Coach Me

I walk off the track and Torres stalks in my direction. “What the hell was that, Lakes? You call that sprinting?” he snaps.

“I have to race her again. It’s fine,” I say, panting quickly, ready to walk past him but he stops me, catching me by the upper arm and forcing me to face him again.

“No, it is not fine. What I just saw was pathetic, Amber. That was nothing like how you practiced at school.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s because I’m distracted by my coach flirting with another coach,” I snap under my breath.

Torres blinks rapidly, then narrows his eyes. “Wait—are you serious right now?”

I stare him in the eyes. I’m far from joking and he needs to know it.

“First of all, no one is fucking flirting with anyone. Medina and I go way back. We used to volunteer coach for an elite team together a long time ago and she is married.”

I swallow. That doesn’t make me feel any better, but it also doesn’t make me as annoyed knowing that she’s married.

“Second of all, this is a goddamn track meet, Amber. You shouldn’t be worried about me, or Medina, or anyone else but yourself right now. This is your race and your time to shine, and you’re disappointing me and the rest of the team with this insecure bullshit.” He lifts a finger up and points it at me. “We’ll discuss this thing with Medina later, but right now I need you to stop being so naïve, get your fucking head in the game, and win this next race.”

And with that, he gives me his back and marches off. I can tell he’s trying to keep his cool because there are others around, but I know he’s pissed.

I bite my bottom lip, lower my head and stare down at the grass. I feel like a fucking idiot.

THIRTY-FOUR

I’m given fifteen minutes to break, and during those fifteen minutes, I’m blasting all the hype music I can, from Kendrick Lamar and J. Cole, to Drake and Wiz Khalifa.

Not once do I look for Torres. Not once do I search for Medina. I spot the girls for the 200-meter dash walking back to the track and stripping out of their track warmers and I head over to do the same.

As I fold my jacket and pants up and place them on a bench on the side, I can feel eyes on me. I look up as I walk to my starting line and Torres is in the middle of the field, in the same place he was last time. He still looks pissed, his muscular arms folded across his broad chest, and his jaw steeled. Medina is nowhere near him.

I look away and do a quick stretch before bending down and getting into formation. My head is down, and I close my eyes, finding that light my father always used to tell me about. He’d tell me to close my eyes and picture a gold light at the end of a tunnel. The light is peace. The light is the end of the race.

My head lifts, and I spot Morgan at her starting line, eager and ready to dash.

Sorry, Morgan, but you won’t win this time.

“Set.” The official’s voice echoes through the microphone for the second time. I lift off my knees and prepare for take-off.

My heart beats fast. My fingertips are pressed on the rubber, and I’m sure it’s leaving an imprint.

The gun goes off.

This time I don’t hesitate.

Power from my legs. Fingers off the ground. Arms at my side.

I run like my life depends on it, and hell, maybe it does. I don’t pay attention to anyone who is around me, in front of me, or behind me. I just run, heart beating, chest heaving, legs going so fast I feel like I’m floating.

No one is in front of me.

But I feel someone close behind me.

I push harder and before I know it, the race is over.

I won.

The first person I look at is Torres. His arms are no longer folded. His brows are no longer stitched together. One of them is cocked, and his chin is tilted up. He looks only at me, does a subtle nod, and then he walks away, going to the 800-meter starting line.

On the bus ride back to Bennett, I’m sitting in the back of the bus with Kendall and Janine. They’re talking about music but all I can focus on is Torres at the front of the bus.

He’s seated on the first row on the left, next to Coach Mills. Mills is of course talking, but Torres doesn’t seem to be into the conversation he’s having.

When the bus parks at the school, the players are told to get off first. As I pass by Torres’ seat, I can’t bring myself to look at him. I can feel him looking at me though.