Chapter 6

Santiago
Thursday, February 8th, 2024

Losing the 400 feels wrong in a way that crawls under my skin and stays there.

The 400 is supposed to be mine. Long enough to think. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to let everyone else burn out while I keep going like it’s nothing. I’ve won it more times than I can count. Medals, plaques, stupid photos of me smiling like I didn’t just ruin someone’s season.

Today?

Today my legs feel heavy.

The track’s louder than yesterday. Or maybe that’s just my head. Coach Reynolds is yelling splits, parents shouting names, spikes scraping against the ground like knives. I roll my shoulders, bounce on my toes, tell myself I’m fine.

Across the field, Easton Rivers just finished his cooldown from the 100. He’s sitting on the bleachers, towel around his neck, buzz cut dark with sweat. He looks… calm.

That’s new.

I hate it.

“Lane four,” Coach calls. “Acres.”

I step up.

Julian’s already screaming from the stands like I’m about to be executed. Henry’s waving both arms, nearly toppling over the railing. Dad gives me a nod—quiet, confident. The kind that says you’ve got this without making a show of it.

I nod back.

I tell myself this is just another race.

The gun goes.

The first 200 feels fine. Too fine. My stride’s smooth, arms relaxed, breath steady. I take the curve clean, settle into pace, start planning the kick like I always do.

Then we hit the back straight.

And my legs don’t respond.

It’s subtle at first. A delay. A hesitation. Like my body’s buffering.

What. the. fuck.

I push harder. My lungs flare, heat ripping through my chest, but the speed isn’t there. Someone edges past me on the outside. Another on the inside.

No. No, no, no—

By the final curve, I’m fighting. Actually fighting. Arms pumping, teeth clenched, vision tunnelling like the track’s trying to swallow me whole. I can hear Coach shouting, Dad yelling my name, Julian losing his mind.

I kick.

It’s late.

The finish line hits me like an insult.

I cross it third.

Third.

I stagger to a stop, hands on my knees, lungs screaming like I’ve been punched. The world tilts. Sweat drips onto the track. I don’t look up right away because I already know.

I fucking lost.

Coach reads out the times. I barely hear them. All I can hear is my own breathing and the pounding in my ears and the quiet, awful truth settling in my chest.

I straighten slowly.

And then I see him.

Easton’s standing now. Not smiling. Not gloating. Just watching me like he’s trying to figure something out. His win yesterday still clings to him—confidence sharp in his posture, eyes steady.

For one second, I wonder if this is what he felt.

The thought makes my stomach twist.

Julian crashes into me. “You still did great!”

“I didn’t,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. He flinches. Shit.

Henry looks up at me, worried. “You’re still fast.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Sure.”

Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. “Rough race,” he says calmly. “Happens.”

I nod, because arguing would make it real.

As they head off, I stay where I am, staring at the track like it personally betrayed me. My legs still tremble. My chest aches in that deep, hollow way that has nothing to do with running.

I glance up again.

Easton hasn’t moved.

Our eyes meet.

I expect smug. Satisfaction. Something.

Instead, his jaw tightens. Just slightly. Like he knows exactly how this feels and doesn’t like seeing it on me.

That pisses me off.

I turn away first.

Losing doesn’t feel dramatic. It doesn’t explode. It just sits there, heavy and quiet, pressing into places I didn’t know were exposed.

I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and walk off the field with my head up because I refuse to let this stick.

But as I pass the bleachers, I hear Easton’s voice—low, not for an audience.

“Bad race,” he says.

I stop.

Look at him.

“That your expert analysis?”

He huffs a laugh. “You’ll win the next one.”

I scoff. “You don’t get to comfort me.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” he says. “Just saying.”

I hold his gaze for a beat too long, something sharp and strange flickering between us.

“Enjoy your win streak, Rivers,” I say finally. “It won’t last.”

He meets my eyes, blue and steady. “Neither will yours.”

I walk away before either of us can say something worse.

Turns out losing feels worse when the one person who understands it is the one person you hate.

And that?
That’s fucking dangerous.