Emerson Pieper, staff writer

The first thing Cole notices is that he can’t feel his hands, which is—fine, probably. He doesn’t need his hands to run. His fingers curl anyway out of habit more than sensation, arms pumping in rhythm with the rest of him as the spikes on his shoes strike against the track in sharp, relentless beats. The world has narrowed down to lanes and breath and the burning in his muscles. His lungs pull in air that doesn’t feel like enough, too cold as it scrapes down his throat. 

Don’t slow down. He repeats the mantra in his head as he pushes himself forward. There’s shouting somewhere, from the crowd or his teammates, maybe his coach. He isn’t sure. It all blurs together, distant and muffled. He focuses on the back of the runner in front of him and the space between them. He just needs to close that gap.

His stomach twists. He knows his body and its warning signs. Knows the exact moment things tip from manageable to inevitable. He isn’t there yet. He can hold it together a little longer.

His foot lands slightly wrong, and the jolt runs straight up his leg. For a second, the world tilts. Cole clenches his jaw and keeps running. Just ahead, he sees Luke leaning against the fence, sunlight catching in his hair. He’s talking to Jack, but every so often his eyes flick toward Cole with a smile when their eyes meet.

Or at least Cole thinks so. Cole knows that smile. He’s spent enough time watching Luke from across the track to know the difference between the one he gives everyone and the one that pulls slightly higher on the left side of his mouth. This one is for him. Probably.

His chest tightens, but it has nothing to do with the race. He swallows and forces himself to focus. The runner ahead of him falters, and that’s all Cole needs. He surges forward, slipping past on instinct. His legs push harder, faster, carrying him toward that dangerous edge where pain and adrenaline blur into something almost like panic. The finish line is there.

His vision tunnels, the edges of the world going soft and dark until there’s nothing left but the white line stretched across the track. He crosses it. Three steps later, his body finally betrays him.

“His vision tunnels, the edges of the world going soft and dark until there’s nothing left but the white line stretched across the track. He crosses it. Three steps later, his body finally betrays him.”

Emerson Pieper

Cole stumbles off the track and into the grass, hands braced against his knees, head dropping as his lungs heave. His entire body pulses with every heavy, wrong-feeling heartbeat. He should feel good; he won after all. 

“Hey—Cole, you good?” Someone asks nearby. 

He doesn’t look up. Just lifts a hand in a vague, dismissive gesture as he catches his breath. “I’m—” His voice comes out rougher than he wants. “I’m good.”

“You want water?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps, sharper this time. If he says it enough, it might start to feel true.

The guy hesitates, then backs off. His footsteps retreat into the noise of everything else. Cole stays like that for a second longer, just until the worst of it passes and his breathing settles into something close to normal again. 

He straightens slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His hands and legs are still shaking, but he ignores that. Someone shouts his time from across the field, and it sounds impressive, but Cole barely hears it because he’s focused on the fact that Luke is walking toward him.

“Hey,” Luke says when he reaches him, breathless despite not having run. “I almost thought you were gonna lose.”

Cole laughs. Or tries to, because it comes out all thin. “I won.”

“I know.” Something in Luke’s voice makes Cole look back up, squinting at Luke through the sun. Like he actually watched the entire thing. Luke reaches for his arm, stopping just short of touching him. “Are you okay?”

The question is so simple that Cole almost says yes and dismisses him like he did the other guy moments before. He almost smiles and says that it was “no biggie.” Says he’ll be good in a minute. Instead, his knees buckle from the crouched state, giving up.

Luke catches him before he hits the ground. For a moment, Cole can’t hear anything except his own breathing. The crowd has become distant again, muffled and underwater. 

He presses his face against Luke’s shoulder and closes his eyes. “I can’t feel my hands.” Cole immediately regrets saying it. Of all the people he could have admitted it to, why did it have to be Luke?

“Okay,” Luke nods. “We’ll figure something out, then.”

Cole closes his eyes. He should be embarrassed. He should pull away. Instead, he lets himself lean against Luke, just for a moment. Maybe tomorrow he’ll pretend none of this happened. For now, Luke is holding him.