Page 32 of The Clinch
She closes the door between us.
I stand there longer than I should, then head to my room. Grab my phone.
I can’t stop thinking about what she said.
“I used to run track.”
My fingers move without overthinking:Lillian Richardson track.
The search engine lights up immediately:
Lillian Richardson NCAA 100m
Lillian Richardson 4x100 relay
Lillian Richardson celebration scream
I click the first video.
A stadium. Floodlights. A sea of noise.
And in lane seven—Liz.
Younger. Blue hair cascading down her back in long braids. Those thighs. The tattoo I’ve only caught glimpses of. Compression shorts hugging a body made for explosive power.
Hands on her hips. Head high.
Cocky. Electric. Alive.
She lowers into her start position—a slow, deliberate crouch that looks like prayer and threat at the same time. Every muscle coiled.
The gun fires.
She detonates.
Christ.
She eats up the lane, stride after lethal stride. Hair flying. Tattoo flexing. That face—focused, hungry, absolutely certain she belongs in front.
She crosses the finish line first.
Then she screams.
A raw, triumphant sound that shoots straight down my spine.
She throws her head back and does a sharp hand flick, like she’s slicing the air, claiming it.
I scroll. Another video loads.
Liz with yellow braids. Fire-red curls. Natural black waves.
Liz winning. Again. Again. Again.
Every finish is another scream. That hand flick. That confidence. That glow.
The woman in these videos is a star.
I’m about to close it when YouTube auto-plays another clip.
