Coach Me

“Let’s hope,” Kendall laughs as she stands. “So, 200-meter, huh?” she asks, and we start talking about our positions and how ready we are to start training for the upcoming season.

Truth is, I like Kendall. She’s smart, funny, and her tattoos are cool as hell. She even mentions how she’s going to take me to her sister’s shop to get a free tattoo one day when I’m ready. I tell her I have no idea what I would even get, or where I would get it, but that a tattoo would be nice.

We talk for hours, no TV necessary to fill any silence, and from how things are going with our conversations, and how smoothly we can transition from topic to topic, I can tell we’re going to make really good friends, roommates, and teammates already.

I just hope I can say the same for the rest of my team.

THREE

I believe being nervous would be a huge understatement for how I’m feeling right now.

I read over the email from Coach Hamilton three times this morning, just to make sure I had my timing right. She’d sent the email three days ago, along with a team welcome email and a few details listed above.

I expect all team members to be present and on the track at 2:30 pm on the dot. - Hamilton

That part of her message stood out, bold and clear and highlighted in bright yellow.

I checked the time on my phone often while Kendall chilled in her room on her bed, listening to music. I could tell Kendall didn’t care much about what went on around her. Whether she was prompt or late, it didn’t matter to her, but with me as her teammate and roommate, she’d never get the chance to be late.

One of the things Daddy taught me was to be prompt. Always arrive fifteen to twenty minutes early if you can. It shows that you care. He always said it and he definitely lived by it. Whether we were going to the track for a meet, to church on Sunday, or even to a friend’s birthday party, we were always early. Mama was the one who happened to be late for everything.

At 2:00 p.m. on the dot, I tell Kendall I’m heading to the track. It’s a twelve-minute walk from our apartment, and we could get lost on the way, so I’d much rather get an early start.

Kendall reluctantly climbs out of bed, grabs her headphones, and follows me out of the apartment in her Adidas slides. I’m wearing lime green yoga pants and a white shirt, along with my favorite non-running running shoes.

We lock up the apartment and make our way across campus, passing wide fields of green grass, towering brick buildings with cement pillars, and even the baseball field.

As we approach the football field that’s painted red, gold, and white, my heart beats faster. I can’t believe this is happening. Legit one of the best days of my life is what it feels like and yet I’m slightly freaking out inside. I’ll meet my teammates, all my coaches, and we’ll discuss future practice dates and everything.

“Are you not nervous?” I ask Kendall as the soles of our shoes touch the red rubber of the track. The track wraps around the football field in a thick, wide oval. The rubber feels smooth, and I can tell the track lines are freshly-painted.

“Not really.” Kendall chomps on her gum, looking around. “Arena is fucking huge. Bet you they don’t sell out of tickets, though. BU football sucks ass.”

I snort at her comment. I realize this is how Kendall deflects. She is nervous, but she doesn’t want to admit it. She always wants to look “cool.”

“Well, I’m kinda nervous,” I admit, and I’m even more nervous when I see a cluster of people already standing at the end of the track by a red bench.

“Oh, boy. Here we go.” Kendall inhales before exhaling, and as we approach the cluster of people, some of them turn back to look at us. More of them look at Kendall, which doesn’t shock me because she’s wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and it reveals all the tattoos on her arms. She’s not your average-looking track runner, that’s for sure, but I like that about her.

I scan the crowd as they scan me too, then they turn away, their brunette and blond ponytails swinging as they focus on one of the girls in the middle of the group.

The girl they put their attention back on is thin. Tall. Her hair is blond, and her lips painted a bright pink. She’s not your average blond woman. She has high cheekbones, a petite nose, and plump lips. She’s pretty and she knows it.

She’s talking animatedly about the classes she’ll have, and the girls are nodding as they listen. The way they listen is strange. You’d think she was telling them how to easily win a million bucks. Only thing they need to be doing is taking notes.