"You Have No Discipline!": Track Tyrant Pours Coffee on a Genius & Gets Bitter Karma

 

PART 2:

Applause rang out. Slowly. Steadily. Clap. Clap. Clap.

That solitary sound echoed against the concrete walls of the stadium, breaking the suffocating silence. Coach Harris froze. He turned his head, narrowing his eyes to look up at the dark rows of seats. The other athletes looked up as well.

A woman stepped out of the darkness. She wore a jacket embroidered with the interlocking five-ring logo of the International Olympic Committee. But as she walked down the metal stairs, she slowly unzipped the jacket, took it off, and draped it casually over her arm, revealing a simple black T-shirt. The mask of administrative authority was stripped away, leaving only the eyes of a supreme judge.

That was Eleanor Vance. Head of Olympic Scouting.

Harris's face changed color, his facial muscles twitching violently before he managed to force a welcoming smile. He hurriedly stuffed the stopwatch into his pocket and walked quickly toward the foot of the stands.

"Ms. Vance! I didn't know you were coming today," Harris said, his voice shifting to a respectful tone but still trying to maintain an air of superiority. "This boy... he has potential, but he lacks strict discipline. I am just molding him. My method is strict, but it yields results."

Eleanor did not look at Harris. She walked straight past him, as if he were merely an invisible marker on the track. The thud of her sneakers on the rubber track sounded decisive. She stopped in front of Marcus. Only now did the 19-year-old young man tremble slightly, his broad shoulders dropping a bit. The toughness in the face of cruelty suddenly fractured before an empathetic gaze. Eleanor looked at the black coffee stain that had begun to dry on his face and on his number 19 jersey. She opened her old leather handbag, pulling out a pristine white silk handkerchief infused with a gentle scent of lavender perfume.

She handed the handkerchief to Marcus.

"Wipe it off, young man," Eleanor said, her voice deep and still like a windless lake. "Coffee does not belong on the face of a record holder."

Marcus took the handkerchief. As he pressed the soft silk against his skin, the dark brown stain clung tightly to the white color of the handkerchief, leaving an undeniable proof of humiliation.

Harris stepped forward, his face flushed red from being ignored: "Ms. Vance, his performance in the time trial just now did not meet the Olympic standard. I have full authority to decide the roster..."

"His performance did not meet your standard," Eleanor interrupted, her voice not raised at all, but her authority left Harris speechless. "Because you made him start with torn shoes and a terrorized mind. But my cameras caught his acceleration speed in the final 50 meters last week. That is the speed of a gold medalist."

She turned to Marcus, pulling a yellow card with an embossed eagle seal from her coat pocket. An invitation card directly to the National Olympic Training Center in Colorado, bypassing the club's entire screening system. She used a pin to clip the card right over the coffee stain on the chest of his number 19 jersey.

"The train leaves at nine tomorrow morning. Don't be late," Eleanor said.

Harris stood frozen in his tracks. He looked at the yellow card, then at Eleanor. His absolute power in this stadium had completely collapsed in just five minutes. He tried to cling on, his hand trembling as he touched the silver whistle: "You cannot break the club's protocol like that!"

But no one listened to him anymore. The dozen athletes on the track stepped forward simultaneously. They did not stand spread out as usual. They gathered together, forming a human wall standing right behind Marcus, quietly looking at Harris. The loyal obedience of all those years had vanished, replaced by the cold judgment of the crowd.

Marcus bowed his head to Eleanor. He did not even spare Harris a single glance. Chàng trai 19 tuổi turned around, taking long, firm strides toward the stadium exit. The jersey bearing the coffee stain and the gleaming yellow card gradually faded into the darkness of the tunnel.

On the track, Harris was left entirely alone under the high-pressure lights that had just turned on. Beneath his feet, the coffee spilled messily on the rubber track, reflecting the gray light of a late, cold, and empty evening.