Zen parked his car in the Performance Center lot at 9:55 AM. Right on time. He grabbed his water bottle and headed inside, nodding to the security guard.
"Morning, Jeff."
"Big day coming up, huh?" Jeff smiled. "You gonna bring home gold?"
"That's the plan." Zen grinned.
The testing center was on the second floor. He'd been here at least twenty times before. Just another hoop to jump through on the way to Tokyo.
Dr. Wells met him in the hallway. "Zen! Right on schedule as always."
"Hey, Doc. Let's get this over with so I can get back to training."
"Should be quick. You know the drill." She handed him a plastic cup. "Bathroom's all yours."
Ten minutes later, Zen handed over his sample and signed the paperwork.
"When do I get the all-clear?" he asked, capping his pen.
"Results by end of day." Dr. Wells sealed the sample. "But we've never had issues with you before."
"Clean as a whistle." Zen gave her a thumbs-up. "See you next time."
He left the building feeling good. One more thing checked off the pre-Olympic list.
Back home, Zen made a protein shake and checked his training schedule. Coach had given him the afternoon off. Maybe he'd catch up on that Netflix show everyone was talking about.
His phone rang at 2:17 PM. Dr. Wells.
"Hey, Doc. That was fast."
Silence for a moment. "Zen, we need you to come back to the center. Right away."
His stomach tightened. "What's wrong?"
"We need to discuss your results in person."
"But I didn't..." He stopped. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
The drive back felt twice as long. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
This had to be a mistake. Some mix-up at the lab.
When he arrived, Dr. Wells wasn't alone. A man in a suit sat beside her. The USADA logo was on the folder in front of him.
"Zen, please sit down." Dr. Wells looked like she was at a funeral.
"What's going on?" Zen stayed standing.
"I'm Richard Dawson from the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency." The man stood and offered his hand.
Zen ignored it. "Just tell me what's happening."
Dr. Wells opened a folder. "Your sample tested positive for Clenbuterol."
The room tilted. "That's impossible."
"We ran the test twice." She pushed a paper toward him. "The concentration is significant."
"I've never taken anything!" Zen's voice rose. "You know me!"
"Clenbuterol is a performance enhancer that builds muscle mass and reduces body fat," Dawson said like he was reading from a textbook. "It stays in the system 48 to 72 hours."
Zen shook his head. "This is crazy. I don't even know where to get that stuff!"
"When was your last meal out?" Dr. Wells asked quietly.
"Last night. I had dinner with friends, but I just had pasta and—" He stopped. "Wait, you think someone put something in my food?"
"It's a possibility," Dawson said. "But without proof..."
Zen collapsed into the chair. "So what happens now?"
"We inform the Olympic Committee and your federation." Dawson wouldn't look him in the eye. "A hearing will be scheduled, but with the levels in your sample..."
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Zen didn't remember driving home. His mind raced through the dinner. Jake refilling his drink. Jake working in pharmaceuticals. Jake's comments about genetics.
Jake.
Outside his condo, three news vans were already parked. A reporter spotted him and ran toward his car.
"Zen! Can you comment on the failed drug test?"
How did they know already?
He gunned the engine, driving past his own place. His phone wouldn't stop ringing.
Coach.
Agent.
Sports Illustrated.
ESPN.
He pulled into a mall parking lot and finally looked at his texts.
Coach: Call me NOW. What the hell is happening??
Trina (Agent): Don't speak to anyone. Meeting with lawyers tomorrow 9 AM.
Unknown: You just ruined my kid's hero. Hope it was worth it CHEATER
He opened Twitter and immediately wished he hadn't.
BREAKING: Olympic Favorite Zen Cross Tests Positive for PEDs
Zen Cross: Another Fraud Athlete Caught Cheating
Nike "Considering Options" After Zen Cross Doping Scandal
A new email popped up. From Nike.
...regret to inform you that per clause 8.2 of your contract, we are exercising our right to terminate our sponsorship agreement, effective immediately...
Zen threw his phone onto the passenger seat. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel.
"FUCK!"
He drove aimlessly for almost an hour. When his phone battery hit 5%, he finally headed home. The news vans were gone, probably chasing some official statement.
Inside his condo, he sat in the dark. His phone lit up with a new message. USADA official.
Dear Mr. Cross, This notice confirms your 2-year competition ban for the presence of Clenbuterol in your system. Further details will follow regarding appeal procedures.
Two years. He'd be twenty-eight. Ancient in sprinter years.
His thumb hovered over Jake's contact. He hit call.
Straight to voicemail.
"You bastard," Zen whispered. "You fucking bastard."
He walked through his dark apartment, stopping at the shelf with his medals. World Championship gold. Three national titles. Photos from his first big win.
He grabbed the world championship medal and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and left a dent.
His throat burned. His eyes blurred. He knocked the entire shelf down, medals and trophies crashing to the floor.
Everything he'd worked for. Every 5 AM workout. Every sacrificed party. Every lonely Saturday night. Gone.
Because Jake Taylor couldn't stand that Zen had made it and he hadn't.
Zen slid down the wall to the floor, his body shaking with sobs.
"It's not fair," he whispered to the empty room. "It's not fucking fair."
Hours passed. His phone died. The apartment went completely dark.
Eventually, he crawled to his bed, still in his clothes. His eyes burned. His throat felt raw.
As exhaustion overtook him, one thought kept circling: If he could go back and redo last night, he'd never take that phone call. Never leave his drink unattended. Never trust Jake.
If only he could go back...
Sleep pulled him under, his pillow damp with tears, not knowing that sometimes, the universe listens.