Chapter 3 The Man I Wish I’d Forgotten

If Rhydan Cross thought confessing two years too late would magically make him a decent human being, he was about to discover just how badly he’d underestimated my ability to hold a grudge.

I stood in the changing room long after the woman from the Athletics Integrity Office ended our call, staring at the phone in my hand. The conversation kept replaying in my head, particularly the part about a medical warning that should have stopped me from competing. Someone had known I was risking a serious injury, and somehow, the one person who could have helped expose it had decided to keep quiet.

“Zen, you’re scaring me. You’ve been staring at that phone like it personally insulted your ancestors.” Tessira approached cautiously, taking the device from my trembling fingers. “What did that woman say? Please don’t tell me they’re investigating you again.”

“They’re reopening my case, Tess. Apparently, someone issued a medical warning before my last championship, and guess who has suddenly remembered that he possesses evidence?”

Tessira’s eyes widened as I told her about Rhydan’s statement. She listened without interrupting, although her expression grew increasingly murderous with every detail. By the time I finished, she’d folded her arms so tightly that I wondered whether she was trying to restrain herself from committing a crime.

“That arrogant piece of expensive gym equipment! He knew something was wrong and waited two whole years to say anything?”

“Apparently, his conscience finally woke up from its beauty sleep.” I snatched my bag from the bench, trying to ignore the ache spreading through my chest. “And now he’s joining Northbridge, where I’ll have the absolute pleasure of seeing his stupidly handsome face every morning.”

“Handsome?” Tessira raised an eyebrow, looking far too delighted for someone who’d just heard about a possible cover-up.

“Unfortunately, blindness wasn’t among the injuries I sustained.”

She laughed, and despite everything, I found myself smiling. Tessira had always possessed the extraordinary ability to make me laugh when I wanted to throw something. But the moment we stepped outside and I saw several people glance at me before whispering to each other, the familiar humiliation returned.

By the time we reached her car, I had made a decision. I wasn’t withdrawing from Northbridge. Rhydan had already cost me enough, and I refused to let him take another opportunity simply because sharing a building with him would be uncomfortable.

Monday morning arrived with grey skies and a message from my mother reminding me to eat breakfast. I’d barely slept, partly because I was nervous about orientation and partly because I’d spent Sunday evening searching through old photographs of the championship that ended my career.

I hadn’t found any answers. Just photographs of myself smiling beside people who had disappeared from my life shortly afterward.

Northbridge High Performance Centre was even more intimidating in person. Glass-fronted buildings surrounded a magnificent outdoor track, while athletes moved between training facilities carrying expensive equipment. Everything looked polished, professional, and painfully expensive. I glanced at my worn-out trainers and reminded myself that running wasn’t a fashion competition.

At reception, a cheerful woman handed me a security pass and directed me toward the orientation hall. I arrived early enough to find only a handful of athletes inside, most of whom were already chatting comfortably. Their conversations quietened when I entered, and I immediately recognised the familiar mixture of curiosity and judgment on their faces.

One girl leaned toward her friend and whispered something before glancing at my right leg.

Wonderful. Apparently, my reputation had arrived before I did.

“Zennika Marlowe? I thought you retired.”

I turned toward the voice and found Mirelle Dax standing near the refreshments table, looking effortlessly beautiful in her Northbridge training jacket. Her hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and a familiar sponsorship logo decorated her chest.

“Good morning to you too, Mirelle. I see you’ve developed an interest in other people’s employment status.”

She smiled, although there was nothing particularly friendly about it.

“I was just surprised. After Saturday’s race, I assumed you’d reconsider competing professionally.”

“Unfortunately for everyone, I’m still accepting opportunities to embarrass myself.”

A few athletes nearby laughed, and Mirelle’s smile tightened. I walked past her before she could respond, feeling absurdly pleased with myself. It wasn’t much of a victory, but after Saturday, I was prepared to celebrate anything.

I found a seat near the back and pulled out my phone. Tessira had sent seven messages, including a photograph of a ridiculous motivational poster featuring a cartoon turtle wearing running shoes.

Slow progress is still progress, the caption announced.

I was typing a response threatening to end our friendship when someone dropped into the chair beside me.

“Still making enemies before breakfast, Marlowe?”

My fingers froze above the screen.

I knew that voice.

Deep, slightly amused, and irritatingly familiar.

For one horrible moment, I couldn’t bring myself to look up. Then I turned my head and found Rhydan Cross sitting beside me as though we were old friends meeting for coffee.

Two years had done absolutely nothing to improve his personality, judging by the faint smile playing around his mouth. His dark hair was shorter than I remembered, and his shoulders had broadened beneath his black training shirt. Unfortunately, his face remained offensively attractive.

“Is there a medical condition that prevents you from sitting literally anywhere else?”

“Good morning to you too, Zen.”

“Don’t call me that.”

His smile faded slightly, and I hated how satisfying that felt. He looked at me for several seconds, almost as though he was searching for the girl he used to know.

“You look well.”

“And you look like someone who should be served legal documents.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

“I missed your charming personality.”

“Funny. I missed absolutely nothing about yours.”

He leaned back in his chair, his expression growing serious as he glanced toward the other athletes. The sudden change made me uncomfortable. I preferred him arrogant and annoying, not quiet and thoughtful like he had something important to say.

“Zennika, I know you’ve been contacted about the investigation.”

My stomach tightened.

“Congratulations. Your ability to receive information is truly inspiring.”

“Can we talk somewhere private?”

“No.”

“Please. It’s important.”

“Then you should’ve considered that two years ago, when I was begging you to tell the investigators what you knew.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. For a moment, he simply stared at his hands, and I caught a glimpse of something that looked suspiciously like regret.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just need you to understand that there’s more to what happened than you know.”

“Then tell the investigators. I’m sure they’ll appreciate your sudden enthusiasm for honesty.”

Before he could respond, the doors opened and Coach Orren entered with several members of the training staff. Rhydan straightened, his expression closing off as the room gradually fell silent.

Orren welcomed everyone and outlined the programme’s expectations. There would be performance assessments, regular medical evaluations, and monthly reviews to determine which athletes remained eligible for support. I listened carefully, grateful for something to focus on besides the man sitting beside me.

Then Orren made an announcement that nearly stopped my heart.

“As part of our athlete development programme, selected participants will work in supervised training partnerships. These arrangements will focus on conditioning, technical feedback, and psychological preparation.”

He glanced at the clipboard in his hand.

“Zennika Marlowe and Rhydan Cross.”

I sat upright.

Surely, I’d heard incorrectly.

“Your individual sprint programmes will remain separate, but you’ll be participating in the same conditioning and athlete-support sessions under my supervision.”

I turned toward Rhydan so quickly that my neck almost protested. He looked just as surprised as I felt, although the corner of his mouth twitched when our eyes met.

“Don’t even think about smiling.”

“I’m trying very hard not to.”

I raised my hand before Orren could continue.

“Coach, with all due respect, I’d rather train with a traffic cone.”

Several athletes burst into laughter, but Orren barely blinked.

“Then I suggest you both demonstrate the maturity expected of professional athletes.”

Rhydan leaned slightly toward me as the laughter settled.

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t request this.”

“Wonderful. That makes two of us.”

I turned away, furious that my fresh start had somehow transformed into a punishment designed specifically for me.

Then my phone vibrated.

An email from the National Athletics Integrity Office had arrived, containing the preliminary evidence summary I’d requested after Friday’s call.

I opened the attachment beneath the table, barely breathing as I scanned the first page.

There was a copy of the medical warning, dated three days before my injury.

Beneath the doctor’s recommendation was a section confirming who had received the document.

I recognised the first name immediately.

Orren Vale.

My gaze slowly lifted toward the man standing at the front of the room.

The same coach who had offered me a second chance.

The same man who had just partnered me with Rhydan Cross.

Suddenly, I wasn’t sure which of them I should be more afraid to trust.