My thighs are already screaming, and my lungs feel like I’ve inhaled something like barbed wire. “Of course, sir,” I manage, because apparently I have a death wish, and it wears a polite face.
“Good. I would hate to think the British Army sends me men who break after only four rounds.”
Only. Only four.
We’ve already run the length of the field and back with gear, then done push-ups in the snow until my arms stopped working, then some godawful Russian version of shuttle runs that involve more slipping and swearing than is decent. “Don’t worry, sir,” I say, shifting my weight, trying to find some feeling in my toes. “We brought plenty of disappointment to share.”
He laughs, a full, proper laugh that crinkles his face. I swear the temperature goes up by two degrees. “On your mark,” he calls out to the rest of the small mixed group — my six from the UK side, plus a handful of his from the Russian unit — “Last run, we make it count.”
Last run. Thank fucking Christ.
We line up. The snow under my boots has gone from crunchy to treacherous in places where we’ve churned it up, and I can feel the bruises already forming on my hip from the slip I took two rounds ago.
Niko takes his place a couple of metres ahead, just far enough to lead without making it look like he’s trying to show off — Although he doesn’t need to try. The man moves like a recruitment poster come to life.
“Three,” he calls. There’s a sharp jolt low in my chest. “Two.” I bend my knees, lean forward, and focus my eyes onthe makeshift marker at the far end. “One.” He whistles, sharp and clear, and we take off running.
The cold air knifes down my throat on the first inhale; it’s that particular burning ache you only get from sprinting in freezing temperatures. Footsteps pound around me, and someone swears as they nearly lose it on a patch of ice. I focus on the rhythm, drive, breathe, drive, breathe, ignore the screaming in your legs, ignore the way your lungs feel like they’re lined with glass.
Niko sets a pace that’s fast but not insane. It’s enough to push, not enough to break anyone outright. I hate that I can tell he’s holding back and could leave us all in the snowbank if he wanted to.
I also hate that I’m impressed.
By the halfway mark, my field of focus narrows, the pressure builds at my temples, the cold slices at any exposed skin, my cheeks are numb, and my nose is running.
Very attractive.
We hit the turning point — a battered metal drum half-buried in snow. Mason slips hard and lets out a barked, “Shit!” I adjust myself — half instinct, half habit — dropping my pace just enough to keep him in my peripheral, making sure I'm close enough so he doesn’t completely eat it. He catches himself and mutters a “thanks” between gasps.
I don’t answer; I don’t have the breath.
I tack my pace, so we cross the imaginary finish more or less together, and we stagger to a stop near the starting line, bent over double, hands on my knees, and everything shrinking down to sharp air and the taste of adrenaline.
Everything’s roaring so loud I barely hear Niko’s sharp clap. “Good,” he calls, stepping back into our orbit as if sprinting in Arctic conditions is a warm-up for him — which it probably is. “Very good. You didn’t die. This is always a nicesurprise.” There’s a thin, barely visible sheen of sweat at his temple, and his breathing is deeper but not ragged.
I want to hate him so much.
I collapse onto the low concrete lip of what used to be a flowerbed and is now just a rectangle of snow and dead stems. My legs vibrate with that hollow, exhausted tremor that says they might just stop supporting my weight if I ask anything else of them.
Niko walks over, unscrewing the lid of his battered metal water bottle. He takes a long drink, then gestures it toward me. “Here,” he says.
I reach up automatically, and our fingers brush as I take it. It’s barely a touch, skin on skin, for less than a second, but I have to make myself consciously keep hold of the bottle. My face feels suddenly exposed and raw against the cold, and the steadying rhythm I’d just found falls apart. My hand grips the bottle like it’s suddenly the most complicated object I’ve ever handled. “Thanks, sir.”
He nods and drops down onto the wall beside me. “You acclimate fast,” he says, a bit breathless. “Most men complain for weeks.”
“I’m complaining,” I say, and take a gulp of water. It’s lukewarm, metallic, and it tastes like fucking heaven. “I’m just doing it on the inside.”
He laughs again, softer this time. “Inside is safer,” he agrees. You have no idea, I think. We sit there for a minute, letting the others moan, stretch and shove each other around in that half-affectionate, half-violent way soldiers do when they’re exhausted.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Niko’s hand. He’s twisting something between his thumb and forefinger, a thin chain looped around his gloved fingers, catching the weaklight. There’s a small, dented silver ring on it. The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. “Are you married, sir?”
His smile is instant, surprised and fond all at once. He shakes his head. “Engaged.” Oh. It stings differently than I expected. Not like a punch, exactly, more like stepping off a kerb you thought was lower than it is and jarring your whole spine.
Engaged. Of course he is.
“She’s due in eight weeks,” he says it so casually I almost miss it. “The baby is impatient. The doctor thinks he won’t wait till full term.”
My brain misfires. “She... uh, your fiancée is pregnant?”
