The burn felt good in Zen's muscles as he rounded the final curve of the track. He pushed harder, feeling his body respond exactly the way it should. Two weeks until the Olympics, and he was peaking at the perfect time.
"Fourty-four point ten," Coach Murray called as Zen crossed the line, slowing to a jog. "That's your best time this month."
Zen nodded, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. The late afternoon sun beat down on the university track where he still trained, though he'd graduated three years ago.
"One more?" he asked.
Coach Murray shook his head. "Let's not push it today. You're exactly where you need to be."
And he was. At twenty-six, Zen Cross had three national titles in the 400 meters, a world championship gold, and was favored to medal in Tokyo. After barely missing the team four years ago, everything was falling into place.
His phone buzzed in his gym bag. He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and checked the screen.
A group text from his college teammates: Reunion dinner tonight? Celebrating Pasta Palace's grand reopening. 7pm. Be there or we'll tell everyone about sophomore year spring break.
Zen laughed. Some threats never got old. He thumbed a quick reply: Wouldn't miss it. See you degenerates at 7.
"Good news?" Coach asked, collecting his stopwatch.
"Just some friends from college. Dinner tonight." Zen stretched his hamstrings, feeling the pleasant pull. "Everything feels right, Coach. Like it's all coming together."
"Don't jinx it," Murray said, but he was smiling. "Ice bath, protein shake, and don't stay out too late."
"Yes, sir." Zen gave a mock salute and headed for the locker room.
Two weeks until Tokyo. His life couldn't be more perfect.
Pasta Palace hadn't changed much since college. Same red checkered tablecloths, same oversized portions that had fueled countless post-race celebrations. Zen spotted the guys at a corner booth and made his way over.
"The man of the hour!" Derek stood, arms wide. They hugged briefly before Zen slid into the booth.
"Olympic golden boy graces us with his presence," Marcus added, raising his beer in a toast.
"Not gold yet," Zen said, but he couldn't help grinning.
The third man at the table nodded at him. "Zen."
"Jake. Good to see you, man."
Jake Taylor had been their team captain senior year. Solid runner, but never quite elite level. Now he worked in pharmaceutical sales, according to his social media. They'd been close once, but had drifted apart after graduation.
"Been following your career," Jake said. "Pretty impressive."
"Thanks." Zen grabbed a menu, though he already knew he'd order the chicken parm. Tradition since freshman year. "How's life treating you guys?"
For the next half hour, they caught up. Derek was finishing medical school. Marcus had just gotten engaged. Jake talked about his sales job, territory expanding, decent money.
"But nothing like Nike sponsorship money," Jake added, nodding at Zen's shoes. "Must be nice having genetics on your side."
"Trust me, I put in the work," Zen laughed, not picking up on the edge in Jake's voice. "Five hours a day, six days a week."
"Sure, but some people could train twenty-four seven and never break sixty seconds in the quarter," Jake said. "You were running fifty-five as a freshman."
"Lucky, I guess." Zen shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction. "Hey, what happened with that girl you were seeing last year, Marcus?"
The waitress arrived with their food, and Jake's comment was forgotten. Zen ordered a seltzer water with lime. Alcohol wasn't part of his pre-competition routine.
"To Zen bringing home gold," Derek said, raising his glass.
They all clinked glasses. Zen took a sip, feeling grateful for these guys who'd known him before the sponsorships and magazine covers.
His phone rang. He glanced at the screen. His agent.
"Sorry, guys. Gotta take this."
He stepped outside into the warm evening air. "Hey, Trina."
"Good news," his agent said. "That sportswear deal we discussed? They've increased the offer by fifteen percent if you medal."
"That's awesome."
"And they want to shoot a commercial next month. I told them you're focused on the race right now, but we should talk timeline soon."
They discussed details for a few minutes. By the time Zen returned to the table, his food had arrived.
"Everything okay?" Marcus asked.
"Yeah, just agent stuff." Zen picked up his fork. "Man, I've missed this place."
Jake pushed Zen's seltzer closer to him. "Drink up, champ. I ordered you a refill."
"Thanks," Zen said, taking a long drink.
The conversation flowed easily, old stories about relay disasters and dorm pranks. Jake seemed to relax as the night went on, laughing at all the right moments.
"Remember Coach's face when we shaved the team logo into his dog?" Derek howled.
"That poor poodle," Zen said between bites of pasta. "Hey, you guys coming to Tokyo?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Marcus said.
Jake nodded. "Already booked my flight."
"Cool," Zen said, finishing his water. "It means a lot, having you guys there."
By the time they paid the bill, Zen felt great. Full, happy, surrounded by friends who knew him before fame.
"Get home safe, Olympic hero," Jake said, giving Zen a fist bump. "We'll see you in Tokyo."
"Count on it." Zen grinned.
The drive home was peaceful, windows down, favorite playlist going. Zen lived in a modest condo near the university. No mansion yet, despite what people assumed about pro athlete money.
He popped a couple of berries into his mouth from the fridge, then started his evening stretching routine. Tomorrow meant another training session, another day closer to the Olympics.
His phone pinged with a calendar reminder: Routine drug test - 10 AM - Performance Center
Standard stuff. He'd done dozens of these over the years. Part of being a professional athlete. The World Anti-Doping Agency was thorough, especially before major competitions.
He finished stretching, drank a protein shake, and got ready for bed. As he lay down, a sense of contentment washed over him. The perfect training day, dinner with old friends, and in two weeks, the culmination of a lifetime of work.
Zen drifted off to sleep with a slight smile on his face, unaware that in less than twenty-four hours, everything he'd worked for would be shattered.