Page 34 of Depths of Desire
“I was off. It was one race.”
“You came in sixth.”
I exhaled, long and low. “I know.”
“You trained through the Olympics, came out with silver, and didn’t rest. You went straight into prep for Summer Nationals and crashed. You scared the shit out of me.”
I paced away from the stove and leaned against the counter. My throat felt tight. “I wasn’t going to skip it.”
“No. You just broke yourself over it.”
The timer went off on the oven. I ignored it.
“I’ve reapplied,” I said quietly. “This summer. Nationals again. If I’m not ready by then?—”
She cut in. “You will be.”
“If I’m not,” I repeated, “then I’m done.”
Her voice dropped. “Is that a real decision?”
I nodded once. “I can’t afford another loss. Not if I want a future in this.”
Lena stared at me through the screen, all her cheeky brightness dimmed now. “Okay,” she said. “Then we train. We rest. We go again.”
I smiled, just a little. “We?”
“You think I’m not part of this?” she asked. “I’m the reason you have a halfway decent playlist. And also, who else would call you out when you’re full of shit?”
“You mean besides my body?”
She cracked a grin. “Exactly.”
I let out a breath. The chicken sizzled behind me. “I’ve got six months.”
“Then you give them hell.”
I nodded again. Not because I believed it. But because I had to.
I ended the call and stood there for a moment, still leaning on the counter. The quiet crept in again, filling all the places Lena’s voice had softened.
The chicken was done. I plated it mechanically, scooping the beans beside it and dragging the pan off the heat. I didn’t bother lighting the overheads, just sat down at the kitchen island with the late winter dusk slipping in through the windows.
The first bite tasted like nothing.
I chewed anyway, swallowed, and took another.
This wasn’t about hunger.
It had been months since the Greensboro Nationals. Since I stood behind the starting block with my heart already thudding out a countdown. I’d told myself I was ready. I’d told myself silver at the Olympics had only sharpened my edge. But the truth was, my arms had felt heavy before the buzzer ever sounded.My vision had tunneled. Every muscle had screamed for rest, and every ounce of belief I had in myself had cracked wide open before my feet left the platform.
I hadn’t just come in sixth. I’d come in empty. A shell of myself.
That moment replayed itself more than I liked to admit. Not the race. Not even the time on the scoreboard. Just the certainty, in those final seconds before the gun, that I had already lost, that the version of me from just three weeks before—at the Olympics, standing with the weight of silver around my neck—had been replaced with someone who no longer knew how to win.
And here I was again.
Training until my shoulders burned. Drilling form until I could barely see straight. Telling myself this summer would be different, that I had enough time to fix everything that was broken. I had six months to put myself back together or walk away.
