Chapter 3 Media Circus

Zara’s POV

The metal fence rattled as I gripped the wire, staring at the woman standing on the other side. Esther wore a white polo shirt with the league logo printed over the chest, a green volunteer lanyard dangling from her neck. She smiled, stepping forward to meet me at the gate.

“I thought I would find you out here avoiding the locker room crowds,” Esther observed.

“You should not be here,” I warned.

“I am volunteering for the medical coordination team this season because I wanted to see you again,” Esther offered. “We left things in a bad place three years ago and I want to fix that.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, letting out a long breath to steady myself. Seeing her face brought back memories of shared dorm rooms and late-night study sessions from our college years. She used to hold my starting blocks during practice before the sponsorships and the cameras arrived.

A familiar warmth settled in my chest, followed immediately by a spike of unease. Esther had vanished the moment my sponsors dropped me, leaving my text messages unread while I learned how to walk without crutches.

“You vanished when I needed you,” I stated.

“I panicked,” Esther admitted, reaching out to rest her hand on the metal fence. “Watching you fall broke my heart, Zara. I did not know how to help you when the money disappeared and the media turned on you. I was a coward, but I want to make amends now.”

“I don’t need amends right now,” I told her. “I need to survive this training camp without tearing my hamstring again.”

“I know,” Esther agreed. “That is why I took the coordination job. I already looked at Ethan’s schedule, moving your physical therapy blocks to the opposite end of the building so you never have to see him off the track.”

I frowned, stepping back from the fence. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“I am just trying to protect you,” Esther insisted. “I remember the radio interview you gave last year where you called him a reckless hazard who ruined the sport. The league wants to force a friendly reunion, but I know you still hate him.”

“I don’t need you managing my grudges or my schedule,” I snapped.

Esther raised her hands in surrender, taking a step back toward the parking lot. “I am on your side, Zara. Let me help you navigate this place so you can focus on the Olympic qualifier.”

She turned, walking away before I could respond. I picked up my duffel bag, heading toward the train station, turning her words over in my mind. She remembered an obscure radio interview from a year ago, which meant she had been tracking my press mentions while ignoring my phone calls. The realization left a bitter taste in my mouth, but I pushed it aside as I boarded the train.

The media room smelled like burnt coffee and warm plastic later that week. Bright lights glared down at the folding table where Ethan and I sat side by side behind a row of microphones.

Reporters packed the small room, holding recorders, shouting questions over each other while league executives watched from the sidelines. The league had mandated this press event to launch their redemption narrative, framing our forced partnership as a story of forgiveness.

I stared at the back wall, counting the ceiling tiles to avoid looking at Ethan.

“Ethan, over here,” a reporter shouted from the second row. “The public wants to know how you feel about sharing a lane with the woman whose career you ended. Do you owe her this qualification spot?”

Ethan leaned forward, adjusting the microphone stand. “Nobody owes anyone a spot on the track. Zara earned her place here through her past times and we are focused on the relay.”

“But you caused the crash,” another reporter interrupted. “Are you using this league to clear your conscience?”

Ethan flexed his jaw, staring at the reporter. “The crash was an accident. We are moving forward.”

I grabbed my microphone, pulling it closer to my mouth. “An accident requires two people making a mistake, but I was running in a straight line inside my designated lane when you crossed the boundary.”

The room erupted into a frenzy of flashing cameras and shouting voices as reporters scrambled to record the conflict.

Ethan turned his head, glaring at me. “I lost my footing on the curve. I have said that a hundred times.”

“You lost your footing because you were running reckless,” I fired back. “You traded your form for speed and expected me to move out of your way to accommodate your ego.”

“I expected you to hold your pace,” Ethan argued, leaning closer to me so the microphones would catch every word. “If you had not slowed down on the transition, we would not have collided.”

“Are you blaming me for the collision?” I demanded.

“I am blaming the circumstances of a high-speed race,” Ethan corrected. He pushed his chair back from the table, standing up. “We are here to train for the relay. If you want to talk about three years ago, read the official investigation report.”

Ethan walked off the stage, disappearing behind the curtain without looking back. The reporters turned their cameras on me, shouting more questions about our argument and the tension on the team. Ms. Vance rushed onto the stage, grabbing the microphone from my hand, thanking the press, abruptly ending the event before I could say another word.

I retreated to the locker room, splashing cold water on my face. My hands shook as I gripped the edges of the ceramic sink, staring at my reflection.

Arguing with Ethan on camera violated every rule Coach Miller had established about team unity, but sitting there while he called the crash a simple accident felt like swallowing glass. He still refused to take full responsibility and his denial fueled the anger that had kept me going for three years.

The evening commute back to the Bronx felt longer than usual. I walked the four blocks to my apartment from the station, locking the door behind me, dropping my keys onto the kitchen counter.

The quiet of my living room usually offered a refuge from the noise of the track, but tonight the silence felt vast and unsettled. I sat on the sofa, unlacing my sneakers, rubbing the ache out of my arches while the streetlights cast long shadows across the floor.

My phone vibrated on the coffee table.

I picked it up, unlocking the screen. A text message from an unknown number sat in my notifications. I tapped the alert, opening the message thread to find a video file and a single line of text underneath it. I pressed play on the video, turning up the volume.

The screen showed grainy footage of the Olympic trials from three years ago. It was an angle I had never seen before, filmed from the infield grass looking up at the runners rather than down from the broadcast booth.

The camera zoomed in on Ethan as he loaded into the starting blocks for his leg of the race. His hands shook as he placed them on the track. He looked pale and distracted, his eyes darting toward the stadium tunnel instead of focusing on his lane.

The video paused on his face right as the starting gun fired in the background audio. He looked terrified.

I frowned, reading the caption printed below the video file.

“Watch his face before impact. Then ask who got to him.”

My thumb hovered over the screen. I watched the clip again, studying the raw panic in Ethan’s eyes seconds before he started the race that destroyed my leg. He had not been running reckless that day. He had been running scared.

Someone had spoken to him before that race and I needed to find out who it was…