Training With My Worst Enemy

Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Cold Stadium

I made it to the training field earlier than expected. The stadium lights bled through the thick morning fog, casting long, eerie shadows across the red polyurethane track.

Nobody was around except the night security guard, who shone his flashlight in my direction as I stepped onto the grass.

"Hey! What's a kid doing out here at this hour?" he called out, squinting through the mist. "The track doesn't officially open until five."

I didn't know how to answer that without explaining my crazy life, so I just gave him a quick wave and kept moving. "Just warming up, sir!"

I adjusted my laces and immediately got to work. I drove through high-knees, dynamic stretches, and leg openers, pushing the residual bite of the morning chill out of my muscles. Back and forth, I sprinted from one end of the straightaway to the other, letting the rhythm of my breath drown out the anger from yesterday.

Twenty minutes later, heavy footsteps echoed from the tunnel.

I cut my sprint short and coasted to a stop as Mike walked onto the field. The stadium lights caught his dark hair. He wore black athletic clothes that looked annoyingly expensive and perfectly arranged.

He didn’t look tired at all. He looked cold, broad-shouldered, and irritatingly put-together.

I crossed my arms over my chest and pulled a cold smirk of my own.

"Someone told me not to show up looking weak," I said, checking my watch. "Yet here you are, late to your own party."

Mike didn't even flinch. He just pulled up his sleeve, glanced at his watch, and looked down at me with those cold gray-blue eyes.

"Check your watch again, Lin," he said, his voice smooth and completely unbothered. "It's 4:55 AM. Practice starts at five. You being early doesn't make me late—it just makes you desperate."

I clenched my fists, the anger spiking in my chest all over again. "Desperate? I came early to get actual work done before you showed up to ruin my mood."

Mike dropped his gym bag onto the bleachers with a heavy thud. He unzipped his jacket, revealing a tight black compression shirt that showed off his athletic frame.

"If that's what you call work, you're in deeper trouble than I thought," he said, walking onto the track. He stopped right in front of me, leaning down slightly so we were eye-to-eye.

"Your posture is too high, your knees aren't driving up far enough, and you're wasting energy. You look like a jogger, not a sprinter."

"I don't need a lecture from you, Vance," I snapped, taking a step back to get out of his space.

"You don't get a choice," Mike replied, pulling a silver stopwatch from his pocket. "Your dad put me in charge of your timing. Now get on the line."

He held up the stopwatch and pointed down the lane, his arrogant smirk fading into a sharp, serious expression.

"Show me what you've got, Lin. Let's see if you can back up that big mouth."

I didn't move an inch toward the line. Instead, I crossed my arms and stared right back into his gray-blue eyes, matching his cold expression.

"I'm not running solo while you stand there playing coach," I said, my voice cutting through the chilly morning air. "If you want to measure my speed, run beside me."

Mike let out a low, disbelieving laugh, tossing the stopwatch from hand to hand.

"Are you out of your mind? I’m a senior sprinter, Lin. You’re just setting yourself up to get embarrassed."

"What's the matter, Vance?" I stepped closer, tilting my chin up. "Afraid a junior girl might actually push you?"

The lazy smirk vanished from his face. His eyes darkened, the arrogance shifting into a sharp, dangerous focus. He unclipped the stopwatch strap from his wrist and tossed it onto the grass behind him.

"Alright, Lin," he said softly, walking over to the lane right next to mine. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

We both stepped up to the line. The stadium lights glowed in the fog above us, making the empty field feel like a battleground. Side by side, I could feel the heat radiating off him, his tall, muscular frame towering over mine.

"First one to the hundred-meter mark," I muttered, digging the toes of my running shoes into the synthetic track.

"On three," Mike said, lowering himself into a runner's stance.

"One."

"Two."

Three!"

We exploded off the line together.

My spikes bit into the track as I pushed forward with everything I had. The wind roared in my ears, cutting through the freezing morning air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mike’s dark form charging beside me. He was terrifyingly fast, his long strides covering double the ground.

I can beat him. Just three more meters.

Driven by pure anger and adrenaline, I leaned forward, driving my legs harder toward the finish line. But in my desperation to gap him my back foot clipped the inside edge of the lan.

My knee buckled sharply outward.

"Ah!"

A violent shot of pain exploded through my ankle. My body lost balance mid-stride, and before I could catch myself, Mike’s broad shoulder collided right into me as he crossed the line. The impact sent me crashing sideways, scraping my arms and knees hard against the rough track surface.

I slid to a halt, gasping for air as a burning sensation throbbed in my left foot.

Mike crossed the hundred-meter mark a split second later, pulling to a sudden stop. He turned around, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy from the sprint.

"I win," he said, out of breath. He stepped toward me with his usual smug expression, ready to talk trash. But as his eyes dropped to the way I was clutching my left ankle on the cold ground, his smirk completely vanished.

"Lin?" he asked, his voice suddenly dropping its arrogant tone.

I bit my lower lip hard to keep from crying out, glaring up at him through the pain.

"Get away from me, Vance," I choked out, trying and failing to stand up.