Coach Knows Best (Patreon)

[bodyswap: 65 year old to 22 year old]

Trevor Johnson's cleats dug into the turf as he settled into his stance, ready to launch himself at the opposing team's offensive line. The roar of the crowd at Crestwood Stadium was deafening, a sea of cheering fans that faded into the background as he focused on the play. At 6'5" and 315 pounds of hardened beef, Trevor was a force to be reckoned with, a defensive lineman who terrified his opponents.

But that day, he couldn’t focus on the field. He glanced toward the sideline, where Coach Barrett stood watching, his sharp eyes never missing a detail. The old man, now 65, had once been a solidly built player himself, but the years had taken their toll. His once-sturdy frame had given way to a paunch, and his movements were slower, more deliberate. Yet, Coach Barrett still carried an air of authority, a presence that commanded respect and obedience.

"Johnson! Eyes on the game!" Coach Barrett's voice cut through the noise, and Trevor snapped his attention back to the play, determination etched on his face. He had to get this right. No mistakes. Not today. He knew the consequences.

The quarterback snapped the ball, and Trevor exploded off the line, his powerful legs driving him forward. He barreled through the offensive line, zeroing in on his target. But just as he was about to bring the quarterback down, he slipped, his footing momentarily lost. The quarterback dodged, releasing a pass downfield.

A chorus of groans erupted from the stands. Trevor's heart sank. He knew what was coming.

"Johnson! Get over here!" Coach Barrett's voice was like a whip crack, and Trevor trudged to the sideline, his head hanging low. The coach’s eyes were blazing, his jaw set in a hard line. "You call that tackling? I should have done it myself."

Trevor clenched his fists. He hated this part. "Coach, I—"

"Save it," Barrett snapped, a strange glint in his eyes. He grabbed Trevor's arm, and Trevor felt the familiar, nauseating sensation of his consciousness being pulled away.

When the world settled, Trevor found himself looking up at... himself. He was now in Barrett's body, feeling the old man's aches and pains. He hated how weak he felt, how slow his reactions were. His knees throbbed. He had to pee. And he hated even more the sight of Coach Barrett now inhabiting his powerful, muscular frame, flexing Trevor’s biceps with a satisfied grin.

"This is how it's done, Johnson," Barrett said, Trevor's deep voice coming from the coach’s lips.

Trevor watched helplessly from the sidelines as Coach Barrett, now in his body, re-entered the game. Barrett played with a kind of aggressive joy, using Trevor’s strength and agility to dominate the field. He made tackles with precision, his movements a stark contrast to Trevor's earlier slip.

Meanwhile, Trevor tried to perform as “coach” as best he could. He struggled to hold up appearances that he was Barrett (knowing that failure to do so carried GREAT penalties), despite only wanting to watch his own body on the field claiming glory that should have been his.

As the game wore on, Trevor felt a growing frustration. He knew he was good—one of the best, even—but every game, Barrett always seemed to find an excuse to take over. And it wasn’t just during the games anymore. Recently, Barrett had begun extending his time in Trevor’s body, sometimes staying swapped long after the final whistle, through the weekend, leaving Trevor trapped in his aging shell.

Trevor shuffled to the end of the bench, trying to ignore the throb in his lower back. He knew better than to complain. Barrett was the coach–and therefore he was always right.

The game ended with a win, thanks to Barrett's play, and the team erupted in cheers. Barrett, still in Trevor’s body, reveled in the praise, flexing and basking in the glory. Trevor watched from the sidelines, a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted to scream, to demand his body back, but he couldn’t find the words.

After the game, Barrett clapped Trevor's shoulder with a patronizing smile. "Not bad, kid. You might learn something if you keep watching."

Trevor nodded, swallowing his frustration. "Yes, Coach."

As the team headed to the locker room, Trevor lingered, hoping for the familiar sensation that meant he was getting his body back. But Barrett just laughed. "Think I'll hang onto this for the weekend. Got some plans."

Trevor's heart sank. Another weekend lost. Another few days trapped in a frail body that wasn’t his. He watched Barrett walk away, his powerful strides carrying Trevor’s body with ease.

Alone in the locker room after the team left to celebrate, Trevor sat on the bench, feeling every one of Barrett’s 65 years. He didn’t know how to stop this. Barrett was so sure of himself, so convinced he could do better. And maybe he could. But it was Trevor’s body, his life. Trevor closed his eyes, wishing for a way to reclaim what was his.

The weekend crawled by for Trevor, each moment a reminder of the stark differences between his usual powerful body and Coach Barrett’s paunchy, infirm form. Barrett wasted no time immersing himself in Trevor’s life, taking full advantage of the physical prowess he temporarily possessed.

On Saturday morning, Trevor watched helplessly from the sidelines as Barrett hit the gym in Trevor’s body. The coach grinned, flexing Trevor’s muscles in the mirror, basking in the admiring glances and envious stares from other gym-goers.

"Hey Trevor, looking strong as ever!" the tight end, Mark, called out.

Barrett, now in Trevor’s body, smirked. "You know it, Mark. Just getting started."

Trevor cringed internally. He knew what was coming next. Barrett loaded up the squat rack with more weight than Trevor usually attempted in a regular session. As the coach, in Trevor’s body, squatted down and then pushed back up with ease, people around the gym started to gather, watching in awe.

"Man, I didn’t know you could lift that much, Trevor!" Mark exclaimed.

Barrett chuckled, wiping fake sweat from his brow. "Just pushing my limits. Gotta stay on top."

Meanwhile, Trevor struggled with the limitations of Barrett’s old body. Every step was an effort, his joints aching with each movement. He tried to keep up a brave face, but the stark contrast between his former strength and his current state was humiliating.

Worse than anything was the joy the coach seemed to take in Trevor’s body, as if he were rubbing in just how good he was at being Trevor–maybe better than Trevor himself? Something about the coach’s performances seemed show-offy in a way that targeted Trevor directly.

Trevor expected Coach to swap back before Mark’s birthday party later that evening. He was shocked when he mentioned it and the coach, peeling off his sweat-soaked t-shirt and bouncing his pecs, said, “Nah, I think I need a little more time. But I tell you what: I’ll make sure you can make it to your little party anyway.”

“You think Coach can come along?” Trevor had heard the coach, in his deep voice, ask into his phone earlier in the day. The coach winked as he added, “The old guy gets really lonely. Give him something to do.” When he hung up the phone, he gave Trevor a hard slap on his shoulder. “You can come, but try not to be too weird. Remember, these guys aren’t your friends right now. They’re MY friends, and you’re their coach. Don’t embarrass me.”

Trevor tried his best to bear the polite smiles of his friends at the party, all surprised that Coach Barrett would even want to attend. Trevor had hoped to catch up with friends, maybe even talk to his crush, Lisa. But instead, he found himself watching from the corner, feeling invisible in Barrett’s body.

Lisa approached the big hulking defensive lineman, unaware of who was truly staring out from those dark eyes. "Hey, Trevor! I was hoping you'd be here."

Barrett, seeming completely at home as a 22-year old elite athlete, grinned. "You know me! Play hard on the field, play hard off it."

Trevor’s heart sank. He watched as Barrett, in his body, charmed everyone around, effortlessly mingling and even dancing with Lisa. Every compliment, every laugh at a joke that wasn't his, felt like a dagger. Trevor’s friends treated him differently, hardly acknowledging him in Barrett’s body. He felt the sting of their indifference.

Trevor couldn’t bear to see how well Barrett was getting on with Lisa. He’d been dying to hang out with her, and now he knew she really liked him. He left the party before things went too far. Better not to know, he thought, although he couldn’t sleep that night. Every trip to the bathroom to empty his weak bladder, he wondered how the Coach and Lisa were getting on.

By Sunday, Trevor was desperate to get his body back. They met in Barrett’s office. Barrett was thirty minutes late, of course–thirty tense minutes, during which Trevor wondered if the Coach had changed his mind–but he finally arrived without mentioning his tardiness. With a casual wave, he motioned Trevor over. "Alright, Johnson, time to swap."

The nauseating sensation hit, and Trevor found himself back in his own body, the familiar strength and power returning. He flexed his fingers, relishing the sensation, and patted his muscles as if he had to check to make sure each was where he had left it, but the weekend’s humiliation still lingered.

Barrett clapped Trevor’s shoulder. "See, kid? A weekend well spent. Stick with me and I think you’ll learn a lot about being the best Trevor you can be."

Trevor nodded, swallowing his frustration. "Yes, Coach."