“Shut it.” She gives him a warning look and then turns back to me, her bright blue eyes steady and serious. “Because no girl should leave the Academy with a shattered soul.”
Without another word, she drops her gaze to her food and resumes eating. I look to Troy for answers, but his attention is fully on his plate, too.
Nicole’s warning doesn’t make any sense. Sure, he’s with the cheerleaders and the jocks-normally a formula for making a jerkbut when we met on the beach this morning he was totally nice. He even got me home in time to clean up before school.
Nicole must be mistaken.
Griffin Blake is a really nice guy.
“Welcome to the Academy track and cross-country team tryouts,”
Coach Zakinthos says. “Some of you are familiar with the process, but for new students I will explain.”
It may be my imagination, but I think he is talking only to me.
Everyone else seems bored by his little welcome speech.
We’re sitting on the soccer field at the center of a big stone stadium that’s on the far side of the campus from Damian’s house. It looks like a mini version of the Coliseum in Rome, complete with rows and rows of stone benches. We’ve already done group stretching and some stuff to get our blood flowing, like jumping jacks and push-ups-while Coach Z paces back and forth. His white and blue track pants whoosh with every step.
The apparel aside, he looks like he’s never seen the athletic side of a sporting event. I guess being part-god is no guarantee of physical perfection. Approaching ancient, over fifty at least, he has a beer gut to rival diehard football fans. A light jog looks like a stretch, let alone actually making it on a run.
Maybe he coaches discus.
“Everyone will select up to five events and will compete in those events for a position on the team. The top three finishers in each will automatically earn a slot, but the final roster rests at the coaches’ discretion. In distance running, there’s just one race. Six boys and six girls qualify. Any questions so far?”
He looks right at me. There are at least sixty kids sitting on the field, but his question is only for me. I throw a sideways glance at Griffin, sitting near the back of the group with Adara between his legs and surrounded by the rest of the Ares clique. His piercing blue eyes are trained on me.
I start to smile, but as soon as he notices me looking, he scowls and looks away. Boys can be so strange.
When I don’t answer, Coach Z glances at his clipboard. “There are twenty-five events to choose from. Throwers stay here with me.
Jumpers go with Coach Andriakos. Hurdlers with Coach Karatzas.
Sprinters meet Coach Vandoros at the starting line. And distance runners, Coach Leonidas is waiting for you at the entrance to the tunnel.”
Around me, everyone gets up and heads off toward their coaches.
I know I am going to the tunnel, but I hold back, waiting to see where Griffin goes.
Adara, her arms wrapped around his neck, gives him a quick kiss before bouncing off with the rest of the sprinters. He turns and sets off at a jog.
Toward the tunnel.
Omigod.
Heart thumping in my chest, I follow close behind. From the second I saw him on the beach I thought he looked like a distance runner, but now I know it’s true.
That’s one thing we have in common.
“Ah, Miss Castro,” Coach Leonidas says as I walk through the tunnel, “you are a distance runner.” He smiles and rubs his hands together. “Excellent. Tell me about your background.”
Griffin is in front of me and he turns to hear my answer.
“Well,” I say, trying to focus on running and not the gorgeous hunk watching me with the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen, “I ran cross-country and long-distance track for three years at my old high school.”
“How’d you do?” Griffin asks.
I can’t tell if he’s teasing or asking, so I answer, “I won the Western Regional Championship twice.”
“What about the third year?”
This time I can tell he’s making fun-only to impress his obnoxious friends, of course. Why else would he be such a jerk when he was so nice to me this morning?
Well, while wanting him to smile at me someday might include a laugh or two, I don’t actually want him laughing at me. It’s a fine line. “Freshman year I came in second.”
He looks like he’s about to say something, but Coach Leonidas interrupts. “Wonderful,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll bring a lot to the team.”
“Thanks, Coach Leo…”
Okay, so Coach Z said his name, but I can’t remember how to pronounce it. Everything in this country is a tongue twister.
“Call me Lenny,” he says. “Everyone does.”
“Thanks,” I say again, “Coach Lenny.”
“Now that the pleasantries are out of the way,” he says, “let’s get to the running.”
Everyone cheers-still full of the excitement of the first day of the season and not yet worn down by miles and miles and miles of running.
I cheer, too. After all the embarrassment and inferiority I’ve faced today, I’m ready to show them all what I’m really good at.
“We’re going to start out with a nice, easy warm-up before we run the qualifying race.” Coach Lenny looks happy, like he loves running and thinks it’s great luck he gets to make a living doing it.
“Follow me.”
He turns and heads out of the tunnel, into the afternoon sun.
Now Coach Lenny looks like an athlete. There’s no trace of belly, beer or otherwise, on his wiry frame-he’s not hiding one, either, because his white tank and blue running shorts leave little to the imagination. He sets the pace-the twenty kids who’d assembled in the tunnel fall in behind him-a gentle run that’s not about to get anyone sweaty. I focus on the footfalls of his sneakers, counting out the rhythm in my mind and letting it sink into me.
The steady rhythm matches my heart rate.
I am vaguely aware that our pace is increasing. As we build up speed I stay focused on Coach Lenny’s sneakers, never letting him get more than a few feet ahead of me.
I get lost in the run.
Barely noticing my surroundings, I’m surprised when he looks over his shoulder and announces, “We’ll make two more laps around the stadium before heading to the course.”
I’m in the middle of the lead group, content for the warm-up to hold back my pace. Don’t want to wear myself out before the qualifier.
I love everything about running: the steady rhythm of my sneakers hitting the ground, the adrenaline and endorphins pulsing through my bloodstream, the cotton of myPAIN IS WEAKNESS LEAVINGTHE BODYtee rubbing against my skin with every step. If I could do it without winding up in a tree or a ditch, I’d close my eyes and just… feel.
Running is when I know I’m alive.
Everything else is downtime.
Step, step, step, breathe. Step, step, step, breathe.
That pattern is my comfort.
Nothing else that happened today matters anymore. The crazi ness of my life melts away. In my mind, I’m back home-running on the beach with Dad shouting encouragements and urging me to push myself. No gods, evil stepsisters, or mind-muddling boys allowed. All I know is I’m running and I feel perfect.
“Hold up here,” Coach Lenny announces, stopping us at a clearing with a smooth dirt path that leads into a pine forest.
“Everyone walk it out, bring your heart rate back down. Get a drink of water.”
He points to a drinking fountain near the head of the trail. I wait until everyone else has taken a drink before
