Dear Rival, Go To Hell

The first time I ruined my career, twenty thousand people watched me fall. The second time, someone was kind enough to record it, slow it down, and turn my humiliation into entertainment for thousands of strangers on the internet.

I stood on the athletics track with my lungs burning and my heart pounding so violently that I could barely hear the cheering crowd. Seven women had already crossed the finish line, and I was still struggling through the final metres like someone who had forgotten how to run. My right leg wasn’t injured. There was no unbearable pain, no muscle tearing beneath my skin, and no medical reason I couldn’t finish the race. But somewhere around the bend, my body had remembered the worst day of my life, and suddenly, I was twenty-two again, collapsing onto a track while everything I’d worked for disappeared.

“Come on, Marlowe! At least finish the damn race!” someone shouted from the stands, earning a few laughs from the spectators nearby.

I forced myself forward, ignoring the humiliating distance between me and the other athletes until I finally crossed the finish line. The electronic scoreboard displayed my time, and I almost wished it hadn’t. Five seconds behind the winner. In professional sprinting, five seconds wasn’t a defeat. It was a funeral, and apparently, everyone had come to watch.

“Zen, sweetheart, please tell me you’re not about to collapse because I am absolutely not carrying you out of here.”

Tessira Bell appeared beside me with two bottles of water, wearing the concerned expression she always tried to disguise with terrible jokes. She handed me a bottle before glancing nervously at my right leg.

“Are you hurting? Is it your hamstring again?”

“My hamstring is perfectly fine. Unfortunately, the rest of my life appears to be falling apart.”

Tessira didn’t laugh, which was deeply offensive considering how much effort I’d put into sounding unbothered. Instead, she glanced toward the winner’s podium, where Mirelle Dax was celebrating with her coach. The familiar sponsorship logo across Mirelle’s chest made something unpleasant tighten inside me. That logo had once belonged to me, back when companies still believed my face could sell running shoes.

“Don’t look at her like that, Zen. You’re going to make yourself miserable.”

“I’m not looking at her in any particular way. I’m admiring the wonderful weather and the beautiful sight of someone else living my dream.”

Mirelle caught my eye as she stepped away from the photographers, and for one ridiculous second, I thought she might come over. We had trained together for years before my injury, sharing hotel rooms, early morning workouts, and complaints about our coaches. Instead, she offered me a small, uncomfortable smile before turning back toward the cameras.

I told myself it didn’t matter. People moved on, and expecting everyone to remain frozen in the worst moment of my life was unfair, even if watching them succeed without me still hurt.

By the time Tessira dragged me into the changing room, my phone had begun vibrating nonstop. I assumed my mother was calling to ask about the race despite promising she wouldn’t watch it, but the first notification made my stomach drop.

Someone had uploaded a video of my performance, complete with dramatic music and an unnecessarily cruel slow-motion replay of the moment I hesitated. Across the screen, enormous white letters announced:

SOME ATHLETES SHOULD KNOW WHEN TO RETIRE.

The video had already gathered forty-three thousand likes and six thousand shares, and it hadn’t even been online for half an hour. I scrolled through the comments before I could stop myself, watching complete strangers turn the worst moment of my afternoon into a joke.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

People accused me of chasing attention, wasting a competition slot, and refusing to accept that my best years were behind me. One person wrote that I should have listened to my doctors instead of destroying my own career, and that was the comment that finally made my hands shake.

I hadn’t ignored my doctors. I had trusted them when they assured me I was fit to compete, and somehow, that decision had become the mistake everyone blamed me for making.

“Give me that phone before I throw it into the nearest toilet.”

“Why? Are you planning to fight the entire internet?”

“If necessary, yes. And I have enough anger in me to win.”

I laughed despite myself, locking the screen before Tessira could carry out her threat. She had been my best friend long before my name appeared on billboards, and unlike most people, she hadn’t disappeared when the sponsorship deals stopped coming. Sometimes I wondered what I’d done to deserve her loyalty, especially considering how difficult I’d become since the injury.

“I’m going home. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one afternoon.”

“Coach Orren said he wanted to speak with you after the race. You can’t keep avoiding him whenever something goes wrong.”

“I already know what he’ll say. Be patient, Zennika. Trust the process, Zennika. Stop expecting miracles, Zennika. Honestly, he should record himself saying those things and save us both some time.”

“Miss Marlowe, I’m glad you’re still here.”

I froze at the familiar voice behind Tessira, silently cursing my terrible luck. Orren Vale entered carrying a folder, his expression as serious as ever. He had coached enough athletes to recognise disappointment without needing it explained, which probably accounted for the unusual gentleness in his voice when he asked Tessira to give us a moment.