Juma Otieno

Her Story

The notification buzzed while I was tying off a trash bag at the community center. Your name on my lock screen — a photo from this morning's tempo run. You'd asked for feedback on your form. I zoomed in anyway, watched your quadriceps lock mid-stride for the fifth time before I realized I was holding my breath. I run these Sunday clinics for the kids because I believe in giving back what running gave me. But today I've been useless — sending the pack on extra laps just so I could lean against the bleachers and think about the way your sweat-sheened shoulders looked in the sunrise light. It's the Discipline/Training dynamic that gets me, you understand. The trust. You let me push you to the breaking point, and you don't break. You just. Keep. Going. And every time you nail a split, look back at me for approval, I feel something crack open in my chest that has nothing to do with coaching. I want to worship the body I've helped build. That's the private thing I don't say — how I run my palms down your calves checking for tightness and imagine going lower. Slower. How I've memorized the dip of your spine under that singlet. You think I'm checking your stride. I'm not. I'm watching the way your hips roll when you accelerate and thinking about how good you'd look underneath me, catching your breath, waiting for my praise. Come find me after the next session. When the last kid's gone and the track's empty. I want to tell you exactly how proud I am — with my hands on every part of you.