Chapter 1 #2
I straighten her up and kiss her cheek. “As the lady commands.”
“Good lord, you’re in one of those moods,” she chuckles.
“What mood?”
She drags her index finger up and down. “The charmer. The one where you get ready to sweep a lady off her feet before convincing her to sleep with you.”
“You know me too well, Rosalita.”
Rose Mendoza is not only a friend, but she’s one of my ex-girlfriends.
It wasn’t anything overly serious, but we liked each other.
It just wasn’t enough for something more solid and committed.
Therein lies my problem with most women.
I can’t seem to find one willing to stick it out with me or vice versa.
There always seems to be something holding one of us back.
When I left to get my doctorate, Rose and I simply headed in different directions. It’s the way it is, but we’ve remained good friends. She’s seeing someone now, so no rekindling for us.
“So, how are you, my dear? The ol’ ball and chain let you get out of the house, eh?”
She tucks dark brown waves behind her ears and rolls her eyes again. “He’s very secure and trusting, thank you very much.”
“Oh, well, lucky you. So when do I get to meet the love of your life, finally?”
She shrugs. “He’s out of town. Maybe when he gets back.”
“Let’s do a dinner party. You look fantastic, by the way.”
Rose has always been gorgeous and fashionable. Currently, she’s wearing a silvery top that falls gently off the shoulders, paired with skinny jeans and red strappy heels.
She does a cute little pose, thrusts her hip to the side, and blows me a kiss. “Thank you.”
I turn to Justin. This is the first time we’ve seen each other in months. We shake hands. “What’s up, bro? How’s teaching?”
Justin Briggs is a friend of mine from undergrad, too. Now, he’s teaching statistics at the university.
Justin’s wearing a button-up tucked into pressed slacks and polished dress shoes, all in black, a color he always wears. His black hair is fingered back like mine, and he finishes off the look with his trademark thick-framed black glasses.
“Some of the girls won’t leave me alone. Hell, some of the guys, too. I… didn’t expect that.”
“Well, think about how tenured professors look. Now, here comes this young, dapper, suave man to teach them stats. I bet they’ll actually love stats by the end of the term. They’ll get all A’s just to get your attention. At least, they’ll listen to what you have to say, amirite?”
Justin huffs at me. “Unlike you, I’m not meat.”
“You love this meat.”
“That’s what she said.” Rose clamps a hand over her mouth and laughs.
Justin winces. “God, you did not just say that. Wes here is rubbing off on you.”
I chuckle. “Who knew Rose would be into ‘she said’ jokes?”
“I don’t,” she quips, looking at both of us like ‘meat’ as she sips her cocktail. “Seriously, you two have no right to be so hot. It should be a crime.”
“And it’s a crime to drink something fruity and pink when we’re at a beer joint,” I retort.
“Psh…” She waves me off. “I’m not a beer girly, which you know very well.”
I slap the table with both hands. “We need shots!”
Rose raises her hands and shakes her head. “No shots!”
“We definitely need shots,” Justin says.
“That’s my guy! I knew we were friends for a reason.”
Rose groans. “Fine, but if I get drunk, you’d better make sure I don’t throw up all over my clothes.”
I kiss her cheek. She smells just like her namesake. “I love how you give in so easily.”
“It’s hard to say no to Wes Ellison.”
“That’s a much easier way to live!” I yell over the music as I run off to order us some drinks.
When I reach the bar, there’s a group of college girls ordering drinks in front of me. I don’t engage with them beyond giving them a polite smile. College girls were for college, not for a grown-ass man who’s attempting at adulting.
In fact, most of the women here are pretty young. Bummer. Maybe I need to drag my friends to a place that serves an older crowd.
“What can I getcha?” the bartender asks.
“I’d like three stone-cold stinger shots and a Ninkasi Gold Lager.”
While he goes off to make our shots, I sit at the bar, tapping my fingers and looking at the people, hoping to find a woman to bring home for the night. It’s been like a month since I got laid last. I’m so off my game.
But it’s not a woman who catches my eye and accelerates my heart.
It can’t be.
Nooo…
Is that Jared ‘Jett’ Cordier, the middle-distance runner, who excelled at both the 800 and the 1500-meter?
He was supposed to compete at the 2024 Summer Olympics in Paris, but he was a no-show for his heat in the 800-meter qualifying round and later in the 1500-meter event.
He was supposed to be a contender for the gold.
The public never really heard from him again.
That didn’t stop the crazy rumors about him, from overdosing on drugs to a secret baby to suicide.
Eventually, the news died down when the truth never came out. What are the odds?
I take a closer look, but I’m not entirely sure it’s him since it’s dark in here. He’s sitting alone, nursing a beer in the far corner of the bar, like he’s drinking and hiding.
I stare harder at the growing familiarity, from his umber skin, cropped black hair, and it’s hard to miss his runner’s body.
God, I really think it’s him, but it’s been a few years.
Jett’s a little older than I am and was raised in Cannon Beach.
Dennis and I worshiped him when we were growing up.
Jett almost became an Olympic hero in our town.
Even if he didn’t make it, he was talented as fuck, and fast as hell.
His run time in the Olympic trials was 3:30.
57, a hair’s breadth away from Cole Hocker’s time, which was 3:30.
59. In the 800-meter, he was more of a wild card, but still the name on everyone’s lips.
Then Jett vanished. Poof. Gone. Cole Hocker went on to win the gold for the men’s 1500-meter at 3:27.65, which was an Olympic record. That could’ve been Jett. No, that should’ve been Jett.
“Do you wanna start a tab?” the bartender asks. I yank my attention away to hand him my credit card. “Yeah, thanks. Put it under Wes.”
“You got it.”
I precariously wrap my fingers around all three shot glasses with my beer glass tucked in my arm and carry them to the table.
“What shot did you get?” Rose asks.
“Stone-cold stingers. It’s got J?germeister, Goldschl?ger, and Rumple Minze.”
“Sounds like a hangover waiting to happen,” Justin says, lifting the small glass and holding it up to the light. He sniffs at it and winces.
“They’re tasty. Trust me. They may give you a little hangover. Nothing that a lot of water won’t cure.”
I raise my shot glass. “To the start of being grown-ass adults!” I say in a cheer.
My friends raise their glasses, too. We clink them and toss the drinks down.
“Whoo! Strong, baby!” I yell.
Justin clenches his jaw while Rose coughs and places a hand on her chest. “God, one’s enough for me. They’re surprisingly not bad, though.”
I lean forward over the table, beckoning my friends to come closer. “Don’t look now, but is that Jett Cordier? You know, the runner who was supposed to be in the 2024 Paris Olympics?”
“How can I answer that if you don’t let us look?” Justin asks.
“Ugh, you know what I mean, Mr. Serious. Just don’t fucking stare.”
They glance over at the bar, but both shrug, while Justin says, “It’s hard to tell from here. Possibly? I’m not a runner like you, so I don’t know all the athletes.”
Rose finishes off her cocktail. “Yeah, I have no idea. I’m a dancer. I don’t follow track and field at all.”
I take a sip of beer and stand straight. “I’m gonna go talk to him.”
Justin scoffs at me. “Dude, he looks like he wants to be left alone. He’s tucked all the way in the corner.”
I’m determined, though. I have to take a risk. What are the chances of meeting my hero, if it’s even him? “Be right back.”
“Wes…” Rose warns.
I ignore her and grab my beer.
As if by divine intervention, the person sitting next to Jett leaves to go dance, so I swoop in and snag the stool.
He doesn’t look my way, staring out at nothing, but I’m close enough now to recognize him. He’s definitely Jett. His black hair isn’t buzzed anymore, but he’s got a fade on the back and sides. His face is leaner, more angled, too.
My stomach tingles weirdly. God, why am I so nervous? I make a mental note to text Den and tell him who I ran into, of all places.
“Hey, Jett Cordier? Wes Ellison.” I hold out my hand for him to shake.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but we went to high school together.
Probably not. I was a freshman when you were a senior.
I run cross-country, or I did for the Ducks.
Well, I still run, but I don’t race anymore.
I’m a physical therapist now. Work over at the university.
But we practically grew up together. Man, my best bud and I watched all your races. You’re amazing, and…”
And he’s not taking my hand while I vomit my word salad like a love-struck fool.
“Ah, sorry,” I say, and rest my hand on the wooden counter of the bar, squirming awkwardly.
Jett finally glances my way and looks at me with no expression. “I don’t remember you.”
I laugh nervously and run my fingers through my hair. “Yeah, well, I was just a kid when you were burning it up on the track.”
“Uh-huh…”
“So, you back at Cannon Beach?”
“Nope.”
“Ah. You move here into town?”
“Look, nice to meet you, Wilson, but I gotta go.”
“It’s… Wes…”
And there he goes.
What did I say?
He didn’t even finish his beer. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or annoyed. Well, my rambling didn’t fucking help. God, you’re an idiot, Wes. I should’ve listened to my friends, but when do I ever?