Erica Sinclair - Runner's Future (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Debbie Stanton, a rising star with dreams of Olympic glory, collapses during a grueling training session at Canmore College. The cause? An overdose of performance-enhancing drugs. Facing scandal and potential disqualification, Debbie insists she's innocent. Desperate to save her career, her coach turns to Erica Sinclair for help.
Reluctant at first, Erica soon finds herself plunged into the cutthroat world of professional sports, where ambition knows no bounds and dark secrets lurk beneath the surface. Can Erica uncover the truth before Debbie's reputation - and her dreams - are destroyed forever?



If you are curious how the story fans out, you can find it on my Wattpad page: https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing

For all others, let's kick it off here. Enjoy!

[Jenny_S]

Erica Sinclair eases into her evening with an unexpected tranquility, dressed in her gray “cat mom” sweatsuit and padding around her apartment, her mind finally settling from the day’s chaos.

Her kitchen has a serene, cozy stillness, interrupted only by soft clinks and hums as she prepares dinner for her kittens, Spot and Tiger. She spoons a fresh, homemade chicken pulp - organic chicken breast blended with a little broth and a pinch of cat-safe herbs - into the kittens’ food bowl. Erica smiles at the sight of the little appetizing mush: she’s making fresh food for her kittens while she herself eats pre-cooked, calorie-controlled, low-carb, and high-protein packaged dinners…

Spot, the tiny black cat with a bright white tuft of fur on his chest, purrs and weaves around her ankles, eager for his meal. Tiger, the gray tabby with bright green eyes, lounges nearby, his gaze fixed on Erica’s movements with interest, though his body language is casual. Erica can’t help but laugh, scooping up a final spoonful as Spot meows insistently, his little paw stretching toward her hand.

“Alright, alright - you’d think I never fed you.” she murmurs, setting the bowl down with a soft clink. Both kittens dive in immediately, their heads bent side by side as they take to the meal with impressive focus. Usually, the critters eat in the living room, but when chicken pulp is on the menu, they can’t wait and have to dig into their bowl right there in the kitchen.

Erica leans against the counter for a moment, taking a sip of her cooling tea, allowing herself to exhale. Moments like these - quiet, small, and unobserved - are rare and welcome in her life, often swallowed by the relentless cases and demands of her high-profile clients. She wishes these pockets of solitude could last just a bit longer, but her phone buzzes, shattering the calm like a sudden gust against the windows.

She frowns slightly, reaching for her phone, half-expecting a last-minute update from a client. But the name on the screen surprises her.

Charlotte West

Erica’s brows lift as she taps to accept the call, the familiar name stirring memories from years past. Charlotte had been a fellow athlete back in college - a powerhouse on the track team and one of those naturally magnetic people whose confidence and optimism radiated. They’d been close enough to share late-night study sessions and Saturday morning workouts, but after graduation, life took them in different directions.

“Charlotte?” Erica answers, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“Erica!” The voice on the other end is warm but holds an underlying tension, a bit of an edge that catches Erica’s attention. “It’s… it’s been a while. How’ve you been?”

“Good - busy, but good.” Erica replies with a touch of hesitation. “How about you? Still outrunning everyone?”

“Something like that.” Charlotte’s chuckle is there, but it’s brief, almost absent. “Listen, I…I know this is out of the blue, but I was hoping we could meet up tonight. There’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s…important.”

The uncharacteristic urgency in Charlotte’s voice tugs at Erica’s instincts. Charlotte West is hardly someone who gets rattled easily; for her to reach out after so many years, and with this kind of tension, it’s worth taking seriously.

Erica leans a hip against the counter, glancing down at Spot and Tiger as they polish off their meal, content and oblivious. “Sure. Name the place.”

“Thank you. There’s a bar called The Fox & Finch, near Bryant Park. Do you know it?”

“No, but I know Bryant Park. I’ll be there in fifty minutes.”

“Thanks, Erica. Really.” Charlotte’s voice softens, a trace of relief seeping in. “I owe you one.”

As the line disconnects, Erica sets her phone down thoughtfully, mulling over the oddness of the call. She feels Charlotte isn’t exaggerating about the importance of this meeting. Charlotte had been one of the most resilient people she knew, and the fact that she sounds so weighed down leaves Erica more intrigued - and maybe a little concerned - than she expected.

Erica tidies the kittens’ bowl, watching as they pad out of the kitchen and likely into the living room to curl up together in their bed by the corner, both already looking drowsy after their meal. She runs a hand over her ponytail, then crosses the hallway to step into her bedroom, where she pushes the plastic bin containing several neat coils of soft cotton rope, steel handcuffs, a bright red ball gag and other toys under the bed.
“Maybe later.” she says to herself as she opens the walk-in closet to select something casual to wear: blue jeans, a black tank top, a red and black checkered flannel shirt, and sneakers.

From the high backrest of the Hillhouse designer chair, she picks her well-worn brown leather jacket and slips into it. This garment has been with her for many years, literally through thick and thin – a while back it even got pierced by a bullet from the gun of Tony Maze, a criminal who was aiming to kill her. She runs her hand over the hole she doesn’t want to patch and the spots of dried blood – her blood.
Erica slips into the supple jacket which feels both like a shield and comfort.

“Looks like Mom’s got a quick errand to run.” she murmurs to the kittens, whose eyes are now shut as they drift off to sleep, their little chests rising and falling in perfect synchrony while she grabs her phone, keys, and wallet.

The apartment’s quiet warmth is left behind as she steps into the hallway, ready to find out what’s waiting at The Fox & Finch - and what exactly has pulled Charlotte back into her life after all these years.

[LunaDog]

A new Erica Sinclair adventure? Oh goody!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, yes, no rest for Erica. You will see in a minute how her new case unfolds.

[Jenny_S]

As Erica steps into the elevator, the soft hum of machinery surrounds her, contrasting sharply with the quiet serenity of her apartment. She presses the button for the underground parking, feeling a faint anticipation mixed with a touch of unease. The numbers on the control panel blink steadily as the elevator descends, and she can’t shake the feeling that something significant is about to unfold.

The doors slide open, revealing the cool, concrete expanse of the parking garage. Erica strides over to her black Volvo XC60, the familiar weight of the keys reassuring in her hand. She unlocks the vehicle and settles into the driver’s seat, the scent of leather wrapping around her like a warm embrace. With a flick of her wrist, she starts the engine, the purr of the car breaking the stillness of the underground.

After a moment’s pause, she keys in the address for The Fox & Finch on her GPS. The screen lights up, offering her directions through the labyrinth of city streets. With a slight exhale, Erica eases the car up the ramp and into the evening traffic.

It’s around 8 PM, and New York City, the city that doesn’t sleep, pulses with life. The streets are a mosaic of headlights and taillights, the vibrant glow of neon signs reflecting off the glass facades of towering buildings. Street vendors call out, their voices mingling with the distant sounds of laughter and music. Erica navigates through the urban maze, her mind buzzing with thoughts of Charlotte and the urgency in her voice.

Finding a parking spot near Bryant Park proves to be a minor victory. Erica slips into a space just a block away from the bar, grateful to be so close. She steps out of the car, the night air cool against her face as she heads toward the park. The scent of roasted nuts from a nearby vendor drifts through the air, mixing with the fresh autumn breeze.

As she rounds a street corner, The Fox & Finch comes into view - a charming brick facade adorned with string lights that twinkle like stars against the darkening sky. Erica pushes through the door and steps inside, immediately enveloped in the warm, inviting atmosphere. The dim lighting casts a soft glow over the polished wooden bar, where patrons gather to chat and unwind after a long day.

The air is filled with a mixture of laughter, clinking glasses and some music in the background, a vibrant soundtrack to the conversations unfolding around her. A mix of people fills the room - friends catching up, couples sharing intimate moments, and a few solo patrons lost in their thoughts. The rustic decor features vintage posters and dark wood accents, giving the place a cozy yet lively vibe.

In the rear of the bar, Erica spots Charlotte waving at her, a smile breaking through the crowd. She makes her way over, feeling some nostalgia washing over her as she approaches. They embrace briefly and hesitatingly, both of them feeling the awkwardness of years apart. It’s a quick hug both filled with familiarity and distance, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air.
Erica remembers that she has always called her Charlotte, not Charlie or Char.

“Hi, it’s so good to see you.” Charlotte says, her voice warm but edged with concern. They settle into their seats, the noise of the bar fading slightly as they find their rhythm.

Erica glances at Charlotte, assessing her former teammate’s demeanor. Now is not the time for small talk. She leans in slightly, her expression serious. “What can I do for you, Charlotte?”

Charlotte still looks fit, her athleticism evident even if she’s not as lean as she used to be in college. She wears a sweatshirt emblazoned with the Canmore College Athletics Department logo - one of the many colleges around the city, but one Erica isn’t all too familiar with. The fabric looks cozy but doesn’t quite mask the tension radiating from Charlotte, and Erica’s curiosity deepens.
She has her hands on the table, fingers interlaced to keep them occupied, but Erica can see a wedding ring on her left hand. So, it is safe to assume that Charlotte is married but kept her maiden name.

“Thanks for coming.” Charlotte replies, her eyes searching Erica's. “I really need your help.”



Erica watches Charlotte’s hands as they intertwine and shift, fingers tapping restlessly. The once-steady confidence of her former track teammate has been replaced by a subdued kind of energy, more anxious than she’d ever seen.

Erica leans forward, her voice steady and calm. “Charlotte, whatever it is, you can tell me. What’s going on?”

Charlotte looks down for a moment, her fingers wrapping around her coffee mug. Her voice comes out low, almost hesitant. “It’s about one of my students, Erica…Debbie Stanton.”

Erica nods, mentally filing the name. “Debbie Stanton. Should I know her?”

“She’s on track to qualify for the Olympics.” Charlotte’s face brightens slightly, but the tension remains. “She’s…talented, Erica. Beyond talented. She’s been training like her life depends on it - and now…it’s all falling apart.”

“What does that mean?” Erica asks, noting Charlotte’s visible struggle to find the right words.

Charlotte exhales deeply. “Yesterday, during a training session, she collapsed. The ambulance took her to the hospital. She was disoriented, could barely stand. And then…” Charlotte’s voice drops to a whisper, the weight of it palpable. “They found an overdose of a performance-enhancing drug in her system.”

She looks Erica in the eyes and with all conviction she can muster, says “Erica, she’s been framed. I know it.” Charlotte insists, her eyes wide and pleading. “Debbie would never take anything - she’s too smart for that. She knows what’s at stake. Her screening for the next Olympics is coming up in a few weeks. She and another student have a good chance to do what every athlete dreams of.”

Erica watches her carefully, weighing the desperation in Charlotte’s voice against the practicality drumming in the back of her mind. “I get that you trust her,” she says, choosing her words deliberately, “but you know the pressure these athletes are under. It can push people to make…choices.”

Charlotte’s face tightens, a quick flash of frustration crossing her features. “I know what it sounds like. I know what it looks like. But Debbie wouldn’t risk everything. Not now - not when she’s so close. You have to believe me.”

Erica lets out a small sigh, leaning back in her seat, her gaze steady and measured. “It’s not that simple. We both know no one gets this far by just sheer willpower and glucose tablets. When it comes to Olympic-level competition, everyone is looking for an edge. Sometimes even the best slip up, even if they swear they wouldn’t.”

Charlotte shakes her head, her fingers pressing into the mug so hard her knuckles turn white. “
“Erica, I can’t sweep this incident under the rug. I will have to notify the National Olympic Selection Board and they will drop Debbie from the roster without thinking twice. You know what that means, do you?”

Yes, Erica knows that a scandal like this is easily able to destroy an athlete’s career, but it’s hard – maybe impossible - to argue against scientific evidence if a drug has been found in Debbie’s blood.

Charlotte swallows hard, her voice dropping lower. “There’s another athlete on the team, Alicia Dane. She’s… talented, but she isn’t Debbie. Her father is on campus constantly, talking to the coaches and staff - he’s been so involved that it’s like he’s part of the department. I’ve even heard he’s promised the Chancellor new facilities if Alicia qualifies.”

[Caesar73]

Her kitchen has a serene, cozy stillness, interrupted only by soft clinks and hums as she prepares dinner for her kittens, Spot and Tiger. She spoons a fresh, homemade chicken pulp - organic chicken breast blended with a little broth and a pinch of cat-safe herbs - into the kittens’ food bowl. Erica smiles at the sight of the little appetizing mush: she’s making fresh food for her kittens while she herself eats pre-cooked, calorie-controlled, low-carb, and high-protein packaged dinners…

I like the Entry of this first Chapter. It is always nice to see private Erica - being a Cat in Erica´s Household must be heaven.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, she certainly takes good care of Spot and Tiger. Watch this space, you'll see more "private Erica" in this story and learn something else about her past.

[Caesar73]

The Plot thickens. It seems Debbie is framed by the influential Father of one other Athlete .... to proof though there is foul play at work might be difficult.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, is that what you think. Well, we shall see.

[Jenny_S]

Erica’s eyebrows arch slightly, but she’s careful not to show more. “So, you think this man would go as far as sabotage?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s hard to explain, but the whole atmosphere has shifted recently. There’s this tension in the air whenever he’s around. And when Debbie collapsed…” Charlotte’s words falter, her voice thick with worry. “So much is at stake at the moment. It just doesn’t feel right. I’m asking you to help because I have nowhere else to go, Erica. The police laughed me out of the station.”

Erica keeps her gaze steady, her skepticism lingering. Charlotte’s conviction is clear, but Erica can’t ignore the patterns she’s seen before, the countless times she’s watched trust crumble in situations just like this. Her tone softens as she speaks. “Charlotte, I want to help, but if I take this on, it’ll mean going down a road that could get messy. I need to be convinced that Debbie’s actually innocent.”

Charlotte’s shoulders slump slightly, but she nods. “I get it. You need to see for yourself. Can you meet her? Please?”

Erica pauses, still wrestling with her doubt. But the look on Charlotte’s face, the sheer force of her belief, is hard to ignore. Finally, she gives a slight nod. “Alright. I’ll talk to Debbie. If I can buy that she’s telling the truth, we’ll go from there.”

Relief washes over Charlotte’s face, her expression softening. “Thank you, Erica. She’s already been through so much - just meet her, and you’ll see what I mean.”

“Okay.” Erica says, her tone even. “But I’m going in with my eyes open, Charlotte. If there’s any hint she’s hiding something, I’ll walk away.”

Charlotte nods, visibly reassured, though the anxiety lingers in her gaze. “That’s fair. Just…thank you. It means more than you know.”

Erica takes a slow breath, feeling the weight of what she’s just agreed to. She’s still hesitant, still feeling the tension between belief and doubt. But if there’s a chance that Charlotte’s right, then it’s worth a closer look. And if Debbie Stanton is innocent, Erica will fight with every tool at her disposal to see justice done.

Erica nods, reaching for her phone. “Alright, what’s the hospital’s name?”

“Seaview Medical Center. It’s on Staten Island.” Charlotte replies, a small glimmer of hope breaking through her tension. “She’s in the third-floor recovery unit. Just…be gentle with her. She’s barely holding it together.”

Erica enters the information, then pulls up her calendar, scrolling through a series of back-to-back appointments and client meetings. She lets out a soft sigh but finally finds a window late in the morning. “I’ll go tomorrow. I’ll head to Seaview first, speak to Debbie, and then come over to Canmore to see you.”

Charlotte’s shoulders drop as if a weight has lifted, and she nods gratefully. “Thank you, Erica. Really.”

Erica looks at her old teammate, holding her gaze. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet, Charlotte. But I’ll go in with an open mind. That’s the best I can offer.” She puts her phone away, feeling the faint tug of wariness but also a spark of curiosity she can’t ignore.

Charlotte offers a tired smile. “That’s all I can ask.”

Erica lays her hand on Charlottes forearm. “Get some rest, Charlotte. I’ll see you tomorrow.”




As Erica weaves her Volvo through Manhattan’s nightly traffic, the city lights scatter over her windshield, flaring in bursts against the glass before streaking into the rearview. The pulse of the city hums low around her, buzzing from flashing marquees and neon-lit storefronts, the vibrations muted but present as she rolls forward. Fewer cars cruise the streets at this hour, but a cab darts past her now and then, reminding her that in New York, the night is rarely silent.

Charlotte’s words replay in her mind as she turns onto another avenue, heading uptown. She can almost see her old teammate’s anxious expression, the fervor in her voice as she pleaded Debbie’s innocence. They haven’t spoken in years, yet Charlotte had been so sure of her student that she’d reached out anyway.
Quite possibly a lot is at stake here, not only Debbie’s career as an athlete, but also Charlotte’s future as a coach for America’s shooting stars.

In college, Charlotte had thrived on competition, setting the bar high and driving herself harder than anyone else would dare. That ambition carried her all the way to coaching; in a way, Debbie’s success could be a capstone on her career. So how sure could Erica really be that Debbie’s failure wasn’t, in some way, a side effect of Charlotte’s own ambition?

As her car dips into the underground parking ramp, the city’s murmur recedes, replaced by the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. She drives toward her assigned spot, easing in slowly, letting the engine idle for a beat before turning it off. The quiet surrounds her as she takes a breath, stretching the air between her thoughts. “Could Charlotte have driven her student to the point of desperation?” Erica wonders aloud, her fingers still on the wheel. But then she remembers Charlotte’s expression, her conviction, and the way her voice had caught when she spoke of Debbie. It didn’t seem like a coach’s ambition - it felt personal. Real.

The elevator is waiting, and as she rides up, Erica mentally scans tomorrow’s agenda. A few client meetings, a pile of paperwork - work she could offload to her associates. It’s one of the privileges of heading Sinclair & Associates; she’s built the firm, shaped it from the ground up. It’s her name on the door, not anyone else’s, which means she can bend a few schedules to make room for this detour, even if it’ll ruffle some feathers. The cases on her desk can wait another day.

When the elevator chimes open, Erica steps into the hushed hallway and walks toward her apartment, unlocking the door with a practiced turn of the key. The heavy deadbolt gives way with a satisfying click, and she enters, letting the familiar scents of leather, polished wood, and crisp linen envelope her. She toes off her shoes and hangs her jacket with a flicker of routine precision, noticing the warmth of her apartment settle around her shoulders as she crosses the living room. She stops in the doorway to her bedroom, smiling at what she finds: her two tabby kittens, Spot and Tiger, nestled together in a sleepy knot at the foot of her bed, softly snoring in tandem.
She knows what this means: no bondage tonight…

The kittens are utterly oblivious to her return, and she can’t help but feel a pang of fondness for their cozy heap, a small comfort in an otherwise unpredictable night. Moving quietly, she lays her clothes over the Hillhouse chair, stealing a look at herself in the tall mirror by the closet. The naked woman looking back at her is poised, her body honed by early morning runs, strength training, and the kind of diet that rewards consistency. She lets her hand graze over her toned abs, a faint, half-ironic smirk crossing her lips as she remembers comparing herself to Charlotte. She’s no stranger to hard work - she’s earned her fitness as much as she’s earned her place in lawyering. Maybe it’s vanity, or maybe it’s just an honest satisfaction in the physical version of herself she’s built over the years.

Pulling on her black silk kimono, Erica fastens the sash and slides under the duvet with deliberate care, making room for the kittens. Spot lets out a small snuffling noise, stretching out a paw, and she settles back, feeling the softness of the silk cooling her skin as her thoughts drift back to the case.

There’s something magnetic about the complexity of it - an Olympic hopeful, the stakes of the qualifiers, the possibility – however faint - of sabotage. The kind of case that could slide in any direction, fueled by ambition, rivalry, and maybe a hidden desperation lurking beneath the surface. It’s a tangled puzzle, and Erica can’t help but feel drawn to untangle it, despite her instinctive hesitation.

But if she takes this on, it’ll mean walking a dangerous line between belief and skepticism, between trusting Charlotte’s word and uncovering the truth for herself. She’ll have to see Debbie, look her in the eye, search for any trace of deception. She’s seen it before - athletes making reckless choices under pressure, coaches crossing lines in pursuit of glory. She’s seen the way ambition can warp into something darker. But if Debbie is as innocent as Charlotte claims, then Erica can’t ignore the injustice, no matter how complicated it may become.

Her hand falls lightly on Spot’s back, feeling the soft rhythm of his breathing. She closes her eyes, letting the calm quiet of the room draw her away from the city’s clamor. Tomorrow will bring more questions than answers, she knows, but she’ll meet them head-on. And if she believes that Debbie Stanton might indeed be innocent, then Erica will fight for her with every skill she’s honed, regardless of the cost.

[GreyLord]

Even if everything is exactly as reported to Erica by her friend, Charlotte, this would appear to be a tough case. Erica needs to bring her A-game to this rodeo.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @GreyLord, you're right. Let's see how the story unfolds further.

[Jenny_S]

The alarm buzzes, slicing through the silence. At 5:00 AM on the dot. Erica reaches over, taps her phone to silence it, and switches on the bedside lamp. The light spills over her bed, illuminating the stillness. She scans the blankets - no kittens. They must have slipped off during the night.

She swings her legs over the edge, her bare feet hitting the polished hardwood floor. Padding softly, Erica makes her way into the living room where Spot and Tiger are curled up, tiny chests rising and falling as they sleep by the warmth of the heating vent. Smiling softly, she bends down, gently lifts their food and water bowls, and heads into the kitchen. The water splashes into the fresh bowl as she refills it, a quiet ritual she’s come to cherish since they came into her life.

After placing the bowls back down, Erica heads to her bedroom closet, pulling out her running clothes - sleek tights and a fitted, moisture-wicking top with reflective stripes that gleam under the lamplight. She laces up her shoes, double-checking the knots, then stands, feeling a rush of energy flood through her. Just before she leaves, she glances back at the kittens, who are still blissfully asleep, unaware of the world starting up around them.

Slipping her phone and keys into her pocket, Erica rolls her shoulders forward and back, loosening her muscles. There’s a thrill simmering under her skin, the anticipation of pushing herself. This morning isn’t just a run; it’s a test. A challenge to herself.

In the elevator, she starts stretching, lunging down low and warming up her legs with small hops. She’s done five miles countless times before, but today there’s an edge to it. Thirty-six and a half minutes is her usual time, give or take a few seconds, but this morning she has her sights set on something sharper, faster. She wants to crack a seven-minute mile pace - a time worthy of someone who’s disciplined, who can push herself. Someone who, even at thirty-five, still craves the thrill of competition, even if it’s only against herself.

When the elevator doors open, she strides across the lobby, rolls her neck once more, and pushes out into the crisp, predawn air. The city is blanketed in darkness, the streets mostly empty, save for a few distant headlights cutting through the fog that lingers like a secret over the roads. She feels like a racing horse about to bolt out of the gate. Muscles coiled, heartbeat accelerating - she’s ready to go.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, Erica turns left, eyes straight ahead, and launches into her run, her feet pounding down West 72nd Street, a familiar stretch, yet today it holds the energy of something new. The early morning is her own, the air brisk against her skin, the occasional streetlamp casting a hazy glow on her path. Striding through this stretch, Erica finds her rhythm, quicker than usual, her mind clear, focused on her pace.

When she reaches the entrance to Central Park, she picks up speed, her breath steady as she begins her loop. The park, usually a place she’d pause to take in, is now a blur of trees, winding paths, and flickers of movement as early walkers and runners cross her line of sight. Her focus narrows to the ground just a few steps ahead of her; the hum of her shoes on the asphalt, the smell of damp leaves, and the cool air against her face sharpen her senses.

She pushes harder through the curves of the path, her legs carrying her with a momentum that feels effortless yet intense. The landscape - the shadowed trees, the rocks, the sweep of trails - feels surreal, blending with her drive to keep pace. She allows the park to move around her in a dizzying, exhilarating blur, her only anchor the steady rhythm of her footfalls and the goal in her mind. As she nears the park exit, she knows her time is strong, faster than it’s been in months.

Exiting the park, she turns back onto 72nd, her mind locked onto these last few blocks. She urges her legs to keep up the pace, to reach for that final push. The buildings start to feel familiar, the shadows giving way to the first glimmers of dawn. By the time she reaches her starting point, her breath heavy, Erica’s muscles hum with fatigue and satisfaction. Her phone pings with her time - 34 minutes and 50 seconds. Faster than she’d thought possible.

She grins, feeling a rush of satisfaction. She pushed herself, and she met her goal. Today’s run was more than a routine; it was a promise to herself, an unyielding commitment to effort, precision, and strength.

Walking back toward her building, she feels the weight of the day ahead settle in - there’s Debbie to meet, questions to ask, truths to unravel. But with her body and mind sharpened from the run, Erica feels ready.




Fueled by a surge of accomplishment, Erica steps into her apartment, arms stretching up over her head until she feels the satisfying pull in her muscles. The thrill of her morning run lingers, and for a second, she almost wants to shout in release - but she holds back, glancing toward the sleeping kittens in their cozy corner. She smiles softly. This is her victory, quiet and her own.

In the bathroom, she turns the water on without a thought, letting the warm spray cascade over her, easing every muscle. She lathers with her lavender body wash, breathing in the scent that she’s come to associate with small moments of calm. After drying off, she wraps herself in a plush towel and begins blow-drying her hair, tying it back in a sharp, practical ponytail once it’s dry. Her makeup is efficient and no-nonsense: a bit of blush, nude lipstick, a swipe of mascara. The look is purposeful, like armor, a style she has made uniquely her own.

The coffee pad machine hisses and sputters as she mixes a bowl of quark with a quarter cup of almond milk and stirs in crushed oats. It’s not gourmet, but it’ll keep her fueled until her midday protein shake. She drops two Sweet’n Low into her coffee and finishes it with a splash of almond milk, its creamy tan color briefly mesmerizing before she takes her first sip. This, she reminds herself, is body fuel - nutritional, bland, practical. It does its job, like so much of her routine. Precise. Dependable. And a bit…empty.


As she eats, she flips on the TV, scanning the morning news. The city’s heartbeat, the nation’s pulse, and glimpses of the world beyond scroll across the screen, while Erica gathers her focus for the day. Her phone vibrates with a reminder, and she taps out a quick message to her assistant, Claire, instructing her on how to reassign the morning tasks. She’s decided on a new priority for herself - a trip to Staten Island to meet with a young woman in the hospital. She hits send, setting everything in motion.

After rinsing her bowl and mug, Erica walks to the bedroom and considers her wardrobe for the day. Her hand slides over the fabric of an emerald-green silk blouse, soft and cool, and she pairs it with a fitted black pencil skirt and matching jacket. She slips into polished black pumps, feeling their reassuring fit, and as she puts the gold university class ring on her right hand, her gaze lingers on her left wrist. The weight of her steel Rolex dive watch - a gift from her father on her graduation day - grounds her.

This watch is her most prized possession, not just for its sturdiness or elegance, but for the words her father had engraved on the back: “Stand for something or fall for anything”
His voice still echoes in her mind from that day, his steady eyes on hers as he handed her the green box embossed with the brand's trademark gold crown emblem. “Knowing the law isn’t enough.” he’d said. “It takes a strong moral compass to use it.” Those words had kindled her journey, forming the bedrock of her pursuit of justice and her personal integrity. They’re more than a slogan; they’re the creed she lives by.

Erica pulls herself back to the present, shoulders squared with renewed determination. Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she steals a final glance at the kittens, still curled up in their nest, undisturbed by the energy of her morning. With a last look around, she locks her apartment door, heading toward the elevator, the day’s goals already aligning in her mind.





As Erica navigates her black Volvo through the thick New York City traffic, the morning hustle is in full swing. Cabs jostle in every lane, and delivery trucks inch forward, their drivers tapping impatiently on steering wheels. Horns blare in sporadic bursts, and pedestrians, eyes fixed on their phones or coffee cups, dart across the streets between lights. This part of her city rarely holds surprises, yet today, she finds herself on a route that feels unfamiliar, leading her towards Staten Island.

The GPS guides her smoothly, its voice a calm thread cutting through the city’s ambient hum. As she crosses the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge, the river stretches below like a silver-gray divide, separating the frenetic pace of Manhattan from the quieter pulse of Staten Island. Finally, Seaview Medical Center comes into view, a modern structure framed by clusters of trees, its sleek lines standing stark against the natural surroundings - a striking, yet cold, reminder of what lies within.

Erica pulls into the parking structure and finds a spot near the elevators, pausing for a moment to check her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her expression is composed, as always, yet a faint edge of unease tugs at her. Hospitals have always had a way of unsettling her - the bright lights and antiseptic sheen masking the vulnerability and fragility housed within. Even though she’s faced down criminals in alleyways and courtrooms, there’s something about the sterile atmosphere here that feels harder to master.

Her shoulder twinges slightly, and a flash of memory surfaces from the night she was shot in that abandoned warehouse by Tony Maze. She doesn’t remember the rush to the hospital, but more vividly the sting of antiseptic under the harsh fluorescent lights and the numb ache after surgery. The doctors were skilled, the nurses attentive, but the whole time, she’d counted the minutes until discharge. Relief had only come when she finally walked out the double doors, leaving the sterile white walls and beeping monitors behind her.

Sighing, she squares her shoulders and steps out of the car. The faint smell of iodine that wafts from the hospital entrance brings a quick pang of discomfort, but she shakes it off and heads inside, her resolve hardening with each step. Vulnerability might be the undercurrent here, but she's here for answers, and that’s something she knows how to handle.

Inside, the hospital atmosphere is cool, bright, and impeccably clean. White floors gleam beneath bright lights, reflecting the hustle of doctors and nurses moving purposefully down long hallways. The scent of disinfectant lingers, barely masked by the industrial air fresheners at each corner. The help desk attendant directs Erica with practiced efficiency, noting the floor and room number without hesitation.

Erica finds her way to Debbie’s room and pauses outside the door. She takes a breath and knocks softly. After a moment, the door opens, revealing a man who appears to be in his early fifties. His casual clothes - slacks and a long-sleeved polo shirt - set him apart from the medical staff, but his demeanor holds a quiet, restrained intensity. His eyes, although clear, carry the unmistakable strain of worry.

“Yes?” he asks, his voice quiet, wary.

“Hello. I'm Erica Sinclair.” she says, her tone steady and professional. “Charlotte West asked me to check on Ms. Stanton.”

The man steps back, opening the door wider, and gestures for her to enter. “I’m Bill Stanton, Debbie’s father.” he says, introducing himself. “And this is my wife, Elisabeth.”

“Happy to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Stanton.” Erica says politely, nodding to them both as she enters the room.

Elisabeth Stanton, dressed with understated elegance, offers a faint smile in greeting. Her makeup is minimal, yet it’s clear she’s made an effort to put on a brave face. But her clenched hands and the tension etched into her brow betray her worry. Bill seems equally strained; his jaw is set, and he watches Erica carefully as she approaches the hospital bed.

Erica turns her attention to the young woman lying there. Debbie Stanton, a clean-cut all-American girl in her early twenties, with athletic build softened by illness, watches Erica with an inquisitive expression. She’s dressed in a Canmore Athletics Department sweatsuit, her pale face framed by dark hair that falls limply around her shoulders.

“Coach West told me you’d come calling.” Debbie says, her voice carrying a hint of weariness, but also a sliver of hope. She glances at her parents. “Mom, Dad, Coach West asked Miss Sinclair to find out how these drugs came into my system.”

[Caesar73]

Large Parts of this Chapter show us the private Erica. Her daily Routine before the Day begins. With each Story, Erica´s Character gets more complex. That Erica gives Debbie some hope is understandable. Erica´s and Debbies first Meeting will undoubtly be interesting.

[LunaDog]

As is proven by my favourite all-time lady sportsperson, Maria Sharapova, once a label of drug use sticks, it is very difficult to shake off. Erica sure has her work cut out here!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, I try to flesh my main characters out to make them realistic and relatable. Of course, Erica gets most of it. As my avid readers will have noticed by now, she is not invincible, and although she is an accomplished, successful lawyer, she has her vulnerabilities. I'm glad you enjoy reading these "behind the scenes" scenes as much as I enjoy writing them.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, some of the mud that gets slung always sticks. You're absolutely correct. We will see if maybe Debbie took something to keep up with other athletes or if - maybe - her coach isn't as innocent as she seems. Or is it that father of her direct rival who engineered something? Erica knows that arguing against what was actually found in Debbie's blood might be more than an uphill battle.

[Jenny_S]

Erica gives Debbie a reassuring nod. “That’s right.” she says, stepping a bit closer. “I was asked to get to the bottom of this.”

Bill’s gaze sharpens as he studies Erica’s professional and polished appearance, his face tense with a mix of relief and lingering caution. Elisabeth’s hand rests protectively on her daughter’s arm, her expression somewhere between gratitude and apprehension.

“You’re not with the police, are you?” Bill asks, almost as if he needs to hear the confirmation once more.

“No.” Erica says with a reassuring tone, “I’m not with the police. I’m a lawyer.” She gives him a small smile, handing over her card. “Sinclair & Associates. Charlotte West - Coach West – contacted me because we both trained together back at Harvard. She thought I could help since the police don’t seem interested in handling this case, for reasons of their own.”

Bill and Elisabeth exchange a brief glance, visibly relieved. Debbie, still watching Erica with a guarded look, shifts slightly under her mother’s hand.

What Erica doesn’t mention, however, is the possibility that Debbie might have taken performance enhancers herself in an effort to reach new physical heights - a move that could have spiraled into an overdose and brought her here. The thought hovers in her mind, but she pushes it back. For now, the focus is on understanding Debbie’s side of things and connecting with her. There would be time later to probe further, if needed.

Erica shifts her attention back to Debbie, her expression warm but professional. “It’s great to meet all of you.” she says, her voice softening slightly as she acknowledges the gravity of the moment. “And I’d love to start by getting to know Debbie a little better, if that’s alright. Why don’t we start with the basics? Who wants to tell me a bit about you?”


Elisabeth speaks up first, her voice steady but tinged with a mother’s underlying concern. “Sports have always been a part of our family.” She offers a tight smile, glancing at Debbie before returning her gaze to Erica. “Bill wrestled in college, and I was on the swim team. So, when Debbie showed an interest in sports, we supported it wholeheartedly. We let her try everything until she found her real passion - running. And when she received her offer from Canmore, we were thrilled. With her academic achievements and her athletic record, Canmore felt like the perfect fit. And Mrs. West seemed like the right mentor to guide her potential.”

Debbie’s father, Bill, picks up where his wife leaves off, his tone edging with a frustration he can’t quite disguise. “You see,” he says, leaning forward slightly, “when Coach West called us yesterday, telling us Debbie had had this…incident…we drove up from Rhode Island immediately. We couldn’t believe it. Debbie’s never touched anything like that in her life. She doesn’t smoke, vape or touch alcohol. She’s strict with her diet and nutrition…someone must’ve done this to her.” he finishes, his voice breaking just enough to reveal the strain beneath his outward calm.

Bill hands Erica a printed sheet of paper - the results of Debbie’s bloodwork, clearly from the hospital, signed by Dr. Stephen Myers. Her eyes are drawn to the neon yellow highlighting on the page. Right there, bolded in black type, is the name of the substance found in Debbie’s blood: “Moducain”.

Erica’s face remains composed as she folds the paper.
“I’ll be honest - I’m not familiar with this particular drug.” she says thoughtfully. “But I’ll look into it as part of my investigation.”

She turns to Debbie, whose eyes are fixed on the thin hospital blanket drawn over her legs, though she lifts her gaze to meet Erica’s with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

“How do you feel about Canmore, Debbie?” Erica asks, softening her tone. “And about your relationship with Mrs. West?”

For a moment, Debbie looks uncertain, almost as if weighing how much to say. But eventually, she speaks, her voice subdued but clear. “Canmore’s great.” she begins, though her tone is cautious. “And Mrs. West… she’s been supportive. Really invested. I mean, she wants all of us to do our best. But…there’s pressure, you know? To push ourselves to the next level.”

Erica notices the tension in Debbie’s words, the faintest tremor that betrays an underlying strain. But Debbie says nothing more, biting her lip and looking toward the door as if willing herself to be anywhere but here.

Erica nods gently, acknowledging Debbie’s reluctance to say more, yet mentally filing away the hint of pressure Debbie alluded to. The details are starting to build, layer by layer - a dedicated athlete, supportive but concerned parents, and a coach who pushes her team to excel. The question of where, or with whom, things went wrong remains unanswered, but Erica feels the first threads of insight beginning to emerge.


Erica keeps her tone light but focused, her gaze steady on Debbie. “Of course, a coach will push you to develop your potential to the fullest.” she says, her voice measured. “But Debbie, have you and Mrs. West ever discussed…supplements? Even so-called ‘mild’ ones?”

Debbie hesitates, her fingers tightening around the hospital blanket. Her eyes dart briefly to her parents, but she quickly looks back at Erica, a flicker of something unreadable in her expression.

“Well…” she begins, glancing down. “I mean, Coach West is pretty strict about keeping everything above board. She’s big on discipline and natural ability. She’s always saying we shouldn’t need anything other than training and nutrition to improve.”

Erica leans in a little, sensing Debbie’s ambivalence. “And yet…you felt pressured to keep up, didn’t you?”

Debbie nods slowly. “It’s just…when you’re part of a team like ours, where everyone’s always trying to outdo each other, you start to wonder if you’re doing enough. There were whispers sometimes, things some of the other athletes would mention…like shortcuts. Nothing serious, just little things.”

“What kind of things?” Erica’s voice remains gentle, but her question is pointed. “Anything specific?”

Debbie’s face colors, and she looks away, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just…stuff like caffeine boosters or certain vitamins to help with recovery. But I swear, I never touched anything illegal. And Coach West would’ve kicked us out of the team if we did.” She looks up, her eyes pleading. “I’m not lying. I just…I didn’t want to fall behind. I thought I was doing everything right.”

Erica nods slowly, her gaze holding Debbie’s. She can feel the young woman’s tension, the gnawing insecurity beneath her composed exterior. Erica knows that these small “enhancements” can sometimes open doors to more questionable methods, especially when the stakes are high.

“So you tried to keep up…with Ripped Fuel. I get it. But did Coach West ever suggest anything else? Even indirectly?”

Debbie shakes her head, looking uncomfortable. “No. She’s intense, yeah, but I don’t think she’d ever push us into that. I think maybe she doesn’t realize how much pressure we’re all under to keep up…to prove ourselves. And sometimes that makes you think about taking risks.”

Erica leans back, taking in Debbie’s words. She senses that Debbie is being honest, but there’s something else here - an undercurrent of unspoken pressure, even if it wasn’t explicit.



Erica studies Debbie’s expression, noticing a flash of apprehension before gently pulling up a chair, sitting beside Debbie’s bed and leaning forward, hands loosely clasped in front of her to look as nonthreatening as possible. Her voice remains calm, steady, inviting.

“I understand there’s a lot happening around the team right now, especially with the Olympic screening coming up. And if I remember correctly, there’s another student who’s competing for a spot. What’s your relationship like with her?”

Debbie’s eyes flick up, catching her parents' gaze. Her mother, Elisabeth, tightens her grip on her handbag, while Bill looks at Erica with an intensity that speaks of both his protectiveness and his worry. Erica offers a small, reassuring smile, as if to say that there’s no need for alarm. She’s simply here to understand.

“I’m just trying to get a sense of things, Debbie. To see what you’ve been dealing with, the atmosphere on the team. So please, don’t worry about saying too much or too little. Just tell me whatever comes to mind.”

Debbie shifts uncomfortably, glancing down at her hands where she nervously picks at her nails. “Well…yeah. There’s another student.” she says slowly. “Her name’s Alyssa Dane. She’s really talented – maybe a little more than me, honestly, and Coach West has high hopes for her.”

She hesitates, glancing over at her parents as if seeking silent permission to go on. Her mother gives a slight nod, her expression tender yet anxious. Debbie takes a shaky breath and continues.

“We get along okay, but…there’s tension. I mean, Alyssa and I both know we’re competing for the same spot. And sometimes it feels like we’re more rivals than teammates.” She glances up at Erica. “Coach West is fair, but she’s always pushing us to be better, to train harder. It’s just… a lot of pressure sometimes. Especially knowing that someone like Alyssa is right there, just as driven, just as focused.”

Erica nods slowly, processing the information. “I imagine it must be intense.” she says sympathetically. “With that kind of competition, it’s normal to feel like you’re constantly trying to measure up. Do you think this rivalry…this pressure to perform, could lead some athletes to consider certain risks? Not just you, but in general?”

Debbie’s face flushes, and she looks down again, rubbing at her wrist. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s like everyone’s just so…desperate to be the best. And sometimes it’s easy to feel like you’re never doing enough. I mean, I wouldn’t take anything, but…there are times when you wonder if it would make things easier. And maybe…maybe others feel that way, too.”

Bill and Elisabeth exchange worried glances, their concern deepening. Erica notices this and addresses them with a reassuring tone.

“Please know that I’m not looking to blame anyone here.” she says, her eyes soft yet steady. “I just want to understand what Debbie’s been going through. These are high-stakes situations, and the pressure can bring out complicated feelings, especially when there’s so much on the line.”

Elisabeth places a gentle hand on Debbie’s shoulder, her expression conflicted, a mixture of support and worry. “Debbie, you didn’t need to go through all of this alone. We would have understood…if you felt like it was too much.”

Debbie bites her lip, her eyes misting a little as she looks back at her parents. “I didn’t want to disappoint you. Or Coach West. I thought I could handle it, that I’d just…push harder, train more. But it never felt like enough, no matter how hard I tried.”

Erica feels a pang of empathy as she watches the young woman struggle to hold herself together. She keeps her voice gentle as she speaks again. “Thank you, Debbie. I know this isn’t easy to talk about. Just know that we’re here to help, not to judge. You’ve worked incredibly hard, and we all want to make sure you get through this safely.”

A fragile calm settles in the room, but Erica senses the lingering tension, an undercurrent of unresolved worries. She decides to give Debbie space to process and instead glances back at Bill and Elisabeth, giving them a quiet, reassuring nod.

As they share a tentative smile, Erica makes a mental note to dig deeper into this environment and the pressures surrounding the team - a competitive atmosphere that might indeed push young athletes to the edge.



Erica leans forward slightly, her gaze calm and patient. “Debbie, do you ever talk to Alyssa about the pressures you’re both under?” Her voice is gentle, yet her eyes are sharp, watching for the smallest of reactions. “It sounds like you’re handling a lot, but I wonder if Alyssa might feel the same way.”

Debbie hesitates, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her hospital blanket. Her parents exchange a quick, tense glance, but neither of them interrupts. Elizabeth’s hand clutches her purse a bit tighter, and Bill’s jaw clenches as he studies Erica’s face, assessing her intentions.

“I guess…yeah, sometimes.” Debbie says finally. “Alyssa gets pretty stressed too. Her dad is always around, though - like, way more than most parents. And he’s…involved. Sometimes too involved.”

“Too involved?” Erica’s tone remains even, as if she’s simply clarifying, but her mind sharpens at the words.

Debbie’s eyes shift to her mother, who gives her an encouraging nod, before she glances back at Erica. “He’s there at almost every practice, talking with Coach West, and…I think he pushes Alyssa more than anyone else. It’s like he’s part of the team or thinks he should be.” Debbie’s voice is hesitant, a slight tremor betraying her discomfort.

Erica nods, giving her a reassuring smile. “I can understand how that might feel overwhelming, especially if he’s around all the time. Does it ever seem like his influence affects Coach West’s choices for the team?”

Debbie’s brow furrows, and her fingers still, the hesitation evident in the small pause before she answers. “Maybe. Coach West sometimes seems...I don’t know, different when he’s around. He wants Alyssa to be on the Olympic track just as much as Alyssa does, maybe even more. And sometimes Coach focuses on Alyssa in ways that leave the rest of us feeling like we’re just...supporting players.”

Elizabeth shifts in her seat, her hand moving to Debbie’s shoulder as if to shield her from the scrutiny, even though Erica’s tone remains steady and kind. “Debbie’s never had a problem keeping up with the program, but lately, there’s just been so much pressure.” Elizabeth says, glancing over at her husband for support. “Bill and I only want what’s best for her, but there’s no way our daughter would turn to something as dangerous as drugs.”

Erica nods, empathizing with the parents’ protective worry but focusing her attention back on the girl. “Debbie, I’m not accusing anyone of anything here; I just want to understand the team dynamics. It sounds like there’s a lot of pressure on everyone, but more so for you and Alyssa, given the Olympic tryouts.”

Debbie’s fingers twist the blanket’s edge again, her gaze falling to her hands. “It’s…just a lot to keep up with. Alyssa’s dad always tells her she’s got to be the best, that she can’t lose her shot. I guess I just worry sometimes that it’s more about what he wants than what she does. And Coach tries to balance it, but it’s like…like Alyssa’s family expectations pull her - and the whole team - in their direction.”

As Debbie’s words sink in, Erica processes the implications of what she’s hearing. She’s increasingly aware that the pressure isn’t just about individual goals but a complex network of family, competition, and external expectations – as well as Alyssa’s father influencing the Chancellor and the coaches. “This level of stress,” Erica thinks, “could drive even the strongest athletes to make impulsive decisions.”

Her gaze remains soft as she speaks again. “Thank you, Debbie. It sounds like you’re in a challenging environment, trying to meet very high standards - not just from Coach West but from everyone around you. I just want to be sure you’re getting all the support you need.”

Debbie nods, a glimmer of relief crossing her face as Erica’s compassionate tone seems to reassure her. Elizabeth reaches for her daughter’s hand, a slight tremor in her voice as she speaks. “We just want her to be happy and healthy. Nothing else matters if she isn’t.”

Erica gives Elizabeth a gentle nod. “That’s exactly why I’m here. I’ll keep looking into this, and I promise I’ll be in touch. The priority is to make sure Debbie is fully supported and safe.”

She makes brief eye contact with Bill, seeing the guarded hope in his eyes. “I need to dig deeper into Coach West’s program and the influence of Alyssa’s father.” she notes mentally. “This family deserves to know what really happened.”

As she stands, Erica’s gaze returns to Debbie. “Thank you for being so open with me, Debbie. I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

Bill rises to shake her hand. “Thank you, Ms. Sinclair. I’m glad you’re here to help us find out what’s going on.”

Erica meets his steady gaze, her professional resolve matched by her genuine concern for the family. “Whatever it takes, Mr Stanton.”

She offers a calm smile to Debbie, then turns to shake hands with her parents, feeling the strength and urgency in their grips. There’s a solemn gratitude in their eyes, as though they’re clinging to the hope that she might find the truth for them. As she steps away from Debbie’s bed, the young woman’s face softens just slightly, her guarded expression breaking into something that resembles relief. Erica nods to her, the reassurance subtle but unmistakable - a silent promise that she won’t let this matter drop.

“I’ll be in touch soon.” Erica says, her voice gentle but firm. With a final look, she heads toward the door, her senses alive with everything she’s just learned. The hallway outside feels brighter, as though the world has sharpened and intensified after the tension in Debbie’s room. Erica can still sense the weight of Debbie’s parents’ concern hanging in the air, the intense worry they tried so hard to conceal from their daughter.

As she walks back toward the parking structure, Erica’s mind is already turning over the details. She’s aware, on some deep level, that she’s already accepted the case - even though Charlotte’s involvement is both a reason to take it and a reason to hesitate. But she can’t ignore the urgency clinging to Debbie’s story, nor the palpable fear that the young woman might be tangled up in something beyond her control.

Back in her car, Erica sits for a moment, taking a deep breath as she gazes across the landscape of Staten Island. This part of New York has always felt distant from her Manhattan office, both geographically and atmospherically. And yet, this quiet distance brings clarity. She can feel herself accepting that she’s going to dive into this situation, and with each passing second, the commitment solidifies.

She pulls up her phone and begins to scroll through the notes she typed during her conversation with Debbie and her parents, her thoughts sifting through the potential scenarios.

Maybe, Erica considers, Debbie simply doesn’t have what it takes to compete at this elite level. And that alone isn’t a failing; it’s just the reality of competitive sports - an immense pressure, an impossible balance. But that only makes the real question more pressing: Did she take Moducain willingly, trying to give herself that final edge, or did someone else slip it to her?
Erica frowns. That Debbie took it seems certain. The blood test showed Moducain, after all, and it’s next to impossible to argue against scientifically based evidence.

She pauses, considering. Of course, there’s the slim possibility that the blood analysis could be faulty or might have even been tampered with… but how realistic is that? She’s seen sloppy lab work before, sure, but something about this case seems to pull in another direction. Moducain was there, but the ‘how’ remains maddeningly unclear.

“This isn’t just about an athlete’s ambition.” Erica murmurs, gripping the steering wheel. “There’s a bigger story buried here - one that deserves to be brought to light.”

Her mind flickers to Alyssa and the constant, looming presence of her father in the athletic department, almost a shadow at Debbie’s side. If Alyssa, under that same pressure, had accepted Moducain - or even recommended it to Debbie - the picture shifts in troubling ways. Erica knows what desperation and ambition can make people do, but she has to see this from every angle to get a clear picture. Could someone have encouraged Debbie, hoping for a result that backfired when her body reacted the way it did?

She pulls up the notes she typed into her phone earlier, reviewing her observations of Debbie and her parents. The disappointment and confusion in their faces - the same look she’d seen in the eyes of so many clients who found themselves swept up in crises they never expected - sits with her, a reminder of why she took up law in the first place. Her father’s words echo in her mind, that guiding creed engraved on her watch: Stand for something or fall for anything.

And as she starts her car, pulling out of the hospital parking structure, Erica knows she’s made her decision. She’s ready to confront this case from every angle, unraveling the knots around Debbie’s life until the truth is undeniable. Whatever forces lie behind Debbie’s collapse - be they intentional or accidental - she’s prepared to expose them. This isn’t about loyalty to Charlotte; it’s about standing up for the truth, no matter how complicated or uncomfortable it may become.

With a final look back at the hospital in her rearview mirror, Erica merges onto the road, her expression set with purpose. The case has only just begun, and she’s ready to fight for whatever truths it reveals.

[LunaDog]

This has VERY intriguing. There's NO doubt that the drug was in Debbie's bloodstream, but how did it get there? Was she responsible at all?

Np doubt all will be revealed in good time.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, at least Debbie convinced Erica somewhat that she didn't take the drug. Let's see if our protagonist can get to the botom of this.

[Jenny_S]

As Erica maneuvers through the constant flow of traffic on her way to Canmore College, her mind spins with everything she’s seen and learned so far. Debbie, pale and anxious in that hospital bed, her parents hovering over her, protective and helpless in equal measure. The gravity of this situation is starting to settle over her in layers, heavier with each passing thought.

Erica grips the wheel a bit tighter. She’s faced countless cases as a lawyer, but this one feels more personal, somehow. She’s intimately aware of the dedication, the sacrifice, and the sheer will it takes to reach the upper echelons of elite athletics - qualities she might have had once, too, but ultimately set aside for another path. She knows Debbie’s track record must have been solid to even approach a chance at the Olympics. And yet, Erica’s trained mind can’t help but recognize the reality in front of her: whether Debbie knows it yet or not, her road to the Olympics has just met a perhaps insurmountable, sudden full stop.

Testing positive for Moducain will place Debbie under a cloud of doubt and suspicion that’s nearly impossible to clear in the world of professional sports. Erica knows that the Olympic Screening Board, the sponsors, and the fans themselves will likely be unforgiving; reputations don’t get wiped clean when it comes to performance-enhancing drugs, no matter how small or accidental the dose might be. And even if they somehow prove it wasn’t intentional - if someone did tamper with her food or drink to sabotage her - there’s little guarantee her record would be fully restored. There would always be a question mark beside her name, a shadow over her once-promising career.

For Debbie’s parents, this will be just as devastating as for their daughter. Erica thinks back to their pride, the light that appeared in their eyes as they recounted Debbie’s achievements, her potential, and how much she’d grown under Coach West’s mentorship. They’ve supported their daughter’s dreams, invested in her training and her future with everything they had. They see her as a young athlete on the cusp of greatness, but Erica realizes they may not be ready to face the painful possibility that this path might be forever closed off.

And Debbie, she imagines, will have a difficult time accepting this herself. Erica remembers the pride and pressure she once felt in her own athletic pursuits, but then, she never wanted to become a professional athlete. She always had a different calling. But for Debbie, sports isn’t just a pastime; it’s her identity, the core of her future plans. What will happen to that drive, that determination if she’s forced off this path? How does she find another sense of purpose?

Erica feels a surge of empathy mixed with resolve. She knows her role as an investigator here is to uncover the truth, but beneath that she senses another purpose emerging: to help this young woman face what may be the end of her athletic dream. If there’s even a shred of a possibility that this was all an accident or a setup, she owes it to Debbie to find out. But even then, she’ll have to prepare the Stantons for a different outcome than they’re hoping for - a hard truth that Debbie’s future may need to look very different from what she’s worked so long to achieve.

As the GPS guides her onto the exit toward Canmore, Erica’s resolve hardens. If anyone can see Debbie through the aftermath of this revelation, it will be her. But first, she needs to uncover the truth.




Erica takes her Volvo smoothly into the visitors’ parking lot of Canmore College, eyeing the campus buildings as she shuts off the engine. She lingers a moment to survey her surroundings, noting the gleaming modernity of the structures around her. They’re sleek and functional, almost corporate in style, lacking the storied history and character she associates with her own alma mater. “Harvard” - the name alone carries a weight of tradition, prestige, and the kind of intellectual rigor that shapes leaders. Here at Canmore, though, there’s a different energy. Everything about the place seems to lean into athleticism, like academics might be playing an almost reluctant second fiddle.

Scanning the signs to orient herself, Erica spots the pathway leading toward the Athletics Department, the crown jewel of Canmore. She catches herself feeling a pang of disapproval. For her, higher education was never about pushing physical limits but about sharpening the mind, testing principles, and preparing oneself for something larger than personal glory. Yet here, she senses a kind of unspoken promise in the air - that success isn’t measured in academic distinction but in trophies, records, and the fleeting fame that athletic success can bring.

Stepping out of her car, she feels the crunch of gravel under her shoes as she heads toward the administration building, where she knows she’ll find Charlotte West’s office. Charlotte has asked her to take a closer look at Debbie’s situation, and Erica feels the familiar mix of curiosity and determination start to simmer. A part of her wonders if this place - with its hyper-focus on athletics - had pushed Debbie over an invisible line. A school with this kind of athletic focus could easily create an environment where a young woman might be tempted to take risks, even desperate measures, to keep up or surpass the competition.

She glances around, noting the buzz of students in athletic gear milling about, laughing, a few stretching or chatting on a lawn nearby. There’s a camaraderie here, yes, but also a sense of rivalry lurking beneath the surface. She wonders what it would feel like to be a part of this world where success seems to come in bursts of adrenaline and strength. To Erica, that sounds exhausting - and precarious.

As she approaches the admin building, Erica is grateful that they can speak privately in Charlotte’s office. Charlotte, a familiar face from Erica’s own days of training, understands both the intensity and the toll of this world better than anyone. They had shared countless hours in the weight room, on the track, and with each mile, they had shared a mutual respect for pushing personal limits. But Erica senses that Charlotte may have grown wary of just how far young athletes here were being pushed - and for what cost.

Inside, Erica steels herself. She isn’t here to pass judgment but to understand. She wants to know what drove Debbie to that hospital bed and whether someone - perhaps unwittingly, or through a misguided sense of ambition - might have helped her get there.



As Erica walks through the corridor toward Charlotte’s office, she’s met with row upon row of gleaming display cases. Behind each pane of glass, medals, trophies, certificates, and photos are crammed in, a testament to the athletic feats of Canmore’s students. The polished awards reflect the single-minded focus of this place, each case a proud proclamation of achievement. It’s an atmosphere almost palpable - an air of ambition, even pressure - that seems to saturate the walls.

Turning into the main administration office, Erica raps on the doorframe.

"Can I help you?" the secretary, a friendly woman with a practiced smile, asks.

"Yes, I’m Erica Sinclair, here to see Mrs. West - Coach West." Erica says, returning the woman’s smile with a polite nod.

The secretary picks up her phone, pressing a button. "Let me check if she’s in her office or if she’s out on the track. One moment, please."

After a few rings, it’s clear no one is picking up. The secretary sets the receiver down and offers Erica an apologetic look. “She’s probably on the track right now. Just head out the front door, go around this building, and you’ll see it - can’t miss it.”

"Thank you." Erica replies and steps back outside, rounding the administration building as instructed. As she turns the corner, the athletic complex comes into full view: gymnasiums, swimming halls and front and center – the track.

The track is a high-end facility, with rubberized lanes colored a sharp crimson against the vibrant green of the field. Students are out on the lanes, stretching, doing practice sprints, some with weighted cuffs around their wrists or ankles, others in pairs, calling out rhythms as they work through drills. They move with a synchronicity that’s almost mesmerizing, their forms honed and precise.

Though athletics wasn’t the path she chose, Erica can’t help but admire the sheer dedication it takes to train like this. But there’s something else, too - a certain tension. These aren’t just casual athletes; they’re young people striving for perfection under relentless pressure, working toward Olympic dreams, national titles, the weight of ambition heavy on their shoulders.

Scanning the field, Erica spots Charlotte near the starting blocks, her tall frame and confident stance unmistakable and marked by the black track suit all coaches and trainers seem to wear at Canmore.
She’s in conversation with a lanky, athletic young woman, possibly one of the star runners, whose face is set with intense focus as she listens to the coach’s every word.

Erica pauses a moment, taking it all in - the organized precision, the dedication, and the unique stress that comes with athletic pursuit. She prepares herself, ready to step into this world of split-second decisions and high stakes, knowing that her work here might disrupt more than just a few races. After all, the truth - whatever it is - doesn’t always run in neat, straight lines.


The tension of the track is palpable as Erica makes her way toward Charlotte, whose commanding stance radiates intensity. Charlotte’s focus is locked on that lanky, wide-eyed girl in front of her, who is barely holding back a flinch under Charlotte's piercing gaze. Charlotte’s voice is steady, controlled, and low enough that only Erica, standing just a few feet away, can catch fragments of her words: “Priorities straight…can’t afford to lose focus.” The girl, her face pale and tense, nods hastily, swallowing hard as she whispers, “Yes, ma’am.” Without another word, she spins around and sprints across the field, her strides sharp and filled with the urgency of someone desperate to make up for lost ground.

“You’ve really got her on her toes.” Erica remarks, arms crossed as she watches the girl streak across the track.

Charlotte doesn’t turn immediately, but when she does, a wry smirk quirks at the corner of her mouth. “Alyssa needs to get her priorities straight.” she says, her voice carrying a calm but unyielding authority. “If she wants to compete on an international level, she can’t afford distractions. Like that boyfriend of hers.”

Erica nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “That’s the Charlotte I remember.” she thinks - driven, unflinching, no-nonsense, but she wonders if these were actually her words or those of Alyssa Dane’s father. “I see.” she replies. “Always focused, aren’t you?”

Charlotte brushes off the comment. “Did you talk to Debbie? I let her know you’d be stopping by.”

“I did.” Erica replies. “I met with her and her parents.” She reaches into her blazer’s inside pocket and pulls out a neatly folded paper. Unfolding it, she holds out the lab report, the word “Moducain” highlighted in glaring neon yellow. “Her father gave me this.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrow as they lock onto the printout, her jaw setting. “I already told you.” she says, her voice low and fierce, “Debbie would never touch that stuff. She doesn’t need it.”

Erica takes a measured breath. “And yet, Charlotte,” she says softly, “her bloodwork says she did. Whether she took it willingly or not…that’s still an open question. But the evidence is here. That drug was in her system when they tested her and overdosed on top of that. Given the pressure she’s under, the strain of the training…it could easily explain why she collapsed.”

Charlotte’s eyes blaze with a spark of defiance, though there’s a flicker of something softer - an unease she doesn’t quite mask. “What are you suggesting?” she asks, her tone clipped, defensive.

“Right now, I’m not suggesting anything.” Erica replies, her voice steady. “But I have to agree with you: when I spoke to her, Debbie didn’t seem like someone who’d take a shortcut. She’s feeling the strain, yes, and she’s keenly aware of the competition, especially from her teammate. But maybe…” she pauses, choosing her words carefully, “…maybe the pressure got to her. Whether she sought a way out or someone else…nudged her, we don’t know. Yet.”

Charlotte steps back, her gaze flicking momentarily to the lanky girl on the track. Her eyes harden again, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. “For sure they’re under pressure, Erica. But they have to be. The Olympic screenings are close, and all over the country, young athletes are preparing, sacrificing, pushing. They know what it takes. But here at Canmore they do it within the limits.” She catches herself, her lips pressing together. “Within the rules.” she adds, her voice barely above a whisper.

Erica nods, her face impassive. “Of course.”

Her gaze drifts to the girl doing the suicide sprints across the field and back, each stride sharp, almost torturing. The intensity feels more like punishment than exercise, a reminder of what’s at stake in this relentless pursuit of excellence. Erica keeps her tone even, but there’s a softness in her eyes as she speaks.
“All I’m saying is that maybe…Debbie wasn’t coping with the pressure. And if someone else took advantage of that, it wouldn’t be the first time someone misjudged the line between challenge and exploitation. But proving someone tampered with her supplements…” she shakes her head. “Without evidence, witnesses or a confession, it’s nearly impossible.”

Charlotte’s shoulders tense, and her gaze flickers back to Erica, unspoken questions in her eyes.

Erica lowers her voice. “I’m going to stay on campus for a while, see what I can find out. Because, Charlotte… the road ahead for Debbie’s athletic career? That door might be closing. And I don’t think she fully understands that yet.”

[Jenny_S]

Erica turns to leave for the hospital again, but pauses mid-step as she sees a tall, imposing man who is walking with a slight limp making his way toward Charlotte. Alyssa, the lanky girl from the track, trails behind him. Instantly, Erica notices the shift in Charlotte’s posture - the steely coach who had just commanded her athletes with ease now stands slightly straighter, her shoulders almost defensive, as if bracing for the encounter.

"Miss Sinclair." Charlotte says with a sudden formality, her voice measured but with an edge of tension, "this is Mr. Edward Dane. Alyssa's father." Her lips thin as she adds, "Mr. Dane, this is Erica Sinclair. She’s looking into how we might get Debbie Stanton back into the game."

Erica feels Mr. Dane’s sharp gaze sweep over her, assessing and cool. His grip on his cane is firm, as if it’s a weapon as much as a support. He scoffs, cutting a dismissive glance at Charlotte.

“That little junkie is out of any game now.” he says with a cold finality, voice tinged with disdain. “You have wasted enough time and energy on her.”
Erica’s gaze shifts to Alyssa, who flinches, her eyes darting to her father, then to Charlotte, and finally to Erica, her cheeks flushing. It’s a fleeting look, but Erica senses there’s something more here. Alyssa might be Debbie’s rival, but she seems unsettled by her father’s harsh words. There’s empathy there, a trace of unease.

Dane doesn’t notice his daughter’s reaction. He shifts his attention back to Charlotte, his tone softening but his words no less pointed. “That's actually why I'm here, Coach.” he says. “Now that you have only one real candidate for the Olympics on your roster, I expect you to devote your time exclusively to Alyssa.” He pauses, letting the implication settle heavily between them. “As you know, I’m still willing to fund those new facilities if she makes the Olympic selection in two weeks.”

Charlotte holds her composure, though Erica notices a flicker of unease cross her face. She nods, but her gaze doesn’t meet Dane’s directly. Erica, watching this silent power play, feels the prickling heat of disdain stir in her chest. It’s one thing to push for athletic excellence, but this – this thinly disguised threat - reveals just how transactional Dane’s intentions really are.

“Mr. Dane, Alyssa.” Erica finally says, her tone firm but polite. She lets a slight smile play at her lips, not warm, but professionally courteous. “I’ll leave you all to it, but I’m sure we’ll speak again soon.”

Dane’s eyes narrow, as if trying to read the challenge behind Erica’s words. But Erica keeps her expression neutral, refusing to rise to his bait. Alyssa meets her gaze for a moment, and Erica nods at her, feeling a flicker of sympathy for the girl.

Erica turns and heads back toward her car, but as she walks, her decision solidifies. Edward Dane may be used to buying loyalty and pushing people out of his way, but he hasn’t met Erica Sinclair before. The feeling of purpose deepens as she steps into the car. She’s not just looking into this for Debbie’s sake anymore - she’s going to make sure Edward Dane learns where he can stick his manipulative tactics.




Erica steps into the quiet hallway of Seaview Medical Center again, feeling the faint hum of hospital machinery and the subtle antiseptic scent that clings to the air. She approaches the nurses’ station, glancing at her watch before a doctor - a tall, clean-cut man in his forties - meets her gaze.

"Dr. Myers?" she asks, recalling the name she read on the printout with Debbie's bloodwork.

“Yes.” he says, offering a firm nod. “What can I do for you?“

“My name's Erica Sinclair.“ She passes him her business card. „I’d like to understand the effects of Moducain, specifically in the context of what happened to Debbie Stanton.”

The doctor leads her to a quiet corner, his expression serious. “Moducain is a stimulant, Miss Sinclair - powerful and dangerous when misused. Think of it as similar to drugs like cocaine or ecstasy, but more targeted toward enhancing focus and boosting confidence. For a short time, it can sharpen an athlete’s focus and elevate their physical performance, temporarily improving stamina by increasing blood pressure and heart rate.”

Erica’s mind races, trying to piece together how this fits in with what Debbie described as pressure on all sides. “What does this combination actually do to the body?”

“Well,” Dr. Myers continues, “it pushes the athlete’s body into overdrive, but there’s a dark side. Moducain also increases core temperature, suppresses fatigue and thirst responses. In intense physical conditions - like what Debbie was putting herself through - the risks are severe. Dehydration can set in rapidly, and combined with high heart rate, the body is in danger of at least a full collapse, the worst case scenario can be a stroke or a heart attack.” His voice drops slightly, “In Debbie’s case, we’re lucky she was in peak physical shape. That likely saved her life.”

Erica nods, feeling her resolve deepen. Debbie had been playing with fire, knowingly or not. And someone had either helped her light the match or handed her the kindling.

“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate the explanation.” She offers a curt handshake, feeling a deep unease settle over her.

She heads to Debbie’s room, her heels echoing down the hallway. When she enters, she finds Debbie propped up in bed, her skin still pale, a few IV lines running to her arms. Her parents, Bill and Elisabeth, are nearby, their expressions cautious but relieved.

Debbie offers a faint smile. “Hey, Miss Sinclair.” she says, her voice a little stronger than before. “They say I should be discharged tomorrow.”

Erica approaches the bed, her gaze lingering on the IVs. “That’s great news. You gave everyone a scare.” she says, keeping her tone light, though her mind is far from it. Knowing now just how close this girl came to a fatal breakdown is hard to shake.

Elisabeth interjects, her voice a strained mixture of worry and protectiveness. “The doctor said she just needs a few more hours to stabilize her vitals. They’re keeping her hydrated and monitoring her heart.”

Erica nods, taking in the relieved exhaustion on her parents’ faces. She shifts her attention back to Debbie, who looks up at her, brow furrowing slightly as if sensing the gravity beneath Erica’s calm exterior.

“Debbie.” Erica begins gently, “Moducain is dangerous. I mean, really dangerous. Dr. Myers explained it to me - it can overheat your body, dehydrate you, and push your heart past its limits. The training you’re doing, on top of that? It’s a serious risk.”

Debbie looks down, chewing on her lip, avoiding her parents’ eyes. “I didn’t know… I mean, I’d heard of stuff that helps you perform, but I never thought…”

Her voice trails off, and Erica catches a glance from her parents, who look heartbroken but determined. She senses their silent question: “How did it come to this?”

Taking a steadying breath, Erica kneels slightly, putting herself more at eye level with Debbie. “Look, you don’t have to answer everything right now. But I need you to know how close you came to real danger. And if anyone gave you that drug without explaining it - or if anyone pushed you to take it - that’s something we need to get to the bottom of.”

Debbie’s eyes grow misty, and for a second Erica sees the young, vulnerable girl beneath the athlete’s bravado. “I swear, Miss Sinclair, I didn’t ask for it. I don’t even know how it… got into my system. I’d never take something like that on my own.”

Her father rests a hand on her shoulder, a silent show of support, and Elisabeth’s eyes fill with unspoken worry. Erica rises, her resolve tightening into a near-unbreakable line of intent. She glances at them all, seeing both the relief that Debbie will recover and the shadow of everything they’re about to face.
“I know.” she says.

Erica pulls a chair close to Debbie’s bed, settling in with a determined but gentle look. “Debbie,” she begins, “I’d like to talk about what happened the day before yesterday. You up for that?”

Debbie hesitates, glancing at her parents, who nod encouragingly. “Yeah… yeah, that’s fine.”

Erica leans in, her tone soft but direct. “Remember, I’m not here to judge or make assumptions. All that matters is getting to the truth - to find out what really happened. So, let’s put first things first: walk me through your day. Just the way you remember it.”

Debbie nods, drawing in a breath. “I got up early, around five-thirty. Same routine as always: took a shower, brushed my teeth, then went for my first protein shake.”

Her mother relaxes a bit, but Erica catches the lingering worry in Elisabeth’s eyes as Debbie speaks. Erica nods encouragingly, jotting down the basics, noting Debbie’s steady recollection of her morning rituals. So far, everything seemed ordinary.

“After that,” Debbie continues, “I headed out to the track. I like to get there before the others. I did my warm-up routine, the usual - some stretches, slow laps to loosen up my muscles. Then I took my electrolytes.”

Erica’s brows lift slightly. “You brought them with you?”

“No.” Debbie shakes her head. “They are provided by the Department. They always have everything ready on the table for us - electrolyte drinks, water, protein shakes for after training.”

Erica makes a mental note, marking this as a possible point of vulnerability. She glances at Bill Stanton, who’s listening intently, his arms crossed and brow furrowed. This was perhaps the first real opening Erica had heard.

“So then what happened?” she prompts.

Debbie’s gaze drifts, reliving the memory. “I don’t know what it was, but I felt… amazing. I mean, I always feel good after warming up, but this was different. I was so switched on, like I could break the sound barrier if I tried.”

Erica watches Debbie carefully, feeling the tension creep through her own shoulders. She can sense the quiet thrill in Debbie’s voice as she recalls that surge of energy, almost euphoric in its intensity. From what she’s learned, these could all be early effects of the Moducain - heightened focus, a strong sense of confidence.

“I’ve never run like that before.” Debbie continues, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I felt so strong, so…powerful. I could see the track so clearly. I just kept going, pushing harder. I didn’t even care that I was drenched in sweat.” Her gaze drops. “During the breaks, they gave me more electrolytes to drink. They said it’d help me stay hydrated.”

Elisabeth and Bill glance at each other, visibly tense, their worry deepening as Debbie recounts her experience.

“Did you eat much that day?” Erica asks gently.

Debbie shakes her head. “No, not really. I didn’t feel hungry at all. I was just… too hyped up. All I wanted was to keep running, keep pushing faster and harder. I did have my lunch shake, though, but that was it.”

She pauses, her face creasing with a hint of confusion. “But after that, I started feeling… weird. It was like the ground was tilting under me. I’d see double, and then… everything started spinning. I heard this… this ringing in my ears, like everything around me was muffled. I felt this pressure, right here.” She gestures to her ears. “And then, I don’t remember anything else.”

Her parents remain silent, a deep sadness settling over them as Debbie’s last words hang in the air. Erica lets a pause linger, absorbing the weight of Debbie’s memory.

“You blacked out.” Erica says gently.

Debbie nods, and a hint of fear flickers in her eyes. “Yeah. I blacked out.”

Erica inhales deeply, reality sinking in - Debbie had been completely in the dark about what was happening to her body. Whoever had set this up had been calculating, placing Debbie in a state where she might never have realized what had caused her collapse. And from what Erica understood about Moducain, Debbie was incredibly lucky that it hadn’t been worse.

“Thank you, Debbie.” Erica says softly. “This helps, more than you know.”

Bill, silent until now, clears his throat. “So…what does all this mean? Does this sound like…sabotage?”

Erica meets his gaze, her own resolve hardening. “I don’t want to jump to any conclusions just yet, but we’ll get to the bottom of it. Debbie’s account - what she just told us - is crucial.”

Debbie’s parents nod, the worry not leaving their faces, but Erica senses a slight shift - a flicker of hope, a sense that maybe they could make sense of this mess and clear Debbie’s name. As Erica stands to leave, a renewed commitment is sharpening her thoughts. There’s no way she’s letting this drop.

The hospital walls feel stifling as Erica looks back at Debbie, offering one last encouraging nod before heading down the hallway. The girl's got spirit - there's no doubt about that.
A pattern is forming in her mind, each piece clicking into place with a soft inevitability. She has to get a look at the logistics.

[LunaDog]

As they say 'the plot thickens.' The first possible hints that Edward Dane might be behind all of this?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Dane seems to be able to intimidate even Charlotte West.

[Jenny_S]

With most of the commuters already at work, the drive back to campus is brisk.
The air feels heavy when she steps out of her car, eyes narrowing as she surveys the campus from afar.
The place is a machine, sleek and efficient, churning out athletes who pour every ounce of themselves into an uncertain future. Her heels sink slightly into the gravel as she heads toward the track, scratching the leather as she walks. “Next time, sneakers.” she mutters, looking down. The whole setup here feels manufactured, calculated to extract every last bit of potential from each student.

At the track, it’s a hive of activity. Students, lean and powerful, push their bodies to the limit in the cool fall weather. The air is thick with the tang of sweat and the thud of feet on rubberized surfaces, echoing across the field. She walks along a line of tables loaded with bottles - water, supplements, electrolytes - each labeled with a student’s name and the content down to the last milligram. A few athletes grab their labeled drinks without a second thought, chugging down fluids under the watchful eyes of coaches and therapists. Erica slows, snapping a few quick shots of the setup on her phone, noting the meticulous organization, the almost military precision.
If the Athletic Department has been handling and personalizing every drink Debbie and her teammates consume, there’s a slim chance that someone slipped Moducain into her routine without her knowing.

At the edge of the row, a department staffer works diligently, replacing empty bottles with fresh ones from a cooler, throwing empties into a plastic bag. Erica approaches him, voice calm and casual. “Hi there. Pretty impressive system you have here. Looks like every student gets their own custom blend?”

The man glances up, surprised. People rarely stop to chat with him, let alone ask questions. He grins, his tone relaxed. “Yep, each kid’s got their own mix - some need more magnesium, some need more protein, a little extra glucose for others. You name it, we’ve got it tailored. They drink what they need, when they need it.”

Erica nods, intrigued. “Who actually puts these drinks together?”

He chuckles, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Hell’s kitchen, that’s what I call it! But really, it’s outsourced to a supplier over in Jersey. Nutrisports. They do all the mixing for us.”

Nutrisports. Erica makes a mental note, jotting it down as she snaps a discreet photo of their logo stamped on the bottles. “Interesting. So how often do you pick the supplements up in Jersey?”

“They deliver straight from their lab. Used to be once a week, but they switched to daily deliveries not long ago.” he says, shrugging. “They drop off fresh bottles overnight and take the empties back to clean and refill. Keeps it all streamlined and makes it easy for us. We save a lot of storage space that way and all we do is to put the drinks out for the kids.”

Erica’s mind races, connecting the dots. There’s a rhythm to this, a steady influx of fuel for these athletes, each bottle with a name and a purpose.
As she picks up a fresh bottle she takes a close look at the seal, a simple sticker which can – in all reality – easily be peeled off and stuck back on.
If someone tampered with Debbie’s supplements, this delivery routine would be the ideal opportunity. The thought of that untraceable, seamless system leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She forces a polite smile, feeling the weight of new possibilities settling on her shoulders.

“Well, I won’t keep you. Thanks for filling me in.” she says, turning to leave, her heart thudding slightly faster. This campus runs on precision and control - both assets for an elite athlete. But it only takes one small crack in the system to bring it all down.




Erica heads toward the admin building, her thoughts already focused on her upcoming conversation with Charlotte. Just as she rounds a corner, she almost collides with Alyssa. This time, the girl isn’t in her running gear; she’s dressed in carefully coordinated designer clothes with gold jewelry that glints in the sunlight. The watch on her wrist and the leather handbag over her shoulder look like the kind of items you only find in upscale stores.

Erica gives her a warm, disarming smile. “I see you survived Coach West’s torture training.”

Alyssa seems caught off guard as she probably was lost in thought. She straightens, her eyes flicking briefly to Erica before she replies, “Yes, obviously.” She tries to sidestep, but Erica moves into her way with a calm, measured look.

“I’d like to talk to you for a minute, Alyssa.”

Alyssa glances around, her guarded expression tightening. “My father says I don’t have to talk to you.”

Erica raises an eyebrow, noting the tension around Alyssa’s mouth, the way her hand tightens on her handbag strap. “Interesting.” Erica thinks. “Whatever’s going on with her father, it’s got her nerves raw.” But she keeps her tone light, undemanding.

“Of course, you don’t have to. But why wouldn’t you? Is there something you’re afraid of?”

Alyssa’s face flushes, but she answers evenly. “No. Nothing.”

“Great.” Erica says, nodding. “How’s your training coming along? Coach West mentioned you’re testing for the Olympics. That’s a huge accomplishment.”

Alyssa’s eyes flicker, and she nods. “Yes…yes, it is.”

Erica leans in just slightly, her voice soft but serious. “You wouldn’t happen to know how Debbie ended up with Moducain in her system, would you? That’s a dangerous stimulant - an overdose could have killed her.” She watches Alyssa carefully, catching a flash of something in the girl’s eyes - a split-second reaction, almost like fear.

Debbie’s name brings a slight twitch to Alyssa’s face. Then, suddenly, her voice rises, raw and defensive. “Debbie doesn’t need substances! She doesn’t need them, none of us needs them!”

The words hang in the air, echoing between them, and Erica senses the intensity of Alyssa’s denial - the desperation, the fear, even guilt, barely concealed behind her words. A quick glance at her hand shows it’s trembling slightly, her knuckles white around her bag’s strap.

“That’s what Coach West told me too.” Erica’s voice remains calm, almost gentle, though her curiosity sharpens. “Yet the drug was found in Debbie’s blood.” She lays a hand on Alyssa’s forearm, feeling the girl’s tension. “Listen, Alyssa: if there’s anything you want to tell me about what happened, you can reach out anytime.” She slips her business card into Alyssa’s hand. “All right?”

Alyssa stares at the card, her mouth pressed into a thin line, but Erica notices the slightest softening in her stance - a brief flicker of conflict in her eyes. The girl’s face is guarded, but beneath the carefully controlled exterior, there’s something else. Anger, maybe; fear for certain. And, Erica suspects, something else Alyssa hasn’t quite come to terms with herself.

Erica steps back, giving Alyssa space. “I’ll see you around.” she says.

With that, she leaves, but as she heads for the admin building, her mind spins with new suspicions. “If Alyssa is hiding something, she’s hiding it out of more than just self-preservation. That fear - it’s too real.” Erica can almost feel Edward Dane’s shadow looming over his daughter, and she’s more determined than ever to unravel just how far his influence over her extends - and whether it’s at the heart of what happened to Debbie.



Erica steps into the Athletic Department’s main building, noting the showcases full of trophies, medals, and framed photos along the walls - each a silent testament to the students’ achievements, now feeling almost ironic in light of Debbie’s situation. Without waiting for the secretaries’ acknowledgment, she heads straight down the hallway to Charlotte’s office. She knocks, and at the muffled “Yes!” from inside, she opens the door.

“Hey!” Erica greets, stepping inside. Charlotte is leaning forward, her head propped on her hands, a deep blush coloring her cheeks. She looks up with a grimace.

“I hope you have better news than I do.” Charlotte says, her voice flat.

Erica raises an eyebrow as she sinks into the visitor’s chair. “Debbie might get discharged from the hospital tomorrow. Other than that: I might have a lead, but it’s thin right now. What happened at your end?”

Charlotte sighs, gesturing toward her phone. “Just got off with the National Olympic Screening Board. Had to tell them about Debbie’s bloodwork.” She pauses, biting her lip. “They won’t let her test. She’s out. Game over.”

Erica nods, letting the news sink in. It’s what she’d feared - and now it’s undeniable. Debbie’s disqualification means the end of her Olympic aspirations. The Olympic Screening Board isn’t interested in nuance or second chances, not for athletes marked by scandal. In another four years, Debbie will be past her prime for Olympic trials. Sponsors and fans want unblemished athletes. She realizes that for Debbie, the future she’s worked toward for years is crumbling, and it’s unlikely anyone will help her piece it back together. Erica knows she’ll have to be the one to help Debbie face that hard truth - and sooner rather than later.

“Debbie’s going to take this hard.” Erica says quietly. Her mind drifts to Debbie’s parents, who have poured so much into their daughter’s training, only to watch it all turn to dust. For a young athlete like Debbie, so focused on this singular dream, the prospect of starting over is daunting - especially with a tarnished record.

Charlotte leans back in her chair, rubbing her temples. “Yeah.” she replies. “I don’t know how to tell her…Edward Dane will be doing cartwheels for joy, though. And Chancellor Thomas? He’ll just want the whole thing buried, nice and tidy.”

Erica’s voice turns sharp. “Glad to see everyone’s concerned about Debbie.”

Charlotte stiffens, her jaw tightening. “You know I care. But this goes beyond just her.” She stops herself, then mutters, “Sorry, Erica. It’s been a day.”

Erica lets it slide, but the tension lingers in the room. “Right. I’ll break the news to Debbie and her parents and you tell me about Nutrisports. They’re the ones supplying supplements to your athletes, right?”

Charlotte looks wary. “About a year ago, Edward Dane suggested we stop wasting time issuing supplements to the students and to outsource logistics so we would have more time to dedicate to the athletes. The Chancellor and the board were happy to follow his advice and Dane’s company won the contract. They mix personalized supplements, shakes, electrolytes - whatever the athletes need. Makes it easy for us. No pills or tablets to keep track of; we just tell Nutrisports what each kid needs, and they take care of it.”