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And he followed.
Well, only for a moment, because his long strides soon joined alongside me. For half a lap we ran in silence, but in my mind a full blown conversation was taking place:You should say sorry for being such a jerk, there was no need to act so mean to him.
But the other voice in there was saying:They’re all the same. Covington kids are all the same. He’s no different. He knows you’re a scholarship kid. Keep your distance from him.
“Do you run every morning?”
“It’s my first time,” I replied briskly, annoyed at his attempt to engage. Didn’t he know that if you could talk while running, you weren’t going hard enough?
“How did your practice go yesterday?”
It took me a moment to find the breath to answer. “Fine.”
I’d had my second session with Clay, the club professional at the Country Club. He was young, a college graduate who had played Division 1. A foot injury had led him down the coaching path. Mom had done thorough research on him, deeming he would be able to take my game to greater heights. Which is why she’d pushed for me to come here—her dying wish, so to speak.
Clay’s coaching style was in alignment with Mom’s, and she’d said I would be in good hands. I liked that he didn’t want to immediately change anything. He thought my serve could be tweaked, but he also wanted me to work on mobility and strength. Apparently I needed to step it up from the home weights program Mom had devised, which was why I’d been so eager to get to the school gym this morning.
Yeah, well, my bad.
My curt response must’ve given Max the message because for the next three laps our footsteps and my own ragged breathing was the only sound I was hearing. His pace had quickened a bit, and somehow I had kept up. After the next lap, I was definitely on my last legs. As we crossed the start line, I slowed down to a walk.
“I’m done,” I gasped, pulling up to a complete stop.
He continued on, calling, “One more. You had a head start on me, remember.”
Doubled over, I found myself smiling, my watch telling me that those three laps had been some of my fastest times. Ha! Without specifically trying. Mom would be pleased! Or rather, Coach Clay would be.
With Max running hard at the far end of the track, I strolled over to my bag to grab my water bottle, my throat dry and parched from the early morning air. I drank thirstily, looking up to see him sprint the last few yards. Fluorescent green compression shorts peeked out from under his black running shorts, revealing his tanned, defined thighs, characteristic of top tennis players. After crossing the line, he paced, breathing hard as he pulled off his long-sleeved t-shirt, his tank top displaying a sculpted upper body. None of it looked like Covington’s regulation uniform.
Staring much?
A gulp of water dribbled down my chin.
“Oh man!” Max exclaimed as he tied his shirt around his waist and stretched his right quad, leaning on me for balance.
The unexpected touch to my shoulder literally took away my ability to breathe, sending me into a coughing fit.
“You okay?” Max asked, removing his hand from my shoulder, only to replace it with his other one as he pulled at his magnificent muscular left thigh.
I nodded vigorously, my face reddening at my inappropriate thought, but hoping he would think it was due to the coughing or the exercise. The proximity of his bare shoulder was enough to send me light headed, or it could have been the display of his dazzling smile flashing a set of perfect white teeth.
I think he was holding me up.
“You pushed me there!” he said. “We were seriously moving!”
My lashes fluttered in astonishment, my vocal cords seemingly on strike. I didn’t know why my body wasn’t behaving normally, didn’t know why I couldn’t utter a word, or my heart rate was manic, or a funny tingle vibrated through me.
I did know that when Max took his hand from me and leaned forward for a hamstring stretch that a chasm of epic proportions was created—a loss and longing that resonated as deep as the grief for my mother.
I froze—how absurd was that!
A lack of food must have lowered my blood sugar levels, leaving me in a state of near delirium. It was ludicrous to compare the loss of my mother with anything.
Nothing came close.
Nothing would ever come close.
“You’re shaking,” Max said, forgetting about his stretch and stepping closer. “Are you okay?” As his arm reached out toward me, I ducked down to retrieve my bag. Having him touch me again was not a good idea. And totally unnecessary.
