My Forbidden Coach

Kira Vance (POV)

At six in the morning, I walked into the Vance family's private training facility right on time.

The sky wasn't fully light yet. The air conditioning mixed with the smell of rubber courts and freshly opened tennis balls hit me in the face. The mechanical sound of the ball machine echoed through the empty space, like a beat that would never stop.

I put my tennis bag in the corner, but my fingers unconsciously touched the phone in my coat pocket. A bank automatic payment notification had just popped up: Final payment successful, current account balance: $427.

I stared at those numbers, my breathing stopped for a moment.

Just a little bit left.

Just a little bit more, and I could completely pay off the debt I owed the Vance family.

This money, starting from five years ago.

Back then, I didn't have the surname "Vance" yet.

I was a child found at the orphanage gate, no birth certificate, no family, no one knew where I came from.

The director said that when they found me, I was wrapped in a faded blanket, with only a silver pendant so worn you couldn't make out the pattern.

That was the only clue to my origins.

But after all these years, we still hadn't found an answer.

There were many children in the orphanage, only Director Eileen truly treated me like a "person."

She remembered my birthday.

Even though it was just a date she randomly chose for me; she would secretly give me her thick sweater in winter; she would also stand firmly in front of me when I was bullied by other kids.

Later, she was the one who handed me an old racket.

"Go try it, little Kira," she said with a smile. "Maybe you'll run farther than everyone else."

I really did run far.

When I was twelve, people from the Vance family showed up at the orphanage.

They saw my talent.

Or rather, they saw that I was obedient enough, easy enough to control.

They proposed adopting me, sending me to the best training center, giving me the best equipment and coaches. There was only one condition: from now on, I would be Ethan Vance's exclusive practice partner.

I had to practice with him, grow with him, help him win.

Later, Director Eileen got sick—it was cancer.

The expensive surgery and treatment costs came down like a mountain. It was the Vance family who paid for all the expenses. Everyone said they were merciful. Only I knew that wasn't mercy, it was a heavier chain.

Director Eileen passed away three months ago.

On her deathbed, she held my hand and smiled weakly: "Don't always think about paying debts... you should live for yourself once."

But I couldn't do it, because the debt wasn't paid off yet.

And the Vance family would never let me forget that.

I stuffed my phone back in my pocket and looked up.

Ethan was already warming up.

He stood behind the baseline, his black training T-shirt slightly soaked with sweat, his shoulder and back lines clean and sharp under the lights. Morning light fell through the glass dome, outlining the clear contours of his profile.

The physical trainer was half-squatting on the side of the court securing his wristband, the head coach was looking down at the training plan, and the data analyst was adjusting the speed measurement system.

Everyone's eyes were focused on him.

And Ethan just adjusted his strings with his head down, his expression relaxed, as if he was long used to being everyone's center of attention.

He had always been dazzling.

Not just because of his results.

Light brown hair pressed down by a few strands of sweat, deep brow bone, high nose bridge—when he looked up at people, there was always a natural sense of focus. Even just standing there warming up, he looked like someone who walked out of a sports magazine cover.

The media liked him, sponsors liked him, even coaches favored this type of "standard answer" player.

Gentle, polite, stable.

Only I knew that when he was irritated, he would habitually clench his back teeth; after consecutive mistakes, the tiger's mouth holding the racket would unconsciously tighten; when under pressure, he would stay in the training facility alone until dawn.

No one knew these details better than me.

Because we grew up together.

To be precise, I grew up accompanying him.

"Kira." A low voice pulled me back from my thoughts.

Ethan stood in front of the net, handing me a bottle of warm water. "You didn't sleep again last night?"

I was startled. "No."

"When you lie, you touch your left earlobe first."

I unconsciously raised my hand, but the motion froze.

Ethan sighed softly. "Did you go work a side job again?"

I didn't answer.

He looked at me, his eyes darkening. "You know perfectly well..."

"Ethan." A cold female voice interrupted him.

Inside the glass viewing area, Mrs. Vance had arrived at some point.

She wore a crisply tailored white suit, holding coffee in her hand. Her gaze fell through the glass like she was examining a tool.

"Today's training is very important. Don't get distracted."

Ethan's spine instantly straightened. "Yes, Mother."

Then her gaze fell on me.

Just one second, but it made me instinctively hold my breath.

"Kira." When she called my name, she always deliberately paused. "You know what you need to do today."

Not a question, a command.

"Yes."

She nodded with satisfaction and turned to leave.

Only after her figure completely disappeared did I breathe again.

This feeling, I was too familiar with it. The Vance family never needed my feelings, they only needed my obedience—they didn't even need to threaten.

They just occasionally reminded me: "Who paid that medical bill back then?"

And I would bow my head again.

"Today we're mainly simulating Alvarez." The head coach looked up at me. "His topspin and backhand variation frequency are much higher than last month, pay special attention to the baseline rhythm."

Alvarez, Ethan's opponent in the next match.

"Understood."

I took the tablet and glanced at it. Actually, I didn't need to look—I already remembered most of it.

Last night I rewatched all of Alvarez's recent match recordings. When he liked to grab the rhythm, which side he would favor positioning after stamina declined, his handling habits after backhand errors...

I could almost recite it all.

This kind of thing, I'd been doing for many years.

When I stood in the center of the court, the overhead lights fell straight down.

The ball machine started feeding balls.

The first ball landed in my backhand area. I quickly retreated half a step, lowered the racket face, deliberately pulling a high arc topspin. The second shot I increased the speed, the third shot I suddenly changed lines and pressed the corner.

I felt my condition getting better and better.

My footwork became lighter, my breathing gradually steadied, only that rapidly spinning yellow tennis ball remained in my vision.

"Kira, what are you doing!" The coach's voice suddenly crashed down.

I snapped back to attention.

"The rhythm isn't similar enough!" He frowned tightly. "You have to be faster!"

"Sorry, I'll adjust right away."

The entire training facility was filled with dense hitting sounds again.

As the rallies kept getting longer, my breathing gradually became chaotic.

Alvarez's playing style was completely different from mine. He was used to more exaggerated topspin, more forward contact points, and more aggressive footwork rhythm. I had to forcibly change my own power generation method, even deliberately adjusting the racket grip angle.

This kind of imitation, I was good at.

But it was never easy.

Many times, I even had the illusion I was playing with someone else's body.

"Faster!"

"Don't hesitate on the backhand down the line!"

"His center of gravity is lower!"

The coach's voice kept coming from the sideline.

I gritted my teeth and continued to move my movements closer to Alvarez's style. My calves started to ache, and my wrist was faintly numb from continuous heavy topspin.

And Ethan on the other side was obviously unstable today.

His contact point kept rushing, but his rhythm was terribly chaotic. Several balls that he could have steadily controlled were hit early, with an error rate so high even the coach frowned.

"Concentrate, Ethan!"

"Don't rush to end the rally!"

The atmosphere on the sideline became increasingly tense.

When the next ball came, I had just completed a wide-angle defensive shot and my body's center of gravity hadn't fully adjusted back when Ethan suddenly rushed a forehand early.

That ball was so fast I almost didn't have time to react.

Bang—

The yellow tennis ball slammed hard into my left wrist.

Intense blunt pain exploded instantly. The racket almost flew out of my hand. I groaned, my entire arm went numb. It hurt so much my vision went white, even my breathing stopped for a second.

The training facility went quiet for a moment.

"Kira?" The coach looked over. "You okay?"

I looked down and pressed my wrist. It was already rapidly turning red, burning hot with pain.

It really hurt.

Hurt so much my fingertips were trembling.

But everyone was waiting for training to continue. The speed measurement system was still on, the data analyst was still staring at the screen, and today's training plan was only half complete.

And this training session was very important for Ethan.

I pressed my lips tight and forcibly pushed the surging emotions back down.

"...I'm fine."

After the coach confirmed I could still grip the racket, he quickly nodded. "Then continue."

So everyone's attention returned to Ethan. As if that moment just now was just another ordinary minor incident in training.

I looked down and moved my wrist. The pain kept shooting up the bone in waves, even gripping the racket was getting tight. In that instant, grievance suddenly surged up without warning.

Not because I got hit by the ball.

But because—

No one really cared.

What they needed was just "Kira who can continue training." As for whether I hurt, whether I was tired—that seemed to have never mattered. I didn't even have the right to stop.

I lowered my eyes and pushed the emotions back down again.

Can't affect the training.

Ethan was already irritated enough.

After we started rallying again, Ethan obviously restrained himself more, but his condition was still poor. After several consecutive errors, he cursed lowly, even his swing motion started to deform.

After another rally ended, he finally walked to the net. "Let me see."

I was startled. "What?"

"Your wrist." He frowned, his voice a bit low.

"Really, I'm—"

Before I finished speaking, he had already reached out and grasped my left wrist.

The instant his palm's warmth pressed against me, my breathing lightly caught.

Ethan looked down at that obviously reddened skin, his brows furrowing tighter and tighter. "It's already swollen."

When he spoke, he was very close to me—close enough that I could even smell the faint woody scent mixed with sweat on him.

Since childhood, there actually hadn't been much sense of distance between us. Training together as kids, growing up together, being so tired we'd just fall asleep on the lounge sofa—these were all common occurrences.

But I didn't know when it started—some touches had become different from childhood.

I wanted to pull my hand back.

But Ethan didn't let go. "I told you not to tough it out."

His thumb unconsciously brushed across the inside of my wrist bone, very lightly.

My entire arm instantly stiffened.

The air suddenly became too quiet.

He lowered his voice. "If you don't want to play, I'll go tell them."

I froze.

In that instant, I actually kind of wanted to nod. But the next second, I looked up and saw Mrs. Vance outside the court.

She was looking at us coldly.

My heart sank, and I immediately shook my head. "No."

Ethan also looked in the direction of my gaze.

His jawline instantly tensed. I knew—he understood.

He had always understood.

Understood why I couldn't refuse. Also understood that he himself couldn't either.

He could take care of me, protect me, leave medicine for me where others couldn't see, take the coach's blame for me.

But he couldn't defy the Vance family, because he was also part of the Vance family.

The coach on the sideline shouted at this moment: "Ethan, continue!"

His motion stopped for an instant, as if finally coming back to his senses. He immediately let go of me. His Adam's apple rolled very lightly. "...Go ice it later."

"Okay."

He looked at me, as if he wanted to say something else, but in the end he retreated back to the baseline, because he was also powerless.

I gripped the racket tightly again.

The pain was still clear.

Every swing made my wrist faintly numb.

But I still continued to move, change lines, and imitate according to Alvarez's habits.

Because I knew.

Ethan needed this training session.

This year his ranking points were at the most critical stage. The next tournament would almost determine whether he could truly break into the ranks of top players.

Media, sponsorships, points, public opinion—

All the pressure was on him, and I was the person who shared the pressure for him.

So it was okay.

I told myself over and over, it was just getting hit by a ball, just hurting a little.

At least, I could still help Ethan.