“I’d like three stone-cold stinger shots and aNinkasi Gold Lager.”
While he goes off to make our shots, I sit at the bar, tapping my fingers and looking at the people, hoping to find a woman to bring home for the night. It’s been like a month since I got laid last. I’m so off my game.
But it’s not a woman who catches my eye and accelerates my heart.
It can’t be.
Nooo…
Is that Jared ‘Jett’ Cordier, the middle-distance runner, who excelled at both the 800 and the 1500-meter? He was supposed to compete at the 2024 Summer Olympics in Paris, but he was a no-show for his heat in the 800-meter qualifying round and later in the 1500-meter event. He was supposed to be a contender for the gold. The public never really heard from him again. That didn’t stop the crazy rumors about him, from overdosing on drugs to a secret baby to suicide. Eventually, the news died down when the truth never came out. What are the odds?
I take a closer look, but I’m not entirely sure it’s him since it’s dark in here. He’s sitting alone, nursing a beer in the far corner of the bar, like he’s drinking and hiding.
I stare harder at the growing familiarity, from his umber skin, cropped black hair, and it’s hard to miss his runner’s body.
God, I really think it’s him, but it’s been a few years.
Jett’s a little older than I am and was raised in Cannon Beach. Dennis and I worshiped him when we were growing up. Jett almost became an Olympic hero in our town. Even if hedidn’t make it, he was talented as fuck, and fast as hell. His run time in the Olympic trials was 3:30.57, a hair’s breadth away from Cole Hocker’s time, which was 3:30.59. In the 800-meter, he was more of a wild card, but still the name on everyone’s lips.
Then Jett vanished. Poof. Gone. Cole Hocker went on to win the gold for the men’s 1500-meter at 3:27.65, which was an Olympic record. That could’ve been Jett. No, thatshould’vebeen Jett.
“Do you wanna start a tab?” the bartender asks. I yank my attention away to hand him my credit card. “Yeah, thanks. Put it under Wes.”
“You got it.”
I precariously wrap my fingers around all three shot glasses with my beer glass tucked in my arm and carry them to the table.
“What shot did you get?” Rose asks.
“Stone-cold stingers.It’s gotJägermeister,Goldschläger,andRumple Minze.”
“Sounds like a hangover waiting to happen,” Justin says, lifting the small glass and holding it up to the light. He sniffs at it and winces.
“They’re tasty.Trustme. They may give you a little hangover. Nothing that a lot of water won’t cure.”
I raise my shot glass. “To the start of being grown-ass adults!” I say in a cheer.
My friends raise their glasses, too. We clink them and toss the drinks down.
“Whoo! Strong, baby!” I yell.
Justin clenches his jaw while Rose coughs and places a hand on her chest. “God, one’s enough for me. They’re surprisingly not bad, though.”
I lean forward over the table, beckoning my friends to come closer. “Don’t look now, but is that Jett Cordier? You know, the runner who was supposed to be in the 2024 Paris Olympics?”
“How can I answer that if you don’t let us look?” Justin asks.
“Ugh, you know what I mean, Mr. Serious. Just don’t fucking stare.”
They glance over at the bar, but both shrug, while Justin says, “It’s hard to tell from here. Possibly? I’m not a runner like you, so I don’t know all the athletes.”
Rose finishes off her cocktail. “Yeah, I have no idea. I’m a dancer. I don’t follow track and field at all.”
I take a sip of beer and stand straight. “I’m gonna go talk to him.”
Justin scoffs at me. “Dude, he looks like he wants to be left alone. He’s tucked all the way in the corner.”
I’m determined, though. I have to take a risk. What are the chances of meeting my hero, if it’s even him? “Be right back.”
