Racing Against Time

As the night stretched into the early hours of the morning, Xavier stirred in his bed, his body sluggishly shifting beneath the blankets.

His arms flopped over the edge of the mattress, hands grazing the cool marble floor as he tried to shake off the haze of sleep. His eyes, heavy with exhaustion, cracked open reluctantly.

A faint glow from his phone on the bedside table caught his attention, and he reached for it, squinting against the harsh light of the screen.

8:30 Am.

Xavier blinked, his pulse quickening. His mind scrambled to process the time.

"How?" he muttered aloud, sitting up so suddenly that the room spun for a second. His thoughts raced as he tried to piece together the fragmented memories of the night before.

He distinctly remembered setting his alarm for 6:00 AM. He even recalled snoozing it once this morning. Just five more minutes—that was all he had promised himself. Five minutes had turned into hours, and now, the reality of the situation hit him like a cold wave.

How had he lost so much time?

Xavier threw the covers off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet landing with a thud against the floor. Panic surged through him as he glanced at the clock again, as if willing it to change. His mind was already racing ahead, calculating the precious time slipping away.

Training at Rochester Stadium was scheduled for 9:30 AM, and he had just under an hour to get there. He couldn't afford to be late. Not today. Not on his first official day.

"This can't be happening," Xavier muttered under his breath, his voice thick with frustration.

"Fcking stupid."*

He bolted toward the bathroom, cursing his bad luck with every step. His heart pounded in his chest, and every second felt like a countdown.

Why did this always happen to him? No matter how hard he tried, how meticulously he planned, everything always went wrong. The thought was a cruel echo in his head.

And now, on his first day at Rochester, the opportunity to make a good impression was slipping through his fingers—just as it had so many times before.

Sure, everyone on the team probably knew who he was—the infamous worst player. But this was supposed to be his fresh start. His clean slate. A chance to prove everyone wrong, including himself.

Instead, here he was, scrambling, desperately trying to salvage what little time he had left.

Xavier shook his head as he turned on the shower, the sound of the water hissing in the silence of his apartment. At least it's just training, he muttered, trying to reassure himself. I'll have time to freshen up properly once I get there.

But deep down, he knew it wasn't just about training. He was terrified of making the wrong impression—of being labeled as the screw-up he had spent years trying to escape.

Good thing he had packed his gear the night before. That small bit of foresight was the only thing saving him now.

He rushed through his morning routine, barely bothering to rub lotion onto his skin. There was no time for that. He grabbed a simple shirt and joggers—the uniform of someone more focused on getting to his destination than on how he looked. After all, training kits would be provided at the stadium.

He grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and rushed out the door.

The elevator ride felt like an eternity. Xavier's foot tapped impatiently against the floor as he checked his phone again.

8:50 AM.

He still had forty minutes, but with traffic, every second mattered. Every movement was a race against time.

The moment the elevator doors opened, he didn't hesitate. He sprinted out of the building and headed for his car. Unlocking it in record time, he threw himself into the driver's seat, heart pounding. The engine roared to life, and he zoomed off, barely glancing at the rearview mirror as he took a sharp turn.

The city blurred around him—as he navigated the road with precision. His knuckles were white as they gripped the steering wheel, sweat gathering on his forehead despite the cool air conditioning.

The car seemed to fly, but no matter how fast he went, it didn't seem fast enough.

'This is fine,' he told himself, though the words felt hollow. 'I can still make it. I have to.'

But just as the stadium's silhouette appeared in the distance, disaster struck.

The car sputtered.

'VV..VVROOM..VROOM'

A sudden jolt sent Xavier's heart into his throat. The engine coughed, stuttering as if struggling to keep up with his urgency.

His eyes widened in shock.

"No, no, no!" Xavier shouted, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.

The engine coughed once more before falling silent, the car rolling to a stop in the middle of the road.

Xavier's heart sank like a stone.

His mind scrambled for a solution that wasn't there. He tried restarting the car, but the engine refused to cooperate.

He stared at the fuel gauge, blinking in disbelief.

The needle hovered dangerously close to empty.

The realization dawned on him with sickening clarity.

He had forgotten to refuel.

"Are you kidding me?" he growled under his breath, his voice a mix of frustration and disbelief.

He pounded the steering wheel again, the hollow thud echoing in the silence. But no amount of frustration would fill the empty tank.

There was no time to dwell on his mistake.

He had five minutes left to make it to the stadium. And the car wasn't going anywhere.

A surge of panic flooded his chest, momentarily paralyzing him. His hands clenched into fists as he stared at the fuel gauge, willing it to change. But it didn't.

Xavier grabbed his bag and threw the car door open.

He didn't waste a second.

Without thinking, he started running—his feet pounding against the pavement like a man possessed. Sweat trickled down his back, his heart hammering in his chest, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

The city around him was a blur of people and cars, but Xavier's focus was razor-sharp.

Every step felt like a battle against time. Every breath, a struggle.

His throat burned with thirst, but there was no time to stop.

He glanced at his watch. Two minutes left.

His legs ached, but the pain was drowned out by the overwhelming need to reach the stadium.

Desperation clawed at him, and for a moment, he slowed down, scanning the road for any sign of hope.

That's when he spotted it—a beat-up sedan screeching to a halt in front of him.

Without a second thought, Xavier raised his hand and hailed the cab.

The door swung open, and he didn't hesitate.

"To Rochester Stadium," he panted, his voice hoarse and ragged.

The cab driver raised an eyebrow, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "The stadium?"

"Yes, please! Just—just drive!" Xavier's voice cracked with urgency, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush.

The driver hesitated, clearly confused by the disheveled young man who had just jumped into his cab.

Xavier could see the judgment in his eyes.

He probably thought he was some kind of cleaner or maintenance worker. Why else would someone like him be heading to a place as grand as Rochester Stadium?

But to Xavier's relief, the driver didn't press the issue. With a nod, he pressed the accelerator, and the cab shot forward, its tires screeching as it raced down the road.

The ride was a blur.

Xavier's mind raced as fast as the car, images flashing through his mind—his team waiting for him, the coach checking his watch, the whispers and snickers that would inevitably follow if he showed up late.

When they finally pulled up to the stadium, Xavier didn't waste a second.

He pulled out a handful of bills and shoved them toward the driver.

"Here. Keep the change," he muttered, his voice tinged with both urgency and disbelief.

The driver's eyes widened at the amount, but before he could say anything, Xavier had already slammed the door shut and bolted toward the entrance.

Xavier froze, his heart skipping a beat as the unmistakable click of the gate lock echoed through the silence. His breath hitched. Shit. His mind scrambled for a way out, but every possible scenario only made things worse. No solution. No escape.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

"F*ck."