Ahead of the Game

Chapter 3

            Days of training, endless protein shakes, multiple running sessions. I was prepared.

            Because it was today.

            The championship.

            Avery had left out the door with Ma for the airport without even saying good-bye. Well, if you counted the note: Remember to only run three laps to warm up for my event!

            My jet-black hair crisp in a ponytail, I swung my duffel bag around my shoulder. Strawberry banana energy drink? Check. Morning stretches? Check. Cat was fed? Check.

            I was prepared.

            Next in line. I cleared my throat. “Last name is Lin.”

            The man scanned through his sign in sheets. His pen pointed toward the paper. “Is this you?”

            I nodded. “My sister will be coming later,” I added before he could ask any more questions.

            Pac Man swallowed Blinky. Incoming next ghost.

            “Hey girlfriend! Where you been?” squealed Lisa, one of my teammates. Pac Man made a last minute swerve toward the center.

            “Lin, you’ve finally arrived. I want 20 push ups- now!”

            No one argued with Coach. I immediately dropped to the ground, using my upper body strength and abdominal muscle to push myself up. My muscles creaked like an unattended door hinge. Didn’t I stretch earlier?

            Slightly sore from the miniscule workout, I reported, “Going on a warm-up jog, Coach,” and headed for the track, immediately switching to game mode.

            The harsh wind blew against me, whipping my stray hairs back. Today, Mr. Sun decided to hide behind the clouds. Lovely weather. My light sneakers carried me around the track twice before that feeling washed over me. Something that had only occurred several times in my life. Like when I thought I got the highest grade, but someone beat me. Like when I liked someone but then saw him holding hands with another girl. Like when I tried to be the best, but someone else was naturally better.

            Avery.

            My balloon slowly deflated. So much for a warm-up. I walked back to my team’s circle. Coach handed me a number identification sticker, which I slapped onto my chest. 4286.

            Being the longest event, it could come up any minute now.

            “Calling the first heat of runners for 3200 meters. First heat, 3200 meters.” Thank God I was in the second heat.

            First place runner in that group finished in 10 minutes 17 seconds. My heart started pumping gallons of blood by the second. Slow down, I told it, but it ignored me.

            Slowly but surely, the remaining runners came straggling in. As soon as the track cleared,

            “Calling the second heat of runners for 3200 meters. Second heat, 3200 meters.”

            Now was my time to shine.

            Our time.

            I trudged toward the starting line. A volunteer led me toward Lane 3.

            “Runners, on your mark…”

            Crack! The gunshot rang throughout the stadium as I took off, racing against the others. Inhale through the nose. Exhale through the mouth. Hands positioned as though they were holding delicate eggs. Head faced ahead. Back straight. Leg movement matching breathing. After the first 100 meters, I immediately headed toward Lane 1 with the other runners. So far, 2nd place.

            But there were still 3100 meters left.

            The first four laps flew past like quicksand. For a regular 1600 meter pro, I got that down. Nonetheless, by this time, I had fallen back to 3rd. Not good. I began picking up the pace, step by step. The runners’ heavy panting could be heard, while the front two were effortlessly gliding. Despite my efforts, the distance between us grew until they seemed like specks. The cheers ringing in the stadium made me woozy. Snap! Get back on track, Alexa!

            Get back on track. I cracked myself up when I don’t even try.

            6th lap. I was still in 3rd place, but this time, Runner 1753 was attempting to surpass me. She was so close to me her feet practically treaded on my ankles, rubbing them sore, the poor things. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw her making her way to Lane 2, picking up more speed until she was running side by side with me as if in mockery. 1753 smirked at fumble-footed me. “Oaf,” she whispered, and then took off.

            No one but Avery calls me an oaf.

            I knew I shouldn’t have done this. But I did it anyways. Right in the middle of my 6th lap, I sprinted past 1753, that oaf. Past Coach, who was yelling something inaudible among the screams and cheers. Past my guilt, anger, resentment, temptations, everything that had been building up inside me all those years. The gap between me and the first two runners gradually shrunk at an abnormal pace. By the time 2800 meters passed, my heart felt ready to burst as I caught up with the first runner, 7392.

            I acknowledged her with a simple, brief nod, and then I was off again.

            300 meters left. The aroma of the finish line was drawing me in. My breath was ragged. My thighs were beginning to get sore. My hands were clenched in fists.

            This was the hardest part of the race. The time when everyone was victory-hungry and eager to catch the prey- 1st place. Which meant 7392 hadn’t given up yet.

            But that didn’t mean that I have. My muscles were nearly twitching to let loose their remaining energy storages. I needed that prize more than anyone else. Even more than Avery.

            So I flew- full throttle. The finish line started to look like a haven. But not a haven of straight A’s, perfect SAT scores, and academic success. It was a haven of love, of friendship, of devotion.

Of forgiveness.

            Just a couple of feet away from the oasis. The urge inside me grew even stronger. Heart bursting at the seams, muscles screaming, feet groaning, but the mind determined. I would not be defeated.

            So I leapt.

            Then the world turned pitch black.