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“Occupational hazard.”

“Of coaching cross-country?”

“You people scatter.”

I laughed.

He did too, briefly. “I spend six afternoons a week voluntarily timing teenagers running in circles.”

“That sounds like a war crime.”

“I’ve been looking for the right way to describe it. I’ll have to remember that.”

I laughed, but a few seconds later his attention drifted past me again. That time I watched him. Not startled. Assessing.

Then whatever he saw satisfied him.

I started toward the track.

“Piper.”

I turned.

“You going to the game tonight?” he asked.

“Apparently attendance is compulsory if you share DNA, property lines or emotional baggage with the football team.”

His mouth moved. “That a yes?”

“Yes.”

“You riding with the Bishops?”

“No. Mom and Marion are going together. Dad and Riot are meeting us there.”

Something eased in his face so slightly I might not have noticed if I hadn’t already been looking.

“Good.”

I stared at him. “Why is that good?”

“It means I’m less likely to find out Monday that you decided to run there instead.”

“It’s three miles.”

“Piper.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Good.”

I gave him my middle finger as I turned away.

“Two miles,” he called after me.

I dropped the finger immediately.

“Abuse of power.”