Training With My Worst Enemy

Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Medical Room

"I will take you to the medical room for your leg," Mike said, his voice flat as he reached down toward me.

"Don't touch me!" I snapped, slapping his hand away. My ankle burned with a sharp, throbbing pain, but I forced myself to glare straight into his eyes. "You did this on purpose so I wouldn't beat you, didn't you?"

His expression changed instantly. The arrogant smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp glare.

"Did you really think I would do something like that just to win against you?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous tone.

"Yes!" I yelled, my voice cracking with anger. "You couldn't stand the thought of a scholarship girl running right beside you!"

Mike stared at me for a second, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle flexed in his cheek.

"I didn't touch you until you clipped the inside edge of the lane and fell into my lane, Lin,” he said coldly. "You tripped over your own footwork because you were rushing."

"Liar!" I pushed myself up, trying to stand on my own to prove him wrong. But the moment my left foot touched the track, a fresh surge of agony shot straight up my leg. My knee buckled, and I started falling backward.

Before I hit the cold ground, two strong arms caught me by the waist.

"Let me go!" I hit his shoulder, but he didn't even flinch.

Without another word, Mike slid one arm under my knees and scooped me up off the track. Heat radiated through his compression shirt, cutting through the freezing morning fog.

"Stop moving before you make it worse," Mike growled, turning toward the stadium tunnel. "And save your breath. You're going to need it when your dad sees this.”

Mike pushed through the heavy doors of the athletic building, carrying me down the silent hallway. Pain throbbed through my ankle with every step he took.

"Put me down," I whispered furiously, clutching his shoulders. "I can walk."

"You can barely stand, Lin. Stop talking." Mike didn't even look at me. His eyes were fixed on the sign for the medical office at the end of the hall.

We were just a few feet from the door when it suddenly swung open.

My heart dropped straight to my stomach.

My father stood in the doorway, holding a clipboard and a whistle. He froze the second his eyes landed on us. Mike, sweat dripping down his neck, held me tightly against his chest while I clutched his shirt.

For three terrifying seconds, the hallway was dead silent.

"What is the meaning of this?" Coach Lin's voice echoed off the walls, cold and sharp enough to cut glass.

Mike stopped in his tracks, but he didn't drop his head or look guilty. He kept his grip firm around my knees and back, standing tall despite my dad's furious glare.

"Maya had an accident on the track, Coach," Mike said, his voice instantly dropping into that calm, respectful tone he used with adults. "She clipped the inside edge of the lane during a hundred-meter sprint. I think she sprained her ankle."

My dad stepped out into the hallway, his dark eyes shifting from Mike to me, taking in my scraped knees and the way I was gritting my teeth against the pain.

"An accident?" Dad asked, walking toward us with heavy, deliberate steps. "Or were you two fooling around instead of following the training plan I gave you?"

"It wasn't an accident!" I choked out, trying to pull myself away from Mike's chest. "He crowded my lane, Dad! He pushed me!"

Mike's jaw clenched, but he stayed silent, refusing to defend himself in front of my father.

Dad looked at Mike, then down at my swollen ankle. His expression remained unreadable, but for half a second, something tight crossed his face before he buried it beneath his usual stern expression. He pointed toward the examination table inside the room.

"Set her down, Vance," Dad commanded softly. "Now.”

Mike carefully set me down on the edge of the padded examination table. The moment my foot dangled free, a fresh wave of heat pulsed through my ankle.

I waited for my dad to shout at him for crowding my lane or for being reckless with his star athlete's training partner.

Instead, my father didn't even look at Mike. He walked straight over to the supply cabinet, pulled out a bag of crushed ice and an elastic wrap, and tossed them onto the metal tray beside me.

"You're forty days away from the Athletic Academy regional trials, Maya," Dad said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.

"Forty days."

"Dad, I'm telling you, he—"

"I don't care who was in your lane!" Dad snapped, slamming the cabinet door shut. The loud BANG echoed through the small room, making me flinch. "A real athlete controls their own space on the track. You let your temper control your movement, you got sloppy, and now you're sitting on a medical table with a sprained ankle."

My face burned with shame. "I was running at full speed! He was right on my shoulder—"

"And you tried to prove a point instead of running your own race!" Dad cut me off, stepping right up to the table. His dark eyes were cold, devoid of any fatherly comfort. "You know what the Athletic scouts look for, Maya? It isn't just raw speed. It's discipline. It's knowing when to hold your line and when not to take stupid, reckless risks."

He gestured toward my swelling ankle, his voice laced with bitter disappointment.

"Look at you. You’re fighting for a scholarship that could change your entire life, and you just put that opportunity at risk because you couldn’t keep your head clear for a hundred meters.”

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper, refusing to let a single tear drop in or in front of Mike, who was still standing quietly by the door.

"I can still run," I muttered through gritted teeth, staring down at my bruised knees. "It's just a twist."

"You won't be running anything for the next week," Dad said firmly, grabbing the ice pack and pressing it directly onto my swollen joint. I gasped at the sharp, freezing shock, but I forced my expression to remain stone.

Dad turned his back on me and finally looked at Mike.

"Vance," Dad said, his tone shifting back to coach-mode. "Practice is officially over for the morning. Go get cleaned up for class."

"Coach," Mike acknowledged smoothly with a brief nod. He turned to leave, but right before he stepped out into the hallway, his gray-blue eyes flicked over to me resting on the table.

For a second, the arrogant mask dropped, and I caught a look of intense, quiet frustration in his eyes—not at my dad, but at me.

Then he turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone with my father, my aching ankle, and the bitter realization that I had put my own dream at risk.