Chapter 10: Training Session Interruptions
The morning light that seeped through the floor-to-ceiling windows wasn't gentle. It was a sharp, Milanese blade, cutting across the rumpled landscape of black silk sheets and exposing the dust motes dancing over Shouta's sleeping form. He was face-down, one arm thrown over his head, the other tucked beneath a pillow. The intricate tattoos that mapped his back—a snarling tiger, a pair of draped championship belts, Japanese script that meant ‘endurance’—rose and fell with his deep, even breaths.
The door clicked open with a whisper.
Izuku padded in on bare feet, his hair a spectacular platinum tangle around his shoulders. He wore one of Shouta’s old tank tops, the fabric so oversized it slipped off one shoulder, draping down to his mid-thigh. He clutched his phone in one hand, his other hand pressed to his mouth, stifling giggles that made his shoulders shake.
With the practiced stealth of a cat burglar who’d never had to actually work for anything, he climbed onto the massive bed. The silk hissed under his knees. He carefully straddled Shouta’s hips, settling his weight on the champion’s lower back. Shouta didn’t stir, just exhaled a deeper, rougher breath.
Izuku leaned forward, his small hands pressing flat on the warm, ink-stained skin between Shouta’s shoulder blades. He gave a little bounce.
“Daddy,” he singsonged, his voice still husky with sleep. “Daddy, wake up!”
A grunt. A shift. Shouta’s hand slid out from under the pillow, making a vague, dismissive wave.
Izuku bounced again, harder. “Come on, lazy. Guess what that new medic just sent you!”
That got a reaction. Shouta’s head turned, his cheek pressing into the pillow. One dark eye, bleary and unfocused, cracked open. “The hell…?”
“Look!” Izuku exclaimed, unable to contain his glee. He stopped bouncing and instead slapped his phone down on the bed right in front of Shouta’s face. The screen was blindingly bright. “She sent it, like, an hour ago. I just saw it!”
Shouta groaned, a low, rusty sound. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, dislodging Izuku, who squealed and slid to the side, still holding the phone aloft. Shouta ran a hand over his face, scrubbing at the stubble on his jaw. He squinted at the glowing screen.
“Jesus.”
The picture was professionally lit, all soft focus and golden hour glow. It was of Clara, the new Danish sports physiotherapist who’d joined his camp two weeks prior. She was in what appeared to be a hotel room, sitting on the edge of a bed. She wasn’t wearing a shirt. Her breasts were large, pale, and perfectly round, tipped with pink. One hand was lifted, toying with the ends of her blonde hair. Her lips were parted in a smile that was all invitation. The text below it read: Thinking these might help with your recovery. Missed you at the hotel bar last night. xo
Shouta stared at it for a long three seconds. Then he let out a short, amused puff of air through his nose. He reached out, plucked the phone from Izuku’s grasp, and dropped it face-down on the sheets. “She’s eager.”
“They’re so fake!” Izuku crowed, rolling onto his back beside his father. He kicked his legs in the air. “I mean, come on. You can see the scars underneath! They’re like two overstuffed melons. Tacky.”
Shouta looked down at him, one eyebrow arched. He was fully awake now, the last remnants of sleep burned away by the absurdity. “You’re an expert on breast implants now?”
“I have eyes. And taste.” Izuku turned his head, his dark blue eyes wide and guileless. “Did you sleep with her yet?”
“No. I was ‘recovering’ from a six-hour sparring session, remember? Which is why she was hired.” Shouta flopped onto his back, one arm curling behind his head. The morning light carved the hard planes of his chest and stomach. “She’s trying to fast-track the process.”
“Are you gonna?” Izuku asked, picking at a loose thread on the tank top.
“Probably. She’s competent. And persistent.” He turned his head to look at his son. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
Izuku snorted. It was an inelegant, thoroughly crude sound. “Of those bolt-ons? Please. I’m just saying, for a medical professional, she’s got a shitty bedside manner. Sending nudes before breakfast is… desperate.”
Shouta laughed then, a real, full-bodied sound that rumbled through the bed. He reached over and ruffled Izuku’s already chaotic hair. “You’re a vicious little thing before your morning cocoa.”
“I’m honest.” Izuku pushed himself up, crawling over to settle against Shouta’s side, his head finding its familiar spot on his father’s shoulder. He traced a finger over the script tattoo on Shouta’s pec. “You could do better. You always do better.”
“The fight’s in three weeks, baby. I’m not looking for a wife. I’m looking for stress relief that doesn’t punch back.” He wrapped his arm around Izuku, his hand resting on the boy’s hip. “Speaking of relief, you get Tyler his tickets?”
“Mmmhmm. I texted your promoter’s assistant yesterday. She said they’ll be at will-call. Fifth row, center. Tyler almost cried when I told him.” Izuku smiled, smug. “He’s gonna get me the Valentino sneakers.”
“Of course he is.” Shouta’s fingers absently rubbed small circles on the thin cotton covering Izuku’s hipbone. “You like having him wrapped around your finger, don’t you?”
“He’s easy. He’s sweet. And he looks really good in his practice shorts.” Izuku’s voice was a drowsy murmur. “He kissed my cheek yesterday. At school.”
Shouta’s hand stilled for a moment. Then resumed its motion. “Did he now.”
“Just a friend kiss. But his lips are, like, weirdly soft for a guy who headbutts people for fun.” Izuku yawned, stretching like a cat. The movement made the tank top ride up, exposing a sliver of his flat stomach. “He’s coming over again tomorrow to ‘study’. Which means he’ll watch anime and I’ll try on different outfits and ask him which one makes my ass look best.”
“You’re a menace to that boy’s GPA.” Shouta’s tone was dry, but there was an undercurrent of something else—amusement, pride, a faint, unplaceable tension. “Just don’t break him. He’s a decent kid. And his dad buys a shitload of pay-per-views.”
“I’m not gonna break him. I’m just… curating him.” Izuku tilted his head back to look up at Shouta’s profile. “You’re not mad, are you?”
“About what? You exploiting a teenage boy’s crush for designer footwear? It’s a classic hustle. I’m impressed.” Shouta looked down, his dark eyes meeting Izuku’s. The early sun caught in them, turning the usual obsidian into a warmer, softer brown. “Just remember, baby, you’re the prize. Not the other way around. Don’t get so focused on the game you forget that.”
Izuku blinked, processing. The metaphor was simple, but it landed. He nodded slowly. “I’m the prize.”
“Damn right you are.” Shouta’s hand moved from his hip, coming up to cup Izuku’s chin. His thumb brushed over the apple of his cheek. “Look at you. You’re fucking beautiful. You could have anyone you want blinking those big eyes at them. Tyler’s lucky you let him carry your books.”
A warm, syrupy feeling spread through Izuku’s chest. It was better than the smugness, better than the thrill of a successful manipulation. This was the bedrock. This was his daddy’s voice, sure and certain, telling him the world was his to command. He nuzzled into the touch.
“You’re just saying that.”
“I’m never ‘just saying’ anything. I know beautiful. It’s part of the job.” He released Izuku’s chin and gave his shoulder a gentle push. “Now get off me. I need to piss, and then I need coffee that could dissolve a spoon.”
Izuku rolled away, flopping dramatically onto his back again as Shouta swung his legs out of bed. He watched his father stand, all six-foot-three of scarred, muscled symmetry silhouetted against the window. The old sweatpants hung low on his hips. Even like this, sleep-rumpled and grumpy, he moved with a latent, predatory grace. Izuku felt a familiar, possessive pride swell in him, mixed with something simpler: just liking to look.
“You training today?” Izuku asked, sitting up.
“Light run. Film session with my coach at noon. Then a massage.” Shouta glanced back over his shoulder, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. “Might see if the eager medic is available. Test her… therapeutic techniques.”
“Ew, Daddy.” Izuku made a gagging sound, but he was smiling.
“Don’t ‘ew’ me. You brought me the pictures.” Shouta disappeared into the master bathroom. A moment later, the sound of the shower roared to life.
Izuku lay there for a while, listening to the water and the distant hum of the city seventeen floors below. He picked up his phone again, swiping back to the picture Clara had sent. He zoomed in, critically examining the line of her jaw, the gloss on her lips. She was pretty, in a bland, Instagram-model way. But her eyes were trying too hard. He deleted the photo from Shouta’s message thread, then blocked her number. He did it without malice, without even really thinking about it. It was just tidying up. Removing a substandard product from the shelf.
By the time Shouta emerged from the bathroom, steam billowing out behind him, a towel slung low around his waist, Izuku was in the kitchen. He was perched on a stool at the massive island, one of the cats—the sleek black one named Sushi—wound around his ankles. He’d already prepared the espresso machine, a hulking, chromed beast that cost more than most people’s cars. Two tiny porcelain cups sat waiting.
Shouta walked past him, dripping water on the concrete floor, and went straight for the industrial-sized refrigerator. He emerged with a carton of egg whites, a tub of Greek yogurt, and a bag of frozen blueberries. His breakfast routine was as ritualized as a sacrament.
“You want a proper breakfast?” he asked, his voice still rough from the steam. “Or are you just going to subsist on cocoa puffs and aesthetic?”
“Cocoa puffs have a proven aesthetic,” Izuku said, but he slid off the stool. “I’ll make eggs. The kind with yolks. Like a heathen.”
He busied himself with a pan while Shouta dumped his protein concoction into a blender. The two noises—the sizzle of butter, the violent roar