Chapter 2

Santiago

Halfway down the track, I know two things for certain.

One: my lungs are on fire.
Two: Easton Rivers is right fucking there.

The gun’s already behind us, the world narrowed down to red lanes and white lines and the sound of shoes tearing into rubber. The crowd’s noise blurs into this useless hum, but I can still hear him—his breathing sharp, controlled, pissed off like he’s personally offended by the concept of sharing a track with me.

I grin.

Bad idea. Smiling mid-race is a stupid fucking habit, but so is racing Easton without enjoying it.

The 200 is my sweet spot. Long enough to hurt him. Short enough to make him panic.

I push harder.

Easton’s form is clean, I’ll give him that. Buzz cut gleaming under the weak winter sun, jaw clenched like he’s holding a grudge hostage between his teeth. He looks exactly like someone who needs to win. Needs it in a way that crawls under his skin and stays there.

Me?
I just like ruining his day.

We hit the curve and I surge.

He swears. Out loud. I hear it.

That’s new.

I feel him try to match pace, feel that familiar tension where we’re basically glued together, legs syncing despite ourselves. This is the part where it stops being fun and starts being personal. This is where Easton usually makes his move.

Not today.

I dig in, arms pumping, every medal I’ve ever won screaming in my head like proof I belong here. Swimming medals. Track trophies. Announcers saying our names like they come as a fucking set.

Rivers and Acres.
Acres and Rivers.

The straightaway hits and I’m ahead. Not by much. Enough.

I hear shouting. Julian’s voice, shrill and feral. My dad yelling something incoherent. Someone screaming Easton’s name like prayer works on sprinting.

Easton’s fast. He always is. He surges, blue eyes burning holes into my back like he might will me to slow down.

I don’t.

The line comes up fast.

I cross it first.

Barely. Painfully. Gloriously.

I slow down hard, hands on my knees, chest heaving like I’ve just been punched from the inside. My legs shake, adrenaline buzzing so loud it drowns out the cold. I glance sideways.

Easton’s staring at the ground.

Oh.

That’s bad for him.

Coach Reynolds is already shouting times, clipboard slapping against his thigh. “Acres—first. Rivers—second. Tight race. Real tight.”

I straighten, wiping sweat off my forehead, and look at Easton.

He looks like he wants to murder me with a stopwatch.

“Fuck off,” he snaps before I even open my mouth.

I laugh. I can’t help it. “Wow. New record. You usually wait at least thirty seconds.”

“Enjoy it,” he says, voice low. “Won’t happen again.”

“Sure,” I say. “See you in the two.”

His glare sharpens. “You’re already in the two.”

“Exactly.”

He stalks off toward his dad, shoulders tight, and I let myself breathe for a second longer. My legs finally stop shaking. I feel electric. Alive. Like this rivalry is a drug and I’ve just taken a hit.

Julian barrels into me from the side. “YOU WON.”

“Barely,” I say.

“YOU BEAT HIM.”

Henry just stares at me, wide-eyed. “You looked angry.”

“I was,” I say. “That’s normal.”

Across the field, I catch Easton again. Vivian’s talking at him, probably telling him not to commit a felony on school property. Cecilia’s grinning like this is the best day of her life.

He looks up.

Our eyes meet.

There it is again—that look. Not just hate. Something hotter. Meaner. Like he’s already planning revenge and it’s keeping him warm.

I smile at him.

He flips me off.

Winter break really did end today.