“So no bar hopping?”
She pales, her eyes widening. “Absolutely not, Coach. I would never during the season.”
She doesn’t appear to be lying, but I don’t know any of the athletes well enough to tell whether they’re being truthful. It’s only my third day in the track and field program. “So you’re just intentionally wasting both of our time then? Is that it?”
Shock washes over Lindsey’s freckled face, a trace of indignation flashing in her blue eyes. She opens her mouth to defend herself, but instead slumps her shoulders in defeat. “Sorry, Coach. I’m just… I didn’t sleep much last night.”
A faint memory tugs at me. Dad’s disapproving, judging eyes, his deep voice spilling over with disappointment.‘Sometimes I think you do it on purpose, Jared, because you don’t want to run anymore. Is that true? Don’t you want to run anymore?’
‘No! I wanna run, Dad. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’ll do better, I swear. Just… I wanna run.’
‘You sure? Because sometimes it feels like you’re self-sabotaging.’
‘I’m not. I swear.’
‘Your grandparents started from nothing when they came to this country. They came with only the clothes on their backs and a dream.’
I’ve lost count of how many times over the years I had to listen to my immigrant grandparents’ journey from the IvoryCoast to the US. Their struggles and sacrifices lived in my head every day because my dad never let me forget, always holding them over my head.
‘Don’t you want them to be proud of you? Don’t you want to be the best?’
‘Yes! I wanna be the best. I won’t let you down, Dad.’
“Coach Cordier?” Lindsey tilts her head, confusion in her eyes.
I rub at my chest, a dull heaviness lingering. Lindsey continues to stare at me like she’s waiting for my verdict.
“Just… let’s stop for now. Go to class or whatever.”
Relief moves through her eyes, and her body visibly relaxes. “Yes, Coach.” So young and so eager.
She jogs toward the benches and picks up her gym bag, then throws it over her shoulder. I should give her a break. She’s only nineteen, a sweet girl really, but no one ever gave me a damn break. Perfection and breaks don’t go hand in hand, so I call out after her. “Come back with a better attitude this afternoon, Ms. Cole, or don’t come back at all!”
She turns and nods curtly, her eyes downcast. It’s a low blow even for me. She has no choice but to come back since she’s on a full scholarship. No running, no degree. Just like I had to, Lindsey will have to suck it up throughout her college experience.
Janelle would smack me if she saw me right now.
Unexpected softness curls in my chest. “Get some sleep and some food, Lindsey,” I call out when she’s just about halfway up the stairs to one of the pedestrian corridors that lead into Campus.
Lindsey turns, smiling carefully, then gives me a wave. “Sure thing. Thanks, Coach Cordier.”
Most of our track and field practice takes place outdoors at the newly renovated Hayward Field, a world-class track and fieldfacility, when the weather permits. It’s not a coincidence that Eugene is often referred to as the running capital of the world, orTrackTown USA. There’s a lot at stake here, and it isn’t just scholarships that are on the line if we don’t meet expectations. The athletics director made that perfectly clear when I was offered the job.
I should get going, too. I have a staff meeting later, and I need some coffee.
I pick up my clipboard and my backpack, about to head in the direction of our head coach, Victor Anyango. Originally from Kenya, he won several World Cups in his day. After retiring, he moved to the US and coached at several universities until he was recruited by the Ducks eight years ago.
I’m halfway there when someone yells from across the field where the 400-meter hurdle runners have been practicing all morning. One of the male runners is waving frantically at me, trying to get my attention.
“Coach Cordier, we need help over here!” The kid yells, then bends over a female runner on the ground, clutching her ankle.Fucking great.
I jog in their direction, and when I get there, it’s clear her injury isn’t just a minor bruise. Her ankle is red and swollen, almost twice its size. She’s doing her best not to cry. I instantly recognize the desperation and the fear on her face. The look that asks, ‘Is this it? Is this how it ends?’
It appears to be a sprain, but it could be worse.
“What happened?” I ask the guy helping her.
“It looked like Jenny’s left foot got caught in the hurdle.”
