Chapter 2
Jett
I burst through the exit, cool evening air hitting my face. Sucking in a clipped breath, I stumble down the sidewalk, nearly bumping into a group of college kids. I’m struggling to breathe, and my heart feels like it’s clawing out of my chest.
“Watch it, dude!” A guy snaps, and his girl giggles. I ignore them, rushing the hell out of here.
There are people everywhere, loud happy voices, bodies moving from one bar to another, and the telltale tunnel vision is starting to make me nauseous.
After several weekends cooped up, I finally psyched myself up to leave my apartment. I knew it wasn’t a good idea, though, and I was right. No way was I ready to be out drinking and dancing.
I realized my mistake the second I entered that bar. A quick look at the demographic told me everything I needed to know. It was a college-kid haven, also known as hell on earth for anyone else unless you’re thoroughly intoxicated.
If it weren’t for Janelle, my older sister’s bossy voice in my head, I would’ve turned on my heel and left right away, or not gone at all.
‘Just go for a drink, Jett. You know it’s time. New town, new you.’
I don’t even drink. I’m not supposed to with the cocktail of medication I’m on. It’s all anti-this and anti-that.
Janelle is relentless in her efforts to get me back out there. She never rests. Not when it came to applying for the assistant coach job, which was pretty much her ultimatum. Especially not when it comes to getting a social life for the first time. She means well and only wants what’s best for me.
‘One drink. Remember, you need to expose yourself to people, or it’ll never get any better.’
For the past year, my psychiatrist’s exposure therapy has become the bane of my fucking existence. If I’d had my way, I would’ve stayed in my sister’s basement apartment in Hillsboro for the rest of my life, but that’s obviously not the way she rolls.
‘Either you apply for this job, which has your name written all over it, or you can move back in with Mom and Dad. That’s it. I’m over watching you fade away right in front of my eyes.’
When I’d objected, she’d picked up her phone and threatened to call Mom.
‘You’re an amazing uncle and brother, and I love you to death, but no twenty-nine-year-old is supposed to be best friends with a four- and six-year-old.’
My sister, brother-in-law, and their kids have been the only people I can stand being around since being released from inpatient psychiatric care a little over a year ago.
While I couldn’t avoid Mom’s occasional visits to check on me, at least Dad left me alone after his golden child turned out to be a mere human and an epic failure.
My chest squeezes, that familiar tightening sensation returning whenever I think about that day. My legs shake as nausea builds, bile rising in my throat. I maneuver past a group of girls snapping selfies, focusing on getting the hell out of here.
2024 was supposed to be my year, something Dad never failed to remind me of.
I’d qualified for the Olympics in Paris.
Everyone was talking about the possibility of two Olympic medals.
In the 1500-meters, the gold was going to be between me, Cole Hocker, or Josh Kerr.
Everything Dad and I had worked for since I was a little kid was finally going to culminate in one perfect moment where I’d bring home the gold to the US and forever write myself into Olympic history. Yeah, right.
I push off the wall, round the corner of the busy street, and jog toward the parking lot where I parked my Nissan Leaf. I bought it after I moved to Eugene. Janelle co-signed the loan and lent me the down payment on the condo I’m renting.
I hate being dependent on her, but it’s useless to argue. Janelle and her husband, Owen, own a restaurant in Hillsboro. While they’re doing well, they aren’t exactly rolling in money. Just something else I can add to the list of things I resent about myself.
I get into my car, grip the steering wheel, and rest my head against it. I take deep breaths to calm myself again, but the sudden flood of memories won’t let up.
Sometimes I feel everyone is looking at me, talking about me, their voices mingling with Dad’s when he found me curled up in my hotel bathroom in Paris, puking my guts out.
He’d come to look for me after I didn’t show at the Olympic Stadium for my 1500-meter qualifying heat.
It should’ve been a formality, a mere walk in the park, and suddenly it became an insurmountable obstacle. I felt like I was going to die.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.’ His words are imprinted on my soul forever. ‘After everything your mother and I have sacrificed for you. After everything your grandparents suffered to come to the US and better their lives. Ungrateful.’
That word had been the soundtrack of my childhood whenever I failed in his eyes.
God forbid I asked for an afternoon off from practice to go to the movies or take a weekend trip with my friends.
Whenever I wanted something for myself that wasn’t linked to running, that word would hit me like a bucket of ice water. Ungrateful.
Right before he closed the bathroom door, leaving me on the floor, his next words gut-punched me. ‘I knew you’d mess this up.’
I was twenty-seven, and in the blink of an eye, my life was over. Without Dad’s approval, I didn’t exist.
After that, everything was a blur. Mom and Janelle found me halfway across the balcony railing in my hotel room, barely managing to pull me off it.
I was medevaced back to the US, heavily medicated with a medical escort, and was later admitted into psychiatric care in Portland.
When I was discharged after a week, Janelle took me in, and Mom visited from time to time. I haven’t seen or talked to Dad since. Like a sick limb, he cut me from his life.
Luckily, I don’t get recognized often. That’s why that guy at the bar completely blindsided me with his overly enthusiastic word vomit. If I’d been prepared, I wouldn’t be sitting in my car, counting the duration of my inhales and exhales.
‘You’re amazing.’ His words surge through me, and a new spell of nausea builds in my stomach. I haven’t been amazing for a long time.
When my breathing is under control, and I know I’m not going to puke all over the steering wheel, I start the car and drive back to my apartment, my one sanctuary.
I won’t sleep much tonight, but my psychiatrist assures me that once I start working, I’ll be so exhausted physically and mentally that my insomnia will disappear.
God, I hope so. I’m so over staring at the ceiling every night, waiting for the first light of dawn so I can pull on my running gear and run down deserted streets until I no longer feel anything.
Until there’s only the dull ache in my limbs and the quiet numbness that follows.
Until a word like amazing is completely expelled from my vocabulary.
I drag myself to work in the morning, the panic from last night now a dull ache in my bones.
I try to focus on the day ahead, but the fatigue following a panic attack always leaves me zombie-like.
While I know everything there is to know about running, only time will tell if I’ll be remotely decent in my new professional role as assistant coach for the Oregon Ducks track and field program, or if I’ll fail at that too.
I’ve never had a job before. No newspaper routes growing up.
No summer job at that frozen yogurt place like Janelle.
No serving coffee throughout college. I didn’t have to since I was on a full scholarship.
My entire life was dedicated to running, running, and more running.
It was all I ever did. I lived and breathed it.
I loved and hated it in equal measure. I loved it because of the few scraps of praise Dad gave me when I held his undivided attention.
I hated it because my life wasn’t mine, not even for a second.
At least now, as fucked up as I am, I’m somewhat free. At least now, my life, as boring and pathetic as it is, is mine.
“Lindsey!” I wave over our so-called star runner on the women’s 800-meter team. “Over here.”
She jogs toward me, a hesitant look in her eyes, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side. She smiles carefully when she reaches me. “Yes, Coach Cordier?”
I cross my arms in front of my chest, narrowing my gaze on her. “Busy weekend?”
She frowns at me, then nods. “Yes, I had an English essay and stayed up a little late.”
“So no bar hopping?”
She pales, her eyes widening. “Absolutely not, Coach. I would never during the season.”
She doesn’t appear to be lying, but I don’t know any of the athletes well enough to tell whether they’re being truthful. It’s only my third day in the track and field program. “So you’re just intentionally wasting both of our time then? Is that it?”
Shock washes over Lindsey’s freckled face, a trace of indignation flashing in her blue eyes. She opens her mouth to defend herself, but instead slumps her shoulders in defeat. “Sorry, Coach. I’m just… I didn’t sleep much last night.”
A faint memory tugs at me. Dad’s disapproving, judging eyes, his deep voice spilling over with disappointment. ‘Sometimes I think you do it on purpose, Jared, because you don’t want to run anymore. Is that true? Don’t you want to run anymore?’
‘No! I wanna run, Dad. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’ll do better, I swear. Just… I wanna run.’
‘You sure? Because sometimes it feels like you’re self-sabotaging.’
‘I’m not. I swear.’
‘Your grandparents started from nothing when they came to this country. They came with only the clothes on their backs and a dream.’
I’ve lost count of how many times over the years I had to listen to my immigrant grandparents’ journey from the Ivory Coast to the US. Their struggles and sacrifices lived in my head every day because my dad never let me forget, always holding them over my head.
‘Don’t you want them to be proud of you? Don’t you want to be the best?’
‘Yes! I wanna be the best. I won’t let you down, Dad.’
“Coach Cordier?” Lindsey tilts her head, confusion in her eyes.
I rub at my chest, a dull heaviness lingering. Lindsey continues to stare at me like she’s waiting for my verdict.
“Just… let’s stop for now. Go to class or whatever.”
Relief moves through her eyes, and her body visibly relaxes. “Yes, Coach.” So young and so eager.
She jogs toward the benches and picks up her gym bag, then throws it over her shoulder.
I should give her a break. She’s only nineteen, a sweet girl really, but no one ever gave me a damn break.
Perfection and breaks don’t go hand in hand, so I call out after her.
“Come back with a better attitude this afternoon, Ms. Cole, or don’t come back at all! ”
She turns and nods curtly, her eyes downcast. It’s a low blow even for me. She has no choice but to come back since she’s on a full scholarship. No running, no degree. Just like I had to, Lindsey will have to suck it up throughout her college experience.
Janelle would smack me if she saw me right now.
Unexpected softness curls in my chest. “Get some sleep and some food, Lindsey,” I call out when she’s just about halfway up the stairs to one of the pedestrian corridors that lead into Campus.
Lindsey turns, smiling carefully, then gives me a wave. “Sure thing. Thanks, Coach Cordier.”
Most of our track and field practice takes place outdoors at the newly renovated Hayward Field, a world-class track and field facility, when the weather permits.
It’s not a coincidence that Eugene is often referred to as the running capital of the world, or TrackTown USA.
There’s a lot at stake here, and it isn’t just scholarships that are on the line if we don’t meet expectations.
The athletics director made that perfectly clear when I was offered the job.
I should get going, too. I have a staff meeting later, and I need some coffee.
I pick up my clipboard and my backpack, about to head in the direction of our head coach, Victor Anyango. Originally from Kenya, he won several World Cups in his day. After retiring, he moved to the US and coached at several universities until he was recruited by the Ducks eight years ago.
I’m halfway there when someone yells from across the field where the 400-meter hurdle runners have been practicing all morning. One of the male runners is waving frantically at me, trying to get my attention.
“Coach Cordier, we need help over here!” The kid yells, then bends over a female runner on the ground, clutching her ankle. Fucking great.
I jog in their direction, and when I get there, it’s clear her injury isn’t just a minor bruise.
Her ankle is red and swollen, almost twice its size.
She’s doing her best not to cry. I instantly recognize the desperation and the fear on her face.
The look that asks, ‘Is this it? Is this how it ends?’
It appears to be a sprain, but it could be worse.
“What happened?” I ask the guy helping her.
“It looked like Jenny’s left foot got caught in the hurdle.”
The girl nods, still clutching her leg. “I don’t know what happened. When I landed, there was this snap, and then my leg disappeared under me.” She winces, and tears gather in her eyes.
I wipe my hand across my face. If it were me, I’d do the good old RICE method: rest, ice, compression, and elevation, but the fact that Jenny mentioned a snapping sound doesn’t sit right with me.
“Jenny, is it?” I offer her a smile I don’t feel.
“Yes,” she sniffles. “Jenny Matthews.”
“Okay, Jenny, let’s get you over to Sports Medicine, okay? We need to get you looked at properly.”
She nods, her eyes huge and worried. “Okay.”
I give the guy a flat look. “And you are?”
“Harrison,” he swallows. “Harrison Warren.”
“Harrison, help me get her up. You get one side, I’ll get the other.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“And Jenny, try to stay off your foot, okay?”
She nods solemnly, tears clinging to her eyelashes. “Yes, Coach.”
Yes, Coach. I’m going to regret this, aren’t I? I shouldn’t have young kids depending on me when I can hardly take care of myself. The Jennys, the Lindseys, and the Harrisons of this world don’t need someone like me, but right now, I guess I’m all they’ve got.
“Let’s go.”