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Even if she never knew it.
It took three tries to get my car’s engine to turn over. The sound wheezing from under the hood made my teeth clench.
“It would be inconvenient as fuck if you were to die on me,” I told the car.
I let her warm up a little before putting her in drive, and breathed a sigh of relief that quickly turned into a yawn. The car complained the whole way, but she got me to the stadium’s backlot for staff and athletes.
I joined my teammates and Coach Braun in the locker room. The other guys were talking and joking around, heels planted on benches to stretch hamstrings. A couple of them gave me a nod as I entered. I nodded back.
After giving the team his standard pre-race pep talk, Coach Braun pulled me aside.
“We got some NCAA people here today, Wes,” he said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “It’s early in the season, but scholarship-wise, this could be good for you.”
I shifted out from under his hand, while a steady stream of cursing crossed my thoughts. “Really?” I asked. “Today?”
“I only just got wind of it. I don’t want to freak you out, but one of them is a liaison to the regional Olympic Committee.”
“But you don’t want to freak me out.”
“Accurate.”
His friendly smile faltered when I said nothing else, and he moved off.
Well, fuck me sideways.
My scholarship was done and I had no idea how I was going to pay for my final year at Amherst. Now, on the one fucking day I had a bowling ball of sleeplessness on my back, the NCAA people were here.
I gave my shoelaces a yank. “This should be fun.”
The sky was overcast and cold. I hopped up and down and did high, rapid goose-steps to get my blood flowing. Our opponents today were MIT, Wesleyan, and Boston College. Hayes, the Wesleyan runner who was dating Autumn’s roommate, spied me from his group and jerked his chin in greeting. I stared back until he rolled his eyes and turned away.
“Hey, baby boy! Yoo hoo!”
I whipped my head toward the stands. They were sparsely populated with diehard track fans willing to brave the cold for these last prelims.
And, apparently, my mother.
“You have got to be fucking
kidding me,” I muttered.
There she was, Miranda Turner, in a purple and white Amherst jersey, customized with W. Turner on the back. Her bleached blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail, showing her plated-gold hoop earrings.
She waved jazz hands at me, then pointed with both fingers at the man sitting beside her. I couldn’t see much from the field, but my initial impression was of a fifth-grade science teacher. Balding head, oversized glasses, mustache and a windbreaker.
Ma cupped her hands over her mouth. “This is Paul I was telling you about, remember?”
Her thick accent carried over the cool air. This is Pawl I was tellin’ yoo ‘bout, remembah?
I gave a quick wave and pretended that stretching my leaden muscles required all my concentration. No sign of Connor in the stands yet. Maybe he was too hungover to show. He didn’t owe it to me to come to the meets. But it would be the first one he had ever missed.
“That would be the perfect topper to this shit sandwich of a day.”
My first race was the 200-meter dash. Hayes lined up in the lane next to me.
“Got your mama here to see you, Turner? That’s so cute, I could puke. But I’ll leave the puking to you, after.”
I opened my mouth to shoot back a cutting insult but nothing came out. My brain was too sluggish and tired.
