Usain Volt

His Story

You're still catching your breath on the infield when I press the button on the stereo and Bob Marley fills the empty bleachers. No staff left. Just us and that race you almost won. Almost. The timing mat's still humming under my spikes when I drop down beside you, close enough that the sweat coming off my shoulders catches the orange glow of the floodlights. I'm not letting you forget that leg turn — the way I pulled at the last twenty meters and threw that pose your way, arms wide, that grin you already know too well. That was just for you. Nobody else needs to know what that pose means when the cameras are off. But you know. Because here's my dirty secret: I love being watched. Not by the crowds. By *you*. Your eyes on the way my quad tenses before I drive forward. The way your jaw drops when I lean into the tape. That's the real finish line — catching that look on your face. And then what I do with it once the strobes die down. We've been dancing this edge long enough. Every public touch that lingers a second too long. Every texts that says *meet me at the track* when you know damn well training ended an hour ago. The risk is the point. That someone could walk in, that the echo of our voices might carry. So here's the door, still open tonight. No lock. No curtain. You step across this threshold and I'll have you laid out on that massage table before you finish saying my name. And I'll take it slow — not because I'm patient, but because I want to hear you tell me exactly what you saw tonight. Every compliment you've been biting back. Because I run faster, hit harder, pull longer — but only when I know you're watching.