WET-INTRUTION: 30 steamy stories

The Lion's Den

"I'm telling you, it's a chick, A twenty-seven-year-old chick," Andrew's loud, mocking voice carries straight through the wooden doors of the Sterling Academy locker room. I froze, my hand hovering right over the brass handle.

"You're lying," another voice laughs, followed by the sound of a football bouncing against the floorboards inside. "The board wouldn't do that to us,we're a championship team, not a charity case."

"Go check the staff board if you don't believe me, mate," Andrew scoffs. "She looks like she belongs in a high school classroom, not running a locker room full of grown men,guess what? I give her a week before she runs out of here crying."

My heart does a violent flip against my ribs.

Twenty-seven, I repeat in my head, my fingers trembling slightly as they grip the cold metal. I am only twenty-seven years old, and these guys are massive. How am I supposed to command respect from multi-million dollar athletes who look like actual giants?

I closed my eyes, drew in a long, shaky breath, and pushed the double doors open.

The wood swanged back with a dull creak,as the entire room went dead silent.

Fifty eyes locked onto me, the air was thick with the sharp scent of deep-heat rub, fresh leather, and sweat, pressing hard against my chest. 

I took a step forward, my black boots clicking sharply against the white tiles, feeling incredibly small in my fitted blazer and slacks. Every single player sitting on the bench possessed broad, muscular shoulders and a towering height that made me feel like a child walking into a lion's den.

"Well, well," Andrew says, leaning back against his locker with his massive arms crossed. "Speak of the devil. The new coach is finally here."

"Is she going to give us pre-match massages?" someone mutters from the back, prompting a wave of low snickers.

My cheeks burn, but I keep my chin high. Don't look weak, I tell myself, clenching my hands into fists. If they see you flinch, you'll never get them to listen.

"Good morning, gentlemen. I am Coach Victoria Vaden," I say, my voice sounding steady as it cuts through the silence. I let my eyes scan the benches, but then my gaze lands on the far corner.

Jax, I knew their names from the book that was given to me,it contained all their details and pictures.

He sat on the bench, with a towel that slunged over his broad, tanned shoulders, his wet black messy hair. He was the most handsome, charming guy I have ever laid my eyes on, as our eyes met, he slowly arched one dark eyebrow and delivered a lazy, deliberate wink.

My brain went blank. A sudden, thick warmth pools in my lower belly. Oh, god. Get a grip, Victoria, remember he is your player and you cannot look at him like that.

"I know some of you think this is a joke," I say, forcing my eyes away and stepping to the center of the room. "And I know what you've been whispering. But Sterling Academy is currently sitting at the bottom of the table. If we don't win our next match, we are getting relegated."

Andrew lets out a loud, mocking sigh. "With all due respect, Victoria—"

"Coach!," I interrupted sharply. "You will address me as Coach, Andrew."

Andrew’s jaw tightens. He stood up, making his massive 6'3" frame towering over me that his shadow swallowed me. 

"No offense, Coach, but you look like you’d snap in half if one of us accidentally ran into you on the sideline. How are you going to teach us how to play?”

"I don't need to tackle you to show you how to win, Andrew," I said, refusing to take a single step back. "I have a UEFA Pro Licence,and my height doesn't dictate my brain, and in this locker room, my word is the only one that matters."

A suffocating silence falls. They were all staring, trying to see if my hands were shaking.

"Ten minutes on the training pitch," I say, turning to the whiteboard. "If anyone is even a second late, you’ll be running fitness laps until you throw up. Move."

Marcus, the veteran captain, slowly sto

od up and nodded. "You heard her. Let's go."