Chapter 2 The Exchange

Zara’s POV

“I want a different teammate,” I demanded, dropping the folder onto the glass desk, crossing my arms.

Ms. Vance looked up from her computer monitor, adjusting her glasses with a single finger. “Good morning to you too, Miss Cole.”

“Switch him out,” I insisted. “Put me on any other squad in this league.”

“Team assignments are non-negotiable,” Ms. Vance stated.

“Then I withdraw.” I turned toward the door, reaching out to grab the metal handle.

“If you walk out that door, the funding offer for the Bronx track club dissolves,” Ms. Vance noted.

I paused, my hand resting on the latch. “You told Dave the funding was guaranteed.”

“It is guaranteed upon your successful enrollment on the assigned team,” Ms. Vance clarified. “We sponsor active athletes, not retired coaches.”

“You are holding a children’s track hostage to force a reunion story,” I argued, stepping away from the door to face her again.

“We are securing a broadcast narrative that ensures viewership,” Ms. Vance countered. “Sponsors pay for drama and your history with Ethan Blake guarantees a high return on investment. The public wants to see if you will forgive him or fail again.”

“I don’t care what the public wants,” I replied. “I care about the kids who need that facility.”

“Then the choice is simple,” Ms. Vance suggested, sliding the contract toward the edge of her desk. “Sign the paper and secure their future.”

I hated her logic because it made sense. Dave needed the money to keep the lights on and Tasha needed a safe place to run. I marched back to the desk, pulling a pen from the holder, pressing the tip against the paper.

“Show me where to sign,” I conceded.

Ms. Vance pointed to the dotted line. “Initial the bottom corners and sign the final page.”

I scratched my name across the paper, pushing the document back across the desk.

“Welcome to the Global Relay Initiative,” Ms. Vance offered.

“Save the speech,” I snapped, turning my back to her, walking out of the office.

The afternoon sun beat down on the synthetic surface of the league training facility. I stood near the starting blocks, tying my shoelaces, double-knotting them to give my hands something to do. Several other athletes stretched on the grass, forming small groups based on past friendships. I recognized a few faces from my previous career, but nobody approached me.

“Line up on the exchange zone,” Coach Miller barked, marching onto the track with a clipboard tucked under his arm.

I stood up, walking to the designated lane. Ethan Blake stood ten feet away, wearing a league uniform that hugged his broad shoulders, emphasizing his long legs. We had not spoken in three years and the reality of standing on the same track made my chest tighten.

He offered a slight nod.

I looked past him, staring at the white painted lines on the track surface.

“You two are running the anchor leg,” Coach Miller announced. “Ethan hands off, Zara brings it home. Let’s see your timing on the exchange.”

Ethan moved to his starting position down the track. I took my stance inside the exchange zone, extending my arm backward to receive the baton.

“Go,” Coach Miller yelled.

Footsteps slapped against the track as Ethan accelerated toward me. I started my run, matching my pace to his approach while keeping my hand open and steady. The shadow of his frame fell over my lane.

“Hand,” Ethan called out.

I kept my fingers spread, waiting for the baton to hit my palm. Instead, his knuckles grazed my wrist, knocking my arm out of alignment. The baton clattered onto the track, bouncing into the infield grass.

“Clumsy,” Coach Miller criticized, writing a note on his clipboard. “Get the stick and reset.”

I jogged over to the grass, picking up the baton, wiping off the dirt. Ethan walked up beside me, his dark eyes searching my face.

“Zara, I need to...” Ethan began.

“Don’t,” I interrupted.

Ethan stopped walking. “We have to figure out this timing.”

“We will run the drill,” I replied. “We don’t need to talk.”

“I messed up the angle on the approach,” Ethan tried again.

“You messed up a lot of things,” I reminded him, tossing the baton into his chest. “Just put the stick in my hand and stay out of my way.”

Ethan caught the baton, his jaw tightening as he pressed his lips together. He turned away, walking back to his mark, choosing silence over another argument. We reset our positions, the space between us acting like a wall that neither of us wanted to climb.

“Run it,” Coach Miller ordered.

Ethan surged forward again. I took off, pushing my legs harder this time to force him to catch up. I reached back, my fingers splayed wide. The baton slapped into my palm. I gripped it, sprinting forward, digging my cleats into the track to accelerate.

The burst of speed felt good for exactly three seconds. A sharp bite of pain shot through my left hamstring, forcing me to shorten my stride. I shifted my weight to my right leg, trying to mask the uneven rhythm by dropping my shoulder, pushing through the final ten meters.

I crossed the finish line, slowing to a walk, rubbing my thigh under the guise of an active stretch.

“Bring it in,” Coach Miller shouted.

I jogged back to the group, keeping my face neutral while fighting the throbbing ache in my leg. Ethan watched my legs as I walked, narrowing his eyes, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Your handoff was late and your anchor form was sloppy,” Coach Miller evaluated, tapping his pen against the clipboard. “Zara, stay behind.”

The rest of the team dispersed toward the locker rooms. Ethan lingered for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before finally turning to follow the others.

I stood in front of the coach, crossing my arms to hide the slight tremor in my hands.

“You are favoring your left leg,” Coach Miller stated.

“I slipped on the acceleration phase,” I lied.

Coach Miller lowered his clipboard. “Do not lie to me, Miss Cole. I know your medical history and I watched you run that anchor leg. You shortened your stride to protect the muscle.”

“It is just a phantom ache,” I argued. “The doctors cleared me years ago.”

“Doctors sign paperwork,” Coach Miller countered. “I build winning teams. You are here because the league wants a redemption story to sell tickets, but I only care about race results.”

“I can run the times you need,” I assured him.

“You have one shot,” Coach Miller warned. “One actual injury, one missed practice, or one excuse and I will cut you from this roster regardless of what the front office wants. I will not compromise my team for your ego.”

“Understood,” I replied.

“Hit the ice baths,” Coach Miller ordered, turning to walk toward the administrative building.

I stayed on the track long after he left, walking over to the metal bleachers to grab my duffel bag. The facility was quiet now, the afternoon heat giving way to a cool evening breeze that swept across the empty lanes. I sat on the lowest bench, pressing my knuckles into my left thigh to massage the tight muscle.

The pain was manageable, but the fear of a second tear hovered in the back of my mind. I thought about Tasha and the kids back in the Bronx, realizing how much I had risked by signing that contract. I zipped up my bag, slinging the strap over my shoulder, preparing for the long train ride back to my apartment.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path behind the bleachers.

“Hi, Zara,” a voice spoke from the shadows. “It’s been so long.”

I froze, recognizing the pitch and tone immediately. I turned around, dropping my bag onto the bench as a cold knot formed in my stomach.

Esther stood near the chain-link fence, wearing a white polo shirt and a league volunteer lanyard around her neck. She offered a tight-lipped smile that did not reach her eyes…