Page 13 of Don’t Call Me Son

Coach chuckles nearby. “Focus, Archie. Show your mom how good of a runner you are.”

I nod, cheeks warm, and step up to the line properly. The three of us settle into our starting blocks. Mayla in lane two, Rupert in lane three. I dig my spikes into the track, hands braced on the cool surface, muscles coiled tight. My heart is hammering. The crowd has gone quieter, waiting. I take one last deep breath, staring down the track, every nerve in my body buzzing with adrenaline.

The gun cracks and we explode off the blocks.

Mayla gets the best start; she’s a beast and shoots ahead like a rocket for the first hundred meters. I stay relaxed, arms pumping smooth, breathing controlled. The wind whips across my face and through my hair as my spikes dig into the track. This is what I love. Not the crowds, not the pressure; just this. The burn in my lungs, the power in my legs, the way everything else fades until it’s just me, the track, and the next stride.

By the 150m mark I’ve found my rhythm. I dig in harder, legs churning, chest lifting. The gap starts closing. Mayla’s early pace is catching up to her now; she’s fading. Rupert is pushing hard on my outside, but I dig deeper, teeth gritted, driving forward.

I cross the line first, just half a stride ahead of Rupert. Mayla comes in third, breathing hard, having burned too hot at the start.

The three of us slow down and immediately collide into a messy little group hug, patting each other’s backs and shoulders, laughing through heavy breaths.

The crowd claps loudly, however, one cheer cuts through all the others; bright, proud, and way too loud.

“Go Archie!”

I grin despite myself but still refuse to look over toward the stands.

Coach catches my eye from the side and gives me a big thumbs up with a wink, like he’s saying, ‘knew you had it in you, kid.’

The three of us walk over to the benches reserved for runners just in front of the bleachers; close enough to hear the crowd but far enough that parents can’t swarm us. My throat is burning, chest heaving as I drop down onto the bench and lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

…

Twenty minutes later the music is thumping lightly through the speakers, keeping the energy high. Someone’s been walking around handing out cold drinks to the spectators, and I’ve finally managed to shove my anxiety about Mom and Colt watching into the back of my mind. I’m just having fun now.

It’s relay time; five teams of four. I’m anchor, last leg, which means I’m standing at the end of the track, bouncing on my toes, waiting.

Jay takes off first because he always fights to be the starter. He gets us a decent lead. Then Zack gets the baton; he’s not the fastest but he’s solid and never drops it. He keeps us in contention. Kim gets it next and flies… she’s quick as hell on the straight.

“RUN ARCH!” she screams as she slaps the baton into my hand.

I grab it tight and bolt; adrenaline surges through me like fire. My legs burn, arms pumping hard, spikes digging into the track with every stride. Jordan, one of the strong third-years, is just ahead of me, maybe a half-stride. I push harder, teeth bared, wind roaring past my ears. The crowd is loud in the background, all of it fading into a dull roar.

I close the gap… but I can’t quite catch him. We cross the line almost together. Second place. I laugh breathlessly and bend over, hands on my knees, chest heaving.

Jordan stops beside me, grinning down at me. “You totally could have had that.”

I laugh and fist-bump him. “Next time, man.”

Before I can stand up straight, Kim launches herself onto my back. “Woo! Second place, baby!”

I stumble forward a step, catching her thighs quickly with both hands so we don’t eat grass. “Jesus Christ, Kim! Bit of warning next time!”

She laughs right in my ear. “Yeah, well I’m getting tired now, Arch.”

I shake my head, still breathing hard, a tired grin pulling at my lips. “Yeah… we all are, Kim.”

I walk us over to the student benches and carefully lower her down before slumping beside her. Not even thirty seconds later, Jay comes jogging over with a massive, suspicious grin; he reaches out and yanks me up by the arm.

“Jay, what…?”

He simultaneously dumps an entire cold bottle of water over both of our heads.

“Jayden Barnes! What are you doing?!” his mom shouts from the stands.

I burst out laughing and shove him lightly, looking toward her, “It’s all good, Mrs. B… feels good actually!”