Chapter 45 LIGHT ON THE END OF THE TUNNEL

Chapter 45 LIGHT ON THE END OF THE TUNNEL
RYAN

If there's one thing I've learned this semester, it's that Mason will agree to anything to avoid studying. And Rae? She'll pretend to complain, but deep down, she lives for unexpected field trips that make her feel like she's skipping class for something meaningful.
Which is how I find myself sandwiched between the two of them on the T, clutching a tote bag like I'm going to war, while Mason complains loudly about how he could've been "napping strategically" instead.
"Strategic napping isn't studying," Rae deadpans without looking up from her phone.
"It's recovery," Mason argues, leaning back dramatically in his seat. "Athlete thing. You wouldn't understand."
She finally glances up, giving him the slowest eye-roll known to mankind. "You're not exactly about to play in the Stanley Cup. You're dodging finals."
"Semantics," he says with a grin.
I shake my head, but there's a warmth in my chest. I didn't expect them to actually come with me, but when I told them I was visiting Achilles Boston today, they were both in before I finished explaining. Rae shrugged and said, "Sure. Beats the library." Mason declared, "Free coffee at volunteer things, right?"
Honestly, I'll take it.
The closer we get, the quieter I get. It's not nerves in the way I used to feel before a race, jittery and alive. It's heavier. Like stepping onto a track I've never run before. Tyler's words have been replaying in my head for days—You don't have to have a plan. Just show up. So that's what I'm doing. Showing up.
When we step inside the community center where Achilles Boston holds their weekly meet-ups, the first thing that hits me is the energy. Not loud, not chaotic—just alive. Runners and guides are scattered across the gym, stretching, laughing, chatting like they've known each other forever. There's music playing from a speaker in the corner. A woman with a prosthetic blade is adjusting her running shoe like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Mason whistles low. "Okay, this is... kinda cool."
Rae nods, eyes scanning the room. "Definitely cooler than finals."
A cheerful volunteer in a bright yellow Achilles Boston shirt greets us, handing over name tags and explaining how the program works—pairing guides with athletes, building community through weekly runs, races, and events. She doesn't look at me with pity. No one does. It's like they already see me as one of them.
And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like "the injured girl" hovering on the sidelines. I just feel... welcome.
We don't get far before a man in a neon yellow Achilles Boston T-shirt spots us. He's got that friendly coach energy—mid-forties maybe, warm smile, clipboard tucked under one arm like it's an extension of him.
"Hey there!" he says, walking over with an easy stride. "New faces. I'm Alex—one of the program coordinators here. You must be Ryan?"
I blink. "Yeah, that's me."
He grins. "Tyler sent me a message. Said you might be coming by."
Of course he did.
Alex turns to Mason and Rae. "And you two are...?"
"Mason," Mason says, giving a mock salute.
"Rae," Rae replies, waving her coffee cup like it's a diplomatic gesture.
"Great," Alex says, jotting down our names on his clipboard. "Welcome to Achilles. Let me give you a quick run-down before we get you warmed up."
He leads us toward a corner of the gym where a few runners are stretching, chatting, adjusting adaptive gear. "Our volunteers are basically the backbone of this program," he explains. "Here's what we do: help adults and kids with disabilities complete their runs, walks, or rides safely—in a way that's fun and supportive. We show up for weekly workouts, help with logistics, sometimes assist with adaptive equipment. And," his grin turns mischievous, "we yell 'Go Achilles!' as loud as we can during races. It's a crucial motivational tool."
Mason perks up. "Yelling? Oh, I can do that."
Rae elbows him. "Please don't."
Alex laughs. "You'd be surprised how much energy that brings on race day. Come on, I'll introduce you to a few folks."
He brings us over to a small group near the track. One of the athletes, a young woman with a carbon-fiber blade, is showing a boy how to adjust his running straps. Another guy in a racing wheelchair is spinning in lazy circles while chatting with a volunteer. Alex greets them like old friends and introduces us one by one.
The athletes don't treat us like outsiders—they crack jokes, ask Mason about hockey when they find out he's on the team, and Rae immediately earns points by calling out Mason's lack of cardio.
Then, Alex suggests we join the warm-up run.
It's a short loop—nothing intense, just enough to loosen up. But Mason treats it like he's been dropped into the Olympics.
I hesitate for a second, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. "Actually," I say, glancing at him, "I'm not cleared to run yet. But I'd be happy to do a warm-up walk if that's okay."
Alex's expression softens immediately, no pity in it—just genuine understanding. "Of course it's okay. Thanks for letting me know. Want to share with the group, or keep it between us?"
"I don't mind sharing," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. "I had a femoral neck stress fracture, and then a hip surgery not too long ago. I'm getting there—slowly—but I should be cleared to jog soon."
"Got it," he says with an encouraging nod. "Walking is perfect. We meet people where they're at, not the other way around."
Mason leans in to stage whisper, "Don't worry, I'll keep you company at the back."
Rae snorts. "Please. You'll be crawling at the back."
Alex laughs. "That's the spirit. Alright—warm-up walk or run, let's get moving."
"Bro," Mason gasps ten seconds in, clutching his side, "I'm a defenseman, not a marathoner!"
Rae jogs easily beside him, her voice perfectly dry. "Wow. You lasted almost a whole minute. Impressive."
"I hate you," he wheezes.
I fall a little behind, not because I can't keep up—Marcy from the PT department made sure to torture me just fine to help bring my strength and stamina in check—, but because I'm feeling something I haven't felt in a long time: rhythm. The steady beat of shoes hitting the ground. The sound of breath syncing with movement. The energy of a group, not competing, but moving together.
It's... different. And it's good.
When we finish the loop, I'm flushed and a little breathless, but in the best way. That's when a woman with a name tag written 'Joana' finds us.
She's got a marathoner's build—lean, strong, bright eyes that don't miss a thing. She's wearing the same neon shirt, but hers is splattered with race pins from half a dozen events.
"First timers?" she asks, her smile warm.
"Yeah," I say. "How'd you guess?"
"You still look like you're wondering if this is a cult," she says with a laugh. "Don't worry, we're harmless. Mostly."
Joana tells us she's training for both the Boston and Chicago Marathons. Mason nearly chokes on his water bottle.
"Wait, both? Like... in the same year?"
She grins. "Yup. I'm fundraising for Achilles. Team Achilles is our grassroots program—if you fundraise for the organization, you can get guaranteed entries into endurance races. Boston, Chicago, NYC—you name it. It's intense, but it's for a good cause."
That catches me off guard. Not the marathons—I've known plenty of distance runners—but the idea of people pushing themselves not just for their own goals, but to build something bigger.
She keeps talking about the camaraderie on race days, how the Achilles runners and guides look out for each other, how the "Go Achilles!" chants echo through the crowd. Rae listens intently, Mason looks both terrified and intrigued, and I... I can't stop picturing it.
Not as the athlete I used to be. But as someone who could belong here.
Joana's words linger in the air long after she finishes talking. There's something infectious about her energy—like she's plugged into this current of purpose and wants everyone else to feel it too.
I glance at Mason, who still looks like he's processing the concept of two marathons, and at Rae, who's nodding like she's already plotting something with that big brain of hers. And then I look back at Joana.
"Hey," I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, "would you be okay if I shared this on social media? Just a quick video—nothing huge. I think a lot of people from the track community would love to hear about what you're doing here. Some might even want to join or help fundraise."
Her eyes light up. "Absolutely. The more people who hear about Achilles, the better. Go for it."
I don't overthink it—maybe for the first time in months. I just pull out my phone, open Instagram, and hit record.
"Hey guys," I start, my voice a little shaky, thumb hovering near the 'stop recording' button for a heartbeat too long. "This is... honestly the first time I'm posting anything since everything kind of exploded online. I wiped almost all of my old posts because I honestly didn't know what to say—or if I even wanted to say anything.
The truth is... this semester has been rough. Losing track... losing that part of my identity... it's been a lot to process. I've spent months trying to figure out who I am without the races, the routines, the finish lines. And for a while, I didn't have an answer.
But lately, I've been trying to take small steps forward again. Today's one of them. I'm at Achilles Boston for the first time. They're this incredible organization that brings together athletes and volunteers—runners, walkers, cyclists, people using adaptive equipment—to build community and crush races. And being here... it feels like I'm finding a piece of myself I thought I'd lost.
If you want to follow along as I figure this next chapter out—my recovery, my journey, whatever shape it ends up taking—I'd love to share it with you."
I pan the camera across the gym, catching a glimpse of Mason pretending to stretch dramatically while Rae rolls her eyes in the background. A couple of Achilles athletes wave at the camera, and Joana flashes a bright grin.
"I just met Joana," I say, turning the camera back to us. "She's running both the Boston and Chicago Marathons this year to fundraise for Achilles, which is insane in the best way. Team Achilles is a grassroots fundraising program—you raise funds for the cause, and they give you guaranteed entries to some of the biggest endurance races out there. Boston, Chicago, New York. It's about more than just running—it's about building something bigger together."
I end the clip with a wide shot of the group warming down, the Achilles logo shining on neon shirts. "If you're from the track world, the running world, or just want to support an amazing cause, check them out. I'll link their info in my bio. Trust me, this is special."
I stop recording, heart hammering, but not in the old race-day way. In the alive way. The way that comes when something clicks.
Rae leans over my shoulder to peek at the video. "Okay, that was actually really good," she says.
Mason nods, mouth full of protein bar. "Yeah. You didn't even sound like a wannabe influencer."
"Wow," I deadpan. "High praise."
Joana laughs. "Seriously, thank you. That kind of reach can make a huge difference."
And for the first time in a long time, it feels like I'm not just reacting to life. I'm shaping it.