He gives me a silent toast, tips the glass back, then sets off in a sprint as others scramble to finish and set off after him.
I turn, searching through the crowds until spotting Ethan, Hannah, Colin, and Hadley beside him. Hadley smiles through a wince that has me noting her slight limp as she moves forward.
I snag a few bags of cookies and meet them, so they don’t have to fight through the crowds.
“What are you doing?” Hadley asks, shaking her head as she looks in the direction of where the race continues and then back at me. “You’re going to lose.”
“No one loses today,” I say, tossing her a bag of cookies. “What happened?” I look at her leg. “Is it your knee or your ankle?”
“I’m fine.”
I look at Ethan for an answer. “The tape came up from all the runners. She tripped over one of the power cords.”
“Extension cords and I are not friends,” Hadley says.
“Does it hurt to put weight on?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she insists. “You’re going to lose. Why’d you stop?”
Ethan pats me on the back. “Respect, man,” he says, quietly. “I’m going to grab water,” he says louder to the group as he passes me.
Hadley tears into her bag and eats half the cookie in one bite, and then the other half. “Are you good with them?” she asks, turning to Hannah who nods.
Hadley grabs my arm, shoving another cookie in her mouth as she moves forward, and while she does one hell of an acting job, I can tell she’s favoring her right leg.
“What are you doing?” I ask, capturing her waist with one hand, and turning her to face me.
“You were supposed to win.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You can’t get revenge any other way.”
I shake my head. “This wouldn’t begin to serve as revenge.”
“We can still do this.” She eats another cookie.
We couldn’t, even if we left now. “It doesn’t matter.”
She shakes her head. “It does. Eat this.” She shoves a cookie at me, looking both ways, conspiratorially, as though someone might notice and unqualify one or both of us.
I eat it, and then a second, and a third until all her cookies are gone. Sugar clings to her lips, tempting me to lick them clean.
“Let’s go,” she says, grabbing my hand.
I shake my head. “You’re not running on that ankle.”
“I’m fine.”
“We need to get you some ice.”
“We need to go, we might—”
“You’re not finishing the race,” I tell her.
Her eyes flare with a clear shot of challenge, and I know that was the wrong thing to say.
“You’re hurt. You don’t want to run on a sprain. It will only injure it further. If it’s slight, you’ll be able to recover in a couple of days, weeks at the most. But if it’s severe, it could require crutches, physical therapy, all the shit you won’t want to do.”