Sprint // z.m

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The sound of his feet pounding against the pavement is synced to his heartbeat, his blood thumping in his ear and distracting him from the ache that is taking over his calve muscles.

Once a week, Coach Grabe holds a one-on-one private practice with Zayn, and today was that day. The only thing that is helping Zayn push through the hour and a half session is the reminder that it's Friday and he will be able to go home straight after.

"HARDER, MALIK! RUN HARDER!" The shouts are accompanied by a rapid string of claps coming.

Zayn rolls his eyes, but continues with his run, willing to endure Grabe's obnoxious commentary finish faster. It's not that he doesn't want to run, he just wishes he could run in peace, without someone watching him, tracking his every move, recording and jotting down when he finishes a lap. He just wants to run, not train. Training is just adding to the weight that had accumulated on his shoulders during the school week. 

With homework assignments being thrown at him from left to right, project due dates creeping up behind him and strangling him with their demands, and people being seemingly oblivious and ignoring all of his attempts to brush off conversations, it was all too much for him. And it's only the first month into the school year. How the hell is he going to make it through the year? 

"TIME!" Coach yells as the young, raven-haired teen speeds by him. "I SAID 'TIME', MALIK!"

He slows down to a paced trot, turning his head over his shoulder. "I think I'm gonna keep running for a bit more." Perhaps it could help ease the ball of tension that he's feeling.

"Extra laps are unnecessary, we've had a perfectly fine training session. You're done. Go get changed and go home," Coach states, arms crossed firmly across his chest as he stares at the young runner.

Before Zayn can even try arguing, Grabe turns away, ending the conversation.

"Dick," Zayn mutters under his breath. He makes his way to the benches on the side of the track, picking up his water bottle and taking small sips. He lays down on the bench, not bothering with his cool-down stretches, which he might (will definitely) regret later. He stars up at the sky through the glass ceiling, wishing he could be somewhere up there. The clouds in the Sky look fluffy, like big wads of cotton that were made for angels to sleep on.

His eyelids feel heavy as he continues picturing how it would feel to lay on clouds, exhaustion coursing through him. He lays there for minutes, basking in the silence. That was until the gym door swung open, loud, disturbing the bubble Zayn had managed to momentarily surround himself in.

Coach whistles a light tune as he walks in. The high-pitched sound stops mid breath when the older man notices Zayn. "Why are you still here?" He asks, beginning to walk the student's way.

Zayn shrugs, returning his head to lay against the bench. "Just wanted to lay here a little bit."

Grabe sighs at the glum tone interlaced in the response. "Did you do your stretches?" Zayn shakes his head no. "Have fun being sore this weekend, kid." Coach leans over the boy, staring down at him. What's wrong, Malik?"

"Nothing. Just tired. Had a good practice."

The coach scoffs. "You wanted to keep doing more laps; you only do that when something's wrong. Now let's try this again, what's wrong, Malik?" Zayn doesn't need to have his eyes open to know that Coach Grabe is glaring down at him with his stern eyes. "Is it school, need me to talk to your teachers?"

"Uncle Grabe, I'm fine."

"You sure, son?" Zayn nods, opening his eyes and sending up a failed attempt at a reassuring smile. Grabe shakes his head, patting the young boy's shoulder.