Page 92 of Taking Care of You
Standing at the blocks, I stretch, getting ready to take my starting position. Around me stand the best runners in the state, all of us gunning for first place. This is the last meet of my collegiate career, and I get the same feelings I always get before a race: excited, nervous, amped up. While it doesn’t affect my endorsements—I’ve already signed with Armor Crest, a large outdoor sports company, when I go pro; and a sportswear company, Vision Quest, is also picking me up for a lucrative advertisement deal—I want to break this record. I’ve been working hard to get here. All I need is to shave less than half a second off my last PR.
Every day except one weekend a month, I’ve been doing extra drills, practicing with the cross country team, drilling with the football team, and trying different techniques to help my turnover.
I started training for the Olympics last year with the best coach in the sport, who is hella expensive, but he gets results. As soon as this meet is over, I’m right back to training to qualify for the Olympics.
And the most important person in my life has been there every step of the way.
My Creep.
From my spot by the blocks, I look over at the crowd and search for his face. Without fail, he’s come to every meet, whether indoor or outdoor season.
My gaze roams over the crowd as I try to locate him, needing to lay eyes on him before the race. Tendrils of panic weed their way through my chest when I don’t immediately see him. He has to be here. He’s my good luck charm.
On my last sweep, I spot him standing next to Crystal, who’s with Ryder, Mitch, and Elle in the second row.
He gives me a thumbs-up and I smile at him, giving it back. The camera that’s been hovering around on the sidelines zooms in on me, then I see the one that’s over by the opposite bleachers move closer to Koby. I’m sure they’re trying to make a story out of this, too.
It's still a topic of conversation that he saved my life when we were eighteen and that we’re still together after all these years. My father wasn’t able to get all the pictures from the day of the accident removed, so they still do updates about the most heartbreaking and hellish day of our lives; me, in living color, losing my shit over almost losing Koby in that parkinglot.
Of course we’re still together. Even if none of that happened, I’d still be with him. My creep has my whole heart. He has for years and that won't ever change. We’re still together because I love him. Immensely.
From the first time I saw him looking at me from across the room, I’d been his. I knew I wanted him in my life. I’d settled on being his friend, but him loving me is so much better.
I remember the first time I noticed him. Like, really noticed him. Those wide, innocent eyes glancing over at me, trying to be covert. Quick and worried glances to check on me. The smallsmiles I would see on his face when he saw me laughing or enjoying myself. Making sure I was okay. Had he not followed me outside the night of that party, I don't think I would have found the courage to approach him.
That night will be forever etched in my memory. I still remember his face, searching for me, and looking almost sad that he couldn’t find me. Although he looked nervous and unsure, he was still determined to make sure I was alright, no matter what.And the fact that he stayed and walked me home? Best night of my life.
I was feeling especially untethered that night. I had come to the realization that I was taking care of others and no one was looking out for me. I was so lonely back then. Ryder was up in his head about his parents, so he couldn’t be there for me while he was suffering. My other friends—if I could call them that—just wanted to be seen with me but didn’t care about me as a person.
I felt like a fraud. Until Koby. Until he stepped out of his own comfort zone just for me. It was the first time I'd felt seen, and it was in that moment that I knew he was going to be something to me. He belonged in my life. Until him, no one had ever seen the real me.
“Runners, take your marks,” the announcer bellows over the loudspeaker, jolting me from my thoughts.
I stretch my legs then drop to a crouch start, walking backward on my hands to the starting blocks. I wipe my hands on my spandex running shorts, take a deep breath, then arrange my fingers on the starting line, careful to get them exactly how I want them.
This is my last two-hundred meter dash for USC. I’ve brought home a lot of trophies and ribbons, but I haven’t broken a record yet. This is my race. Before the day is out, my name will be added to the wall of greats.
I’ve worked hard, trained hard, just to shave three-tenths of a second from my time. It might not seem like a lot, but it’s hard fucking work to even get one-tenth off. If I beat this record, I’ll also set a new PR, which will help me for the upcoming Olympic trials.
When I’m comfortable in the blocks, I drop my head, letting the official know I’m ready.
“Set!” he announces and I shift my lower body up, in the set position.
When the starting pistol shot rings out, I push off the blocks: head down, body bent, and legs driving hard, my feet pounding on the track. I sling around the curve, pumping my arms in a controlled rhythm, willing my legs to keep up the momentum of their swings. I feel the burn in my legs in the first one hundred meters, letting me know I’m digging deep, leaving nothing to chance.
I zone out, filtering out the voices around me until I only hear him. My biggest cheerleader.
It’s like I can hear him shouting, “Go, go, go! Almost there, babe!”
I focus on that, not the large clock that’s at the finish line. If I glance at it, I might falter. I need to leave it all on the track, or I don’t deserve to break the record.
Before I can blink, I’m ducking my head across the finish line. In first place. When I turn around and finally allow myself to look at the clock, I see the time: 19.54. The current record is—orwas, now—19.58. I knocked four-tenths of a second off my time!
Kneeling to catch my breath, it’s like the sound is turned back up and I can hear the cheering and the official shouting, “Ladies and gentlemen, Ethan King just broke the USC two-hundred-meter dash record. A record that stood for twenty years. He’s one to watch out for at the Olympics in Toronto!”
I get congratulations from the other runners in the heat and I thank them graciously, but I’m not paying them any attention. I jog up the track and look for my favorite person.
I see him, carefully walking down the bleacher steps, getting closer to the track. He still has a limp, something doctors said won’t go away due to the plates and screws in his leg, but that doesn’t stop him from rushing over to me.
