Chapter Eight Max
Chapter Eight
Max
Max lived in North Tower, supposedly one of the best housing complexes on campus for its views of the mountains.
Unfortunately, Max’s apartment faced west, and the only thing visible was the Athletics facility. No matter what window he looked out of, he saw the track. He couldn’t escape it.
Not that the view from inside was much better.
His roommate, Yoon, had a nasty habit of hoarding dishes in his room, which Max was expressly forbidden from entering, and bringing them out in the dead of night every few weeks, once Max inevitably texted him that it smelled worse than the bottom of the locker room’s laundry hamper after a late-summer practice.
The dishes would sit unwashed in the sink for another few days—at minimum.
Today, the first Wednesday in February, was one of those days, and he gritted his teeth as he nudged cups to the side to wash his hands.
Max pulled glass Tupperware from the fridge, glad his meal prep days and Yoon’s whenever-the-fuck dishwashing days rarely overlapped. He popped his bowl in the microwave, and his phone dinged.
Nolan
Gym in 30?
Eager to make up for bailing last time, Max liked the message. Since his Adaptive PE class was canceled this week, he had the free time. It’d be better served doing sprints with Nolan than avoiding the mold growing in the bottom of Yoon’s cereal bowl.
Maybe Keely Sinclair could sample it. She’d probably discover a new species.
He rolled his eyes and scarfed down his food.
Nolan was already at the gym when Max got there. Other people milled around—they always did in Athletics—but since this was scheduled class time and not practice, Max didn’t recognize any of them.
“I was thinking after we stretch, we’d spot on the bench press,” Nolan said. “Then run intervals outside?”
“Sounds good.” Max threw his duffel beside Nolan’s and pulled off his hoodie.
They didn’t talk while they stretched. Max should have tried to contribute something, anything, but he didn’t know where to start.
Didn’t know Nolan’s major, if he had a significant other or roommate, where he grew up.
And he couldn’t ask now—they’d been teammates for four years. He should already know the answers.
He opened and closed his mouth a dozen different times before deciding the quiet was way less awkward than putting his foot in his mouth. Shoes scraped the rubber floor whenever they changed stretches; aside from the person on the treadmill in the back of the room, it was the only sound.
“Classes going okay?” Nolan asked after they moved to the weight bench.
Scratch that. Max would have rather physically put his foot in his mouth than talk about class.
Improving his grades seemed more impossible with every returned assignment, and being off for Adaptive PE this week wouldn’t help any.
Waz would probably combine assignments or knock a unit off from the end to make up for it, and neither option helped Max.
He needed more opportunities, not fewer.
“Is it spring break yet?” Max muttered in answer as he lay back on the bench and wrapped his hands around the bar.
Nolan let out a quiet chuckle. “I wish. You got plans?”
Max grunted. “Pretty far away to make plans.”
Nolan started a sentence but bit off the end of it. Didn’t try again.
Max did a few reps in silence, steadying his breath the way he did on the track. The metal bar dug into his hands, and he focused on the ceiling instead of Nolan’s looming presence over his shoulder. He didn’t know how to talk like this. So casually.
If Keely’s reappearance in his life had taught him anything, it was that Max really didn’t know the first thing about having friends.
The bar slipped and rushed for his chest.
Hands immediately landed beside his own, taking the weight off Max so he could get situated again.
I don’t do this. Max didn’t mess up a simple warm-up repetition on the bench press. Didn’t try to make nice with his teammates or talk about plans for a vacation he couldn’t take anyway.
“At this rate,” Max said, shaken from his near drop, “I’ll probably be studying on spring break.” Which wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had. He flexed his fingers.
Nolan was steadfast, waiting to let go of the bar until Max signaled he was ready. “Dude, tell me about it. I thought Waz was gonna throw me out of class the other day.”
Max huffed a mix of a laugh and a snort. “I didn’t know you were in Waz’s class.”
“I have him for Methods in Secondary.” So Nolan was an exercise science major too. “Monday’s pop quiz was brutal, but he drops the lowest one, so—”
Max faltered, the bar wobbling in his grip again. “Wait. Monday?”
Nolan set it back in its cradle this time. “Whoa. You good?”
Max ducked out from under the bar. “Sorry, go back for a second. What do you mean, Monday? This Monday?”
“Yep.”
“That’s not possible.” Max bounced his leg. “Waz canceled class this whole week. He has a stomach bug.”
Nolan shrugged. “Seemed fine when I saw him.”
“No, because that would mean my class is. . .” Max checked his phone. “Right now. Dammit. Sorry, I have to go.”
He grabbed his bag, but he still saw Nolan’s shoulders fall, his jaw taking on a hard set Max hadn’t seen in a while. One more item on the list of things he’d messed up.
It would be getting long now, if it existed.
Good thing he didn’t make lists.
He skidded into Adaptive PE as his classmates poured out, and he cursed himself for the hundredth time since sprinting across campus from Athletics. At least he’d gotten a workout in after all.
“Max,” Waz said wryly. He didn’t stop packing his bag. “I understand this class isn’t a priority for you, but there’s no need to come in and make a scene about it. I told you weeks ago: if you skip, your grades will reflect your effort.”
Some students lingered; others whispered.
Max put his back to all of them and focused on his professor. “I didn’t mean to miss it, though. Someone sent me an email saying you’d canceled.”
“I’ve heard a lot of excuses over the years, but that has to be a new one.” Waz scratched his ear, smoothed a hand over his balding, curly head of hair as he studied Max’s face. He must have seen something honest there, because he tipped his chin and sighed. “Show me the email, then.”
Max handed over his phone, canine sunk into his bottom lip.
Waz stared diligently at the screen, then let out a surprised, delighted laugh. “You got phished.”
“Phished?” Max repeated.
“Scammed. Bamboozled. Had the wool—”
“I know what phishing is.” He couldn’t fathom falling for it, though. He’d learned about it in middle school, for crying out loud.
Waz tapped the screen twice with his thumb. “Extra ‘I’ in the sender email. Pretty clever; easy to miss. Probably one of your friends playing a prank.” He held out Max’s phone.
Impossible. The only people Max remotely considered friends were his teammates, and it didn’t benefit them for his grades to slip.
So who did it benefit?
His stomach flipped as one singular face came to mind. Blue-speckled eyes. Ink smears. Knowing smirk.
“If you want, you can open an investigation with Tech Support. They’ll trace it back to the sender and you can file a complaint with the school board. That’s about all I can offer you, though.”
He didn’t know what game Keely was playing, but he knew the stakes, and he wanted to up them on his terms.
“I’ll think about it,” Max said, but there wasn’t much thinking to be done. Not now, after Keely had already fired the first shot.
Oh, it was so, so on.
· · · · ·
Max bounced on the balls of his feet early Saturday morning, waiting for the tone to sound.
Every time they ran a relay, he tracked his teammates’ strides, their handoffs, their arms and their breaths.
Knew them like extensions of his own body.
They had to be, if they were going to act as a cohesive unit. If they were going to win.
Alex Harmon, a walk-on sophomore from Texas, was in first position.
It had been a toss-up until a few months ago which of them would anchor and which would start.
But Alex was steady, rare for someone so unseasoned, and got great distance with his strides.
He pulled it out, and always had a flawless handoff. The perfect first position.
Nolan was second, and his left thigh held more power than both of Max’s combined. He wasn’t the fastest in their quad, but he could push harder than anyone, dig deep where it counted, and propel himself forward by pure will.
Their third, Jazz, got excited, and sometimes grabbed the baton off-rhythm, but she made up for it when she flew through the curve.
She wore shorts in the winter, as most of them did, and every muscle in her long legs shifted as she drew closer.
Max counted her strides as he readied himself and started jogging.
He knew exactly what position he should be in when she passed the three-fifty marker, when to throw his arm back, the easiest way to grab the baton and where his fingers would meet when wrapped around it.
And then Max got to do what he did best—run.
Maybe it was genetic. His dad had been a runner, something that propelled Max more than his muscles ever could. All he wanted was for Dad to see him win, achieve the dream he’d given up starting his family.
Most everything Max knew, he’d learned from his father. Picking his brain on early-morning runs in the summer, watching scraps of race tape from his time as a competitive dasher.
What would his dad say about his form right this second? Open chest, straightened spine, give your knees more bounce.
If Max didn’t pull his grades around, didn’t pull his head out of his ass and stop worrying about how to get even with Keely, he wouldn’t win Pursue Your Passions. And without Pursue Your Passions, there was no guarantee Max could keep racing long enough for Dad to see him win gold.
No guarantee Dad would see him graduate, not with cancer eating at his body from the inside out—