Chapter 5

Thursday, February 8th 2024 

Easton

The thing about the 100 is that it doesn’t give a shit about grudges.

No strategy.
No pacing.
No rivals to stare down halfway through.

Just speed.

Which is why it’s supposed to be mine.

The track’s colder today, sky that flat winter grey that makes everything feel sharper. I roll my shoulders, tune out the noise, tune out Santiago entirely. He’s here—of course he is, but not in this race. He’s across the field stretching, laughing with someone like he didn’t spend last night psychologically torturing me with childhood photos.

Good.

I don’t need him for this.

Coach Reynolds calls us up. Eight lanes. Eight idiots who think they have a chance.

Dad’s somewhere in the stands. Vivian probably pretending she’s not timing me. Cecilia definitely hoping I trip just to be annoying. I block it all out.

I step into my lane.

This is the distance where nothing else exists. No debate club. No dinner table. No earring catching the light. No fucking Acres family.

Just me and the line.

“Set.”

I drop.

The gun goes.

And I explode.

Everything snaps into place. Legs firing, arms driving, lungs burning clean and fast. This is muscle memory carved into my bone. This is every early morning, every lap, every medal clinking into a drawer at home.

For ten seconds, I am untouchable.

I don’t look sideways. I don’t think. I run.

The finish line slams into me and I cross first. No question. No almost.

I slow, breath ragged, heart punching my ribs like it’s proud of me. Coach yells my time. It’s good. Really fucking good.

People clap.

Someone whistles.

I won.

I straighten, hands on my hips, waiting for the rush to hit. Waiting for that electric feeling Santiago gets so easily. Waiting for the satisfaction to settle in my chest.

It doesn’t.

It’s there—but it’s… quieter. Cleaner. Like a solved equation instead of a victory.

I glance across the field before I can stop myself.

Santiago’s watching.

Not clapping. Not smirking. Just standing there, eyes on me, unreadable for once. When I catch him looking, he lifts his chin slightly. Acknowledgement. Respect.

That pisses me off more than if he’d laughed.

I turn away fast.

Julian runs past him yelling something stupid. Henry follows, almost tripping. Santiago’s dad claps him on the shoulder. Life continues like normal.

And I’m standing there with a win that should feel like everything.

It doesn’t.

Because winning alone feels different.

Not worse. Just… empty around the edges.

Coach claps me on the back. “That’s your event, Rivers.”

“Yeah,” I say automatically.

But my eyes flick back again, traitorous.

Santiago’s already warming up for the 400, relaxed, unbothered, like my race was just another thing that happened near him.

I hate that.

I grab my bag and head for the bleachers, jaw tight, chest still buzzing.

Turns out winning feels best when someone’s losing.

And that’s a fucked-up thing to realise.