H is for Hawk (Men of ALPHAbet Mountain)

1

HAWK

Eight years ago…

“On your marks! Set!”

The cadence was always the same. The actual whistle wasn’t all that important. If you knew the cadence, you had that split second of a head start. Coach Burke always had the same cadence.

The sound of the whistle blowing as I took off was secondary in my mind. Faded into the background, like it was behind a glass door. I was alone in my mind, quiet and relaxed. In my element. One of my elements, at least.

Track was the one thing I enjoyed in school. Mostly because I saw it as a competition with myself. A connection with my ancestors who would race through the woods, barefoot and panting, proving themselves to their tribe. It was corny, but I felt like I could sense them. Their blood ran through my veins. Our lives were so different, but the elements could be similar. Where they ran to prove their spot in the pecking order, I ran for sport. The desire to win was the same.

Cadence. It was always the cadence. The cadence of the starting shout and whistle. The cadence of my feet hitting the clay. The cadence of my breath, inhaling through the nose and exhaling through the mouth. It didn’t matter if someone was ahead of me for a moment. I would catch them. I always did.

I disappeared into the motions, the rhythm of it all. I didn’t pay much attention to the other people in the race. They weren’t my concern. The only thing in focus was my breathing and the clock on the far ends of the field. I counted the seconds as I ran. It was going to be close.

Three steps ahead of the next person, I crossed the finish line. I was almost angry at how close it was. Ricky had never run that well, and I was suspecting he had been holding out, keeping that fifth gear in his back pocket for the qualifiers. He wanted my spot.

He wasn’t going to get it.

I was bent over, breathing deeply, a few feet from the collection of other students from Ashford High. I used the strap of my shirt to wipe sweat from my nose. A clap on my back made me turn toward it, and I saw Ricky, beaming.

“Hell of a run, right?” he said, clearly pleased with himself. “I almost got you!”

“You did,” I said, forcing a smile. “Almost.” He laughed. “Where did that come from?”

“Just been training a lot,” he said. “Lots of cardio. Lots of quad work. Learning from the best.”

This time the smile was genuine. I stood up and shook his hand. Ricky was a good kid, if a little dim. But he wanted to be like me, and the compliment was nice.

“Good job, man,” I said. “Maybe next time.”

“There won’t be one,” he said, his smile faltering. “You’re a senior. This was my shot.”

“Ah, right.”

As he jogged off, I thought about what he said. It hadn’t really occurred to me that this was my final qualifier. It was like any other race for me. Maybe that was why I was better at it than anyone else. I always treated each race the same.

But there wouldn’t be another race after I graduated. Not unless I wanted to do track in college. But what was the point of that? I wasn’t an Olympian. I had no desire to be one, at that. I was fast, but not Usain Bolt fast. I was content with winning trophies in high school and moving on to what I really wanted to do in college.

That was a few months away, though. I had time. For now, I wanted to enjoy what I could about my last year in high school.

Like the girl in the stands that had been watching me.

I knew who she was. She was a bit younger than I was, but smart. We had a class together, since she was testing above her grade level. I didn’t know much about her, other than she was gorgeous. How other people didn’t seem to see it baffled me, but she tended to fade into the wallpaper. All I knew of her was that she wanted to be a nurse one day.

She had the biggest brown eyes I had ever seen, and they were watching me. Only me. I noticed her before the first warm-up run and then again just before I took my mark. Now that I was doing the post-run walk, I saw her again, watching me. Our eyes met, and her cheeks went red. I smiled.

She turned away.

Deana Killen. That was her name. Deana, the pretty girl from the back of the classroom. The one with the blue sweater she wore at least once a week. It was fuzzy and looked comfortable. But it also accentuated her body, and every time I saw her in it, I had to shift uncomfortably in my seat.