Prologue
I wasn’t here to fuck around at the Arcadia Invitational. I was seeded 17th in the Girls 300 Meter hurdles, and I was here to kick ass and take names.
I looked to my left. Carly Richardson was the girl I needed to beat to get to the finals. Our times were milliseconds from each other. Our lanes were four and five, and I was ready to ignite like fire out of the blocks. Coach had told me that I didn’t have the acceleration to outrun her in the first 100 meters. I needed to outlast her in the last 100. I watched her jump, slap her thighs and sail through her pre-race routine. Her muscles rippled with effort.
Okay. Enough bullshitting.
I cracked my neck, did a couple jumps, high knees. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, visceral and real, and my heart rate was elevated. I took a couple calming breaths.
Okay, Ophelia. I told myself. The official mounted. It was time to get into the blocks. I did another jump, feeling my legs quiver like jelly. I slapped them. No. Now was not the time for nerves to make me weak.
I was a fucking bull.
Just before I knelt to my knees on the track, I glanced at the sidelines. Coach was there, giving me a stern look. His look of determination fueled me with confidence. We’d worked on my kick for the last 100 so many times these past weeks. He’d pushed me to my very breaking point. My mouth tingled with the remnant tang of vomit – if I did this right, I’d beat Carly. I knew what I was supposed to do. My gaze drifted to my mother and my step-dad who were pressed against the railing, smiling.
And then, there he was.
My stomach dropped. He was looking at me like he was hungry.
Over the past two days, I kept seeing him. He wasn’t a competitor, but his muscles strained against his shirt. Fit. Just how I liked them. His dark hair was artfully tousled. And his light-colored eyes kept finding mine across the crowd. It was as if everywhere I turned, my eyes found his form like a magnet. Behind me in the bleachers, waiting at the concession stand, drinking at the water fountain. Basically everywhere. Something about him told me there was something not quite right with him being here. But try telling that to my hormones and that fucking dream I had last night...
The guy smirked, and my body flooded with heat.
Fuck.
I couldn’t be distracted.
I settled my feet into the blocks. A rush of familiarity calmed me. These were just like the blocks at my high school. Though Nike was branded across them, they served the same purpose.
I tensed, waiting for that gun shot. Waiting for my time to spring. A sense of calm soothed my whirring brain, and my body stilled, tensed, waiting. This was instinctual. This was mechanical. And I was waiting...waiting.
* * *
“You did great,” came a voice from behind me.
I froze. My body, already weak and tired and achy and sweaty, clamped up. I whirled around, my bags swinging, and my eyes met his.
He was even more perfect in person. He had thick dark lashes that framed his stormy gray eyes. His lips were plump – totally kissable. And they were curled into a panty-dropping smirk. His face wasn’t quite symmetrical, but the crooked nose and thicker bottom lip added to his edgy look.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “I didn’t make it to finals, but yeah.”
Just thirty minutes ago, I had run my fucking heart out. I wanted to make it to finals so bad, I could fucking taste it. I’d had my eyes trained on Carly, and I passed her right at the 200-meter mark like Coach and I had planned out last night. But then, out of nowhere, some girl in lane 8 put on the blasters and passed both Carly and me right at the finish line.