I knew that rule well enough to hate it. Everyone began badly. I had once believed controlling the beginning could guarantee the end. Two unfinished marathons had taught me otherwise, though not gently.
“You were good at running,” Amy said.
I had allowed her to believe that meant successful.
“How many marathons have you completed?” she asked.
Shame arrived before language. My tongue found the old escape route first.
“My race history is complicated.”
“That is not a number.”
“No.”
“Does it affect your ability to coach me?”
“No.”
I answered the first question easily because it was true. The next answer resisted. I could feel the assessment room again even though we were still beside the track: tablet, glass wall, Amy waiting without rescuing me from the silence.
“I’m not ready to answer the number today,” I said. “I should have said that instead of making the question sound unreasonable.”
Her fingers tightened around the bottle. “Then when is the professional information available?”
“Before you sign anything beyond the trial week. Blake and Rose can verify my qualifications now. The parts that are personal stay personal until I choose to tell them.”
Amy considered the division. “That is specific enough for today.”
Relief loosened my ribs. It was not absolution. It was a boundary I would have to keep without turning it into a hiding place.
“The running portion is over,” I said.
“I recovered.”
“That doesn’t erase the information.”
She followed me toward the stretching area with the rigid compliance of someone already planning an appeal.
The quiet stretching area overlooked the weight floor. I replaced Amy’s twenty-week projection with one handwritten week:
• three run-walk sessions
• two strength sessions
• two full rest days
• notes on effort, discomfort, energy, and mood
“That is very little running,” she said.
“It is the correct amount.”
“What happens after week one?”
“We evaluate and build week two.”
“You want me to train without knowing the full progression?”
