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I have to win. There’s no other way.
“Ah, why isn’t it the great Seth Garcia,” I hear an annoying voice coming up from behind.
The man sidles close to me and I scowl when I meet a familiar green gaze, staring back at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Alex fucking Goode.
My number one rival. We’ve only met in one or two track meets. However, those short meetings were enough for me to make up my mind. I hate the guy. Absolutely loathe him with my entire heart and soul. Whenever, Alex fucking Goode is around, nothing good is about to happen. He has stolen from me at least two trophies, beating my running score by mere milliseconds and I swear the bastard does it on purpose.
He enjoys toying with me.
And he’s doing it now.
He winks at me and ups his pace. I up mine. I’m not going to let him get the best of me. I can run just as fast as him.
“I didn’t know you could run outside the states.”
My scowl darkens. “I can pretty much run anywhere I want, Goode.”
Alex chuckles, tossing back his head easily. His pace quickens and for a brief moment he’s ahead of me. Very brief. Super brief. I sidle up next to him, ignoring the burning in my lungs.
“Don’t tell me they’re letting you run in the Paris marathon,” he looks me up and down, his shrewd eyes narrowing on my Walmart shorts and shirt. The most expensive item I’m wearing are my Brooks, which I got discounted from my running store.
“Yes, they’re letting me run in the fucking marathon,” I gasp, increasing my pace and frowning when Alex easily matches it. “I’m a track star after all.”
Alex scoffs and I feel my blood boil, hating the very sound of his voice. My gaze rakes over him, scowling at his strong arms and his long legs. Of course it’s easy for him to run ahead of me. He has fucking longer legs.
“Track star?” Alex raises an eyebrow. “You?”
I grit my teeth. I’ve had enough of this stupid conversation. I pump my arms harder, trying to push myself ahead so I can finally be rid of him. Yet, the bastard still catches up. We both gasp, racing each other around the park, swerving past mothers pushing their baby carriages and people walking idly.
Every time he gets ahead I push harder. Every time I get ahead, it lasts only brief seconds and then he is right there, racing me around the corner. My lungs burn and I feel my muscles shake with the effort, but I’m not going to let this rich bastard beat me.
I’m not going to let anyone beat me.
Sweat drips down my face and into my eyes, blurring my vision. I shake my head. My hair is wet from the effort. The sun is shining higher and brighter. I don’t know how long we’ve been running like this, egging each other on, refusing to give up the fight, but I feel like I’m nearly to my breaking point.
Which pisses me off.
I glance at Alex. His cheeks are reddened. His eyes are focused ahead, his mouth slightly parted, sucking in air desperately. He must be close to giving up, I tell myself. He’s going to give up. I know it. I just need to keep-
I gasp, feeling a stitch form in my side and my body immediately slows. My hands fist, watching Alex leaving me behind. I wait for him to glance over his shoulder, wink at me, and maybe stick out his tongue. Instead, he turns back around, smiling wickedly while running back to me. His pace slows to a jog.
“I guess I should wish you good luck, Garcia,” he says.
My jaw clenches. My whole body shakes to keep myself from punching him in the nose.
“Break a leg,” he says, winking at me before quickly turning around and racing down the pavement.
I stifle the need to shout and scream. I don’t think I can run any longer. My whole body feels like I’ve been run over by a semi-truck. I stumble back towards the apartment, trying to contain my rage, trying to keep calm.
But I can’t.
Knowing Alex Goode is here, means that he will be racing in the marathon, as well. And the bastard is good. Too good, which is ironic given his last name. I knew this was going to be hard when I first signed up and promised coach the trophy.
I didn’t think it was going to be this hard.
I trudge into the apartment complex, my eyes glancing at the elevator for a moment. I’m so tired, but I know I need to work harder; get my body into the best shape it’s ever going to be. So, I take the stairs, dreading each and every step as I pull myself up by using the banister. I groan, feeling my muscles quiver and shake with the movement. I definitely pushed myself too hard.
