Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

weak in the knees. Watching him gives me a whole new appreciation for the ancient Greek Olympians who competed in the nude. I would be a happy boy if we went back to that particular tradition. And everyone on the entire field would know it.
    I'm aware I have no shame. I like it that way.
    So I'm not paying enough attention to my surroundings and I smack into another warm-up runner who veered into my lane. My foot kicks his, my momentum pitches me forward as I stumble, and I land sideways on my take-off foot, twisting my ankle and landing solidly on my shoulder.
    Oh fuck.
    Umpires, coaches, teammates, and track medical personnel rush over to us to check the damage. I'm holding my knee up to my chest—I'll be damned if I grab my throbbing ankle—while groaning through gritted teeth. I can hear my coach yelling at the Head Umpire about the other guy being in my lane. The track doc kneels next to me.
    "What's his name?"
    "Fleury de la Coeur, sir," Heath tells the doc.
    "Fleury, son, I need you to let go of your knee. Can you do that for me?" I don't say anything, but I let go of the knee. "Good. Now tell me where it hurts."
    "My ankle."
    The doctor rolls me onto my back, straightens my leg, and lays it down gently on the ground.
    "I'm going to touch your ankle in a few places. You let me know if anything is painful."
    He waits for me to acknowledge him before he touches various spots around the joint. Most of them are painful when he pushes hard enough.
    "Ow, ow, ow."
    "Okay, can you flex your ankle up and down for me?" I manage it with difficulty and not as much range as I normally have. "How about side to side?"
    Ankle says no. "Ow, shit." So not good.
    "Okay, I'm going to test the joint myself now. Try to relax and exhale as I move your foot. Tell me as soon as you feel any pain."
    Again, up and down isn't great but isn't bad; side to side hurts like a sunovabitch.
    "I think it's safe to say it's sprained, not broken, and I don't think you need to go for an x-ray, but you won't be running on it for at least a month."
    Right around the time of conference championships. Have I said "fuck my luck" recently? Fuck my luck.
    My trainers talk to the track doc, but I tune them out. They'll tell me what they want from me later. I move my arm across my eyes to block the morning sun and sigh.
    The coach talking about what to do for the relays gets my attention though.
    "We'll put Drake in. He's the next fastest at that distance."
    "His passing is rough though."
    "We'll do some passing practice this morning then. If we move Drake, who should anchor the B relay?"
    Heath. They're going to give Heath my spot on the A relays. Shit.
    With my arm blocking the sun, I look around until I spot him maybe ten feet away, also avidly listening to the coaches' discussion about the relays.
    "Heath." He looks down upon me. Physically and metaphorically. His countenance is fairly neutral, but his eyes and lips tighten when he looks at me.
    "What, Flower ?" I can't miss the emphasis on my "name" as he squats down next to me. He is truly piqued about something.
    "Dammit, don't call me that. Listen, I don't know what's going on with you, but you need to deal with it so you can run this relay. You need to focus."
    "Oh, that's a joke coming from you, asshole." The venom dripping from his voice is a shock.
    "Excuse me?"
    "What exactly were you focusing on when the other guy ran into you?" He lowers his voice so only I can hear the question and the accusation in his tone.
    Jesus, just fucking kill me now. Of all people to catch me staring at Drew, it had to be him. I just hope I'm not flushing as hot as I feel.
    "It doesn't fucking matter. I'm out of the relay and it sounds like you're in it. Focus on receiving the baton and nail it." I inhale a heavy breath before biting the bullet. "I fucked this up. The team needs you to step up. Please." Under my breath, I mutter, "Don't let me down."
    Heath spits out, "At this point, I couldn't give a shit about letting you down. Fuck off, Fleury." Then he stands up and walks away.
    I didn't intend for him to hear that particular comment. God, how many more ways can I fuck this up? Without a pair of crutches I can't chase after him. I lean up on my elbows and watch him go.
    The coaches help me limp back to the team area. They wrap my ankle and I prop it on top of my overnight bag to keep it raised. I can't move from this position for the entire day, except to put on sunscreen, to eat, or to hit the head.
    Drew