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I watch him nod. “Yeah. You’re the best athlete I have. I thought you were injured, or ill.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t need another Garcia incident. I was worried I’ve been pushing you too hard.”
“No, that’s not it,” I rush out, my guilt growing and weighing down my shoulders. “I need to speak with you. Things just aren’t-”
“I want you to try out for the Olympics next year.”
I blink. What did he say?
“Your scores are off the charts. I think with a bit more practice, you can really make something of yourself.” He pokes my chest with a wrinkled finger. “I think you have what it takes to win.”
I stare back at him, wide-eyed, not knowing what to say. He thinks I have what it takes? Me? I only run because it drowns out my anxiety, because it’s the only thing that has ever made me feel whole. Running was never supposed to be more than a hobby, a passion.
But he thinks I should try out for the Olympics?
My lips twitch into a genuine smile. I still feel guilty, but it’s replaced by joy. I feel like jumping up and down, dancing, grabbing someone and kissing them. “Thank you, Coach,” I say, taking his hand and shaking it vigorously.
“Don’t thank me,” Coach says while chuckling. “Thank yourself. You’re the one putting in the work. You’re the one with the talent. Now,” he says, pulling me close and lowering his voice, “don’t let me catch you skipping out on practice again.”
I nod. “Never again, Coach.”
He lets me go, and I run towards the track field, entering into the locker room and quickly stripping off my sweatpants and into my runner’s shorts. I’m still in shock, and I can’t stop the extra pep in my step as I move around the empty room. Coach thinks I should train for the Olympics. He believes in me.
Maybe there is a reason for me moving to Aurora and it has nothing to do with Rachel and everything to do with me pursuing my passions. I won’t have to call Dad after all and listen to him go on about how ‘moving back home is for the best.’ I won’t have to go home with my tail between my legs. I’m not an idiot. I came to the right place to pursue running.
I hear the door open and close, and I whirl around, finding Seth stalking inside. His limp is nearly gone, yet I notice he’s careful to not put too much weight on his foot. He shrugs his bag over one shoulder. My face heats as my eyes rove over him, remembering his hard, leaking dick in Rachel’s hand. The memory makes my cock twitch in response, and I grimace, quickly shaking my head and pushing the image away.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that.
Seth pauses as his gaze lands on me, widening for a moment before turning away. “Oh, hey,” he says simply, walking past me and towards the locker in the corner.
I frown. That’s a little… odd. I’d expect Seth to say something more along the lines of, “You motherfucker, how dare you interrupt my time with Rachel.” Instead, I’m getting… shyness? Did Seth get abducted by aliens over the weekend? Is this some Seth replacement?
They obviously didn’t get the loud and perpetually competitive memo.
“So,” I begin, hoping to clear the air about what happened at the stadium on Saturday, but not knowing exactly what to say, “about-”
“Goode! Garcia!” Mike’s voice shouts from the entrance.
Seth turns to him, and I follow his gaze, finding Mike being followed by several Freshman underlings. He raises his hands, wrapping an arm around my neck and dragging me towards him. “I was speaking with the boys, and we’ve decided after practice, we’re all getting tattoos.”
Seth rolls his eyes. The motion takes hold of his head, and I cough, trying to bite back my laughter to Seth’s response.
“Please,” says Seth, dragging out the word. “You are not getting a tattoo.”
“Not me. We,” says Mike, louder for those just entering the locker room. “Everyone is getting a tattoo.”
“Please don’t tell me we’re all getting tattoos of your dick, Mike,” I say while shoving his arm off me.
Mike laughs and pats my back. “Hells no. Not enough space on your body for that.”
Seth rolls his eyes again before turning away and opening his locker. “Your dick is microscopic, if anything,” he mutters under his breath.
“Wings!” Mike shouts while raising both fists in the air. “We’re getting wings tattooed on our ankles.”
“Both ankles?” I ask while raising an eyebrow. “Will you still be able to run? Don’t you need some down time?”
Mike scoffs. “It’ll be fine. You in, Goode?”
I glance at Seth, whose movements are slow, his ear faced towards us as if he’s interested in what me and the other guys will decide on. I’m surprised Seth isn’t interested in getting a tattoo. He’s always been the type to be ahead of the crowd, to be the trendsetter. Part of me wonders if it’s his injury keeping him back, or the fact he doesn’t like pain.
