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But as I made my way over the field, my heart started to race. All because I could see Max striding it out. I hesitated, wondering if I should forego my run and go straight to the showers, but the thought of disrupting my whole training schedule made me go forward.
I dropped my bag on the edge of the track to wait until he had completed his lap before moving in behind him. His pace was much faster than I intended going and I didn’t want to hinder him.
But as he came down the straight, he slowed considerably, to almost walking pace. I gave a weak wave when it was apparent he was waiting for me to join him.
A surge of butterflies came from nowhere, sending me into a quivering mess. A quivering mute mess, it seemed.
“Hi,” Max said, with a smile that made me melt.
Top tennis player and athlete? Duh! I could barely draw a breath, let alone say a word.
“You’re running today?” He was making an attempt to stay moving by running on the spot.
I nodded, taking a few steps to fall in beside him. At least my legs could work. I kept up with the pace he set, unable to fathom why my mouth refused to work, or why my heart was about to break through my entire rib cage. My only consolation was that Max was focused on his running, glancing at his watch regularly as if to check his speed.
After some time, he started to slow. “How far are you going?”
“Uh, last one?” I said, though I’d been in a zone, not counting laps, instead preoccupied by what I could say to him. Should I mention the team bonding, kayaking, tennis? Why was it so hard to talk to him when I’d conversed so easily with Tenn and the entire football team, boys I’d never spoken to before. No problem at all talking about ab exercises and football, and yet I couldn’t string together a meaningful sentence.
With about thirty yards to the finish line, Max looked across to me and accelerated at a rate that left me in his dust. I didn’t mind; I got a good view of his shapely calves. Gah, why was I so obsessed with Max’s legs!
“Ah! You always make me push myself!” He leaned forward, sucking in oxygen, looking pleased as he showed me his lap times.
“Awesome.” One word was all I could rasp out.
“That definitely deserves breakfast,” he said.
“I’ve still got to do sprints.” I strode over to my bag for my water bottle to quench my thirst.
“You want me to time you?”
His quick reply caught me off guard and sent me into a panic. “Uh, I’m okay. I don’t need help.” The faint flicker of deflation in his eyes stabbed at my heart, but I truly didn’t need a distraction when I was doing my sprint repeats—I needed focus and clarity! I tossed my water bottle down and dashed off to the other side of the track.
With my sprints, I would run 50 meters, then on the half minute mark, go again. After three sprints, I wished I had my water with me, but Max was still hanging around, stuffing his jacket into his backpack. On my fifth repeat, I noticed he was finally walking away.
“Yay, thank goodness,” I said aloud to myself, hoping I could now fully concentrate.
Yet, who was I kidding?
My mind was in absolute chaos.
––––––––
Mrs. Stephens ran acircuit session in the gym that afternoon. There was nothing too strenuous about it—jumping jacks, burpees, lunges, push ups but some of the girls complained about it being too much. We went to the courts to do some hitting drills, then I was paired with Grace against Bianca and Addison. This was to be our doubles combinations for tomorrow. We stopped at 4-4, and Mrs. Stephens called us over to discuss the format, and as team captain, Bianca stepped up for a pep talk.
“Everyone’s got their uniform, right?” Bianca asked. We all nodded. Mrs. Stephens had distributed them last week, a yellow v-neck tank with a maroon trim and a maroon skirt. “To keep with Covington colors, make sure your cap or visor is matching,” she said with a haughty toss of her hair. “We want to look like we’re ateeeeam.” Yes, her eyes were locked on me.
I went into a spin. The headband I wore, and had worn for the past twelve months, was white with a logo on the front. It was my good luck charm. Tennis players were known to be superstitious, and that was me to a tee. Same breakfast, same flavor energy drink, same socks...same headband.
“Okay, Taylor?” Bianca’s smirk reeked of triumph. “Caps, visors,headbands,okay? That’s why we’re the Maroons.”
Seething inside, I nodded, my lips pressed tightly together. If I opened my mouth, I’d yell at her, say something totally inappropriate, something that would get my scholarship revoked. I couldn’t let that happen, not after the sacrifice Dad had made to get me here.
“Good.” Her smile was blatantly fake.
The girls drifted away and I was left rummaging in my bag, a heaviness in my chest. Was Bianca deliberately trying to sabotage my debut for the Covington Maroons? I removed my white headband, untying the knot and fingering it, before putting it back on and retying it. Mom had bought it for me, and yes it was sentimental.
I dashed to my car and drove to the Country Club. I hadn’t planned to, but I needed to let my emotions out. I would use the ball machine and hit a bunch of balls, release my anger, my frustration, my sadness.
