Chapter 4 The Shadow on the Track

Zara’s POV

I must have replayed those three seconds at least fifty times before the clock on my nightstand ticked past midnight.

The screen of my phone glowed in the dark room while Ethan’s face looped through the same moment of panic.

His eyes darted toward the tunnel, his posture rigid, his shoulders hitched high.

He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost, not an athlete preparing to run for an Olympic spot.

I set the phone face down, staring at the ceiling as my mind raced through every memory from three years ago.

If Ethan had not been running recklessly out of arrogance, then someone had gotten into his head before the gun fired.

That meant the narrative I had built my entire life around for three years was a lie.

The morning sun barely cut through the city haze when I walked into the corner diner two blocks from the facility.

Marcus sat in a corner booth with a lukewarm cup of black coffee. He looked every bit the tired sports journalist who lived on deadlines and cheap diner food.

He looked up as I slid into the seat across from him, pushing my phone across the table.

“You usually order pancakes before you threaten me,” Marcus noted, setting his coffee down.

“Just watch the clip,” I instructed.

Marcus tapped the screen. He leaned back at first, expecting standard footage, but when the clip zoomed in on Ethan’s face before the starting gun, his posture changed.

He straightened, pulled the phone closer, then replayed the sequence three times.

“Where did you get this?” Marcus asked, his voice dropping as he looked up at me.

“An unknown number texted it to me last night.” I gripped my paper napkin under the table. “Tell me I am not crazy, Marcus. That is not how somebody acts when he is just nervous about a race.”

“No, it isn’t,” Marcus agreed, staring at the paused frame. “I covered that meet from the press box, Zara. The official report never included this angle. The committee used the stadium feed from the upper deck, which showed the collision but skipped the starting blocks entirely.”

“Why would they leave it out?”

“High-profile crashes are bad for broadcast ratings, but clean resolution stories sell tickets.” Marcus slid the phone back to me. “If someone intentionally rattled Ethan before he stepped onto that track, it changes the investigation from an accidental collision to deliberate sabotage.”

I swallowed hard. “Can you find out who filed the original video logs?”

Marcus studied me for a moment, tapping his fingers against his coffee mug.

“I can pull the archived files from the league vault, but if I start digging into three-year-old records, people will notice.

If there is something ugly buried in those files, it could blow up your current spot in this new relay league.”

“My spot is already built on a lie,” I snapped, leaning across the table. “I spent three years thinking Ethan destroyed my leg because he was a reckless idiot. I need to know the truth, Marcus.”

“All right,” Marcus conceded, nodding as he pulled his notebook from his jacket. “I’ll run the file signatures through my contacts tonight, but keep your head down at practice. Don’t give Coach Miller a reason to bench you before I get the documents.”

“I can handle Miller.”

Handling Coach Miller turned out to be the easy part. Handling Ethan was the real problem.

When I arrived at the track an hour later, the morning air felt crisp against my skin, but my body felt heavy from lack of sleep.

I laced up my spikes on the bottom row of the bleachers, trying to ignore the dull ache in my left hamstring.

Every time I looked up, Ethan was there, stretching near the exchange zone with his eyes tracking my every move.

I stood up and started my warm-up lap, keeping my eyes fixed on the red track. Footsteps behind me announced his approach before I reached the first curve.

Ethan stepped into my lane, blocking my path.

“Out of my way, Blake,” I warned, trying to step around him.

Ethan shifted left, cutting off my exit. “You’ve been staring at me like you want to throw a brick at my head since seven this morning, Zara. What is going on?”

“I’m trying to warm up for practice,” I shot back, folding my arms to hide my shaking hands. “Move.”

“No,” Ethan insisted, stepping closer. “We sucked on the baton exchange yesterday because you wouldn't look at me. Today you look like you haven't slept in a week. If we are going to run together, you need to tell me what changed.”

My pulse hammered in my throat as I studied his face, searching for any trace of the terrified boy from the video.

I almost pulled out my phone to demand answers, but Coach Miller’s sharp whistle echoed across the field.

“Enough talking!” Coach Miller shouted from midfield, holding his stopwatch high. “On the line for interval sets! Eight hundred meters at ninety percent pace, three minutes rest between sets! Let’s go!”

Ethan held my gaze for another second before stepping aside.

“This isn’t over, Zara.”

“It is for the next two miles,” I muttered, marching toward the starting line.

The first two intervals were pure punishment. My lungs burned, my legs felt like lead, but I pushed through the pain, using the anger and confusion from the morning to fuel my pace. Ethan ran beside me, matching my stride.

By the fourth interval, my body began to revolt. The ache in my left hamstring sharpened into a hot, pulling sensation that made my teeth grind whenever my foot struck the rubber.

“Keep the pace up!” Coach Miller yelled from the sidelines. “Final lap! Push through the line!”

I saw Ethan surge forward in the outside lane, his arms pumping with smooth precision.

My mind screamed at me to slow down and protect the muscle, but the thought of letting him win, of letting him see me fail again, pushed common-sense aside.

I dug my cleats into the track, driving my knees higher, sprinting flat out for the final hundred meters.

I matched his shoulder, pushing past the pain with everything I had left.

Then, twenty meters from the finish line, something inside my leg gave way with a sharp, sickening tear.

The track seemed to tilt sideways as agony tore through my left leg.

My knee buckled, my foot caught the edge of the lane line and I hit the synthetic surface hard, sliding several feet before stopping.

“Zara!” Ethan’s voice echoed above me, loud and panicked, but it sounded distant, like it was underwater.

I lay on my back, gasping as blinding pain radiated from my thigh through my body. The blue sky above me blurred into a haze.

“Don’t touch her leg!” Coach Miller barked nearby. “Get the medic over here right now.”

Footsteps pounded around me as teammates crowded into a circle. I tried to lift my head, but my vision narrowed to a tiny tunnel of light.

Through a gap in the crowd, my eyes caught a single figure standing near the perimeter fence.

Esther stood fifty feet away in her neat white polo shirt, her lanyard hanging straight down over her chest.

While everyone else rushed toward me, she didn't take a single step forward.

She simply stood there, arms folded, her face completely expressionless as she watched me writhe on the ground.

Then my vision dissolved into complete darkness.