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The Amherst coach huddled up his team. Weston stood at the periphery, hands on his hips, listening but not participating, when the team broke with a loud, “Gooo Mammoths!”
The first race was the 60-meter dash. Weston lined up with eight other racers, one of them an Amherst teammate. I found myself at the edge of the bleacher, biting my lower lip as the runners crouched at their places, working their fingers onto the track. In unison, they straightened their legs, hands still on the ground. The air tightened in that few seconds before the gun went off. When it did, the tension cracked. The runners took off and we cheered them on.
Nine men raced alongside each other, a mass of long legs. Weston pulled out in front immediately, and within seconds the race was over. His teammates clapped hands and swatted butts, but only one said something to Weston. He nodded in return, hands on hips and breathing hard but not heavily. I imagined if Connor were on the field, Weston would end up with a bear hug whether he wanted it or not.
The scoreboard lit up with names and times.
Turner, W. AMHERST ………………… 6.97
The second place finisher had a time of 7.14.
“Holy crap,” I said.
Connor beamed. “The world record is 6.39. My boy is fast.” He cupped his hands over his mouth again. “Way to go, T!”
Weston didn’t smile, but he didn’t give Connor the finger again either.
Connor turned to me. “Want something to drink? Lemonade?”
“That’d be great, thanks,” I said.
He leaned around. “Ruby?”
“Please.”
I reached for my little pocketbook. “Here, let me…”
“I got it,” he said. “Sit tight. We have some time before Wes races again.” He started to rise, then sat again. “Before I let one more second go by, I want to say you look really pretty today.”
A warmth spread through my chest. “Thank you.”
He stepped over us to the stairs and headed down, waving at someone to his right, pausing to talk to someone on the left. This part of the bleachers wasn’t even half full for these prelim races—maybe sixty spectators—but Connor seemed to know everyone.
Ruby leaned into me. “I need to tell you something, Auts.”
“What?”
“You are sooo pretty today.”
I shoved her off. “Shut up.”
“That boy has moves on top of moves.”
“You think it’s all an act?”
“No, but he’s like one of those track guys—he’s put in a lot of training, honing his craft.”
“He’s sweet,” I said.
“He’s definitely the most popular guy here.” Ruby jerked her chin down to the field. “Can’t say the same for Wes.”
Weston was off by himself again, sipping from a water cup and watching the next event—the 800-meters.
“So maybe he’s an introvert,” I said. “No crime in that.”
“Says the reformed introvert. By the way, I’m so proud of you. I mean, two social events in two weekends. That’s a record right there.”
I laughed and leaned back on my elbows, turning my face to the sun, trusting my layers of sunblock. A cool breeze took the edge off the heat. Connor came back with lemonade and popcorn. We talked easily, laughed a lot and overall, the day couldn’t have been more perfect.
