Waking Olivia(8)

           


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When I walk in, he looks at me with equal parts resignation and disdain,  as if steeling himself to undertake a very unpleasant task.

"Take off your shoe," he sighs, going to his closet. He retrieves a  small kit and pulls a chair up in front of mine and grabs my ankle.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"What does it look like I'm doing? You are obviously not going to the  health center, since following even the smallest direction is impossible  for you, so I'm fixing your foot."

I swallow. "You don't have to. It doesn't hurt that much."

He shakes his head as he looks at my foot. "I applaud your high pain  tolerance, Olivia, but there's no way that doesn't hurt, and it affects  your running, so for once stop arguing with me." He swabs it with  alcohol, which does hurt though I refuse to show it, and then he  stitches it as deftly and assuredly as any surgeon.

"How'd you learn how to do that?" I ask.

He pauses, and his shoulders seem to sag a little. "I had some medic training at my last job."

His tone does not invite further questions, but I barrel on anyway. "You weren't always a coach?"

"No."

"What did you do?"

His eyes remain on my foot. "I was a guide," he finally says. "Mountain climbing."

Somehow this makes complete sense to me. It explains how cut he is, the  tattoos hinting that he hasn't always been this goody-goody country boy,  but that's not all. There's something intense about him, something that  demands complete immersion. He isn't a guy meant to stand on the  sidelines and watch other people achieve.

"So you, like, led tours or something?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

His jaw sets. "My father died, so I came back and took over his farm."

"So did you even want to coach track?"

He closes the kit with an echoing snap. "It's a good job. I'm lucky to have gotten it."

"That didn't answer my question."

"Didn't it?"

I guess it did.

Suddenly I feel bad that I've been sort of a pain in the ass, that I've  made so many assumptions about who he is and why he's here. I sense that  even the act of stitching my foot is reminding him of things he gave  up. "You'd probably make a good doctor if you ever decided to leave the  lucrative world of coaching," I tell him. "Not, mind you, a doctor who  needs to be pleasant, like a pediatrician or something. But one of those  doctors you expect to be an asshole."

"Is that right?" he drawls, trying not to smile.

"Yeah, I mean, can you imagine yourself as, say, an oncologist? I'm  pretty sure saying things like 'your healing is crappy' and 'get better  faster' wouldn't be as well-received by patients as it is by me."

He laughs. "Yes, it's so well-received when I say it to you."

Moments like this almost make me wish I were a better person. The kind who makes other people happy.

Or at least not the kind who makes them miserable.





13





Will



That girl.

I'm still kind of smiling when she leaves. When I realize this, I wipe  it clean from my face. I cannot allow myself to get sucked in by Olivia  Finnegan. She's already got half the men at this school watching her  every move like she's a wet dream come to life. I refuse to join her  cheering section.

I had to hide my shock when she took off her shoe. That cut was deep. I  know a lot of tough guys, but I'm not sure I know any that would have  run on a cut that deep unless their lives were at stake.

She's tough, but no one's tough enough to overcome self-destructive  tendencies as bad as hers. I know she's still running before practice,  though she won't admit it. And why was her foot so cut up? I wasn't  entirely kidding when I asked if she walked on broken glass every day.

What kills me is that she could be amazing if she'd stop doing whatever  it is she's doing. She's capable of blinding, astonishing speed. She  shouldn't just be running for a D1 school, she should be its star. At a  different school, with a different coach, someone would be preparing her  for the Olympic trials, not getting ready for a quiet local meet  against four other D3 schools, which means she's capable of giving our  track team their first winning season in over a decade. But she didn't  perform at UT, and I suspect that counting on Olivia Finnegan for  anything is a losing proposition.





14





Olivia



It's the week before our first meet.

Aside from Betsy, the entire freaking team is looking at me like I'm the  second coming, and this is the week that every last one of them, my  coach in particular, will discover I am not. I try not to think about  this as I go to sleep. I try to think of happy things, few though they  are. I imagine the beach, though I've never been. I imagine floating on a  raft on a peaceful sea. I imagine, and I pray, that somehow this will  keep me in bed tonight.                       
       
           


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I find myself deep in the woods the next morning, gasping and drenched  in sweat though the air is cool. I run back to my apartment, strip my  running clothes off and pass out. An hour later, my alarm goes off. I'm  not sure I've even stopped sweating from my earlier run when I meet the  rest of the team at the track.

It happens again Tuesday morning, and then Wednesday, at which point  Will loses his shit. "What the hell is going on, Olivia?" he demands.  "Your running has been half-assed all week."

"I'm just tired from class."

That muscle ticks in his jaw. "Is it that, Olivia, or have you been running before we practice, even though I told you not to?"

I can't tell him the truth, now. He's made sure of that. "No, I'm just tired."

"If I catch you running before practice you're off this team. Do you understand?"

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

I'm not allowed to say it, but I think it. My frustration clogs my  throat, making my brain hazy. I want to scream at him. I want to tell  him that I can't help it, that no one alive wishes it would stop more  than me. But I've told people before. I know where it gets me, and I  won't do it again.

At the end of Thursday's practice, Will gathers us in a circle and  reminds us to take it easy on Friday, drink lots of water, no alcohol,  extra protein, and carbs. The freshmen ask dumb questions because that's  what freshmen do. He sends us off but stops me with a hand on my  shoulder. "I shouldn't have to say this, but no running tomorrow. Got  it?"

"I heard you the first time," I snarl, shaking out of his grip.

"I get the feeling you don't hear anyone," he mutters.



On Friday night, I run until it's dark.

Yeah, I'm not listening to him because I know for a fact that exhaustion is the only thing that will keep me in bed tonight.

I slide beneath the sheets. Please, please, please let this work. I really need this to work.

I'm not sure exactly who I'm whispering this to because as far as I can  tell, God hasn't looked out for or listened to me once my entire life.



I wake to find myself in the middle of a field beneath a black sky  streaked with hints of daytime. I'm barefoot and my legs are cut to  shit, the blood an itchy trickle down my ankle. No phone, no shoes.  Jesus, I should just crazy glue them to myself before I go to bed. My  shirt is drenched and my heart is hammering as I gasp for breath. The  gasping always happens, and I'm never sure if it's because I ran hard or  because I was terrified. It's happened so many times I can't begin to  recall them, yet it's always a surprise.

I struggle for air and utter a slew of profanities. Why? Why the morning  of our first meet? I'm doomed now. There's no way I'll perform. None.

The early morning air chills my damp skin, bringing goosebumps, and I  know I've got to get moving. But to where? At least if it were night,  I'd be able to make out the lights, but right now I see nothing. Sure, I  can tell which way is east based on where the sky is lightest. Doesn't  do a damn bit of good unless you know what direction you went in the  first place.

I jog back through the field for lack of a better idea. Eventually, I'll  hit a road. Eventually, it will be daytime and someone can tell me  where I am. But as the sky lightens, I realize I'm heading for more  woods.

I double back and begin to run harder. It's probably between 5-5:30  right now and I'm supposed to be at school by 6:00 to catch the bus to  our meet. With every step, I know I'm about to lose another scholarship.

By the time I find a road I'm desperate. I hear the rumble of an old  muffler approaching. Hitchhiking is what's going to get me killed  eventually. Today, though, it feels as if I've got no choice.

The guy pulls up alongside me, the roar of his truck drowning the  silence. "Need a lift?" he asks, brow furrowed as he takes in my  appearance. I'm dressed to run, aside from the missing shoes. I don't  bother to assess his appearance. Even if he's got a machete on his front  seat, I'm getting in the truck.