Page 8 of Blitz

I’ll never make it to the NFL. That’s not my dream anymore. I have one more season of football left in me. After that, I have goals, ambitions. My feet are firmly planted on the ground. I want to go to grad school and become the best damn addiction counselor there is, so other people don’t have to go through what my family’s been through. I may not make the kind of outrageous money that my brother could, but my life will have a purpose. I’ll have a cause to work for.

Mason’s race is announced on the tinny loudspeakers. I chew the inside of my cheek as she takes her place on the blocks. The 200 meter is her jam. She’s got this.

The gun pops, and she’s off, running, running, running her heart out. She crosses the finish line first, another woman from Newton half a stride behind her.

The blonde beside her gives her a high-five, her smile stretched wide. She looks familiar. I must have had a class with her before.

Mason is smiling, breathing hard. She takes a drink from her water bottle. Her hands on her hips highlight her lithe form, all muscle and sinew.

Barrett nudges me. “You have an admirer.”

Mason is staring right at me. There’s a lump in my throat I can’t clear. Her eyes are wide. She lifts her hand in a stilted wave and then crosses her arms over her chest.

This was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here.

“I need to go.” I shoulder my bag and head for the stairs.

“Hey!” Barrett falls into step beside me. “Want to tell me what this is about?”

“Not really, no.”

“Asshole.”

I force a laugh. “That’s not new.”

“I thought we were here for the chick.”

“We’re not.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“I wanted to go to the track meet.”

“And that’s why we’re leaving half an hour in?”

“I’ve got shit to do today.”

He laughs, but he’s not mocking me. “Yeah, okay.”

I don’t have the energy to make it all the way across campus to the dining hall, but there’s a grab and go food station at the track team’s practice facility. I badge in with my student athlete ID and grab some snacks. The selection is lacking. Chalky protein bars, popcorn, electrolyte tablets. In the warmer, I spy one lone breakfast burrito. I get to it before Barrett can.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the meet?” He looks at me with concern in his eyes. I don’t like it.

I unwrap the burrito and take a big bite. It’s lukewarm. It’s not a peanut butter sandwich. I don’t care.

We stand there in silence as I devour the burrito. It isn’t even good. My stomach rumbles unpleasantly, protesting my less than stellar decision making. I eat the last bite and lick my fingers.

“You feeling better?” Barrett asks. There’s a furrow between his brows.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, which is a flat out lie. He doesn’t call me on it.

“Do you want to go back to the track meet?”

Not really. I don’t want to see Mason. I want absolutely nothing to do with her.

But for some reason, what comes out of my mouth is: “Sure.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “It’ll be good for you. Put some hair on your chest.”