by Peyton Banks
The food arrives, but he doesn’t start eating, he just gives me an expectant look.
“Yes, I’ll come back to you. I’ve missed you so much.”
He tries to hide his sigh of relief, but I hear it. “You know you were always mine, right? Even when you went awol.”
“I think you’re right.”
“I know I am. Same way I was still yours.”
“Well, you’re officially mine again now, so no more entertaining groupies in the corridors.”
“I fucking knew it,” he mutters as he starts dishing up the chicken.
“Y’know, I had three rules when I started Loughborough. Three simple rules, but somehow, all I’ve done is end up with a long list of broken ones.”
He's intrigued. “What were the original ones?”
“No dating, win every race, and…don't think about him.”
He laughs. “Him, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you’ve still got time to keep one of them, and I'm gonna help you.”
I believe it. I always trained harder with him. He brought out the best in me. “Okay.”
“Good.” His reply is casual, but I can see in his eyes how much that one little word has meant to him, and my own heart flutters with happiness.
I haven't felt that for so long.
“I hope you're ready to work.”
“You sound like Mister Stanson, but like I told him, I am.” I reach for a chip, but he pulls them away from me.
“I got you rice.”
I make a sad face. “Really?”
He smirks. “Yeah, you know the drill, bae. I need to know your body can handle what I have planned for it.”
A shiver ripples up my spine. He said that a few weeks before we had sex for the first time. “What do you have planned for it?”
“You'll see. Now eat.”
Emaris
Three weeks later…
I fire the gun, and Jama leaves the blocks perfectly. Focused, determined, confident. I know she’s anxious about next week when she has to race beside others again, but I can't help her with that part. That will be up to her. All I can do is make sure she's as ready as she can be so she kills those qualifiers, because I know she can.
Her strides quicken and her feet barely kiss the track, but I can’t help but feel like something’s still eating her.
Mister Stanson’s noticed it, too, but we’re both at a loss of how to help her shift it. I’m hoping things will change once she starts competing professionally again. She needs to win against people who aren’t her classmates to really make her see how far she’s come.
She crosses the line and I clock her time. It's good, not quite her PB, but it's a winning time.
I jog over to her, admiring her perfect ass as she bends to catch her breath. These sessions aren't only hard for her, they are for me, too. It ain’t easy to hide bigger than average dicks in athletic tights as it is, but it’s even harder when she's around.
I ain’t taken her to bed yet, I didn't wanna rush her, but we have spent a lot of nights getting to know each other’s bodies again. I wanna be inside her, no doubt, but I also know she needs to focus. Jama was always at her happiest when she was good with the track, so I need to help her get that back first.
“How’d I do?” she asks.
I show her, and she immediately slumps her shoulders.
“Hey, this is good, Jam. We’re shaving off time every day and we’ve still got another week.”
“Not enough, though.” She closes her eyes and sighs. “Fuck sake.”
“You can still win with this time. You don’t have to be so hard on yourself over everything.”
Her eyes widen in anger. “That’s easy for you to say. You don't even have any competition here! You make the track your bitch and destroy it every time. I'm just…I don’t even fucking know.”
“It's only been three weeks—”
“Yeah, three weeks—”
“And you were off the track for two months. You know how long it takes to—”
“Yeah, I know.” She walks away from me, so I catch her up.
“Jama—”
“Can you just leave it?” she snaps, turning to face me. “Just fucking leave it, okay? I appreciate everything you've done, but you can't fix this.” She stabs a finger to her temple. “This fucking shit is broken!”
Fuck, I hate seeing her like this. “It's not broken—”
“And how would you know? I'm seconds off my PB. Seconds! I'll be lucky to even qualify with a time like that!”
“The fuck, Jam? Are you kidding?”
She walks away again, and this time I let her go.
“Fine. You know where I am,” I shout after her.
She doesn't even turn around.
Fuck!
“I was waiting for it.”
I turn my head to Mister Stanson approaching. He looks over to Jama before coming to stand beside me, and then we both watch her storming away to the changing rooms.
“Don't take it personal. The physical is easy, it's the mental that's not. Her self-doubt is a habit now that only she can break.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“The more she trusts her body, the more she has to fight her mind, and now her body's in optimum condition, that fight will be even harder.”
“Maybe I'm being too hard on her.”
“No, you're not. Whatever you're doing is working wonders, and it's clear how hard she's worked. Do you know what she's eating?”
“Yeah. She's been clean for three weeks.”
He nods. “Maybe give her a day off. No track, switch up her food. Just let her relax a little. All work isn’t good for anyone, no matter how much you enjoy it.”
“Maybe you're right.”
“Did you see the accident?”
“Yeah. The girl did it on purpose, caught her good, too.”
“So I heard.” He shakes his head. “I’ve only ever seen one incident like that, and the young man involved was kicked out for it.”
“The girl lost her scholarship after.”
“Good. People like that don’t deserve to be in the sport.”
“You know.”
He slaps my back. “Right, well, as I have you here, I thought I'd talk to you about the slight drag on your right arm I noticed a few days ago.”
“Mine?” Jama mentioned that yesterday, but I thought she was fucking with me.
He laughs. “Yeah, superstar. I reckon we could take a few split-seconds off your time if you tighten it up a little. Run a two hundred for me, and I’ll show you.”
9
Jamayla
My mood plummets as I leave the changing rooms. Emaris isn't waiting for me, but I can’t blame him. I was an ungrateful bitch. I hate the way I spoke to him. He's done so much to get me to where I am now, but no matter what I do, I can't seem to fix my head.
It's holding me back so much, I feel it every day. I'm terrified of next week. In class, when I have to run next to the other girls, I keep looking at their positioning instead of at the finish line, and it’s making me so anxious.
I'm fucking scared.
What Tia did isn't even a common thing, but it doesn't stop me from being afraid of it happening again. I’ve been trying so hard to get out of it, and some days I do manage to block it out, but the bad days still plague me.
What if I never break this cycle?
What if I never get fearless Jama back?
I'm tempted to break my clean eating when I get back to my dorm, but I don't, even when Charlotte offers me a cupcake. I make a protein shake to go with the chicken and rice Mah stocked my fridge with instead.
“I wish I had some of your self-control. I need to shift a few pounds, I just can’t be bothered.”
“You’re beautiful as you are.” And I mean it. She’s short and curvy, has beautiful mocha skin, dark, dark eyes, and natural, shoulder-length, wavy hair. I heard one of Mah’s relay teammates is trying to get her atte
ntion. “But… if you’re serious, I can give you some meal ideas to try that aren’t too restrictive.”
“Would you? That would be great.”
“I’ll write them up over the weekend.”
She picks up another cupcake. “Thank you.”
“Cupcakes won’t be on the list, though.”
She purses her lips. “Girl, I know.”
“I’m just saying.” I finish making my protein shake just as the microwave beeps, then I sit at the table to eat. I’m not feeling this, but I am hungry, so I suck it up.
“So, how’s things with Emaris?”
“Good.” I know she’s asked that because we’re always together, but I’m not getting into it with her. We aren’t that close yet.
“All right,” she replies, taking the hint. “Mum’s picking me up tomorrow after classes, but I’ll be all ready for the new healthy eating when I get back Sunday night.”
“I’ll make sure it’s ready.”
She gets up but rests a brief hand on my shoulder before she leaves. “Night.”
“Night.”
Charlotte’s nice, nicer than Rena, our other roommate, but in all honesty, we don’t really see her. She’s dating a guy on the football team and spends most nights at his dorm. I’m pretty sure she treats her room here like a walk-in wardrobe more than an actual living space.
But whatever.
I tidy up the kitchen and then head for bed. I can’t sleep, though, so I stare at the wall and wonder what Mah’s doing, whether he's home, if he’s eaten, and if he's thinking about me.
I think about ways to apologise and end up on my Nike app. I order him a brand-new pair of custom Pegasus' in his favourite colour. They won’t come until lunchtime tomorrow, but I can run back to get them. I’ll give them to him as an apology and a thank you.
Then I open up my WhatsApp to send him a message.
Goodnight. xx
He replies straight away.
Night, bae. xx
I sigh as I tuck my phone under my pillow, but then I suddenly think of what my life was like without him in it.
I don’t like the reminder.
He’s not only helped me on the track, he’s given me my happiness back. These past three weeks with him have been amazing, even without his dick that he seems reluctant to give me. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for, but I hope he gives it to me soon. All this frustration I’m feeling can’t only be from my stupid mind not letting go of the past.
But on the flipside of that, I can’t use him as a crutch either. I need to find a way to deal with my issues once and for all, and before next week.
I just need to stop this shit, and I need to stop it now.
I wake up early and decide to train before classes start. I also make a mental note to up my calories for the day, too, knowing I’ll be hungrier than usual later.
Chicken and rice, though… I might need to hit the supermarket.
I stretch before I leave my dorm and use the run to the track to warm up. The outdoor track at the campus is always open for students to use, and I know for a fact it’s always in use by someone. It’s Friday, though, and no one is here when I reach.
It’s probably a good thing. I can already tell that the next few hours might get a bit messy.
I haven't trained alone for weeks, but I have to. I need to push myself, and more importantly, realise I can do this alone. No one will be out there on the track with me when I compete. Not Mister Stanson or the other coaches, and not Mah. I need to back myself like I used to. Run the track and not let it run me.
I hold my watch as I set myself in the blocks.
I can do this…
I close my eyes and imagine the sound of the gun, and then I go.
The sprint is the worst I've run for a while, and after the initial anger, I break down and cry about it. I don't think that's the only thing I actually cry about, though, it's a mountain of things. Guilt, disappointment, resentment, self-pity, they’re all there, lurking beneath the surface, sabotaging my life.
I sit at the finish line and try to work through them, one by one. Mah forgave you, took you back… I made a good time yesterday, so why am I disappointed? Yes, Tia ruined my chances of winning the Winter Championships, but the next one is in a few months, and if I get over this shit, I could win them…
I need to stop feeling sorry for myself, but even as I try to, I feel bad about it. I consider calling my mum, I know she’ll be up, but I don't. That would just be using someone else to put a temporary bandage over something I need to deal with myself.
So I think back to when I was at my happiest, when me and Mah were good and the track was my bitch. What did I do then? What was my routine? I didn’t really have one. I just ran. I didn’t have to remind myself that I was strong, that I didn’t have any injuries, and I sure as hell didn’t have to tell myself I could do this. I just fucking ran.
Maybe that’s what I need to do. Block out all the bullshit and just run. I can’t let this define me. Yes, there were pictures of me in the local press back home, but that doesn’t have to be what they remember me for, does it? I can give them something else to talk about.
I get up to jog back to the starting line, but this time, I don’t do what I usually do, I take a minute to breathe, to feel the texture of the track beneath my fingers, to remember how free I used to feel when I ran.
And this time, when I imagine the gun sounding and set off, I let my mind think of nothing but the wind beating against my skin, whipping through my curls, the way my feet barely tap the track as I sprint over it.
I keep my form in check, make sure my breathing is on point, that I’m centred in my lane. It all comes together, and for the first time in a long time, I'm excited when I cross the finish line.
I immediately check my time.
10.98s
That’s my personal best.
I fall to my knees and cry tears of happiness this time.
I really can do this.
10
Emaris
I text Jama good morning but don't get a reply until lunch when I’m out on the track getting in some practice for next week’s qualifiers. I dunno where the hell I picked up this drag on my arm, but it ain’t fucking staying.
Sorry. Trained this morning and left my phone at home. Just picked it up. Where are you?
On the track.
I'm coming.
She appears ten minutes later, so I walk over to the pole vault to meet her. She seems different. Not quite up to something, but different. “You good?”
She nods, and I catch her gaze linger over my arms. “Yeah. How long you out here for?”
“I have a free period after this, so until then.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Not yet, I’m about to run to Asda. I’m not feeling chicken and rice today. Maybe fish? I can make you some for later?”
“Aight.”
She clutches the bag in her hands tighter before handing it to me. “These are for you. Could I talk to you after classes? If you're free?”
“Yeah…” I don’t like the sound of that, but her smile eases my concerns.
“Do you wanna come to mine around half seven? I’ll cook.”
“We not training tonight?”
“Yeah, just not together.”
“Oh, so it's like that, yeah?”
She rolls her eyes and smiles. “It ain't like nothing. I'll see you at half seven. Don’t be late.”
I watch her walk away and wonder what I’ve missed, and what just happened. Something’s changed, though. She disappears, so I look inside the bag she gave me as I walk back over to the two hundred metre starting line. I laugh when I see what’s inside.
New Pegs?
I open the box and see they’re customs, in green, my favourite colour, too. It’s thoughtful as fuck and completely unexpected. I wanna text her to ask her why she got me these, but I decide to wait it out.
Shit h
as me smiling for the rest of the day, though.
I knock on Jama's door at twenty past seven. I was gonna wait it out, but she should know me by now.
My eyes drop to the little black dress she's wearing as soon as the door opens. It’s the same dress she wore the first night I took her to bed.
“I didn't know I was meant to dress-dress,” I say as I step inside.
“You weren’t…” She closes the door and frowns at the box in my hands. “Did you not like them?”
“I fucking loved them, but why?”
“Because…” She tucks a few of her curls behind her ear. “To say thanks for everything, and because I wanted to.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” I say as I hand her the box, and I have to stop from laughing at her puzzled expression.
“Why are you giving them back to me if you like them?”
“Just open the box, Jam.”
She peeks inside and blinks. “Pink? You got me some?”
I nod. “Last week. I was gonna give them to you tomorrow, so you had time to break them in before the qualifiers.”
She laughs, and I smile. I wish she’d laugh more, but she’s getting there.
“We still think the same, huh?”
“We really do,” she says thoughtfully. She rests the box on the arm of the couch before returning to stand in front of me. “I want to apologise for yesterday. I took my shit out on you and was wrong for it.”
I lift her chin when she tries to look away. “Apology accepted.”
She sighs as she takes my hand away to hold it. “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate everything you've done, Mah. All the encouragement, all the training sessions, the food prep… But I also realised last night that I can't use you as a crutch. I have to face my demons, find belief in myself. That's why I trained on my own today... And...” She presses a few buttons on her watch before showing me the time.
“The fuck, bae? But isn't your PB—”
“Not anymore.”
