Maybe then they’ll get off my case. I may have sociopathic tendencies, but I take care of what’s mine. The others in this school mean nothing to me. Right now, it’s just Shelaine. She’s the one thing that matters. I finally found the one thing I would kill for and possibly even die for.
Rolling my shoulders, I call over the students and start to line them up based on skill. It’s a tough call for some of them, but soon, they’re in the order I want them. Leaning down, I stretch out, taking my time to feel the familiar burn as it flows from my arch, then to my Achilles tendon, up to my gastrocs, and into my hamstrings.
I shift a bit and open my pelvis, stretching out my piriformis, glutes, and then my psoas and iliopsoas. Once everything from my hips down is stretched out, I move up to my arms and back. My eyes nearly roll back in my head as I pull my arm over my chest in a nice cross-body shoulder stretch and really work out my rotator cuff muscles.
Since coming to Loftry, I’ve let my routine go. It feels nice to get back into it. Looking over to the side, I watch as they mimic my movements, stretching far more than they did earlier. I’ll have to start each training session out with a good stretch fest.
Once my body is limber, I motion for the closest student and point to the line at our feet. “What’s your name?”
“Tasha,” she replies, her face already red from the sun and exertion.
She might be the fastest one on the team, but she’s pushing herself far too hard. I can see it in the pinched lines of her face, in the harsh shallow breathing. She’s good at what she does, but she’s going to burn out. I’ve seen it far too many times. How in the hell did the previous coach train them?
“Tell you what, Tasha. If you can beat me in this sprint, then you can teach the class at the next meet-up.”
Her eyes gleam as she leans down, dragging her fingers along the white marker. Competition is high with her, and it suits her. It’s probably why, despite bad training, she’s doing as well as she is. But even with that drive, she’s not going to beat me. I’ve been watching her, noting her stride, studying the way her hips move.
She’s not utilizing her large, upper-leg muscles to their fullest potential, and she’s certainly not activating her glutes as much as she can. Instead, she’s relying mostly on her gastrocs, tibialis muscles, and feet to do all the work. I’m surprised she doesn’t have hairline fractures in her tibia and fibula.
Little things, small changes that can make a huge impact. The main thing will be to untrain them and show them how to get it right. That’s going to be the hard part. I have no clue how long their last coach worked with them, so it’s impossible to say how long it will take to correct these bad habits.
Leaning down as well, I shout over to the other students for one of them to count us off. Once I hear the word go, I take off in a flurry of movement. My glutes, hamstrings, and quads pump out, pulling me forward. Winning or not, the running is exhilarating.
The way the wind kisses my body as I sprint forward, the blur of everything around me. This is my safe space, my haven. At this moment, no one can touch me, not even the student struggling to keep up. By the time I hit the other marker and turn to come back, she’s only about halfway.
For a moment, I catch the expression on her face and note the self-recrimination. I see it a lot in the runners I teach. It’s not her fault, but she will never believe that. I know her type. Until she can be the best, there’s just no point. She will never settle for second, and until this moment, she had been first. That is until I blew her out of the water.
Once I reach the first line again, I stop and let my body cool down as I wait for her to get to me. Either sweat or tears line the bottom of her eyes, and I suppose I should feel sorry for her, but I don’t. Just like there are no tears in baseball, there are no tears in running. You either win or don’t. And if you don’t, you figure out why and fix it.
“Not bad. Next week we’ll focus on what went wrong. For someone as badly trained as you have been, your time is pretty good.”
“That’s not good enough,” she sputters, her fingers shaking as she pushes her hair off of her face.
Frowning, I cross my arms and study her, noting the way her body vibrates as she stands there. Something’s not right, but I’m not a doctor. I’ll just have to keep an eye on it.
“All of you hit the showers. If you haven’t done your cool-down stretches, do those first. Get enough electrolytes and start studying up on running from the hips.”
After a few smatterings of groaning, they take off in clumps, heading to the gym showers, but Tasha stays behind, her hands planted on her hips.
“Show me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said show me. You obviously know some trick or gimmick. Something that makes you run insanely fast. I want you to show me.”
Ahh. Classic overachiever. I had my suspicions, but now, they’re confirmed. “I’ll be teaching you all how to run better and safer next week. Now go stretch out.”
I push past, wanting to go to my own shower to remove the sticky grime, but she doesn’t let me. Instead, she puts herself in my path and refuses to let me pass.
“That’s not good enough. You need to show me now. I need to be better now!”
Pulling back, I lean against a nearby fence and cross my arms. “Why? Got an important track meet I wasn’t made aware of? What’s the hurry?”
Her eyes dart back and forth as she fiddles with her shirt for a moment. There’s definitely something off with this girl, but I only teach people how to run. I don’t control their lives. If she’s doing or taking something that impedes her ability to perform, then I’ll step in.
More than likely, she’s just stressed, but I have no idea why. We’re not scheduled for a track meet for at least a month. I made that part of my stipulation. I wanted enough time with them to assess them and work with them. I may be many things, and I may fail at being a decent human being sometimes, but I don’t half-ass this.
Track and field are my life. I’ll never do anything that either jeopardizes my ability to run or the safety of those I teach. I want time to cultivate them, turning them into running machines. There are two types of students that show up for this class - the ones that actually want to be runners and want to succeed and the ones that just picked a gym class at random.
Typically, the ones that want to be here also do track as a side sport and not just for gym class. Since the ones here are in both, I can only assume the others dropped out once they realized an actual effort was involved. No one takes track and field as their gym class and just sits around.
Other teachers may do it that way, but I refuse. If you’re here, you’re here to run. That’s why I don’t do grades. You either excel and do as you’re taught, or you fail. It’s that simple.
If they at least try, they pass. The only stress I want on them is the stress of winning. But even then, I want it to be a motivating type of stress, more like excitement. The thrill of not only running but conquering.
After several moments, she looks back up at me, her eyes shining. I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. It’s not that tears don’t affect me; it’s more like unnecessary tears annoy the hell out of me. And there’s no reason she should be crying. Even though she didn’t beat me, I gave her a compliment. I don’t just toss those about. Granted, she doesn’t exactly know me yet, but still…. Girls and their drama.
“I-I just need to win. Okay? I need to be the best.”
“Okay. But you are. You’re the best in your class right now. That’s why I had you race me. To truly see where you’re at.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t beat you, did I?”
Raising my hand, I pinch the bridge of my nose. This girl just isn’t going to give this a rest. I’m not giving her a special class, not unless she signs up for tutoring or something, but now that Shelaine is in the forefront of my mind, extracurriculars will just have to wait. At least until I claim her.