Erjika Tevkana
As soon as we return to the bus from our first competition of the year, he turns me around and glares at me. His breathing is ragged, and sweat is pouring off of his face. He grabs the back of a chair for support. Tugging at the collar of his uniform, he tries desperately to let in more air. He keeps attempting to say something, but his much-abused lungs won't let him. After a few more tortured breaths, he glares at me again and rasps, "I hate you."
I shrug. "It's your own darn fault. I told you not to wear long sleeves underneath your uniform."
