It had been two days since Westly's humiliating encounter with Chad and his lackeys. The bruises on his arms and ribs were still tender, but they were nothing compared to the ache in his chest. His mom hadn't noticed them—she was hardly ever home, always working late or leaving early. And when she was home, she barely acknowledged him. Westly had learned to stop expecting more.
As he slowly sat up in bed, he reached for his phone, his eyes squinting against the morning light streaming through the cracks in his blinds. One notification from his mom flashed on the screen: "There's food on the table." He sighed, the words feeling colder than they should.
'That's all she ever says now,' he thought, setting the phone down on his nightstand.
Dragging himself to his feet, Westly shuffled to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a face he barely recognized anymore—puffy eyes, messy hair, and a bruise darkening his cheekbone. He gently touched it, wincing at the sting. As he brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face, his mind wandered to a time when life was different.
Back to the time when his dad was alive, mornings were loud and warm. His mom used to hum in the kitchen, flipping pancakes while his dad told terrible jokes that always made her roll her eyes but smile anyway. Westly could almost hear his dad's laugh, deep and hearty, filling the apartment.
'She used to care,' he thought bitterly, rinsing his mouth. 'When Dad was around, she cared about everything. About me.'
He pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on getting ready. After pulling on a clean shirt and jeans, he headed into the dining room. There, on the small table, was a plate covered in tinfoil. Westly peeled it back to reveal bacon and eggs. The smell hit him immediately, and for a fleeting moment, it was like stepping into the past.
'Dad would've loved this,' he thought, his chest tightening. They used to eat together every morning—his dad always claiming the last piece of bacon with a sly grin while his mom pretended to scold him.
Westly ate in silence, the memories bittersweet. Once he was done, he cleaned up and grabbed his backpack. He stepped outside into the crisp morning air, ready for a long walk across the city to the track tryouts.
As he walked, the streets bustled with life. He passed families laughing together, kids chasing each other down the sidewalks. His gaze drifted upward, catching the vivid blue of the sky.
'It's a beautiful day,' he thought, the tiniest flicker of hope sparking in his chest. For the first time in days, the world didn't feel so heavy.
Finally, after weaving through the city's familiar streets, he arrived at Brookwood's field, where the tryouts were already underway. The sight of the track stretched out before him, filled with determined runners, sent a nervous excitement coursing through him.
'Here goes nothing,' Westly thought, taking a deep breath as he stepped forward. Westly stepped onto the field, his stomach churning as he took in the sight of at least fifty kids scattered across the track. Their laughter and chatter filled the air, but when they noticed him, the noise quieted. He could feel their eyes on him, the weight of their silent judgments heavy on his shoulders.
'They're probably wondering what someone like me is doing here,' he thought, clutching the strap of his backpack. 'I don't even know if I belong.'
Still, he forced himself to keep moving. His eyes landed on the coach sitting on the bleachers—a middle-aged man with a whistle around his neck and a clipboard in hand. Westly's heart sank when recognition hit him.
'Oh no, it's the guy I ran into the other day.' His face flushed red as guilt twisted in his stomach. He hadn't even apologized after barreling into the man.
Summoning his courage, Westly walked over to Coach Emerson, who smirked as he approached.
"Well, well, well," the coach drawled, leaning back against the bleacher. "Didn't you run me over a few days ago, sonny?"
Westly opened his mouth to apologize, but the coach held up a hand.
"Save it," he said, his expression turning serious. "You don't need to apologize with words." His smirk returned as he stood, his tone firm. "If you make this team, I'm going to work you to the bone."
As he started to walk away, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "You're pretty fast for a fat boy. You've got talent."
Westly blinked in surprise, his embarrassment mingling with a small spark of pride. Without another word, the coach turned and strode off to prepare for the tryouts.
The sharp sound of the whistle pierced the air, cutting through the chatter and drawing all eyes to the coach. Westly flinched at the noise, his heart racing as he joined the others who shuffled closer to form a loose semicircle around the man.
The coach stood tall, his clipboard in hand and his expression hard as steel. His voice boomed, carrying easily across the field. "Alright, listen up! Today's about conditioning. No shortcuts, no excuses. You're going to work until you can't anymore—or until you decide to quit. Let me be clear: you can leave at any time. I'm not wasting my time on a bunch of sissies."
A murmur swept through the group, and Westly's stomach churned.
'Leave? On the first day? No way. I have to stick it out,' he thought, though his nerves made his legs feel like jelly.
The coach's eyes swept over the crowd, his gaze landing on each face before continuing. "If you last the whole practice, I'll take that as a sign you're serious. Stick with the program, and you're on the team. But don't think that's the end of it. Hard work starts today and doesn't stop. Understood?"
A scattered chorus of "Yes, Coach!" rose up, though not all sounded confident.
The coach's whistle blew again. "Line up!"
Westly scrambled to fall into line with the others, his nerves thrumming. He glanced to his left and right, noticing a few kids already fidgeting, their faces uneasy.
The coach paced in front of them like a drill sergeant. "First up—laps! Ten around the field. No walking! Move!"
Westly forced his legs into motion, the group surging forward as the coach barked orders. The initial laps weren't too bad, but by the fourth, Westly's lungs felt like they were on fire. Sweat poured down his face, and his legs screamed with every step.
"Pick up the pace; you're not at a picnic!" the coach yelled, his voice cracking through the tension.
Around lap seven, the line of runners started thinning. A few kids peeled off, panting as they slumped onto the grass.
'They're dropping already? Maybe I should too… No!' Westly clenched his fists. 'I can't quit. Not after everything.'
The laps were followed by sprints, push-ups, and grueling hill runs. Each new task brought more groans, more kids stumbling away. But Westly pushed on, even as every muscle in his body begged him to stop.
By the end, only a handful of students remained. The coach surveyed them, his expression unreadable. "Now that's what I call grit," he said. "If you're still here, you've got potential. Show up tomorrow, and we'll see what you're made of."
Westly sat on the grass, panting heavily and drenched in sweat. His legs trembled, and his chest heaved with each labored breath. He wiped at his forehead, glancing around the field. Only twenty kids remained—less than half of the original group. The sight made him sit a little straighter.
'Twenty? Out of fifty? And I'm one of them? I can't believe I made it this far,' he thought, pride creeping in despite his exhaustion.
But that flicker of confidence dimmed when his eyes swept over the other kids. They were chatting in small groups, laughing and nudging each other like old friends. Westly's stomach churned.
'Of course, I'm the odd one out,' he thought, heat rising to his cheeks. 'They've all got someone. Figures.'
He dropped his gaze, trying to ignore the loneliness threatening to creep in, when a shadow fell over him.
"Hey, you okay?"
Westly looked up sharply, startled to see a girl standing before him. Her golden-brown hair was tied up in playful pigtails, and her striking green eyes seemed to sparkle in the afternoon light. Her pink lips curved into a warm, genuine smile.
"Uh, yeah," Westly stammered, sitting up straighter.
"I'm Layla," she said, extending a hand. Her voice was sweet, but there was a quiet confidence behind it. "You did really well out there. I noticed you didn't quit even when it got tough."
Westly hesitated before shaking her hand. "Uh, thanks. I'm Westly."
Layla stepped aside, and four others joined her. "These are my friends. We thought we'd come say hi since you looked like you could use some company."
The boy beside her gave a lazy grin. He was tall, with dyed red hair that clashed pleasantly with his brown skin. His gray eyes sparkled with mischief, and he had a single hoop earring in his left ear. "What's up? My name's Jaylen. Don't let this one's sweet act fool you," he said, jerking a thumb at Layla. "She'll destroy you if you get on her bad side."
"Shut it, Jaylen," Layla said, her voice still sweet but carrying a sharp edge.
Another boy stepped forward, adjusting his glasses on his long, hawk-like nose. His auburn hair fell messily across his forehead, and he looked almost bookish compared to Jaylen. "I'm Ethan," he said softly. "Not much of a talker, but nice to meet you."
The twins stepped up next, their matching hazel eyes gleaming with curiosity. The girl gave a polite wave. "I'm Lila," she said.
"And I'm Liam," the boy added, his grin wider and more playful. "We're twins, obviously. Don't worry, you'll figure out who's who."
Westly blinked, overwhelmed by their friendliness. "Uh…nice to meet you all."
Layla plopped down on the grass beside him, her smile unwavering. "So, Westly, what made you try out? You don't look like the typical track kid, if you don't mind me saying."
Westly scratched the back of his neck, her kindness easing his embarrassment. "I just…wanted to try something new."
"Well," Layla said, her eyes glinting with encouragement, "you made it this far. That says a lot."
Westly couldn't help but smile, feeling a flicker of hope. Maybe he wouldn't be so alone after all.
The group's chatter was cut short by the sharp whistle of Coach Emerson. "Alright, everyone who made the cut, over here!" he barked, his gruff voice carrying across the field. Westly and the others hurried to join the line forming in front of the coach, who stood with his clipboard in hand, a steely gaze sweeping over them.
As Coach Emerson called out names and assigned events, Westly couldn't help but feel his nerves creeping up again. 'What if I'm not good enough for whatever event he picks? What if I mess it up for everyone?' he thought, his heart pounding as the coach inched closer down the line.
Finally, the coach's gaze landed on their group. He glanced at his clipboard, then back up at the six of them. "Alright," he started, clearing his throat. "You five boys are going to be running the 4x100 relay together. Listen up, because I'm not explaining this twice."
The coach pointed his pen at Westly. "Westly, you're running first. You've got the speed to give your team a strong start, but your stamina's garbage. Short bursts are your strength, so you'll handle the first leg. Got it?"
Westly nodded quickly, a flicker of pride mixing with his anxiety. 'He thinks I'm fast... Maybe I really can do this.'
Coach Emerson moved down the line. "Liam, you're second. You're consistent and can keep the pace steady. That's what I need in a second leg."
"Ethan," he continued, his eyes locking onto the auburn-haired boy. "You've got a long stride and good form. You'll gain us some ground in the third leg."
Finally, his gaze landed on Jaydan. "And you're anchoring the team. You've got the grit and the finishing power to bring it home. Don't let me down."
The boys exchanged glances, each taking in their roles. Westly noticed Liam give him a quick thumbs-up, and Jaydan smirked confidently.
Turning to the girls, the coach softened just slightly. "Layla, you'll be running the 800-meter. You've got the endurance and the mental toughness to handle that middle-distance race."
Layla grinned, her green eyes sparkling. "Yes, sir!"
"And Lia," he said, glancing at the blonde twin. "You've got the explosiveness for the 400-meter dash. That event's all about speed and drive, and I think you've got what it takes."
Lia nodded eagerly, her hazel eyes shining with determination.
Coach Emerson's voice rose again. "You're all here because I see potential. Now go home and get some rest because tomorrow's practice is going to be hell on earth!"
Everyone went their separate ways. As Westly walked home under the glow of the streetlights, he couldn't help but smile to himself. For the first time in a long while, he felt something close to happiness. 'I made the team,' he thought, a wave of disbelief washing over him. 'I actually made it. And maybe… maybe I have friends now too.'
But his excitement was quickly replaced by a familiar wave of anxiety. 'What if they were just being nice? What if they don't actually want to be friends with me? Maybe I was just some charity case for them to feel good about themselves.' He kicked a stray pebble down the sidewalk, frowning as the nagging doubts settled in.
He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. 'No, I can't think like that. Layla was so nice, and the others didn't seem fake either. They wouldn't have gone out of their way to talk to me if they didn't care at least a little, right?' He sighed, pulling his hoodie tighter against the cool evening air as he picked up his pace toward home.
After what felt like forever, Westly finally reached his apartment building. He climbed the steps sluggishly, exhaustion from the day's events weighing him down. When he opened the door, the silence inside greeted him. His mom wasn't home, as he'd expected, and for once, he was relieved. He wasn't in the mood to face her questions or disapproval.
'She'd just lecture me about how sports are a waste of time,' he thought bitterly, slipping off his shoes and heading to his room. 'Like everything that isn't studying is some kind of sin.' He snorted to himself, imagining her reaction if she knew he was on the track team. 'She'd probably make me quit on the spot.'
Once inside his room, Westly dropped his bag by the door and flopped face-first onto his bed, not even bothering to change out of his clothes. The soft mattress seemed to pull him in, and he let out a long sigh. His muscles ached, his body was drenched in sweat, but for the first time in years, his chest felt lighter.
'Practice starts tomorrow,' he thought with a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 'I can't wait.' Within minutes, the exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the track and his new teammates.