
His eyes widened before he could stop himself. A sudden rush of heat flooded his face and neck. His heart started hammering so hard he was sure Nick could hear it. For one paralyzing moment, he couldn’t look away — his gaze locked on the tight red fabric, the powerful thighs, the subtle bulge.
What the hell is wrong with you? he screamed internally. He’s half your age. A student. You have a wife and daughter.
A wave of guilt crashed over him immediately, sharp and nauseating. He spun around quickly, pretending to organize balls in the basket, but his hands were trembling.
Nick pulled on fresh black shorts and a clean T-shirt, completely oblivious. “Sorry,” he said with an easy laugh. “I thought no one was around. Should’ve gone to the locker room.”
Zhang Wei forced a laugh, but it came out strained. His ears were burning. His mind kept flashing back to those tight red briefs and the way they hugged every curve. He felt uncomfortably warm between his legs and hated himself for it.
“It’s… it’s fine,” he managed, voice slightly hoarse. “The club is empty today.”
Nick apologized again in broken Mandarin, looking sheepish.
Zhang Wei could barely focus on the rest of their conversation about tennis careers and favorite players. His mind was still stuck on that image — red against golden skin.
When Nick finally waved goodbye and walked toward the exit, Zhang Wei stayed rooted on the court, heart still racing.
He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to calm down.
Get a grip, Zhang Wei. You’re a married man. A father.
But the image of Nick in those tight red briefs refused to leave his head.
As Nick walked away toward the exit, racket bag slung over his shoulder, Zhang Wei stayed on the court a moment longer, staring after him.
Just another student, he told himself.
But the scent of sweet sweat and the ghost of Xiao Liang lingered in his mind long after Nick had left the club.
--
Zhang Wei lay in the dark beside his sleeping wife.
Wang Mei’s breathing was soft and steady, her back turned toward him. The clock on the nightstand read 1:47 a.m. He should have been asleep hours ago, but sleep refused to come.
His mind kept drifting back to Court 4.
To the tight red briefs. To the smooth golden skin still shining with sweat. To that unexpected, dangerous spark he hadn’t felt in decades.
He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Memories of Xiao Liang flooded in first — the real root of it all.
Back when they were seventeen, sharing a tiny dorm room at the national training center. Liang sleeping shirtless on the bed across from him. The way his body looked in the moonlight. The countless nights Zhang Wei had lain awake, heart pounding, terrified of his own thoughts. He had never touched Liang. Never even confessed. He had simply suffered in silence until life pulled them apart.
For twenty-five years, Zhang Wei had believed those feelings were buried forever.
Until today.
Until Nick.
Quietly, so as not to wake Wang Mei, he slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He locked the door, turned on the small exhaust fan for noise, and sat down on the closed toilet lid.
His cock was already half-hard.
He closed his eyes and tried to picture Xiao Liang as he was back then — nineteen years old, lean and strong after a summer of training, shirtless in their dorm, laughing at something stupid Zhang Wei had said.
But the image wouldn’t stay.
Slowly, insidiously, Xiao Liang began to change.
The face sharpened. The skin turned smoother, more golden. The body became a little taller, a little more graceful.
It became Nick.
Zhang Wei’s breathing grew heavier. He pulled his shorts down and wrapped his hand around his now fully hard cock.
He remembered the scent of Nick’s sweat — oddly sweet, warm, almost addictive. He imagined running his hands over that smooth golden skin, still hot from the court. Then his mind went lower… to that moment when Nick had casually pushed his trackpants down.
In his fantasy, Nick didn’t stop at the red briefs.
On the empty tennis court, Nick hooked his thumbs into the waistband of those tight scarlet briefs and slowly peeled them down. His big, meaty bubble ass came into view — full, round, and perfectly shaped despite his slender frame. The kind of ass that looked obscene on such an elegant body.
Zhang Wei stroked himself faster, biting his lip to stay quiet.
In his mind, Nick glanced over his shoulder with that easy, innocent smile and bent forward slightly, offering himself.
That was all it took.
Zhang Wei came hard — thick ropes of cum shooting into the toilet bowl as his body jerked silently. His orgasm was shockingly intense, leaving him trembling and breathless.
For almost a full minute he sat there, eyes still closed, hand sticky, heart racing with shame and lingering pleasure.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He was a 43-year-old married father. A respected coach.
And tonight he had jerked off thinking about a 22-year-old student’s ass.
Zhang Wei cleaned up quietly, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands. When he slipped back into bed, Wang Mei was still sleeping peacefully.
He lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, guilt sitting heavy in his chest like a stone.
This was going to be a problem.
TO BE CONTINUED
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