Page 117 of Final Drive

Her eyes narrow. “You knew this was happening tonight.”

“I hoped.”

“Cameron.”

“Tyler prepared. There’s a difference, and he’d want you to know it.”

“Of course he would.”

By the time we can separate and get dressed again, the cold has settled in properly. Reese finds one boot immediately. The other has somehow ended up six feet away.

She looks at it, then at me.

“Don’t.” She stabs a finger at me, her voice all cox now.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“I have a very neutral face.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“My entire personality is a neutral face.”

She laughs under her breath and goes to get the boot.

Her shirt takes longer. We find it half under the jacket, damp with sand, and she makes a face when she pulls it on.

“I’m going to have sand in my ass until nationals,” she groans.

“Probably.”

“Romantic.”

“I told you this was an excellent date.”

“You fed me a chili dog and fucked me on the ground.”

“And yet.”

She looks at me while she zips her jacket, trying not to smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

We walk back toward the bike with our boots crunching over the gravel at the edge of the track. Reese is quieter now, but not how she’s been quiet all week. There’s nothing wound tight about it.

At the bike, I pick up the spare helmet and hold it out to her.

She takes it but doesn’t put it on.

“You never ask me for anything.”

I stop.

She looks down at the helmet between her hands. “Two months, Cameron. You’ve never asked me for a single thing.”

“No.”