“Historical data,” I said.
Miguel had no idea what that meant.
“Right,” he replied.
After the call, Amy lowered her voice.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Not the automatic answer.”
The highway moved past the window in gray lines.
“I know it’s necessary.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I liked coaching you.”
“You still helped me become a runner.”
“Past tense?”
“Continuing process.”
“You’re a runner.”
The label stripped the humor from her face. She had not claimed it without qualification. Not yet.
“I finished a half marathon,” she said.
“That’s evidence.”
“Numbers are honest.”
“Sometimes.”
She rested her head against me again.
“You are still allowed to help,” she said. “Just not control.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“It should worry us.”
I smiled. The loss remained. So did the relief. Without coaching authority, I could want her without disguising it as professional attention. That was terrifying in a better way.
Our first real date began at seven Sunday evening. Amy arrived at the restaurant four minutes early. I arrived twelve minutes early and waited around the corner so she would not know. This was not manipulation. It was maintaining my reputation. The restaurant was a small neighborhood place with plants hanging from the ceiling and candles on the tables. No sponsor logos. No challenge cameras. No Blake.
Amy wore a dark green dress. I had seen her in dresses. The engagement party video. The launch event. This one was different because she had chosen it for me. That thought made my mouth dry. She stopped beside the table.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m on a real date. I’m allowed.”
The caution in her face eased.
