Personal Best 11
🤍 Pairings: Coach!Cody Rhodes x Female Reader
🤍 Summary: Practice resumes. Rules still exist. Feelings don’t care.
🤍 Warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI!, Explicit Sexual Content, Power Imbalance (coach/athlete), Strong Language, Implied Age Gap (but age appropriate, as always), Workplace-Adjacent/Semi-Public Settings
🤍 Word Count: 4.6k
🤍 Links: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14
🤍 Notes: Regular updates???!!! Yes, I promised I would. And I can't stay away from this damn story 🩷
Monday hits you like a brick to the back of the head.
You expected weird or awkward. Instead, everything feels exactly the same.
Warm-up drills go well. Knees up, arms pumping, the slap of shoes against the track. Your teammates are chirping about the heat, the weekend, anything but the one thing your brain keeps circling like a vulture.
Friday. Saturday. Sunday.
It’s a loop you can’t stop replaying. Every word. Every touch. Every soft, impossible thing that left you feeling like your skin was buzzing.
You're standing there staring at nothing when Jaylah jogs past and mutters, “You gonna move or nah?”
You blink, the track coming back into focus. The white lane lines, the heat rippling off the ground, the sour-sweet smell of sweat and rubber.
Right. Strides. You’re supposed to be doing strides.
Focus. Focus.
Your shirt clings to your back. The sun is cruel and heavy, pressing down until your lungs ache. This is supposed to be the thing that clears your head.
Sweat. Speed. Motion.
Instead, it just makes you feel like you're burning from the inside out. Because the second you hear his voice, your pulse spikes like a gunshot just went off inside your chest. You don’t even catch the words at first. Just the sound of him, familiar in a way it definitely shouldn’t be.
You turn to spot him. He’s in a grey tank and running shorts, sun catching on his shoulders, every line of hard muscle on full, devastating display. You’re not the only one who notices.
From somewhere behind you, a teammate whistles. “Why’s Coach out here looking like a Marvel superhero?”
Another voice. “I’d pay to watch that.”
You want to laugh. You really do. It would be so easy to roll your eyes and pretend you’re just another girl on the team admiring her hot coach. Instead, you stare down at your shoes, because your pulse is pounding in places that have nothing to do with exertion, and your body remembers things your brain is desperately trying to forget.
You feel it before you see it. That slow, simmering heat creeping up your neck, spreading across your cheeks. When you risk another glance, his gaze is already there, pinning you in place. You don’t have to guess what he’s remembering. You know. Your skin knows. Your body tightens, as if bracing for impact.
Don’t be obvious. Don’t be obvious.
You drop to one knee and pretend to retie your shoelace even though it’s perfectly fine. Your fingers fumble on the knot anyway. It’s just something to do before your thoughts start spilling out through your face, your posture, and the way you look at him.
Shit. He’s moving. You track the steps out of the corner of your eye. Slow. Ground-eating. Unhurried and completely lethal. You straighten just as his shadow swallows the space in front of you.
“Morning,” he says, like it’s perfectly normal. Like nothing’s changed.
Your throat is too tight to speak, but you manage a sound that vaguely resembles, “Morning.”
His mouth twitches. A ghost of something dangerous, quickly hidden.
“You good?” he asks.
Totally innocent on paper. In practice, it’s anything but. It’s a memory, a question he asked with his hands and his mouth all weekend long.
You nod too fast. “Yeah. Just hot.”
The second it leaves your lips, you regret it. His gaze drags over your face, then lower, lingering in a way that makes your pulse stutter.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I can see that.”
Oh my God.
“Coach,” you say, warning threaded through your tone with not nearly enough strength behind it.
“What?” he asks, all wide-eyed and innocent, like you're the problem.
You hate him. You want him. You hate how much you want him.
He steps back, mercifully, before anyone catches the shift in your stance or the fact that your pupils have blown wide and dark, swallowing the color of your eyes.
“Lane three,” he calls out. Back to business. Your heart doesn’t get the memo, and your lungs are still trying to climb out of your throat.
You jog to position, but running feels harder than usual. Not just because it’s hot and the sun is baking the track, but because every step feels out of sync. Your body’s moving forward while your brain is stuck on a loop that sounds a lot like ‘I miss you’, ‘stay’, and ‘I love you’. And that man in the grey tank top with the delicious biceps… your coach, your mistake, your addiction… said every single one of them.
You stretch out on the grass. The lone tree you’re hogging offers the only scrap of shade on the field, and you’re claiming every inch of it. The ground is warm against your back, blades of grass sticking to your damp skin. Your legs feel like they’re made of metal, heavy and useless.
Across the field, some of your teammates have formed a suspiciously tight cluster around Coach Rhodes. You don’t have to look to know what it is. Giggles. Hair flips. The sudden, collective obsession with “hydration strategies.” The sound of their laughter carries across the field, and something deep in your chest twists with annoyance.
Jaylah drops beside you with the grace of someone who just ran herself to death, collapsing so hard the ground shakes. “Oh my God,” she groans, dragging her cleats off and flinging them to the side. “Look what you’re doing to that man.”
You turn your head, frowning. “What are you talking about?”
She props herself up on one elbow and points at him dramatically. “He is out here being a full-on walking thirst trap for you, and you’re gonna pretend you don’t see it?”
You don’t look. You are absolutely not looking. You stare at the tree branches overhead, at the bits of sky peeking between the leaves. Then you, weak, weak girl, you glance.
He’s rubbing his hands together like he wants to disappear. That infuriating tank top is clinging to him for dear life, sticking to the lines of his chest and stomach. Sunlight catches on his arms. His broad shoulders. His strong forearms. His hands—
You rip your gaze away the second you realize you’re staring at his fingers like they’re a problem you’d really like to have again.
Jaylah cackles, loud enough that a few heads turn. “You did that.”
“Jaylah.” Your voice comes out in a plea.
“No, because why is he wearing a tank top today?” she demands. “Why is he punishing us with those arms? What does he want from us?”
You press your face into the grass, muffling a scream. “UGH—”
She fans herself with one hand, eyes fixed on him. “Look at him. He’s spiraling. He’s trying to look normal, but he’s not normal. He’s a man in pain.”
You really, truly try not to glance back again. You fail. Again. And he’s already looking at you.
The noise of the field drops away for a heartbeat. He holds your gaze for half a second longer than is professional. Longer than is safe. Long enough that your stomach drops and your ribs feel too tight around your heart. Then he looks away, and the moment disappears like it never happened. You almost convince yourself it didn’t.
Jaylah presses a hand to her chest, “Nope. Nope. I’m gonna pass out. That was a scene from a romance novel. You two are absolutely disgusting.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.
She flops back onto the grass, arms spread wide like she’s offering herself to the sky. “If you don’t go talk to him, I will drag you over there by the ankle.”
“Practice isn’t even officially over,” you hiss, irrationally clinging to the technicality.
She sits up again, grinning wickedly. “Sweetheart. It’s so over.”
As if the universe agrees, Coach lifts a whistle to his lips and blows for team dismissal.
Jaylah’s grin widens. “Told you.”
The Coach Rhodes Fan Club finally breaks formation, their laughter fading as they scatter across the field. Jaylah smacks your arm on her way out, muttering a quick, “Godspeed,” before trotting off.
And then it’s just him.
Clipboard in hand. Back turned. Broad shoulders rising and falling with long, slow breaths. His back muscles shift beneath that stupidly tight tank top, one you’re pretty sure should be banned for safety reasons, for your safety specifically.
You should leave. Stretch. Hydrate. Be a normal person and keep yourself out of the radius of temptation.
Instead, you walk toward him. You drift closer. Closer. Until you're close enough to see the line of his jaw. The sharp cut of his neck. The sheen of sweat that glints at the dip of his spine, where his shirt clings way too well.
You slip into that dreamlike headspace where it’s just you and him. Where your fingers ghost along the ridge of his bicep. Where your mouth finds the back of his shoulder, tasting of sweat and salt. Where he turns—
He turns.
You both jolt, nearly colliding. He, with a sharp inhale; you, with a startled step back that doesn’t quite create enough distance.
Your voice snags on one syllable. “Hi.”
He blinks once. Then twice. His eyes drag over you for a heartbeat. Down, then back up, before snapping to your face like he has to remind himself where he’s allowed to look.
“Hi,” he echoes.
He clears his throat, knuckles whitening around the edge of his clipboard. “Didn’t see you there.”
You manage a shaky smile you hope doesn’t look as obvious as it feels. “Yeah, I, uh… wasn’t exactly trying to make an entrance.”
His gaze flicks over your shoulder, scanning the field, the track, the bleachers, making sure you’re alone. Making sure this is as private as it feels. He exhales, and his shoulders lose a fraction of tension. When his blue eyes find yours again, their guard is down.
Trouble.
Real, beautiful, breath-stealing trouble.
He adjusts the clipboard like he doesn’t trust his hands without it. You can feel the words building in his chest before he even speaks.
“Listen…” he starts, voice low enough that you have to lean in to catch it. “I know you’ve got finals and all, but if you have time later…”
His gaze flicks behind you again, quick and instinctive.
“…want to come over for dinner?”
The world tilts for a second. Your stomach drops and then swoops, your pulse sprinting ahead of you. This is stupid. This is dangerous. This is exactly what you want.
Silence stretches, just long enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch like he’s about to panic, like he’s already regretting asking.
You smile, unable to help yourself. “Should I pack a bag?”
His composure lasts all of one breath.
“I mean…” He clears his throat and looks away. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Probably?” you echo, because you’re a menace and also because you need to hear him say it.
His eyes return to yours with pure, familiar exasperation etched across his face. “Don’t start.”
“You started it.”
He huffs softly, barely a laugh, barely breathing. Then he takes half a step forward, just a few inches, but it feels like crossing state lines. His gaze settles on yours again, and this time, it’s clear. Want. Longing. Excitement he’s trying to downplay and absolutely failing to hide.
“Pick you up at six?” he asks like it’s casual. Like it’s not the only thing he's wanted to say since he woke up.
“Six,” you echo.
Your smile breaks free before you can stop it, bright and helpless. He holds your gaze a second longer, jaw flexing like it’s taking everything in him not to reach for you. Then he turns and walks away before either of you can make a mistake.
But just before he’s out of reach, you hear it. That exhale. Soft. Shaky. Almost like relief. Or maybe restraint. You don’t know which. You just know your heart’s still racing long after he’s gone, and six o’clock suddenly feels impossibly far away.
You pack a bag.
T-shirt. Shorts. Sports bra. You fold everything too neatly, like control over cotton equals control over your brain, like if your clothes are organized, your thoughts might be too.
You don’t let yourself spiral. You just move. One thing, then the next. Even though your heart’s been tap-dancing against your ribs since practice ended. It’s just dinner; you lie to yourself.
He picks you up at six on the dot.
When you open the door, he’s already walking toward you from the driver’s side, like he couldn’t wait an extra second. Like sitting still in the car was physically impossible. If any of your teammates happened to pass by right now, there’d be no good explanation for the overnight bag slung over your shoulder. If anyone looked too closely, they’d see it. The thing you’re both trying so hard to hide.
“Hey,” he says, and then stops. “You look…”
His eyes travel down your body, slow and focused, taking in the sundress you threw on. Tight. Fitted. Hugging every curve like it was tailored specifically to ruin him.
You glance down at your dress and back up at him, trying for casual. “Yeah?”
“Hot,” he finishes. His mouth quirks up slightly. “—irresponsibly hot.”
You laugh in reply, some of the nerves dissolving as his eyes slip down your body one more time, completely betraying him. An absolutely helpless man.
The ride to his place is quiet, but not awkward. Music hums low through the speakers with a steady beat that matches your pulse a little too well. His hand finds your thigh like it’s done it a thousand times before, thumb tapping absently to the rhythm. Every slight movement sends a little electric buzz up your leg. He keeps glancing at you like he’s trying not to. You keep staring out the window like you don’t notice.
In the kitchen, he moves like someone who does this often. He shrugs into an apron, ties it, then starts chopping onions with confident, precise strokes. Oil hisses in the pan, the rich smell of garlic and chili filling your nostrils.
You lean against the counter, arms folded, watching him work. The overhead light glows on his shoulders, on the flex of his forearms as he flips veggies in the pan like a pro. “You’re absurdly domestic right now,” you say.
He glances over his shoulder, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Don’t let the apron fool you. I only cook for people I’m trying to impress.”
You smile at him, letting your gaze drag deliberately over the scene of him at the stove, apron strings tied at his back, bare arms flexing as he cooks.
“Is it working?” he asks, turning to hold a spoon up toward your mouth.
You push off the counter and lean in, lips brushing the edge of the utensil as your tongue catches just enough sauce to taste. The heat and spice bloom across your tongue, and you hum without thinking. His gaze drops to your mouth as you hum, something in his expression going briefly, beautifully unfocused. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” he repeats, hand to his chest, feigning offense. “This is Iron Chef material.”
You roll your eyes. “Not bad,” he mutters under his breath, his focus returned to the stove. You laugh. He laughs. The sound fills the small space, mingling with the pan’s sizzle. It’s easy. Weirdly easy. Like you haven’t spent every second since he said ‘I love you’ wondering how any of this can possibly be real.
You eat at the kitchen island, knees knocking gently every few minutes. Neither of you comments on it, nor does either of you move away. The contact is small, almost nothing, but your body is hyper-aware of it.
He tells you a story about breaking his wrist in high school doing a backflip off a trampoline. “I thought I was invincible,” he says between bites of rice. “Turns out, gravity disagreed.”
You snort, laughing at the image of a younger him. Reckless and cocky, thinking he could outrun physics. Clearly still a little clueless, but so are you. The laughter fades, and the silence that follows is the kind that always gets you in trouble.
“Can I ask you something?” you say before you can stop yourself.
He pauses, but doesn’t say anything. That’s as close to permission as you’re going to get.
You keep going, your voice softening. “Have you… even been in a serious relationship? Like, married or anything?”
His fork stills halfway to his mouth. For a moment, you’re sure he’s going to deflect. Make a joke. Change the subject. But instead, he sets the fork down with a soft clink and leans back, eyes drifting somewhere distant.
“There was someone,” he says quietly. “A few years ago. I thought she was it, you know? The real thing. But she didn’t want to stick around for all the mess that came with me.”
You pause, chest tightening. What mess? You don’t know, and you’re not sure which thought scares you more.
“I didn’t blame her,” he adds, voice rougher now. “I was angry for a while. Mostly at myself. That’s why I don’t let people get too close anymore. Not unless I’m sure they’ll stay.”
Silence stretches out between you as you study him. The careful tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders have crept up just a little, like he’s bracing for impact. The quiet hurt still lingers under the surface, old but not gone.
“Why did she leave?” You ask it cautiously, but you need to know. You need to understand what you’re walking into.
He exhales slowly through his nose, gaze fixed somewhere out the window instead of on you. “She said I made her feel like she was always second.”
Second. You don’t want to be second. Not to his job, not to anything. But you swallow the thought and let him keep going.
“I was coaching at a different school then. College football. Long hours. Always traveling. Recruiting, training, late nights, early mornings.” He gives a humorless half-smile. “Football came first. It always did.”
You can see how much it costs him to admit that.
“She told me she felt like a placeholder. Like I only had room for her in the margins of my life.” He pauses. “And she was right.”
Your chest aches for him. For the version of him that gave everything to something that didn’t love him back. For the version of him that got left behind when the whistle blew, and the crowd went home.
“I thought if I just worked harder, made more money, she’d wait.” His voice softens to almost nothing. “But people don’t wait forever. Especially not for someone who can’t decide what they want.”
Your fingers move before your brain does. You reach across the island and take his hand because you just need to touch him. He doesn’t pull away.
“I’ve tried to be better since then,” he says. “More present. More… honest. But I still get caught in my own head. Still worry that I’ll fuck it up again.”
You squeeze his fingers, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You are better,” you say softly, “to me at least.”
He finally meets your eyes. There’s hope there, but also something a little broken, a thin crack running through the center of him. You see it now. You feel the weight of what he’s offering you. The risk of letting you that close to a part of him that's still broken.
“Still figuring it out,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”
You break apart, his hand sliding from yours, the warmth fading too quickly. The silence settles over you again, but the mood doesn’t reset. The air feels different, charged with everything he just let you witness.
“That explains the caution tape energy,” you mutter, needing to cut the heaviness before it swallows you both.
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Caution tape?”
“You’re all ‘Don’t get too close, I might feel something.’” You pause, tilting your head at him. “Except you do. Constantly. You’re just subtle about it.”
His eyes dart to yours, lips parting like he’s about to argue. But then he exhales, gaze dropping back to his bowl, shoulders loosening a fraction.
“Not that subtle,” he admits through a small, crooked smile.
After dinner, you migrate to the couch. You talk more. About you. Your hometown. How you once tried bartending for a summer and accidentally set a menu on fire.
“I thought I was being smooth,” you say, gesturing with your hands. “I flipped the bottle, missed, and the whole thing went straight into a candle.”
“That is the least surprising thing I’ve ever heard,” he says through a laugh.
You grin. “Banned from bartending for life.”
You bring up your mom’s obsessive cleaning habits, the way she used to follow you around with a dust rag. He laughs too hard at your impression, wiping at his eyes.
At some point, you settle on a movie, and of course, you have to bully him about his collection.
“You own Fast Five on Blu-ray,” you say with mock horror as you read the spine. “I feel like this is something I should’ve known. This is relationship-altering information.”
“That movie is iconic,” he responds, deeply offended.
You bump his leg with your knee. “You just like the cars.”
“I like the plot,” he insists, shoving your knee away.
You shove him back. He leans in, pinning you half-heartedly into the cushions. It turns into a wrestling match of jabs, pushes, and terrible attempts at tickling. You’re both laughing. Real, stomach-aching, head-tipped-back kind of laughter. That lasts right up until his thigh slides higher, pressing firmly between your legs.
You freeze. He does too. His hands are braced on either side of you. The room is suddenly very quiet. The movie fades into the background, the only sound the rush of your own breath in your ears. All the amusement drains from his face. His gaze drops to your mouth, then back to your eyes, like he’s asking a question without saying a word.
“Tell me to move,” he says quietly. His voice is nothing like it was a few seconds ago.
You swallow. You could tell him to move. You should. This is stupid and dangerous and so far past the line you pretended you wouldn’t cross again.
“No,” you whisper.
Something in him gives way to calm. His body drops a fraction, the last bit of distance between you evaporating. He leans in slowly.
When his mouth meets yours, it doesn’t feel new; it feels like coming back to something you’ve been missing. Heat rushes through you, washing away the last of your nerves. Your fingers find his shoulders, the solid line of his neck, something to hold onto as the kiss deepens and the rest of the world fades.
Time blurs after that. Couch cushions press against your back, the soft drag of fabric leaving skin, the movie playing in the background for no one. His hands are not careful but certain, yours just as desperate, both of you trying and failing to slow down.
Later, you’re not entirely sure how you ended up in his bedroom.
Your dress is draped over the back of a chair, your overnight bag half-unzipped on the floor. The lamp on his dresser throws everything into a soft gold. The rumpled sheets, the shadowed lines of his shoulders as he moves around the room.
You sit on the edge of the bed, still catching your breath, while he disappears downstairs. You hear the clink of dishes in the sink, the low rush of water, and a cupboard door closing. When he comes back, he’s holding two glasses and a small bottle.
He sets a glass of water on the nightstand on your side of the bed, then taps the bottle next to it. “Hydration,” he says. “And ibuprofen. In case your hamstrings hate you tomorrow.”
You huff a little laugh. “Is this a sleepover or a recovery session?”
“Both,” he says, and there’s that small, crooked smile again. “It’s a compulsion.”
He crosses to his dresser, rummages for a second, then tosses you a folded T-shirt and a pair of soft, worn-in shorts. “These should fit. Sort of.”
You unfold them. The shirt smells faintly of the now-familiar scent of his detergent. “Is this, like, your favorite shirt?” you ask, because you can’t resist teasing him.
He glances over his shoulder. “It was,” he says. “I’ll cope.”
Your face heats in a way you refuse to examine too closely. You change in the bathroom while you brush your teeth, drowning in his clothes, the T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, the shorts cinched tight at your waist via the waistband folded multiple times over. When you catch your reflection, you have a brief, disorienting thought.
I look like I live here.
He’s already in bed when you turn off the bathroom light, lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting over his stomach. He watches you cross the room, eyes tracking every step.
You hesitate for half a second at the edge of the mattress. You should be used to this by now, but it still feels like foreign territory. You slide in next to him, the sheets cool against your legs, his body radiating heat beside you, your pulse tripping over itself at the closeness. You settle on your side, facing him. For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet between you a little terrifying.
“This okay?” he asks, voice low, palm hovering over your waist like he’s waiting for permission.
You nod, covering his hand with yours and guiding it where you want it. “Yeah,” you say. “This is… really okay.”
His fingers curl gently into the fabric at your hip. He exhales, a soft, shaky breath. The same kind of sound he made on the field earlier. You talk a little more in the dark. About nothing and everything. Tomorrow’s practice. Your exam schedule. The fact that he owns three different versions of the same action movie.
Sleep sneaks up on you quietly. The last thing you register is the steady rhythm of his breathing and the weight of his arm around your waist, holding you close like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.
You know you should be worried. About lines crossed and rules broken, and everything this could cost you both. Your spot on the team, his job, all of it. But wrapped in his sheets, his heart beating steady against your cheek, all you can think is one simple thing.
I don’t want to go anywhere.
And for tonight, you don’t. For tonight, you stay.
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