Chapter 1

Wednesday, February 7th, 2024

Easton

The worst thing about the first morning back after winter break is that everyone acts like they missed each other.
The second worst thing is finding out Santiago Acres missed nothing and somehow came back looking like he’d been upgraded.

I clock him before I even get out of the car.

Of course I do.

Dad’s still talking—something about traffic and how track will “build discipline” like I haven’t been training since I was six—but my eyes are already locked on the school gates. Santiago’s leaning against the fence like he owns the place, track bag slung over one shoulder, dark hair falling perfectly into his face like effort personally offended him.

I exhale through my nose.

“Don’t start,” Dad says, not even looking at me.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. Your jaw just did.”

Vivian’s already out of the car, earbuds in, coat half-zipped, pretending she doesn’t know exactly who I’m staring at. Cecilia, unfortunately, has no such shame.

“Is that Santiago?” she asks brightly. “He got taller.”

“He did not.”

“He did,” she insists. “And his earring’s new.”

I slam the door shut harder than necessary.

The earring pisses me off more than it should.

By first period, half the school’s still half-asleep and the other half is flexing new clothes like winter break was a fashion competition. Santiago passes me in the hallway and grins like he knows exactly how my morning’s going.

“Miss me, Rivers?”

“Choke.”

He laughs. Loud. Of course he does

Debate club meets at lunch, which should be illegal on the first day back. Mrs. Harlan is already standing at the front like she’s been waiting all break to unleash us.

“New semester,” she says. “Same expectations. Pairings will be posted today.”

I don’t look at Santiago. I don’t need to. I can feel him.

“You’re tense,” he mutters under his breath. “Track nerves?”

“Say that again.”

“Relax,” he says. “You’ll be great. Short distances are your thing.”

I hate him.

Track club opens after school.

The field is still damp, cold air biting at my lungs, and the equipment looks brand new. Coach Reynolds is buzzing like this is the Olympics, clipboard in hand, already shouting times before we’ve even warmed up.

“Events?”

“Hundred and two hundred,” I say immediately.

Santiago steps up beside me.

“Two hundred and four hundred.”

Of course.

Coach nods, jotting it down. “You two again,” he says, like this is funny.

I glance sideways.

Santiago’s smiling. Not smug. Worse. Curious.

“Did you train over break?” he asks.

“Every day.”

“Same,” he says. “Guess we’ll see.”

I hate that part of me that thrills at the challenge. I hate that he knows it.

By the time we line up for warm-ups, the side commentary has started.

“You two racing first?” someone asks.

“Place your bets,” someone else says.

I stretch, feel the familiar coil in my legs, the pressure I live for. Santiago bounces lightly beside me like he’s bored.

His dad’s leaning against the fence, arms crossed, already filming. Mine’s there too, nodding like this is some kind of mutual pride moment.

Our mums would lose their minds if they saw this.

Coach blows the whistle.

“Rivers. Acres. Two hundred.”

I step into my lane.

Santiago glances over, golden eyes bright.

“Try not to fall behind this time.”

I grin, sharp and mean.

“Try to keep up.”

The whistle cuts through the air.

And just like that, winter break is over.