OnlyFans Is For Lovers Pt 2

I came hard–hot, fast, messy–chest heaving like I’d surfaced from deep underwater. Thick white globs spewed and landed on my stomach, gunking into the hair on my navel.
Part 1

The first week was hell.
My knees ached. My back cracked every time I rolled out of bed. I was slower off the board than I remembered–rusty, stiff, heavy. But the movement was still in there. Under the scar tissue. Waiting.
By week three, I’d found my rhythm. Not perfect. Not yet. But sharp enough to draw blood.
I re-learned how to listen to my body. How to push it just to the edge, then pull back. Recovery became sacred: ice baths, foam rollers, and regular sessions with Lenny, my longtime physio, who still popped his gum and called me “granddad” every time my hamstrings locked up.
Evenings, I ate like a man possessed–clean, disciplined, boring as sin. I started sleeping again. Properly, deeply, the kind of sleep that kicked my anabolic response into overdrive.
This was a real comeback. One last shot at the stage. The platform. The roar.
Paris.
I didn’t know if the BOA would even consider me. I didn’t know if I’d hold up another six months without breaking. But I was training again. Properly. Obsessively. And for the first time in a long while…
I felt like an athlete again.

Of course, the training didn’t come without a cost.
Our photo sessions, when I could make them, shifted to late nights. Some days I’d show up with my shoulders taped and my eyes still bloodshot from chlorine. Bone tired. Legs trembling with the kind of lactic burn you can only get from platform drills and Bulgarian split squats.
And then I’d have to try to smoulder.
“Can you lean a bit more to the right?” Cameron would say, adjusting the angle.
I’d grunt. “If I lean any more, my spine’s...