022.02 TONY – Paper Walls 11.9. at 05:00 – 12:30

I remember that sound – new linoleum in the gym. It always calmed me, that smell of cleanliness, the chance to start over. Today, though, I feel my hands shaking as I lead the warm-up. The paper with the times is trembling between my fingers.

Adam throws the medicine ball and laughs as if it were nothing. His laughter echoes through the gym, drowning out even the clinking of weights.

Jirka writes down the repetitions next to him, focused as always.

Mára is doing squats with a resistance band and keeps looking at the coach's tablet as if he'd found the secrets of the universe there.

And Viktor… Viktor stretches his shoulders, that rubber band of his keeps snapping against his wrist. Rhythmically, like a metronome. I can't take my eyes off him.

And then there's Tom. He's waving the rope, but I can feel him watching me. He's not looking directly, just out of the corner of his eye, but I know. I always know.

„Don't forget about Sunday's time trial,“ the coach reminds us, handing out papers with the times. My hand is shaky again as I take mine. The numbers on the page ripple before my eyes like a swimming pool surface. Fuck, I can't concentrate.

I take off my sweatband and suddenly my hair tie falls out. I try to calm down, seven-three breathing, just like they taught me. Inhale for seven, exhale for three. Inhale for seven, exhale for three. Inhale… damn it, I lost count.

Viktor leans over and hands me a water bottle. His fingers brush my wrist for a second and I feel a tingle run down my spine. Why him, of all people? Why now?

Tom sees it. Of course he sees it. He turns his head, pulling his hoodie down over his forehead. His whole body screams: I don't want to see this. I don't care.

Beep! The coach's whistle ends the set, but the noise in my head keeps going. The seven-three breathing is screwed. I pick up the papers, which feel heavier than the dumbbells beside me.

„Fatigue is measured by the head, not the stopwatch,“ the coach warns, looking right at me.

I smile as if I understand. As if I know what the fuck is happening to me. But apart from my breath, that damned seven-three, I can't get a single word out.