WHATEVER YOU LIKE

copyright: Lesley Tara, 2013


I was too confident. I was so pleased with myself, so full of myself, that it made me careless. However, it was understandable – for the third time in the space of only ten days, I had run better than ever before, and attained a new Personal Best. And what a time to do it, as well! – for the selectors were in the process of choosing the British team for the greatest event of any athlete’s career – the Olympic Games – which in just six weeks’ time would open in London, my own home town!

I am a medium-distance runner: my main event is the women’s 800 metres, although I do sometimes compete in 1500 metre races. Today was one of the last important athletics meetings before the selections for Team GB would be announced, and soon the chosen few would begin their final pre-Olympic training. I had just comfortably won my qualifying heat in a really fast time, and with my other recent races this was probably already enough to secure my place, but I wanted to win the final convincingly when it took place – which was in about fifteen minutes’ time – and I was so sure that I would.

I was brim full of electrifying energy, almost bouncing off the walls, and I was taking little notice of anyone else who was in the locker room – which was quite bustling, as women athletes came and went from their various events. I was vaguely aware that someone had sat down on the bench next to me and was changing out of her tracksuit into running gear, but it was at least thirty seconds before I realised that it was none other than Tamar Johnson, who for many years had been the dominating figure in British women’s running at my distances. However, she had missed most of last year – which had been my first at the highest competitive level – due to injuries and then recuperation from a knee operation. In consequence, I didn’t really know her – we had spoken at a couple of events, but only briefly, as I had been unusually shy and intimidated in her presence (after all, she had been national champion six times in the last ten years, had won gold at Commonwealth and European championships, and had an Olympic silver to her name as well – not from the last games, when she had been fifth in the final, but from 2004). Tamar had run in one of the first qualifying heats, earlier in the afternoon, and I knew that she had also secured a place in the final. A couple of years ago, before her long absence, that would have made me assume that she would beat me. However, having recently turned 30, she was entering the final stage of her top-level competitive career, whilst I – a full decade younger – was just coming into my prime, as my current streak of form testified, and I had the comfortable knowledge that the best was still ahead of me.

I was leaning forwards to tie the laces on my running shoes, when a quiet cool voice spoke from above the lean-muscled legs that were in my peripheral vision:

‘So, that was a fast time you ran – another PB, was it?’

I straightened up and looked at Tamar, who was sitting with calm composure, still wearing her sweatshirt and outer jacket over her racing outfit.

‘Yep, sure was!’ I said, pleased with myself.

The older athlete looked at me with a faint quizzical smile, and continued:

‘So – think you’ll win the final then, hmm?’

Something in her expression or tone of voice piqued me, and, together with the euphoria resulting from my current form, this led to my unusually assertive and boastful reply:

‘Yeah, I do – yes, I will!’

Tamar paused for a second, and her smile became more apparent, even a little predatory.

‘Really? I wonder – well then, if you’re that confident, want to bet on it?’

I thought her superior attitude was uncalled for, whatever she had achieved in the past, and the feeling of being condescended to irked me. Without stopping to think, I blurted out the fatal words:

‘Yeah – sure, yeah, whatever you like!’

Of course, I expected that in reply she would name an amount of money. It would not be a lot, as female athletes do not earn much, especially the younger ones like myself who have yet to make their name. Although I had given Tamar the initiative, I knew that she could not make it a large sum, as that would get talked about and it would be bad for her reputation if it looked like she had used her position and status to take unfair advantage of a junior. She might say as little as ten pounds, but more probably it would be twenty – fifty was just possible, but a hundred would be considered excessive. In any case, as I reminded myself after my momentary twinge of doubt, I wasn’t going to be the one paying up – she would be, so, yeah, let the bitch name a higher amount if she wanted to, I would be the one having the last laugh in that case.

But she didn’t. Instead, she looked at me appraisingly for a moment, with a curious gleam in her eye, and then her smile broadened into satisfaction, and she nodded:

‘Yes, indeed, fine – whatever I like.’

That caught me off guard, and my mouth hung open in surprise. Partly puzzled and partly vexed, as I felt that she was laughing at some inner private joke, I responded:

‘What? Whaddaya mean? No, like – how much, how much is the bet?’

The mature athlete shook her head, setting her short bob of brunette hair swinging.

‘No, no – you said, “whatever you like” – so, that’s the bet.’ Then she pinned me with a shrewd glance, and turned the screw: ‘Unless you aren’t up for it, of course – unless your word isn’t good?’

She had me there – I had made the foolish offer, and I couldn’t unsay it. Amongst sportswomen in particular, the worst possible thing was to get a reputation as someone who wriggled out of a bet, who was unreliable; it was the very essence of being unsporting, and was viewed with contempt. I stiffened my back, stared the snotty cow in the face, and said coolly:

‘Of course it is! I just meant … anyway, well – OK then, that’s the bet! So, if I win, then I get to say afterwards how much the bet is for? Is that the deal, that the way you want it?’

After all, I reminded myself again, with my current hot form I was faster than anyone else in the final, and certainly faster than Tamar’s recent times or what she had done in her qualifying heat. Shit, if she wanted to play mind games, well – let her dig her own grave. This was only giving me more of an incentive to win the race – as if putting the seal on qualifying for the Olympic squad wasn’t enough – and, I thought with only partly-concealed ferocity, when I did win, well, I might make it a hundred pounds. The bitch could afford that, and I would dine out in celebration – or, actually, given the needs of training and diet, put it towards a new pair of top-quality racing shoes. All this flashed through my mind in the second before Tamar replied, closing the agreement with a handshake, and (which I did not really register) confirming it in slightly different words:

‘Yes, exactly – if I win, then whatever I want; if you win, then you get to say.’

It still seemed to me to be rather unsatisfactory, somehow unfinished, but I couldn’t press her any further as it was time to get ready for the race, and we said no more to each other after that. I left the locker room first, glancing back over my shoulder to see Tamar peel off her jacket and sweatshirt, revealing her tight-fitting two-piece running outfit – the part like a sports-bra covering her upper chest, and the short tight pants around her hips, below her midriff. I had to admit that she still cut a fine figure, not only as an athlete in the pink of health and fitness, but also as a woman. The decade of age that she had on me had given her more pronounced curves, and she had always had a bit more in the bust department than most women athletes – curiously enough, that was one thing we had in common. Most female athletes are A cups (the Asian women, double-As, almost flat chested), whereas my breasts are size 30B, and I thought Tamar’s were a couple of sizes bigger still, probably 32Cs. She seemed cool and composed, and glanced in my direction, almost as if she had felt my eyes upon her. Slightly discomfited, I turned on my heel and trotted down the short dingy concrete corridor that led underneath the grandstand and out onto the floor of the stadium itself, and began my routine of warm-ups, ready for the final of the women’s 800 metres.

Whether it was gamesmanship or not, she must have got under my skin. I didn’t run a sensible race in the final – I was too keen to put her in her place, and of course instead the outcome was the opposite. I set off much too fast in the first 200 metres, trying to burn off everyone else: the pace was too hot for some and they faded away, but Tamar and two others took up my challenge and kept in contact, running about a dozen metres behind me. My form and fitness were so good that I was able to maintain a rate not much less than this through the middle 400 metres of the race – but Tamar and one of other two, a woman just couple of years’ older than me, maintained their distance, and then started to close in during the last fifty metres of that section.

As we entered the decisive final 200 metres, I realised to my chagrin that I had misjudged it – that my strategy had been lousy, the stupid headstrong stuff of an amateur. I was determined to try and hold them off and win through to the tape, but I could feel my strength ebbing as we approached the final straight. Tamar, on the other hand, had run a superb tactical race, letting me burn up the track, keeping within striking range, but settling into an easy rhythmic lope and husbanding her strength. She had enough left that during the final fifty metres she overhauled me and then went past, and I had nothing remaining with which to respond. I just managed to hold off the slightly-too-late challenge of the woman in third place – the rest of the field were well back – but Tamar crossed the line about four metres ahead of me.

Spent and gasping for breath, I collapsed to my knees, furious with myself for my folly, and only barely consoled by the fact that I had forced it into being a fast race for all of us. In fact, I had posted a time only fractionally below the new PB that I had established in the qualifying round, whilst Tamar – having used me as her pacemaker and stalking horse – had run her fastest time of the year. Both of us were well within the times needed for selection for the Olympic team, though of course we would have to wait for confirmation of our standing in relation to the others seeking a place, and the official announcement. Still, it seemed certain that I would be heading to the Team GB training camp in a week or two, and then to the Olympic Village in July for the London 2012 Olympics! That I would have Tamar as a colleague – and rival – did not bother me; it was getting there myself that counted.

These thoughts were churning through my mind, with joy at the prospect of being an Olympian pushing aside my vexation at having so misjudged both the race and the competitor who I had too glibly written off as past her prime, when Tamar came up to stand behind me, placed a proprietorial hand on my shoulder, and said quietly:

‘Thanks, babe – that was just the extra spur that I needed, and a good fast race! I’ll see you in the locker room later, and then, when the others have gone, you can settle your debt!’

Shit, I’d almost forgotten about the stupid bet! Oh well, I thought, I don’t care if she wants to take me down a peg or two (like she hasn’t already, beating me in the final!), and makes it fifty pounds or more – I’m gonna be in the Olympic team, I’m gonna be an Olympic athlete, and at my own country’s home games! Who cares about anything else!

I was quite weary from two hard 800 metre races, especially as my qualifying heat had been the last one to be run, and so, after removing only my running shoes and socks, I was content to slump for a while on the bench in the locker-room, accepting congratulations from friends and other athletes who I barely knew, and letting them get on with showering and changing. After nearly half an hour, when the shower area was no longer in much use, I rose to my feet and started to take off my running vest – but before I could do so, my eye was caught by Tamar, who was sitting further down the same bench, and she gave me a quick shake of the head in negation.

Oh well, I thought, as I shrugged my shoulders and sat back down, let her make me wait, if that’s what she wants – I’m in no hurry anyway, I’m not doing anything after this except going back to my small rented one-bedroom flat for a light meal and an early night, before training again tomorrow morning. Perhaps, I considered with some apprehension, she is going to make it a hundred pounds, and doesn’t want anyone to hear. Well, if so, I would have to bite the bullet – she might get some stick for setting such a steep amount, but I would get much more if I didn’t honour my bet, however foolishly it had been worded.

After another fifteen minutes, there was that sudden exodus that so often occurs in a changing room – one moment it seems boisterously full and noisy, and then moments later it is nearly empty, echoing and cool. I felt an unexpected degree of tension as I realised that everyone else had gone, and that only Tamar and I were left in the locker-room, both of us still wearing our running outfits.

Tamar walked towards me as I started to open my mouth, intending simply to ask ‘how much?’, but she shook her head again, and placed a single finger across my lips to silence me. Then, standing very close in front of me, she pulled her top over her head and in one motion stripped both her running shorts and panties down her legs, so that in an instant she was completely naked. For a moment she stood there, with her hands resting on the swell of her powerful hips and her jutting breasts pointing directly at my face. I was speechless, unsure of where to look or what to say. Then Tamar reached across to where she had been sitting, rummaged in her equipment bag, produced a plastic bottle of liquid soap and another of combined shampoo and conditioner, and handed them to me. Before I could react to this, she turned on her heel, and walked with slow swaying strides across to the entrance of the large communal shower area. When she got there, she turned back to face me, leaning her spine against the door-frame, with her breasts slightly swaying and her cunt fully exposed to view.

‘Whatever you like – remember, that’s what you bet, whatever I like,’ she said with an anticipatory smile. ‘You can begin working off your debt by helping me in the shower – so, get your kit off, babe, and bring those bottles.’

With that she turned away, and strode like a lioness into the steam-filled shower room. I was struck dumb: what did she want, what did she mean?