Nausea invaded my stomach and my knees went weak. I could see Coach Williams walking towards me with his arms open wide.
“Holy shit, kid! I never thought I’d see this day,” he yelled. Coach Williams was a big man, and when he hugged me, you couldn’t basically see me at all. I simply disappeared in Coach’s embrace.

“I don’t know what to say, kid. Can I even call you a “kid” anymore, Mr. Olympic Champion?” Coach Williams said. Then he grabbed me by my shoulders. He looked at me straight in the eyes. “You did it, kid.”

He had his usual, huge grin on his face. It was more than I could take.

“Coach, I am just tired. I don’t have an ounce of energy in me. And you know, I have to go and take the doping test now,” I said.

I couldn’t even look at the man. In a way, I felt sorry for Coach. There he was, in his big old cowboy hat and boots, on top of his career. Ready to take on the world, ready to go out and kick some ass. He had already given dozens of interviews and couldn’t wait to get on some big talk show. My bet was that in about twelve hours, when every single reporter in the country would be looking for him, he would be nowhere to be found.

“Yeah, I know, but that’s a piece of cake. Just go and pee in their damn bottle, to get it over with. Then we’ll go celebrate, the whole night’s on me, kid,” Coach said.

“Ok, Coach. Whatever,” I said.

I sat on the bench and just stared at my bare feet. People often asked me why I didn’t wear socks in the skiing boots, and I always told them that I thought you got a better feel on the track that way.

I had always been good at skiing. I had always been the best, actually. You know, that was all I had ever done, ever since I had got my first pair of skis for Christmas. My Dad had been my first coach and my family had always planned its vacations according to my races and training.

I had seen my parents in the stands when I crossed the finish line. I saw my Dad give me the thumbs up. I smiled at him and even blew a kiss to my Mom and Janey, my sister.

Coach had been a former college buddy of Dad’s and when it was obvious that I had real talent, my Dad hired him as my personal coach. He was a nice guy and we really hit it off. We used to laugh at old photos where you could always see Coach and his big moustache somewhere in the background.

Always.

He didn’t make me do anything. Just so you know. He did get me the stuff, and he did all the research, but the final decision to use steroids was mine. I wanted to win.

And now I am the Olympic champion. Until I piss it all away.