Cole thought if someone like me, a guy with a carbon-fiber blade instead of a left leg, can keep up, then it must be because of technology, not training.
I’ve heard it all before.
The backhanded compliments, the whispered jokes, the not-so-subtle jabs about my “spring-loaded advantage.”
But I don’t waste my breath arguing. I just train.
Natural Talent
The first time I met Cole, he was bragging about himself.
It was the second week of the semester, and our sports science class was going around the room for introductions.
Most people kept it simple. Name, sport, maybe a personal best if they felt like showing off.
Cole? He gave a full résumé.
“Cole Masters, 100- and 200-meter sprinter. Broke the conference record last season. D1 scouts already watching me. Hoping to go pro after college.”
He leaned back in his chair, grinning like we should all be taking notes.
I went last. “Ethan Riley. Sprinter. Training for the Paralympics.”
Cole turned to look at me for the first time, eyes flicking down to my prosthetic blade. His smirk didn’t fade, but something about it shifted. Like he’d just spotted a flaw in the competition.
“Wait,” he said, “so you run with that?”
I tapped the blade against the tile floor. “Yeah.”
He let out a low whistle. “Man, that thing’s like a turbo boost, huh? Bet you get crazy speed with it.”
A few people chuckled. I just shrugged. “Only if I put in the work.”
Cole’s grin widened. “Yeah, but still. Whole different game when you’ve got equipment helping you out.”
Before I could respond, our professor cut in.
“Actually, prosthetic sprinters exert more energy than able-bodied runners,” he said, addressing the class. “They have no ankle flexion, meaning they have to compensate with increased force from the hip. If anything, Ethan works harder than most of you just to keep pace.”
The room went quiet. Cole’s grin faltered for just a second before he recovered.
“Guess that’s one way to look at it,” he muttered, tapping his pen against his desk.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to.
Cole would see for himself soon enough.
More Than Metal
Cole liked to talk about natural ability. He had it. He knew it.
And he made sure everyone else knew it, too.
“Some people are just built for this,” he said one afternoon as a few of us walked toward the gym. “You either have the raw speed, or you don’t. That’s why most guys never make it past college.”
He shot me a glance. “Or, you know, they need extra help.”
I didn’t take the bait. I’d been training too long to care about what guys like Cole thought.
But I knew he wasn’t done yet.
Later that day, I was in the gym running sprint drills when I caught Cole and a few of his teammates watching from the weight area. I could hear them whispering, laughing.
Then Cole spoke just loud enough for me to catch it.
“Man, must be nice having built-in speed boosts.”
I ignored him and kept running. The rhythmic sound of my blade striking the track was the only thing that mattered.
After I finished my set, I walked past where Cole and his teammates were still standing. He gave me a smirk like he was expecting me to say something.
So I did.
“You know,” I said casually, “you should try running on one of these sometime. Might teach you a thing or two about real effort.”
His smile faltered. “Yeah, I think I’ll stick to using actual legs,” he shot back.
I just shook my head and walked away.
Because the thing about people like Cole? They think they’re untouchable.
But speed is only good as long as you can keep it.
And that was something he was about to learn the hard way.
The Fall
The stadium buzzed with energy. It was one of the biggest college meets of the season, with scouts from professional teams watching from the stands.
For Cole, this was his shot. A chance to prove he belonged in the pros.
I wasn’t racing in his event, but I was there for an exhibition heat.
A few of us Paralympic hopefuls had been invited to run between the main races, a gesture toward inclusivity, though I knew most of the crowd wasn’t there to watch us.
That was fine. I wasn’t here for them.
Cole, on the other hand, was. He thrived on the attention, feeding off the way people looked at him. The way they expected him to win.
As his heat lined up, he bounced on his toes, rolling his shoulders like he was untouchable.
From my spot near the warm-up area, I watched as the sprinters took their marks. The gun fired.
Cole exploded forward, and for a moment, he was exactly what he believed himself to be: unstoppable.
His stride was powerful, driving him ahead of the pack.
But then, just as he pushed for that extra burst of speed, it happened.
A sharp pop echoed through the stadium.
Cole’s scream cut through the roar of the crowd as his leg buckled beneath him. He tumbled forward, hitting the track hard.
The other runners surged past him. By the time he managed to sit up, clutching his hamstring in agony, the race was already over.
Trainers rushed onto the field, but I didn’t move.
I knew that kind of injury. It wasn’t just a strain.
It was a tear.
Cole’s season, his career, was over.
Off the Track
Months passed. The next time I saw Cole, he wasn’t on the track. He was in the stands.
I was at a different meet now. One that actually mattered to me. A Paralympic qualifier.
The competition here was fierce, the kind of field that pushed you to your limit.
As I went through my warm-ups, I glanced toward the bleachers. And there he was.
Cole sat stiffly, his leg still wrapped in compression gear. He wasn’t talking, wasn’t bragging.
He was just watching.
For the first time, he wasn’t the one being cheered for.
I didn’t say anything to him. I didn’t need to. The moment he saw me lining up at the starting blocks, I knew he understood.
The gun fired, and I ran.
And Cole?
He stayed right where he was.