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ht_murrayTitle: Digging Deep, Part 1/?
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
tru_faith_lost
Pairings: Jared/Jensen, eventually
Rating: NC-17, eventually
Words: ~3600, this part.
Warnings: Language and bad attitudes, but I swear the attitudes will change. It’s called character development. Gotta start somewhere. WIP. AU. Disabled comments.
Summary: Jared was at the beginning of his running career. Jensen thought he was at the end of his own. Time to find out if those who can’t, teach, or if those who teach, can. Hurt!Sick/Jensen to show up somewhere in the context.
Disclaimer:Not to be taken seriously by the readers or those whose names may be mentioned herein.
Digging Deep
Jared’s rhythm stuttered then fell apart completely, his ankle turning behind the last click of his racing spikes as he downshifted from high knee warmups to dumbfounded and stockstill stupid.
“Whattaya mean I’m not in this race?”
The race steward double checked his clipboard, scanning from the top down with a deep crinkle set in his chin. “Men’s 400 M, eight lanes, no J. Padalecki.”
“But I always run this race,” Jared protested. Hopped up on pre-race adrenaline, he bounced up and down while swinging his arms, loosening his upper body and preparing his calves to fire. “It’s my race,” he added. His teammate, Chad, made a show of adjusting his starting blocks in the lane behind them, shaking his ass and leering over his shoulder at the opposing team’s girls in the bleachers. “Chad, tell him this is my race.”
Chad placed his feet, assumed a quick ‘set’ position and sprang upward, knees driving up to his chest for two steps, bounded to a halt, and shook his head. “Sorry, man. That’s between you and Coach. He’s putting Brock in for this one.” Then, leaning in to address Jared directly, Chad lowered his voice. “And would it kill you to actually check the schedule before you go harrassing the stewards? Not cool, dude.”
“But...” Jared’s mouth pressed into a tight line as Brock Kelly set up two lanes over from Chad. Center lane. Jared’s lane. He couldn’t help but wonder what time Coach gave the officials to get Brock seeded in the center lane. The fucker had never even run the 400 meter. Brock was a miler, not a sprinter.
“Padalecki! Get your ass off the track, son. I slotted you in the 1600.” Coach Kane yanked the beat-up felt hat off his head and smacked it against his thigh before smoothing down his long hair and trapping it back out of his eyes with the hat band. “Brock, you got this. Kick it out of the blocks and push all the way through.” He punctuated the advice with that annoying thumbs-up/wink combination that always made Jared feel like the bastard was trying to seduce a victory out of them. Goddamned creepy fuck had more slick mannerisms than a used car salesman.
Jared stretched his arms out to the sides. “What?! But...”
“Runners to your marks!” The starter pressed a straight arm across Jared’s chest until he took a step back. Teeth grinding, Jared huffed through his nose, planted his hands on his hips. Couldn’t fucking believe this shit. “Set!” The runners raised their hips in unison, the entire starting field quivering like springs on a hair trigger. Bang! Jared hung out long enough to watch Brock sprint ahead and overtake the guys in the far lanes who’d started several lengths ahead in the stagger pattern, then hold that lead down the far straightaway.
Ducking his head, Jared trotted over to Coach, hands still on his hips. “That was my race!”
“My team,” Kane dead-panned. “They’re all my races. I pick who runs and when.” Jared watched his expression turn up from fixed and set to darn near clawing its way under his hat band, eyebrows drawn up in expectation. “Yyeah, yyeah, yyeah, go, baby, go!” Kane punched the air, throwing his hat to the ground as Brock crossed the line ahead of the field. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he grinned, elbowing Jared aside to peer over the shoulders of several timekeepers in an effort to get the final time.
“Fuck.” Jared tried not to overhear, but it was hard to miss when it came over the Public Address system a few seconds later. Less than two seconds slower than Jared’s own personal record from a guy that never raced the distance before today. Palms tucked under his armpits, he stepped in front of Kane, made a show of tipping his head down to establish eye conact. “Just tell me why.”
Coach shrugged. “I owe it to the team to make sure I utilize everyone to their best potential. Brock’s been showing some kick on his last lap. I wanted to see if he could cut it in a sprint, and this meet’s locked in for us, anyway. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you in conference standings.”
“But I’ve never run the mile before.”
“You warm up two miles every day and cool down two more.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it.” Plus, he just didn’t want to run the mile. He liked being the team’s leading points earner and having all of his events add up to less than five minutes of actual running. It left plenty of time for hanging around the concession stand, wolfing down pizza, and generally wrecking mayhem on someone else’s turf. (He was somewhat of a serial defacer when it came to away meets.) Seemed like fair trade for a full athletic scholarship to keep him busy until he could get the degree his parents insisted on and go pro, which was all he really cared about, anyway. A mile sounded like way too much work.
“Look,” Kane stood on tiptoe and squared up his shoulders, the brim of his hat scrunching against Jared’s forehead, “I’m not asking you to win. Just fill the slot. Of course, Brock’s just proved he can win both events. In case you missed it, this is a team sport. That,” he jerked his thumb toward the finish line where Brock was towelling off, “is what I call a team player. It’s all about versaitility. Now, run the fucking 1600, or I’ll give him your leg of the 4x 400, too.”
“You can’t. He’s already got four running events.”
“Then, I’ll put him in at the next meet.”
“Next week is a conference meet.”
“What can I say? I have faith in the kid. AND I like his attitude.” Levering back down onto his heels, Coach maintained eye contact by forking two fingers between them, then raised the clipboard in his hand and drew Jared’s attention directly to it. “You’re on deck Padalecki. 1600 meters. Get your ass on the line.”
“What, no pointers? I don’t even know what pace is for 1600. You’re the coach. COACH!”
“Fair enough.” Kane nodded and took a step back. He tucked the clipboard under one arm and pinched it against his side, one thumb tucked into his belt loop, because only Christian Kane coached track in blue jeans and cowboy boots. “You can use blocks if you want. Most don’t. Stay in your own lane until you come around the curve, then you can cut in and run on the inside lane, but everyone else is going to be running there, too, so you’ll have to be careful when passing.”
“Who says anyone’s gonna be ahead of me?” Jared wasn’t nearly as cocky as he sounded, but he wasn’t about to say he was nervous as hell and hanging on Kane’s every word.
“I do,” Kane said. “You wanna make a run at it, you stay in the pack and let them set the pace. You wanna have your ass handed to you, sprint out in front and burn out before the finish.”
Jared bit his lip, swayed from one foot to the other, afraid to open his mouth with that bubble of trepidation working its way through his sinuses. No way anything he said wouldn’t come out whiny and nasal at that point. He’d never give Kane the satisfaction.
“Understood?”
Jared nodded, glancing over his shoulder when the starter called his race to the line.
“That being said, the pace for the mile is this:” Kane took him by the shoulder and started walking toward the start, “Go out fast and hold on for dear life.”
“Got it,” Jared muttered. He slid his game face on and bounced onto his toes, high kneed it all the way to the line. First lane. Well, at least he’d be able to see the field ahead of him and pace himself better than if he started farther up the track. Fuck, he couldn’t believe he was taking Kane’s advice. He’d been running his own races since he started track in junior high. His race. His life. His way. He hated being out of his element. He swore it made the enamel on his friggin’ teeth itch. Not much he could do about it but bite down and get it over with. No way in hell he’d be at practice tomorrow, though.
“And Jared,” Kane called. “Brock’s best on this is 3:55. Just in case you were wondering.”
He hadn’t actually wanted to know, but now that he did, Jared did the math and felt his stomach lurch when he realized that was under a minute split per lap. Sure, he could run those splits. His 400 was sub-50. But he was usually spent after that, grabbing his knees and trying not to puke. Sub 60 splits four times in a row with no rest? No way that was happening. No way. What the fuck was Kane thinking? You couldn’t just take a sprinter and throw him into a distance race. No one did that. Good way to ruin his best runner. Jared glared over his shoulder as he crouched at his mark, eyes narrowed at Kane standing there all smug with hip cocked and that clipboard of power clasped against his chest. That’s all it was about. Power. Knocking Jared on his ass. He was being set up to fail.
“Set!”
Well, Christian Kane could go fuck himself. Jared Padalecki didn’t know how to lose.
BANG!
--
Jensen was used to gathering an entourage on his runs, kids, dogs, mail carriers. Hell, he knew he was slow, and running the same quarter mile loop around his block (he was up to twenty-eight laps now), he was never really out of sight of home or anyone in his neighborhood for that matter. There had to be something of a Bernoulli effect -- things with no mass or direction that just drifted into his wake. Or else it was his shoes. He got a lot of comments on his Vibrams Five Fingers shoes, most of them incredulous at best, but he liked them, and so did his Mama. There was no mistaking the slap-slap-slap they made against the pavement, and she could leave a window open and always know where he was, or if he’d stopped, or, god forbid, changed his gait. He swore, the woman could tell if he so much as picked up a piece of gravel.
He hated that she worried so much. Twenty-six-year-olds should not still be conscientious of staying within earshot of their mothers, but after the last couple years-- Jensen moving back home between hospital stays, therapy, and treatment-- he figured he was lucky she even let him out of her sight. Couldn’t blame her for still hovering a little too close. No doubt she could hear he’d picked up a tailgater. Christian Kane and his fucking cowboy boots.
He wondered what she thought of the clomp-clomp-clomp pacing his strides, waved with a sheepish grin when he saw her peek through the curtain and shake her head, the reflection of a lanky, long-haired cowboy visible in the window glass as Kane plodded up behind him. Chris never was one for subtlety.
“You know, you’ll hurt yourself running in those boots,” he said, moving over on the sidewalk so that Christian could fall into step beside him.
“Ran down a good number of fat calves in ‘em when I was still doing rodeo. And you’re one to talk. I’ve got duct tape thicker than the rubber on those things,” Chris heckled, jerking a thumb at Jensen’s Vibrams. “What’re they made out of, ABC gum?”
“They’re anatomically correct, thank you, and the closest thing to barefoot,” Jensen countered, hoping to hell he didn’t sound like he was just quoting the website. He’d spent so much time researching and planning while he was... off, that he didn’t always remember what he knew and what he just hoped to prove someday. The list of things he had to prove was infinitely longer than the former, most of them things he thought he’d have crossed out long ago. Not that he was bitter. There was probably plenty to be said for being able to start over again, back to basics. At least, that philosophy was working for the time being. “It’s how God made us to run.”
Jensen didn’t miss the half-formed word that turned into Chris clearing his throat, knew there was no way Kane was winded, considering Jensen was barely pacing a twelve minute mile. “Spit it out, Kane. You got something to say, then say it.”
Chris cleared his throat again, this time knuckling over his top lip with his fist. “Just, maybe you need something more than what God gave you, considering... well, considering.”
“Nothing wrong with my feet,” Jensen retorted.
“But a little more cushioning couldn’t hurt. Foot bone connected to the leg bone and all that jazz.” Scrubbing his knuckles over the seam of his jeans, “I mean, did you talk to the doctors?”
This time, Jensen harumphed, did his best to focus his attention up the street to the next corner and the metronome cadence of his feet, elbows bent high against his rib cage. “Wouldn’t have let me keep the leg if I wasn’t supposed to use it.”
“Yeah, but...”
“I’m fine, Chris. Modern medicine is a wonderful thing.”
“Modern medicine, my ass,” Chris said. “I saw that contraption they had you in. Looked pretty fucking barbaric to me.”
Jensen broke form long enough to shrug, forced a crooked grin on his face. He’d learned during his months of being less than able that it was far easier to be sympathetic and help everyone around him to deal with his situation than to expect anything resembling empathy. No way they could ever understand what it was like on his side of the fixeters and screws. “Nah. Big difference.”
“How so?”
“Barbarians didn’t have pharmaceuticals.”
Christian chuckled and shook his head, his faltering concentration just the invitation his boots needed to remind him why it was stupid to run in boots. His ankle rolled, and he stifled a “Mother F...” when he caught a glimpse of two kids playing catch in the yard up the street, then sat down hard on the curb. Jensen stopped a couple of strides ahead and came back.
“If I say, ‘I told you so,’ will you cut the crap and tell me why you’re really here?” He nodded down the street. “Otherwise, I can keep going and catch you on the next lap.” Okay, so that was a little blunt, but there were a lot of things Jensen had just come to accept that he and his friends would never see eye to eye on again. Most of them, he could deal with just fine, but when it came to hemming and hawwing around, skirting issues, and dragging things out, well, he just didn’t have the patience for wasted time. Not anymore.
Christian glanced at him, took his hat off, and got up, spent the next long seconds of uncomfortable silence reshaping the beat up felt between his fingers. “Look, uh, Jensen, I know I haven’t exactly stayed in touch. I just... I never knew what to say, what I could talk about, you know, that wouldn’t make you feel left out or something.”
“So, you just cut to the chase and left me out. I get it.” Jensen wasn’t really mad. Chris didn’t know he’d spent most of his recuperation sending away people that came to visit/gawk at him in his bed. He as pretty sure most of them appreciated the sendoff more than they were willing to admit. He took a lame kick at Chris’s shin with his rubbery shoes. “There, now we’re even. Is that it? Because I have ten more laps to run before Mom finishes dinner.”
The gesture broke the tension between them, at least momentarily, and it was enough to get the ball rolling. “Actually, that’s not all.” Chris met Jensen’s eyes for the first time since running up beside him, and behind the crinkle that said he appreciated Jensen’s candor, there was something serious and infinitely more mature than anything Jensen remembered seeing there before. He’d been noticing that a lot lately, too. He seemed to have acquired the superhuman ability to make everyone around him older. Not exactly the superpower he’d have asked for, if given the choice.
“So, what, then?”
“Look, no one knows about this yet. You’ve gotta keep it under your hat.” Chris realized the unintended pun, squashed his Stetson out of shape again by smacking it against his thigh with a roll of his eyes. “The school’s got this new policy. Well, it’s not new, so much as something that just finally caught up with us. Too many men’s sports, not enough women’s. They’re cutting the track program.”
Jensen didn’t know what to say. “Wow, man. That’s... that sucks. I thought you guys were winning.”
“We are,” Chris admitted. “But there’s only two men’s teams big enough to correct the imbalance --track and football. No way they’d cancel football, since that’s where most of the alumni money gets shunted, so it’s either track or a bunch of other smaller teams.”
Jensen felt like he should be more affected by the news. This was his old team they were talking about, the colors he wore back in his Springsteen-esque glory days, what few there were. Running had been his life back then, making it far too easy for him to understand the impact of what Chris was saying. Still, Jensen was living proof everyone would get over it. Eventually. “Wow...” he stammered, scrubbing a hand over his neck. “Shit, dude. I’m sure you can get a job with another school.”
“I’m not worried about my job,” Chris said, and it was almost like he was offended. “It’s the kids. Track’s not just a seasonal thing for these guys. Running’s a way of life. You know that better than anyone.”
“Yeah, yeah, I do.” Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Chris could empathize with him, after all.
“So, anyway, I went to bat for ‘em. Pulled a few strings. The track team’s gone starting next season, and they’re already cancelling the incoming frosh they had offered scholarships, but they’ll let us keep a string of our coming seniors on as a cross country team for the fall so they can get their final year in and play out their scholarships without having to transfer in their senior year.”
Jensen ran his hands down the outside of his sweats, didn’t now why the palms were suddenly so sweaty. Just because cross country used to be his thing, that didn’t mean... “Good thinking. I’m glad. For the kids.”
“C’mon, Jen. You know it’s not that easy. Most of my seniors are sprinters. They wouldn’t know a tempo run from a cruising interval, and they’ve never run under the lactate threshhold in their careers.”
“Sounds like a coaching deficiency to me,” Jensen said, folding his elbows over his chest. He knew the type of runner Christian was referring to, and he’d never had any patience for them. He’d always been a distance runner himself, knew about planning, training, and running the mental race. “All runners are sprinters until they learn to run.”
“Exactly.”
Okay, so that wasn’t quite the response Jensen was expecting.
“I recruited these guys, Jensen, and I owe it to them to make sure they don’t fall through the cracks. That’s why I’m here.”
Jensen shrugged, still hugging his elbows to his chest. “Not followin’ ya.”
“Um, well. I don’t wanna mislead you. There’s no money in it or anything. Hell, I’m gonna be doing this for free, myself.”
“Spit it out, Chris.”
“I want you to come be my assistant coach. Just for the Fall semester. Heck, at the very least, it’d look good on your resume.”
A weird tension tightened in Jensen’s jaw, made it hard for him to breathe let alone speak. It took two, probably three false starts to realize it was a smile and that speaking was hard because he felt more like laughing. Hell, if he was allowed to do any real lifting, he’d probably pick Chris up right then and spin him around once for good measure. “Are you... you’re serious? Really? Me?”
“Why not, Jensen? You were the best. You’ve probably forgotten more about distance running and training than I ever knew.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Jensen scoffed. “Let me assure you, I have forgotten nothing.” He honestly didn’t know where this giddiness was coming from. Didn’t know he still had it in him to feel that way. It was just, he’d spent so long trying to regain what he’d lost, to get back to where he’d been; he’d forgotten what it was like to have an entirely new opportunity come his way.
“Does that mean you’ll do it?” Chris held out his hand, hat pressed over his heart in true businessman’s fashion.
Jensen shook on it, probably squeezing a little too hard, like the opportunity would slip through his fingers if he didn’t dig in for all he was worth. “Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, I’ll do it. Of course.”
Chris stuffed his hair back under his cap, grinning from ear to ear as he clasped Jensen on the shoulder. “You seem like you’re up for a challenge.”
“You know me. Never backed down from one yet.”
“Well, good,” Chris chuckled. “I’ve got just the thing for you.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“His name’s Jared. Jared Padalecki.”
TBC
A/N: With regard to the track team being disbanded, that actually happened in my school. Granted it was, like, 15 years ago, so if that's hard for you to grasp, you can always pretend this is set 15 years ago. Also, I saw a discussion recently in which most of the runners who weighed in actually thought the 800m is a harder race than the 1600, because it's such a weird combination of sprint/distance, but I went with the 1600m being harder since I figured most readers would just equate farther to harder. It's also been a gazillion or so years since I was in track, so I don't actually remember the order of events, and that's likely to be wrong. Roll with the punches baby. And after saying all that, comments are disabled. It's the only way I can think of to get over my hangup that says comments=good fic and that sinking feeling I get stalking my inbox like a dumbass instead of writing more fic. Heh, heh. Call it a New Year's resolution. That doesn't mean concrit isn't appreciated. If you must say something for your own mental well-being, then just hover over my userpic and PM me, or if you're not an LJ user, I have a contact form on my profile page, behind the giant horsey. You just need to have flash capability to see it.
I don't plan on updating more than once a week or less than twice a month. Other than that, where this goes is anyone's guess.
Chapter Two
Author:
tru_faith_lostPairings: Jared/Jensen, eventually
Rating: NC-17, eventually
Words: ~3600, this part.
Warnings: Language and bad attitudes, but I swear the attitudes will change. It’s called character development. Gotta start somewhere. WIP. AU. Disabled comments.
Summary: Jared was at the beginning of his running career. Jensen thought he was at the end of his own. Time to find out if those who can’t, teach, or if those who teach, can. Hurt!Sick/Jensen to show up somewhere in the context.
Disclaimer:Not to be taken seriously by the readers or those whose names may be mentioned herein.
Jared’s rhythm stuttered then fell apart completely, his ankle turning behind the last click of his racing spikes as he downshifted from high knee warmups to dumbfounded and stockstill stupid.
“Whattaya mean I’m not in this race?”
The race steward double checked his clipboard, scanning from the top down with a deep crinkle set in his chin. “Men’s 400 M, eight lanes, no J. Padalecki.”
“But I always run this race,” Jared protested. Hopped up on pre-race adrenaline, he bounced up and down while swinging his arms, loosening his upper body and preparing his calves to fire. “It’s my race,” he added. His teammate, Chad, made a show of adjusting his starting blocks in the lane behind them, shaking his ass and leering over his shoulder at the opposing team’s girls in the bleachers. “Chad, tell him this is my race.”
Chad placed his feet, assumed a quick ‘set’ position and sprang upward, knees driving up to his chest for two steps, bounded to a halt, and shook his head. “Sorry, man. That’s between you and Coach. He’s putting Brock in for this one.” Then, leaning in to address Jared directly, Chad lowered his voice. “And would it kill you to actually check the schedule before you go harrassing the stewards? Not cool, dude.”
“But...” Jared’s mouth pressed into a tight line as Brock Kelly set up two lanes over from Chad. Center lane. Jared’s lane. He couldn’t help but wonder what time Coach gave the officials to get Brock seeded in the center lane. The fucker had never even run the 400 meter. Brock was a miler, not a sprinter.
“Padalecki! Get your ass off the track, son. I slotted you in the 1600.” Coach Kane yanked the beat-up felt hat off his head and smacked it against his thigh before smoothing down his long hair and trapping it back out of his eyes with the hat band. “Brock, you got this. Kick it out of the blocks and push all the way through.” He punctuated the advice with that annoying thumbs-up/wink combination that always made Jared feel like the bastard was trying to seduce a victory out of them. Goddamned creepy fuck had more slick mannerisms than a used car salesman.
Jared stretched his arms out to the sides. “What?! But...”
“Runners to your marks!” The starter pressed a straight arm across Jared’s chest until he took a step back. Teeth grinding, Jared huffed through his nose, planted his hands on his hips. Couldn’t fucking believe this shit. “Set!” The runners raised their hips in unison, the entire starting field quivering like springs on a hair trigger. Bang! Jared hung out long enough to watch Brock sprint ahead and overtake the guys in the far lanes who’d started several lengths ahead in the stagger pattern, then hold that lead down the far straightaway.
Ducking his head, Jared trotted over to Coach, hands still on his hips. “That was my race!”
“My team,” Kane dead-panned. “They’re all my races. I pick who runs and when.” Jared watched his expression turn up from fixed and set to darn near clawing its way under his hat band, eyebrows drawn up in expectation. “Yyeah, yyeah, yyeah, go, baby, go!” Kane punched the air, throwing his hat to the ground as Brock crossed the line ahead of the field. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he grinned, elbowing Jared aside to peer over the shoulders of several timekeepers in an effort to get the final time.
“Fuck.” Jared tried not to overhear, but it was hard to miss when it came over the Public Address system a few seconds later. Less than two seconds slower than Jared’s own personal record from a guy that never raced the distance before today. Palms tucked under his armpits, he stepped in front of Kane, made a show of tipping his head down to establish eye conact. “Just tell me why.”
Coach shrugged. “I owe it to the team to make sure I utilize everyone to their best potential. Brock’s been showing some kick on his last lap. I wanted to see if he could cut it in a sprint, and this meet’s locked in for us, anyway. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you in conference standings.”
“But I’ve never run the mile before.”
“You warm up two miles every day and cool down two more.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it.” Plus, he just didn’t want to run the mile. He liked being the team’s leading points earner and having all of his events add up to less than five minutes of actual running. It left plenty of time for hanging around the concession stand, wolfing down pizza, and generally wrecking mayhem on someone else’s turf. (He was somewhat of a serial defacer when it came to away meets.) Seemed like fair trade for a full athletic scholarship to keep him busy until he could get the degree his parents insisted on and go pro, which was all he really cared about, anyway. A mile sounded like way too much work.
“Look,” Kane stood on tiptoe and squared up his shoulders, the brim of his hat scrunching against Jared’s forehead, “I’m not asking you to win. Just fill the slot. Of course, Brock’s just proved he can win both events. In case you missed it, this is a team sport. That,” he jerked his thumb toward the finish line where Brock was towelling off, “is what I call a team player. It’s all about versaitility. Now, run the fucking 1600, or I’ll give him your leg of the 4x 400, too.”
“You can’t. He’s already got four running events.”
“Then, I’ll put him in at the next meet.”
“Next week is a conference meet.”
“What can I say? I have faith in the kid. AND I like his attitude.” Levering back down onto his heels, Coach maintained eye contact by forking two fingers between them, then raised the clipboard in his hand and drew Jared’s attention directly to it. “You’re on deck Padalecki. 1600 meters. Get your ass on the line.”
“What, no pointers? I don’t even know what pace is for 1600. You’re the coach. COACH!”
“Fair enough.” Kane nodded and took a step back. He tucked the clipboard under one arm and pinched it against his side, one thumb tucked into his belt loop, because only Christian Kane coached track in blue jeans and cowboy boots. “You can use blocks if you want. Most don’t. Stay in your own lane until you come around the curve, then you can cut in and run on the inside lane, but everyone else is going to be running there, too, so you’ll have to be careful when passing.”
“Who says anyone’s gonna be ahead of me?” Jared wasn’t nearly as cocky as he sounded, but he wasn’t about to say he was nervous as hell and hanging on Kane’s every word.
“I do,” Kane said. “You wanna make a run at it, you stay in the pack and let them set the pace. You wanna have your ass handed to you, sprint out in front and burn out before the finish.”
Jared bit his lip, swayed from one foot to the other, afraid to open his mouth with that bubble of trepidation working its way through his sinuses. No way anything he said wouldn’t come out whiny and nasal at that point. He’d never give Kane the satisfaction.
“Understood?”
Jared nodded, glancing over his shoulder when the starter called his race to the line.
“That being said, the pace for the mile is this:” Kane took him by the shoulder and started walking toward the start, “Go out fast and hold on for dear life.”
“Got it,” Jared muttered. He slid his game face on and bounced onto his toes, high kneed it all the way to the line. First lane. Well, at least he’d be able to see the field ahead of him and pace himself better than if he started farther up the track. Fuck, he couldn’t believe he was taking Kane’s advice. He’d been running his own races since he started track in junior high. His race. His life. His way. He hated being out of his element. He swore it made the enamel on his friggin’ teeth itch. Not much he could do about it but bite down and get it over with. No way in hell he’d be at practice tomorrow, though.
“And Jared,” Kane called. “Brock’s best on this is 3:55. Just in case you were wondering.”
He hadn’t actually wanted to know, but now that he did, Jared did the math and felt his stomach lurch when he realized that was under a minute split per lap. Sure, he could run those splits. His 400 was sub-50. But he was usually spent after that, grabbing his knees and trying not to puke. Sub 60 splits four times in a row with no rest? No way that was happening. No way. What the fuck was Kane thinking? You couldn’t just take a sprinter and throw him into a distance race. No one did that. Good way to ruin his best runner. Jared glared over his shoulder as he crouched at his mark, eyes narrowed at Kane standing there all smug with hip cocked and that clipboard of power clasped against his chest. That’s all it was about. Power. Knocking Jared on his ass. He was being set up to fail.
“Set!”
Well, Christian Kane could go fuck himself. Jared Padalecki didn’t know how to lose.
BANG!
--
Jensen was used to gathering an entourage on his runs, kids, dogs, mail carriers. Hell, he knew he was slow, and running the same quarter mile loop around his block (he was up to twenty-eight laps now), he was never really out of sight of home or anyone in his neighborhood for that matter. There had to be something of a Bernoulli effect -- things with no mass or direction that just drifted into his wake. Or else it was his shoes. He got a lot of comments on his Vibrams Five Fingers shoes, most of them incredulous at best, but he liked them, and so did his Mama. There was no mistaking the slap-slap-slap they made against the pavement, and she could leave a window open and always know where he was, or if he’d stopped, or, god forbid, changed his gait. He swore, the woman could tell if he so much as picked up a piece of gravel.
He hated that she worried so much. Twenty-six-year-olds should not still be conscientious of staying within earshot of their mothers, but after the last couple years-- Jensen moving back home between hospital stays, therapy, and treatment-- he figured he was lucky she even let him out of her sight. Couldn’t blame her for still hovering a little too close. No doubt she could hear he’d picked up a tailgater. Christian Kane and his fucking cowboy boots.
He wondered what she thought of the clomp-clomp-clomp pacing his strides, waved with a sheepish grin when he saw her peek through the curtain and shake her head, the reflection of a lanky, long-haired cowboy visible in the window glass as Kane plodded up behind him. Chris never was one for subtlety.
“You know, you’ll hurt yourself running in those boots,” he said, moving over on the sidewalk so that Christian could fall into step beside him.
“Ran down a good number of fat calves in ‘em when I was still doing rodeo. And you’re one to talk. I’ve got duct tape thicker than the rubber on those things,” Chris heckled, jerking a thumb at Jensen’s Vibrams. “What’re they made out of, ABC gum?”
“They’re anatomically correct, thank you, and the closest thing to barefoot,” Jensen countered, hoping to hell he didn’t sound like he was just quoting the website. He’d spent so much time researching and planning while he was... off, that he didn’t always remember what he knew and what he just hoped to prove someday. The list of things he had to prove was infinitely longer than the former, most of them things he thought he’d have crossed out long ago. Not that he was bitter. There was probably plenty to be said for being able to start over again, back to basics. At least, that philosophy was working for the time being. “It’s how God made us to run.”
Jensen didn’t miss the half-formed word that turned into Chris clearing his throat, knew there was no way Kane was winded, considering Jensen was barely pacing a twelve minute mile. “Spit it out, Kane. You got something to say, then say it.”
Chris cleared his throat again, this time knuckling over his top lip with his fist. “Just, maybe you need something more than what God gave you, considering... well, considering.”
“Nothing wrong with my feet,” Jensen retorted.
“But a little more cushioning couldn’t hurt. Foot bone connected to the leg bone and all that jazz.” Scrubbing his knuckles over the seam of his jeans, “I mean, did you talk to the doctors?”
This time, Jensen harumphed, did his best to focus his attention up the street to the next corner and the metronome cadence of his feet, elbows bent high against his rib cage. “Wouldn’t have let me keep the leg if I wasn’t supposed to use it.”
“Yeah, but...”
“I’m fine, Chris. Modern medicine is a wonderful thing.”
“Modern medicine, my ass,” Chris said. “I saw that contraption they had you in. Looked pretty fucking barbaric to me.”
Jensen broke form long enough to shrug, forced a crooked grin on his face. He’d learned during his months of being less than able that it was far easier to be sympathetic and help everyone around him to deal with his situation than to expect anything resembling empathy. No way they could ever understand what it was like on his side of the fixeters and screws. “Nah. Big difference.”
“How so?”
“Barbarians didn’t have pharmaceuticals.”
Christian chuckled and shook his head, his faltering concentration just the invitation his boots needed to remind him why it was stupid to run in boots. His ankle rolled, and he stifled a “Mother F...” when he caught a glimpse of two kids playing catch in the yard up the street, then sat down hard on the curb. Jensen stopped a couple of strides ahead and came back.
“If I say, ‘I told you so,’ will you cut the crap and tell me why you’re really here?” He nodded down the street. “Otherwise, I can keep going and catch you on the next lap.” Okay, so that was a little blunt, but there were a lot of things Jensen had just come to accept that he and his friends would never see eye to eye on again. Most of them, he could deal with just fine, but when it came to hemming and hawwing around, skirting issues, and dragging things out, well, he just didn’t have the patience for wasted time. Not anymore.
Christian glanced at him, took his hat off, and got up, spent the next long seconds of uncomfortable silence reshaping the beat up felt between his fingers. “Look, uh, Jensen, I know I haven’t exactly stayed in touch. I just... I never knew what to say, what I could talk about, you know, that wouldn’t make you feel left out or something.”
“So, you just cut to the chase and left me out. I get it.” Jensen wasn’t really mad. Chris didn’t know he’d spent most of his recuperation sending away people that came to visit/gawk at him in his bed. He as pretty sure most of them appreciated the sendoff more than they were willing to admit. He took a lame kick at Chris’s shin with his rubbery shoes. “There, now we’re even. Is that it? Because I have ten more laps to run before Mom finishes dinner.”
The gesture broke the tension between them, at least momentarily, and it was enough to get the ball rolling. “Actually, that’s not all.” Chris met Jensen’s eyes for the first time since running up beside him, and behind the crinkle that said he appreciated Jensen’s candor, there was something serious and infinitely more mature than anything Jensen remembered seeing there before. He’d been noticing that a lot lately, too. He seemed to have acquired the superhuman ability to make everyone around him older. Not exactly the superpower he’d have asked for, if given the choice.
“So, what, then?”
“Look, no one knows about this yet. You’ve gotta keep it under your hat.” Chris realized the unintended pun, squashed his Stetson out of shape again by smacking it against his thigh with a roll of his eyes. “The school’s got this new policy. Well, it’s not new, so much as something that just finally caught up with us. Too many men’s sports, not enough women’s. They’re cutting the track program.”
Jensen didn’t know what to say. “Wow, man. That’s... that sucks. I thought you guys were winning.”
“We are,” Chris admitted. “But there’s only two men’s teams big enough to correct the imbalance --track and football. No way they’d cancel football, since that’s where most of the alumni money gets shunted, so it’s either track or a bunch of other smaller teams.”
Jensen felt like he should be more affected by the news. This was his old team they were talking about, the colors he wore back in his Springsteen-esque glory days, what few there were. Running had been his life back then, making it far too easy for him to understand the impact of what Chris was saying. Still, Jensen was living proof everyone would get over it. Eventually. “Wow...” he stammered, scrubbing a hand over his neck. “Shit, dude. I’m sure you can get a job with another school.”
“I’m not worried about my job,” Chris said, and it was almost like he was offended. “It’s the kids. Track’s not just a seasonal thing for these guys. Running’s a way of life. You know that better than anyone.”
“Yeah, yeah, I do.” Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Chris could empathize with him, after all.
“So, anyway, I went to bat for ‘em. Pulled a few strings. The track team’s gone starting next season, and they’re already cancelling the incoming frosh they had offered scholarships, but they’ll let us keep a string of our coming seniors on as a cross country team for the fall so they can get their final year in and play out their scholarships without having to transfer in their senior year.”
Jensen ran his hands down the outside of his sweats, didn’t now why the palms were suddenly so sweaty. Just because cross country used to be his thing, that didn’t mean... “Good thinking. I’m glad. For the kids.”
“C’mon, Jen. You know it’s not that easy. Most of my seniors are sprinters. They wouldn’t know a tempo run from a cruising interval, and they’ve never run under the lactate threshhold in their careers.”
“Sounds like a coaching deficiency to me,” Jensen said, folding his elbows over his chest. He knew the type of runner Christian was referring to, and he’d never had any patience for them. He’d always been a distance runner himself, knew about planning, training, and running the mental race. “All runners are sprinters until they learn to run.”
“Exactly.”
Okay, so that wasn’t quite the response Jensen was expecting.
“I recruited these guys, Jensen, and I owe it to them to make sure they don’t fall through the cracks. That’s why I’m here.”
Jensen shrugged, still hugging his elbows to his chest. “Not followin’ ya.”
“Um, well. I don’t wanna mislead you. There’s no money in it or anything. Hell, I’m gonna be doing this for free, myself.”
“Spit it out, Chris.”
“I want you to come be my assistant coach. Just for the Fall semester. Heck, at the very least, it’d look good on your resume.”
A weird tension tightened in Jensen’s jaw, made it hard for him to breathe let alone speak. It took two, probably three false starts to realize it was a smile and that speaking was hard because he felt more like laughing. Hell, if he was allowed to do any real lifting, he’d probably pick Chris up right then and spin him around once for good measure. “Are you... you’re serious? Really? Me?”
“Why not, Jensen? You were the best. You’ve probably forgotten more about distance running and training than I ever knew.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Jensen scoffed. “Let me assure you, I have forgotten nothing.” He honestly didn’t know where this giddiness was coming from. Didn’t know he still had it in him to feel that way. It was just, he’d spent so long trying to regain what he’d lost, to get back to where he’d been; he’d forgotten what it was like to have an entirely new opportunity come his way.
“Does that mean you’ll do it?” Chris held out his hand, hat pressed over his heart in true businessman’s fashion.
Jensen shook on it, probably squeezing a little too hard, like the opportunity would slip through his fingers if he didn’t dig in for all he was worth. “Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, I’ll do it. Of course.”
Chris stuffed his hair back under his cap, grinning from ear to ear as he clasped Jensen on the shoulder. “You seem like you’re up for a challenge.”
“You know me. Never backed down from one yet.”
“Well, good,” Chris chuckled. “I’ve got just the thing for you.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“His name’s Jared. Jared Padalecki.”
TBC
A/N: With regard to the track team being disbanded, that actually happened in my school. Granted it was, like, 15 years ago, so if that's hard for you to grasp, you can always pretend this is set 15 years ago. Also, I saw a discussion recently in which most of the runners who weighed in actually thought the 800m is a harder race than the 1600, because it's such a weird combination of sprint/distance, but I went with the 1600m being harder since I figured most readers would just equate farther to harder. It's also been a gazillion or so years since I was in track, so I don't actually remember the order of events, and that's likely to be wrong. Roll with the punches baby. And after saying all that, comments are disabled. It's the only way I can think of to get over my hangup that says comments=good fic and that sinking feeling I get stalking my inbox like a dumbass instead of writing more fic. Heh, heh. Call it a New Year's resolution. That doesn't mean concrit isn't appreciated. If you must say something for your own mental well-being, then just hover over my userpic and PM me, or if you're not an LJ user, I have a contact form on my profile page, behind the giant horsey. You just need to have flash capability to see it.
I don't plan on updating more than once a week or less than twice a month. Other than that, where this goes is anyone's guess.
Chapter Two
