“That is unlikely,” I replied.
Dani smiled. Outside the office, she released a breath.
“We may still be disqualified and lose the cash prize,” I said.
“I know.” She leaned against the wall. “I wanted the shortcut. I also wanted to win.”
“So did I.”
No defensiveness. No shame. Just two competitive people confronting a consequence.
“What happens if they remove us?” she asked.
“We continue dating.”
The answer came easily, and Dani softened.
“Good.”
“And I continue marathon training.”
“Good.”
“And you continue your own mileage under Rose’s plan.”
Her fingers stopped on the page. The new plan had been created the previous afternoon. Rose called it an unstructured endurance return.
Dani called it “running with paperwork.”
It capped her week at thirty miles, required mandatory rest and strength work, and limited her long run to twelve miles, then fourteen only if the first four weeks remained fully disclosed and symptom-free. No race entry or race-specific build would be considered before reassessment. After every run, she also had to answer one question:
What was this run for?
Dani hated the question. That was why Rose assigned it.
“Good,” she said.
“What’s true?”
“Annoyingly good.”
I kissed her cheek. Public hallway. Routine affection. No camera. Blake opened the office door behind us.
“Still exhausting.”
Dani’s apartment looked different now that I was allowed to think of it as belonging to someone I was dating. The shoes near the door had become evidence rather than clutter: class trainers, city shoes, old running pairs with worn heels. The unopened mail was avoidance arranged by date. Lola’s dinosaur drawings claimed every refrigerator surface. I stood inside holding two grocery bags. Dani carried four.
“You gave me the light ones,” I said.
“You ran a half marathon six days ago.”
“I have recovered.”
“You complained about stairs yesterday.”
“I reported muscle soreness.”
“You called the second floor hostile.”
