When I'm Looking Back

{Three}

There are many evil things in this world: taxes, paper cuts, soggy cereal.

But none of them compare to leg day with Bo Davenport.

My thighs are screaming murder, my calves are crying for mercy, and somehow my butt is participating in the riot even though I’m ninety percent sure it shouldn’t be involved.

Bo stands over me while I’m holding a squat position with a weighted bar like I’m being sentenced for crimes against humanity.

“Lower,” he says.

“I—am—LOW,” I hiss.

“You’re half-assing it.”

“I don’t even have an ass anymore! You killed it! It’s gone! Call the cops!”

He crosses his tattooed arms and raises an eyebrow—the eyebrow that says I dare you to keep talking.

“Five seconds,” he says calmly.

That sounds nice and short until you’re burning alive. My legs tremble like a baby deer going through a midlife crisis.

Bo counts way too slow.

“Five… four… four… three and a half…”

“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?”

He grins. He enjoys torture. One hundred percent.

When he finally tells me to stand, I practically rocket upright like my bones are spring-loaded. I groan, limp over to the bench, and collapse.

Bo tosses me a water bottle. “Drink,” he commands.

I chug like a dehydrated camel.

He watches me, and I see the shift—his coach mode. Not the yelling drill-sergeant version, but the calculating one. The one where his brain is clearly running numbers and possibilities at light speed.

“So,” he starts, grabbing a clipboard, “let’s talk about the Apex Winter Invitational.”

I wipe the sweat off my face with my shirt. “Is now really the time? I’m ninety seconds from cardiac arrest.”

He ignores that completely. “This is the biggest competition you’ve had yet. Media coverage, sponsors, international scouts…”

“So no pressure,” I say. “Fantastic.”

He flips a page. “You’re riding the best you ever have. If you nail this event, the Olympics committee is going to notice.”

There it is. The word that always hits like a slap and a hug at the same time.

Olympics.

I try to breathe normally, but it comes out tight. “You really think I’m that close?”

Bo leans against the wall, eyes steady. “I don’t think. I know.”

It lands somewhere deep—deeper than muscle, deeper than bone. And it almost scares me.

I deflect. Humor is my default life jacket.

“You’re just saying that so I stop complaining about leg day.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffs. “Nothing in existence can stop you from complaining.”

“That’s fair.”

He sits beside me, stealing a sip from my water like he pays for it. He does not.

“It’s gonna be intense,” he goes on. “Big names. Big pressure. Cameras everywhere. But you’ve got the skill, Wes. You just have to stop doubting.”

“I don’t doubt,” I say.

Bo tilts his head. “You doubt all the time.”

“No I don’t.”

“You doubted your ability to get out of bed this morning.”

“Well that was a very real concern.”

He throws a towel at my face. I deserve it.

Then his tone shifts again—not soft, not dramatic… just steady.

“You’re ready,” he says.

I don’t know why, but hearing him say it—just like that—makes my heart jerk. Maybe because there were years when I thought I’d never even touch snow again, much less compete.

Bo looks straight at me. There’s no teasing, no sarcasm.

“Wes, you belong up there.”

I swallow hard. Humor fails me for a second.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I want it.”

“I know you do.”

Something about the way he says it almost hurts. Because he’s seen every fall, every fear, every late-night breakdown I pretend never happened. And still—still—he thinks I’m the guy who can do it.

Before feelings can get too intense and weird, he slaps my thigh, which is a hate crime at this point.

“Alright, sap time over. Back on the sled push.”

I gasp. “You’re sending me to an early grave.”

“That’s the dream.”

“I’m writing you out of my will.”

“You don’t have a will.”

“I’ll make one just so I can remove you.”

He grins like he lives for this.

I drag myself back to the sled. It looks heavier than my emotional baggage.

Bo nods toward it. “When you’re pushing that, I want you thinking about the medal stand.”

“You mean I should hallucinate due to pain? No problem.”

He points down the lane. “Go.”

I shove the sled forward, teeth gritted, every muscle in my body cursing my life choices. Bo jogs alongside me, yelling encouragement that sounds misleadingly like bullying.

“Drive! You’re a tank, not a tricycle! MOVE IT, WEAKLING!”

Somewhere inside the agony, something else lights up.

The want. The drive. The memory of being a scared twelve-year-old kid who just wanted to try again.

I reach the end and collapse forward onto the sled, chest heaving.

Bo crouches next to me.

“That fire?” he says. “That right there is what’s gonna get you through Apex.”

I look up at him, face burning, legs burning, everything burning.

“Yeah,” I pant. “Well… your pep talks sound like threats… but I get the point.”

Bo claps my shoulder. “Good. Now send it back down the lane.”

I scream into the floor.

He just laughs.

And even though I complain, even though I’m exhausted and sweating and borderline dying… a part of me believes him.

Apex is coming. And maybe—just maybe—I’m ready.

Or I will be.

Because Bo won’t let me be anything else.