Chapter Ten
The starter’s pistol cracked, the sharp report echoing off the concrete tiers of the regional stadium.
Lucas didn't surge.
When the field converged toward the inside rail on the first turn, the runner from Metro State’s distance crew clipped Lucas’s left heel, the steel pins grazing the heel of his spike.
Three weeks back, that contact would have spiked Lucas's adrenaline, sending him into a panic sprint up the straightaway to protect his space.
Today, his shoulders stayed level. His breathing settled into a rhythmic four-count cycle—deep, cold air filling the bottom of his lungs, his upper back loose and relaxed.
He held second position through the first mile, letting the pack burn their legs on an aggressive early pace.
When the bell rang for the final lap, Lucas didn't calculate splits or look at the digital clock on the backstretch.
He leaned into the curve, lengthened his stride from the hips, and let his turnover rip.
He crossed the line in second, half a stride behind the state record holder, chopping four seconds off his personal best.
When he stepped onto the grass infield, his hands on his hips, Coach Miller was already walking toward him with the blue notebook tucked under his arm.
Miller stopped two feet away. The wind ruffled the gray hair at his temples.
"You didn't fight the rail," Miller said.
Lucas wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearm. His lungs burned, but it was the clean, hot fire of a race well-run. "No."
"You stayed patient on the backstretch." Miller clicked his ballpoint pen, made a single heavy checkmark against the roster sheet, and looked up. "That time guarantees your funding for next year. Good work, Vance."
Miller turned and walked toward the high-jump apron, shouting at a pole-vaulter to adjust their run-up.
Kevin caught up with Lucas by the water coolers, handing him a paper cup of water. "Fourteen flat," Kevin said, shaking his head. "I thought your legs were dead after this week."
"They're fine," Lucas said, drinking the water down in two swallows.
Kevin tossed his empty cup into the wire bin. He looked at Lucas—really looked at him, his gaze lingering on the steady posture of Lucas's shoulders and the clear, relaxed set of his face.
"You look different," Kevin murmured. "I mean... you don't look like you're waiting for an explosion anymore."
"Yeah," Lucas said, tossing his cup. "I'm good, Kev. Really."
Kevin held his gaze for a beat, then nodded once, letting the question drop. "Relays start in ten minutes. I'm getting a seat on the home turn."
The men's 4x100-meter relay went off under a cloudless midday sky.
Lucas stood by the chain-link gate at the edge of the team staging area, wearing his warm-up jacket, watching the sprint squads take their marks.
In lane four, Jaxen Cross was crouched at the acceleration mark, his eyes locked on the track, waiting for the third leg to round the turn.
Even from thirty yards away, Jax was unmistakable—the sheer width of his back stretching the black-and-gold singlet, the coiled power in his hamstrings as he dug his spikes into the red rubber.
When the incoming runner hit the mark, Jax took off, eating up the zone before extending a blind hand. When the baton hit Jax’s palm, the sound was like a whip cracking.
Jax tore down the straightaway. His acceleration was violent, thirty pounds heavier than the runners on either side of him, but moving with a devastating, metronomic efficiency that ate up the distance.
He crossed the line three meters clear of the field, letting out a roar that carried over the entire grandstand as the clock flashed a new meet record.
Lucas stood with his hands resting on the fence wire. He didn't look down. He didn't hide behind a program or pretend he was checking the spike pins on his shoes.
Jax decelerated through the first turn, his chest heaving, his gold singlet soaked in sweat. He accepted the back-slaps from his teammates, jogged off the track, and grabbed his duffel bag from the turf.
Then Jax turned his head and looked straight at the fence.
He saw Lucas. In the broad, glaring daylight of the capital stadium, surrounded by thousands of athletes, coaches, and spectators, Jax didn't hesitate. He slung the bag over his shoulder, pushed through the metal gate, and walked directly across the asphalt path toward Lucas.
The approach was deliberate. Jax slowed his stride as he closed the distance, the loud roar of the stadium crowd fading into low background noise. There was no teasing posture, no arrogant swagger left over from the race. Just two men standing in the sun.
Jax stopped two feet away. The cold wind whipped off the stadium concrete, but the heat coming off Jax’s skin was immediate, carrying the familiar scents of cedar, sweat, and the sharp rubber of the track.
"You ran a fourteen flat," Jax said, his voice low, gravelly, and stripped of pretense.
"Fourteen-oh-two," Lucas corrected quietly.
Jax dropped his duffel to the asphalt with a heavy thud. He reached out.
He didn't check who was watching. He didn't look around for teammates from Metro State or distance runners from Lucas’s hall. He simply reached out and caught Lucas by the back of the neck, his heavy, calloused fingers sliding under the collar of Lucas’s jacket to rest warm and firm against his skin.
The touch was steady, absolute, and unhidden.
Every lingering knot in Lucas’s spine completely dissolved.
The long, exhausting weeks of looking over his shoulder, of slipping past taped latches at two in the morning, of scrubbing pine sap from his knuckles in freezing communal showers—all of it ceased to matter. The static in his head was dead.
Lucas stepped into the contact, closing that final inch. He laid his palm flat against the side of Jax’s ribs, feeling the deep, powerful expansion of Jax's lungs against his fingers.
"I signed the lease online this morning," Jax said, his thumb brushing the skin behind Lucas's ear, lingering there in the open air. "Two miles from your campus. Right off the river parkway."
Lucas looked into the amber eyes, clear and unblinking in the sunlight.
"There aren't any pine trees by the river," Lucas said, the corner of his mouth ticking up.
"Good," Jax murmured, his grip tightening gently, pulling Lucas an inch closer. "I'm done with the woods anyway."
Lucas kept his hand anchored to Jax’s side, feeling the heavy, grounded rhythm of their shared breathing. The stadium loudspeakers crackled to life, announcing the team awards, and athletes brushed past them along the walkway, but neither of them stepped back.
They stayed right there, together, in the light.