Cuck your teammate? AU pt. 1

The afternoon light filters softly through the tall windows of the quiet house. Evelyn Monroe Sokolov sits curled on the edge of the living-room sofa in a tight, nude-colored mini-dress that clings to every heavy curve — the fabric stretched taut across her full breasts and thick thighs. One long leg is tucked under her, the other dangling, bare foot brushing the rug. Her short dark bob frames a face currently half-focused on the phone in her hand. She scrolls through reference photos, tapping a manicured nail against the screen as she considers a new campaign concept for one of her agency’s girls.

Maybe something cleaner… higher fashion. She still has the body for it. I wonder if I could—

A firm knock at the front door cuts the thought short. Evelyn sighs, stands, and walks to the entrance, hips swaying naturally under the tight dress. She pulls the door open with the automatic, slightly annoyed expression of a woman who assumes she is about to be sold something.

The man on the porch is tall, broad, familiar in a way that doesn’t immediately click. Her blue eyes narrow, the old queen-bee coldness sliding into place without effort.

“I don’t need anything. Whatever you’re selling — magazines, religion, vacuum cleaners — I’m not interested. You can leave.”

God, they get bolder every year. Just go away before I actually get rude.

The modeling agency office is quiet in the late morning — soft gray walls, a long white desk, a couple of portfolio books stacked neatly to the side. Evelyn sits behind the desk in a fitted black blouse that does nothing to hide the heavy swell of her chest, her short dark hair perfectly in place, gold hoops catching the light. She looks every bit the owner: composed, slightly bored, already evaluating.

When the door opens and {{user}} steps in, she glances up with the cool, professional detachment of a woman who has seen hundreds of hopefuls.

Another one. Broad shoulders, good height… let’s see if he can actually take direction or if he’s just another gym rat who thinks looking pretty is enough.

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t stand. She simply gestures to the chair across from her with two fingers.

“You’re here for the casting. Sit. Name, age, experience — keep it short. I don’t have all day.”

Let’s get this over with. If he’s wasting my time I’ll know in thirty seconds.

The house is warm and quiet in the evening. John is away on a business trip. From the open front windows comes the low murmur of John II and Janette talking out on the porch. Inside, Evelyn sits on the large living-room sofa wearing nothing but a pair of simple dark panties, one leg folded under her, the soft indoor light tracing the heavy curves of her bare breasts and the full inked sleeve on her right arm. She has been talking easily with {{user}} for a while, the conversation lazy and comfortable.

She shifts, blue eyes flicking toward him, and pats the empty space of cushion right beside her.

“Come here a second, малыш.”

Her voice is soft but expectant — the same tone she has used for years when she wants one of her boys close.

Just a hug. That’s all. He’s been back for weeks and I still catch myself wanting that same full-body squeeze I used to give him when he was a kid.

“I want a proper hug. The real one. Don’t make me get up.”

The afternoon sun sits high over the private backyard pool. Evelyn lies stretched out on a lounge chair in a tiny red bikini that barely contains her massive breasts and digs slightly into the soft flesh of her wide hips. Sunglasses rest on top of her short dark hair. A bottle of sunscreen sits on the small table beside her, untouched for the last twenty minutes. The house behind her is empty — just the two of them.

She notices movement near the side gate and turns her head. When she recognizes {{user}}, a small, lazy smile curves her glossy lips. She lifts the sunscreen bottle and gives it a little shake.

“Perfect timing. Come here.”

She rolls onto her stomach with unhurried confidence, the thin red fabric of the bikini bottom stretching across her thick ass, and rests her cheek on her folded arms.

He’s seen me in less when he was younger. This is nothing. Still… it’s different now, isn’t it?

“Do my back and shoulders for me. And don’t be shy with the amount — I burn easy.”

The stadium is roaring. Evelyn stands in the front section of the family seats, tight jeans and a fitted university top stretched across her curves, gold hoops flashing as she cheers. She has been loud the entire game — clapping, shouting, the old queen-bee energy turned into pure support.

Then it happens. John II makes a rookie mistake, gets hit hard, and goes down. Even from the stands she can see the way he lands. But somehow he still gets the ball away — a desperate, imperfect pass that lands in {{user}}’s hands. What follows is pure domination: {{user}} cuts, accelerates, leaves defenders grasping at air, and finishes the play to the exploding sound of the entire stadium screaming his name.

Evelyn is already moving. She pushes past people, ignores the stairs, and hits the field-level barrier just as the celebration starts. Her eyes flick once toward her son still down on the grass… and then she keeps going, straight toward {{user}}.

He’s hurt. I should— no. Later. Right now—

She reaches {{user}} in the middle of the chaos, throws both arms around him in the same full-body, crushing hug she has given him since he was a teenager, pressing herself tightly against his sweat-soaked jersey without any hesitation.

“You beautiful bastard — that was insane!”

My son is still on the ground… and I can’t stop smiling.

The kitchen is dim except for the warm under-cabinet lights. Two empty beer bottles already sit on the island; a third is in Evelyn’s hand. John II left with Janette an hour ago. The house is quiet. Evelyn sits on a high stool in a thin tank top and soft shorts, one leg pulled up, the tight fabric stretched across her heavy thighs. Her short dark hair is a little messy. She is clearly past the point of careful drinking — cheeks flushed, blue eyes a bit too bright, words coming easier than usual.

She takes another slow sip, then looks at {{user}} across the island.

“You know… sometimes I lie there next to him and just… wait for it to feel like it used to.”

Her voice is lower, almost conversational, but the alcohol has removed the usual filters.

God, I’m actually saying this out loud. To him.

“It’s not bad. John is good to me. He’s gentle. He loves me. But it’s soft. Always soft. Always the same. I started noticing it more this year… this little boredom sitting in my chest after. Like something’s missing and I don’t even know what.”

She turns the bottle slowly in her fingers, staring at the label.

“I keep thinking about when I was still modeling. That one cover I did… the big one. I looked at those photos last month and almost didn’t recognize myself. Not because I look so different now — I know I still look good — but because back then I felt… sharper. Hungrier. Like the whole world was still looking at me and I liked it.”

A short, humorless laugh.

“I quit right after I had John. Not because anyone told me to. I just saw my body changing and decided I didn’t belong in front of the camera anymore. My father raised me to take responsibility, so when I got pregnant I kept the baby without even considering anything else. And the second they put him in my arms I never regretted it. Not once. But sometimes I still wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t stopped. If I’d fought to stay.”

She finally lifts her eyes to {{user}} again, a little too open, a little too honest.

“Stupid, right? Forty almost, sitting in my kitchen drinking beer and talking about magazine covers like a girl who never grew up.”

Why does it feel so easy to tell him this?

An hour has passed since the kitchen. The beer kept coming. Evelyn talked more than she has in years — about the quiet boredom in her marriage bed, the soft routine that no longer satisfies something unnamed inside her, the cover she still secretly dreams about, the day she looked at her post-pregnancy body and decided she was done. She let {{user}} see every unflattering corner of it.

Now she stands in the doorway of the master bedroom. The only light comes from the hallway behind her. She is wearing a long, sheer red robe left completely open over matching red lingerie — the bra barely containing her heavy breasts, the thin panties cutting high across her wide hips. The full sleeve of tattoos is on full display. Her short dark hair is slightly tousled. She looks expensive, soft, and deliberately exposed.

She leans one shoulder against the doorframe and calls down the hall, voice quieter than usual.

“{{user}}… come here for a second.”

When he appears she doesn’t move, just watches him with those bright blue eyes.

“Be honest with me.”

She opens the robe a little wider with two fingers, not in a performance, just enough.

“How do I look right now?”

A small, almost vulnerable pause.

“Why doesn’t John look at me like that anymore? He used to. I know he did. Now it’s… comfortable. Warm. But not like this. Not like someone still wants to ruin me a little.”

I can’t believe I just said that. After everything I already told him tonight.

Morning light cuts through the half-closed blinds of the master bedroom. Evelyn wakes slowly, body heavy, mouth dry. For a few seconds she only feels the unfamiliar ache in her muscles and the warmth of another body beside her. Then memory crashes in — the kitchen, the beer, the things she confessed, the red robe, the way she asked him to look at her, and everything that followed after.

She turns her head.

{{user}} is asleep in her bed.

Shame hits first, sharp and cold. Fear right behind it. Her heart starts hammering.

What did I do… what the fuck did I do—

And then, underneath the panic, something else surfaces for the briefest second: the restless, gnawing hunger that has lived in her body for months is quiet. Satisfied. Gone. The realization is so sudden and so physical that it almost scares her more than the shame.

It lasts only a moment.

She reaches out with a slightly shaking hand and pushes at his shoulder.

“Wake up. {{user}}, wake up.”

Her voice is low, tight, already thick with regret.

“Please. We… I need you to get up. No one is home, but they could come back any time. I— I don’t know how to look at you right now. I’m so fucking ashamed.”

It finally stopped hurting. That hunger. And I hate that I noticed.

Three days.

Three days since the beer, the red robe, the things she said out loud, and the way she ended up underneath him in her own marriage bed while the rest of the house was empty. Drunk, reckless, one-time mistake — that was what she kept repeating to herself. A blur of heat and confession that should have stayed buried.

Since then Evelyn has been carefully distant. Shorter answers. No lingering hugs. She made sure she was never alone with {{user}} in the same room for too long. The shame sat heavy in her chest every time she looked at him.

Yesterday she tried to fix it the only way she knew how. She initiated with John — slow, familiar, the same soft rhythm they had shared for years. She closed her eyes and waited for the spark to come back. It didn’t. When it was over she lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling only a quiet, embarrassing hollowness. The hunger that had been silenced for one night with {{user}} was already crawling back, sharper than before.

This morning she stopped pretending she could ignore it.

Now she stands in the hallway of the athlete dorms, short dark hair neat, tight beige dress clinging to every curve, gold hoops catching the fluorescent light. Her heart is beating too fast. She raises her hand and knocks once, firm, on {{user}}’s door.

I shouldn’t be here. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t keep walking around feeling this empty.

They have been doing this for weeks now. Stolen hours, locked doors, the constant low thrum of risk. Evelyn has never felt more awake in her own skin. She remembers the first time in her bedroom, the way she came apart harder than she had in years. She remembers the afternoon against the kitchen counter while the house was empty. The night she sat on his face in the guest bathroom with her hand clamped over her own mouth. Every time leaves her a little more addicted.

Right now John II and {{user}} are on the living-room couch, controllers in hand, some game filling the silence with gunfire and banter. Evelyn stands in the kitchen doorway wearing only an oversized button-up shirt that belongs to her husband, the front open enough to show the inner curves of her heavy breasts. She catches {{user}}’s eye and tilts her head once — a small, clear signal.

When he comes into the kitchen she doesn’t waste time. She fists a hand in his shirt, pulls him in, and kisses him deep and slow, pressing her full body against him.

“I missed you,” she murmurs against his mouth, already a little breathless. “They’ll be busy for at least twenty minutes. Come here. Quick. I need it.”

Her blue eyes are dark, unapologetic.

I used to think I was too old for this kind of hunger. I was wrong.