Bring Down the Stars

I felt the baton hit my palm, wrapped my fingers around it and took off. Within seconds, I’d left Hayes, Jacobs, and the other runners in my rearview.

As I ran, I called upon reserves of energy in my legs and reignited the smoldering embers of pain in my memory. Anger at my asshole father. Anger at myself for not being able to leave him in my dust too. Anger that I still cared… I would turn it all into a fucking victory if it killed me.

That anger burned hot, and I pushed my body hard. Muscles screaming, lungs burning, stomach tightening in a thousand knots. I ran as if the rest of the racers were on my ass and not ten meters behind me, and crossed the finish line a good four seconds ahead of anyone else.

Win confirmed, I dropped the baton, slow-jogged to the nearest trashcan, and puked on the mound of empty paper water cups inside.

My post-race ritual: the carb-unload.

“Nice win, Wes,” Coach Braun said when I straightened and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. He pressed a cup of water at me and patted my shoulder. “You good?”

I nodded, still catching my breath. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe offer some advice, but opted for a clap on the back and leaving me alone. He’d learned in my freshman year that I showed up when he needed me to show up and I ran what he told me to run. But no one was allowed in my head.

The other racers paced to cool down, hands on hips and catching their breath as we waited for the times to post.

“You know what, Turner?” Hayes panted, his hands on his knees. “I’d admire you…if you weren’t such a prick.”

“Some day,” Jacobs said, between sucking breaths. “He’s going…to get his. I just hope I’m around to see it.”

I shrugged

them off. I’d won. That’s all that mattered. And as I did after every won race, I waited for joy or elation to hit me.

It didn’t.

It never did.

Instead, I indulged my other post-race ritual, one I’d had since Sinclair Prep. While the other runners were intent on the scoreboard, my eyes scanned the bleachers for him.

Pathetic and futile and yet I couldn’t help it.

Give it up, Sock Boy. He’s not here, and he never will be.

My wandering gaze found Autumn sitting with Connor. His dark head and her flaming red hair close together. Just talking? Or was he sneaking a kiss? I doubted it. Connor was pretty good at reading women, and probably knew Autumn wouldn’t tolerate a move like that without an official first date.

A smile ghosted my lips. You can steal all the high-fives and hugs you want, but you have to earn a kiss from her.

The meet ended, and Amherst—thanks to me—destroyed the other teams. But even without my points, we had a deep roster of talent. The Mammoths were going to have a good year.

I walked past where the Tufts crew packed up their duffels. “See you next month, Jacobs,” I said with a wave.

“Suck it, Turner,” he snapped back.

Friends and family trickled onto the field now, and I braced myself as Connor and Autumn approached.

She came. Sure, so she could see Connor. Because she wanted to see him. But still, she came.

Connor and I clasped hands and he tried to give me a hug.

“Get off,” I said. “I stink and I’m not done puking.”

Connor laughed and ruffled my hair instead. “You kicked ass. But you and your puking. Maybe an antacid before the race?”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I muttered.

“That relay was incredible,” Autumn said, her eyes and smile wide. “All three races were incredible. You were amazing to watch. Congrats.”

She moved toward me and I took a step back, conscious of my breath. Her smile faltered. Hurt flickered across her eyes and I scrambled to think of a gracious reply to her compliment but came up empty.