Oh. My. Gods.
Page 49
“Wh-what?” I ask between gasps.
This is the last timed run of our training schedule before next Friday’s meet—and our last Saturday session—and I pushed myself as hard as I could go. The rest of our practices are going to be light days, so I can conserve energy for the big race.
“You didn’t believe me,” he taunts. “You thought I was full of sh—”
“What!” I demand. Hands on my hips, I’m pacing around the starting area trying to regain my breath.
“You dropped a full three minutes.”
I stop moving and my knees buckle beneath me. Bending at the waist, I brace my hands on my thighs to keep from falling to the ground.
“You’re kidding?” Then I wonder if maybe he is—just to keep me motivated. “You better not be kidding or I’ll beat you up as soon I can feel my legs again.”
“Three minutes,” he repeats. “Honest.”
He holds the stopwatch in front of my face. He isn’t joking—the digital numbers read a full three minutes faster than my previous best.
Forgetting my exhaustion, I rush Coach Lenny, flinging my arms around him. “You rock! I can’t believe it.”
“I hate to say I told you so, but—”
“You were right.” I start jumping in a circle around him. “The training actually worked.”
I’m making so much noise I don’t hear anyone walk up.
“Am I missing the celebration?” Griffin asks.
“Griffin,” I cry. “I dropped my time.”
Then, without thinking, I rush him and throw my arms around his neck. He gently wraps his arms around my waist. “Congratulations.”
“Oh,” I say when I realize I’m hugging Griffin, who hasn’t spoken to me in days. “Sorry.”
I release him and step away.
“I’m going back to my office to wrap up,” Coach Lenny says. “If I can trust you to do a solid cooldown, I’ll let you go early.”
“Absolutely,” I insist.
Griffin adds, “I’ll make sure she does it, Coach.”
Coach Lenny gives me a questioning look. I smile—knowing he wants to know if I’ll be okay with Griffin. Then, stopwatch and clipboard in hand, he heads back up to the school, calling over his shoulder, “We’re still practicing at eight A.M.”
“I wouldn’t dream of sleeping in.”
I still can’t believe it—a whole three minutes. With that time, I could win any race in the world.
“So, the training paid off,” Griffin says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I can’t believe it.”
We fall into a silence, even though I’m humming with enough energy to power the school for a month.
“What do you usually do for cooldown?”
“Oh,” I say, having totally forgotten my promise. “I walk eight laps.”
I’m not eager to leave Griffin—I really want to know why he showed up at my practice on a Saturday morning—but I can’t let Coach Lenny or myself down. I’m just about to tell him I have to go when he says, “I’ll walk with you.”
“Great.”
We walk to the stadium in silence, the question of why he’s here is killing me. I restrain myself. I wasn’t the one who didn’t speak for over a week for no reason.
It’s definitely up to him to explain himself.
As we emerge from the tunnel, he asks, “So, are you ready for the race on Friday?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
We make a full lap before he speaks again.
“Coach Lenny has been working you hard, huh?”
“Yes.”
If he’s not going to apologize, I’m not going to be more than barely civil. I realize he is a boy and predisposed to abhor admitting he’s wrong. He, however, has given me no reason to stick my neck out.
Besides, it’s not like he’s treated me with respect from day one.
I really shouldn’t even expect common courtesy—
“Nice morning.”
Okay, so he’s making an effort at small talk.
I’m not giving in. “Yup.”
That was apparently the extent of his chitchat repertoire because we keep walking in silence, with only the sound of our sneakers crunching on the cinder track. The sun is rising—must be late morning by now—and I’m all sweaty. With the sweat comes irritation.
Why did he come to my practice session? Or better yet, why did he drop off the face of the earth after the whole ankle incident last weekend? Or best of all, why did he act like such an ass when I first got to the Academy?
“Look,” I finally say two laps later, fed up. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing.”
One word responses are not going to cut it.
“Nothing? You show up here hours before normal people wake up on a Saturday, seem content to not say a word more than absolutely necessary, and I want to know why.”
Silence.
“Fine.” I turn off the track, heading for the stadium exit. “Finish my cooldown for me, will ya?”
“Wait,” he calls after me. “Phoebe, wait.”
I am halfway to the exit when he reaches me. His fingers close around my upper arm. I’m not sure if he would physically stop me if I keep going because I stop the second he touches me.
Wheeling around, I jab my index finger in his face. “I have better things to do than finish my session in tension-heavy silence, so unless you’re ready to spill about whatever you came here for, I’m going home.”
This is the last timed run of our training schedule before next Friday’s meet—and our last Saturday session—and I pushed myself as hard as I could go. The rest of our practices are going to be light days, so I can conserve energy for the big race.
“You didn’t believe me,” he taunts. “You thought I was full of sh—”
“What!” I demand. Hands on my hips, I’m pacing around the starting area trying to regain my breath.
“You dropped a full three minutes.”
I stop moving and my knees buckle beneath me. Bending at the waist, I brace my hands on my thighs to keep from falling to the ground.
“You’re kidding?” Then I wonder if maybe he is—just to keep me motivated. “You better not be kidding or I’ll beat you up as soon I can feel my legs again.”
“Three minutes,” he repeats. “Honest.”
He holds the stopwatch in front of my face. He isn’t joking—the digital numbers read a full three minutes faster than my previous best.
Forgetting my exhaustion, I rush Coach Lenny, flinging my arms around him. “You rock! I can’t believe it.”
“I hate to say I told you so, but—”
“You were right.” I start jumping in a circle around him. “The training actually worked.”
I’m making so much noise I don’t hear anyone walk up.
“Am I missing the celebration?” Griffin asks.
“Griffin,” I cry. “I dropped my time.”
Then, without thinking, I rush him and throw my arms around his neck. He gently wraps his arms around my waist. “Congratulations.”
“Oh,” I say when I realize I’m hugging Griffin, who hasn’t spoken to me in days. “Sorry.”
I release him and step away.
“I’m going back to my office to wrap up,” Coach Lenny says. “If I can trust you to do a solid cooldown, I’ll let you go early.”
“Absolutely,” I insist.
Griffin adds, “I’ll make sure she does it, Coach.”
Coach Lenny gives me a questioning look. I smile—knowing he wants to know if I’ll be okay with Griffin. Then, stopwatch and clipboard in hand, he heads back up to the school, calling over his shoulder, “We’re still practicing at eight A.M.”
“I wouldn’t dream of sleeping in.”
I still can’t believe it—a whole three minutes. With that time, I could win any race in the world.
“So, the training paid off,” Griffin says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I can’t believe it.”
We fall into a silence, even though I’m humming with enough energy to power the school for a month.
“What do you usually do for cooldown?”
“Oh,” I say, having totally forgotten my promise. “I walk eight laps.”
I’m not eager to leave Griffin—I really want to know why he showed up at my practice on a Saturday morning—but I can’t let Coach Lenny or myself down. I’m just about to tell him I have to go when he says, “I’ll walk with you.”
“Great.”
We walk to the stadium in silence, the question of why he’s here is killing me. I restrain myself. I wasn’t the one who didn’t speak for over a week for no reason.
It’s definitely up to him to explain himself.
As we emerge from the tunnel, he asks, “So, are you ready for the race on Friday?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
We make a full lap before he speaks again.
“Coach Lenny has been working you hard, huh?”
“Yes.”
If he’s not going to apologize, I’m not going to be more than barely civil. I realize he is a boy and predisposed to abhor admitting he’s wrong. He, however, has given me no reason to stick my neck out.
Besides, it’s not like he’s treated me with respect from day one.
I really shouldn’t even expect common courtesy—
“Nice morning.”
Okay, so he’s making an effort at small talk.
I’m not giving in. “Yup.”
That was apparently the extent of his chitchat repertoire because we keep walking in silence, with only the sound of our sneakers crunching on the cinder track. The sun is rising—must be late morning by now—and I’m all sweaty. With the sweat comes irritation.
Why did he come to my practice session? Or better yet, why did he drop off the face of the earth after the whole ankle incident last weekend? Or best of all, why did he act like such an ass when I first got to the Academy?
“Look,” I finally say two laps later, fed up. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing.”
One word responses are not going to cut it.
“Nothing? You show up here hours before normal people wake up on a Saturday, seem content to not say a word more than absolutely necessary, and I want to know why.”
Silence.
“Fine.” I turn off the track, heading for the stadium exit. “Finish my cooldown for me, will ya?”
“Wait,” he calls after me. “Phoebe, wait.”
I am halfway to the exit when he reaches me. His fingers close around my upper arm. I’m not sure if he would physically stop me if I keep going because I stop the second he touches me.
Wheeling around, I jab my index finger in his face. “I have better things to do than finish my session in tension-heavy silence, so unless you’re ready to spill about whatever you came here for, I’m going home.”
