Michael rounded the bend in the hallowed Clarendon University running track, his calves twitching for action, unused to this slow pace. Usually he would lean hard into the curve, not dawdle behind a middle-aged man dressed in the obligatory cap, oversize shorts, and whistle hanging over a burgeoning paunch. A track coach who held the key to his dream of being an artist.
Coach Crosswell turned to him. “Your dad tells me you live for the track.” He had an abrasive voice, roughened after years of instructions shouted, never spoken.
Michael thrust his hands deep into his track pants pockets. “Honestly, Coach, the track is what I was made for.” That did sound good, even if it was only half true.
Coach nodded. “That’s exactly what I want to hear, Michael, although your dad said you prefer to be called Mikey.”
Michael clenched fistfuls of pocket as his father pulled another string in his life. “I’d prefer Michael, Coach.”
“No problem. You’re a lot taller than him, you know—or at least what I remember from our days at Serviceton High School. And I hope you’re a heck of a lot faster.”
Michael nearly chuckled. His father had never even tried athletics.
Coach quickened his pace, head down, and resumed his graveled sales pitch to the two-toned blue track. “We have a great athletic history here at old CU—Olympians, national championships—a great legacy to the noble pursuit of track and field. We’re so proud of our fortymillion-dollar athletic center . . .”
Michael’s eyes wandered over the empty rows of steel and concrete in the grandstand and floated to the south of the campus, where his future lay—at the art school.
“Michael!”
The graveled half shout wrenched Michael back to the track. Coach Crosswell eyed him with suspicion. “You’ve come a long way to see our facilities here, and I’m doing your father a huge favor, but it looks like your mind is elsewhere, young man. Normally I wouldn’t give anyone this type of personal once-over, but your dad and I did go to school together.”
Michael flushed, sure his face had turned a beet red. He couldn’t lose this opportunity, and his mouth scrambled to answer a question his ears had missed. “It’s just so much to take in—the history, the fact so many great athletes have been a part of your program here.”
Coach smiled. “Well, that’s true. And if you have the privilege of being selected to come here, you can join them. We’ll make you into the best version of you possible.” He laced his fingers behind his back and resumed his strut down the homestretch. Michael fell in behind him, mentally kicking himself.
“Imagine when you’re tearing down the straight to claim another four-hundred-meter win. This will be full of people cheering your name—what every athlete dreams of.”
Michael looked up to the empty stands and nodded, his mind pulling on a tight leash as it strove to fast-forward to the art school visit.
Coach’s eyes narrowed, and his pace slowed. “Next stop will be the athletic center—just a great facility for our athletes.” He stopped and looked at his feet. “But this is home.”
Michael looked down at the line painted across the track, a line with which he was very familiar.
Coach Crosswell swept his hand across the expanse of the grandstand’s front row. “This section is reserved for family. As you cross the line, your dad will be here to celebrate your great wins.”
Michael nodded. At least that was one time when he and his father had a connection.
The coach thrust his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “You will come to love this line because it will be your goal every day until you graduate.”
Michael toed the line with his shoe. This was the price he had to pay.
Coach Crosswell’s hard breathing snapped him back to the present. He looked down into eyes that were almost scanning Michael, sizing him up.
“Son, your dad has been emailing me for months, telling me you’re an athletic superstar and begging me for this visit. I’ve seen your results, and you’ve got potential, but you don’t strike me as the sort of kid who lives for the track.”
Art school was slipping through his fingers. Michael tried to inflate the enthusiasm clearly leaking out of him. “I’ll be here every morning for training, Coach.”
Coach Crosswell cocked his head and laid a fatherly hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Son, do you really want to be here? Hundreds will be applying for this scholarship.”
Under the squeeze of Coach’s hand, a part of Michael wanted to tear down the wall he had crafted around a dream that was never acknowledged, around an artist’s heart that was shunned. He wanted to shout to the empty stands that he didn’t want to be here. He just wanted his pencils in hand.
But honesty led to hardware.
He reached for his tried-and-true pasted smile, the same expression that fended off his father’s enthusiastic questions when he’d skipped another training session and instead gone to the high school art studio—his real home.
Michael scuffed at the finish line. “I am very excited, and I’m sorry if I’m not showing you that. It’s just overwhelming. I do want to be here at Clarendon University.”
Coach gave a knowing smile.
“And please excuse my father. He’s just overexcited about the opportunity.”
Coach Crosswell chuckled as he turned and left the track, striding toward the gym. “I’ve met all sorts of parents, Michael—the quiet, proud ones, and the pushy, overbearing ones like your dad. May I give you some advice?”
Michael strained to hear what the coach had to say. It was a nice change to be asked if he minded before advice was thrown at him. “Sure.”
“Most of those pushy parents are pushing their kids into a dream that’s actually theirs.”
Something within Michael pawed to get out, but the hardware shelves beckoned. He swallowed the rising anxiety as he fell in line behind the man who held the pass to his future. He was making a mess of this; the best thing would be to head to the track and show the coach why he would be worthy of a scholarship.
Coach Crosswell held open the gym door. “Your father has sent me countless videos of you on the track, but I’d love to see you run for myself. Let’s get you into some spikes. Where’s your bag?”
They squeaked their way across a basketball court. “I think I left it in your office.” But the artist within him had one more question. “When it comes to studying, how much time will I have to fit in track?”
The coach ushered him into an office lined from floor to ceiling with paper—graphs of achievement, charts of improvement, and schedules that ran students’ lives. “Michael, I want my athletes giving 110 percent. I think you’ll find it’s more about how much time you’ll have to fit in your studies.” Coach stood back, arms folded. “Grab your spikes, and let’s see what you’ve got.”
A black suitcase sat next to a neat stack of traffic cones. Michael laid it down and squatted next to it. That’s when he realized the flash of red he’d seen on the carousel wasn’t from his father’s cherished baggage tags. Instead, he saw the red of a university sporting team. The Rams, or something like that. And the barcode didn’t display his name.
Oh no.
Coach laughed. “Well, if you do make it here, we’ll have to get you the royal blue of Clarendon U!”
Michael’s hand dropped, and he stared at the suitcase.
Coach leaned in. “Is there a problem?”
Michael’s mind already answered a question it wasn’t game enough to ask. “I’ve got the wrong suitcase.”
“Didn’t you check it when you picked it up at the airport?”
Michael gave a heavy sigh as his art dream shimmered and threatened to evaporate. The heaviness in the pit of his stomach seemed to sink into his feet and then into the floor as he put his head into his hands. “I can’t run without my spikes.”
The coach placed a meaty hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I can try to rustle up some from around here. You can run in those.”
But Michael’s loss was greater than that. His design portfolio was gone. “I can’t do this without my stuff.” Tears bubbled just below the thin veneer of his confidence.
“Okay. Call the airline. I’ll still look for some spikes here.”
Michael sucked in a deep breath and whipped out his phone as the coach left the room. He Googled the airline’s number, and his call was put through to Baggage Services. The airline’s on-hold music—its latest cheesy advertisement that claimed to value its customers more than its share price—was cut off by a click and a whir and a chirpy, young male voice. “Thank you for calling Baggage Services.”
“Um, I’ve got the wrong suitcase from my flight—”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll arrange for your baggage to be at our city depot inside the hour. Please bring the baggage you’ve got.” He gave Michael the address.
The coach swung around the doorframe, his whistle banging into the woodwork. “We don’t have any extra spikes around here. You’re going to have to find your suitcase.”
Michael stood up in a rush. “I need to get to this address in some place called the Docklands.”
“That’s about ten minutes away, although I didn’t think there was much over there. I tell you what, son. I can book you a cab, but the university can’t pay for it. If I could take you myself, I would.”
Michael nodded as he fought the anxiety that rose again. He had to get his design portfolio back. “How much will it cost me to get there?”
“Ten, twelve bucks?”
That was okay. He’d have enough money for all his cab rides, and a few extra shifts of dishwashing at his job at the restaurant would pay for the sweatshirt he could probably order online. He’d nod through the expected verbal spray.
“I need you back here as quickly as possible. This is a favor for your dad, and I’ve got wall-to-wall meetings after the time I’ve set aside for you.”
He had to hurry back.