Chapter 24 – Josie
chapter
twenty-four
Josie
I woke up in the dark on try out day with my heart going like I’d mainlined espresso in my sleep, and the alarm hadn’t even gone off yet, which never happened.
My body ran on a schedule, and that schedule was sacred, so waking up before it was a pretty clear sign that today was going to be a lot.
Get up. Eat. Lace the shoes. Go.
I ate half a banana, drank water, and put on the trainers I’d been breaking in for six weeks. My stomach was a mess, but my hands were steady, so I focused on that.
This was mine. It didn’t belong to Marcus or Waylon, and it had nothing to do with the kiss or the storm or the dawn runs or whatever the hell was happening between me and the hockey player I was categorically not falling for.
My phone lit up.
Kimmy: GOOD LUCK, MAMA. GO FAST. brING HOME A ROSTER SPOT OR DON’T COME HOME. WITH YOUR SHIELD OR ON IT SPARTAN!
Lena: What she said. Minus the threat. We’re proud of you.
And there went my eyes, burning. Fantastic.
I hadn’t even left my apartment, and I was already losing it.
Two months ago, I didn’t have friends. Or rather none that I saw regularly.
Now I had two who remembered the date without being told.
That shouldn’t have hit me as hard as it did, but here I was, tearing up over a text message.
I’d told Marcus two weeks ago. I have walk-on tryouts for the D1 track team on November fourth.
He’d nodded like I’d read him the lunch menu and said he had a thing, but he’d try to come.
He didn’t ask what events. He didn’t ask if I was nervous.
Just a thing, and he’d try. And I’d believed him, because I collect red flags like other people collect vintage sneakers, and I have never once learned my lesson.
I hadn’t told Waylon, not directly. But we’d talked about running every morning for weeks, and he knew about the splits, the hill work, all of it.
He’d watched me run and said I looked free, which is the kind of sentence that should not be allowed to come out of a man’s mouth when you have a boyfriend. I’d been thinking about it ever since.
The indoor track facility smelled like rubber and recycled air. Nine of us showed up for the middle-distance events.
I found a spot on the infield to stretch and tried not to measure myself against the other girls, which lasted about four seconds because two of them had that loose, easy warm-up stride that screamed club money and year-round coaching.
I checked the stands once. Fine, twice. They were empty, and I was not going to think about who I’d been looking for.
You belong here.
The assistant coach had a stopwatch, a clipboard, and zero interest in small talk. This wasn’t a welcome party, it was a test.
The 400m was first. I got into the blocks, and everything went quiet. Then the gun cracked, and my body took over.
I’d never been able to explain running to people who didn’t do it.
When you were in it, really in it, you weren’t thinking.
Thinking was too slow. Your body just went, and you either had it or you didn’t.
I came through the curve and hit the straight, and I was not Josie with the messy life and the messier love triangle. I was just fast.
I crossed the line and bent over with my hands on my knees, gulping air.
My hamstrings were already screaming at me, that tight hot pull that meant I’d gone out harder than I should have.
I listened for the time. When the assistant coach called it out, I almost didn’t believe it.
I’d somehow managed to break 57 seconds by a hair.
Holy shit. I was blazing. I only hoped I hadn’t used everything in the tank. I still had my other race to run.
I had thirty minutes to rest up before the half mile. I used it well, cooling down, stretching and guzzling coconut water.
I still didn’t let myself check the stands.
The 800m was mine. That was always my race, and I knew it the second the gun went off, and I settled into the first lap.
Pace, breathe, don’t lock up. I sat on the pack through the first four hundred and then hit the back straight of the second lap, and my legs finally had everything I’d been building for six weeks, and I kicked.
I kicked so hard around that last curve that my lungs caught fire and my vision narrowed to a tunnel, and I couldn’t hear anything except my own breathing.
I crossed the line and almost kept going because my body didn’t know how to stop.
My time was really good.
Next came the mile, my weakest race. And honestly, I was mostly just trying to finish it. How anyone could call a mile a middle distance race was beyond me.
After that was relay handoff drills and finally we were done.
The good news was? I’d left it all on the track. The bad news was…I’d left it all on the track. My hamstrings were in the process of filing a complaint and asking for a manager. Not to mention I felt like I’d been run over by a truck.
At least you gave it everything.
“Washington.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You’re on the team.”
My eyes went hot. I pressed my lips together so hard they went numb, and I nodded like this was totally normal, just a casual Tuesday, no big deal.
“Thank you,” I said, and somehow my voice held.
She moved on, and I turned away and gave myself five seconds. Then I heard it.
“THAT’S MY FLASH!”
The voice bounced off the roof. Two girls whipped around. The assistant coach looked up from her clipboard with both eyebrows raised, which I was starting to think was as close to emotion as that woman got.
I turned, and Waylon was in the stands, third row up, on his feet in his team hoodie, and he was holding a sign. A hand-lettered poster board with thick black marker that said C’MON, FLASH!
He’d made a sign. This ridiculous man had found a Sharpie and a piece of poster board and made a sign for my walk-on tryout like it was the NCAA finals. My heart was going so fast it probably wasn’t healthy.
“THAT’S MY FLASH!” he shouted again, because once was apparently not enough, and his whole face was lit up in a way I’d never seen.
It wasn’t the dimple grin or the slow one he used when he was trying to get a reaction out of me.
He was full-on beaming, like watching me make a roster was the best part of his whole week.
I smiled so big I couldn’t have stopped it if someone had paid me.
I put my hand up in a wave. That was all I had without falling apart in front of eight strangers and a woman with a clipboard.
He waved back. I could see the dimple from fifty yards, and the fact that I could identify that man’s dimple from across a track facility told you everything you needed to know about how far gone I was and how badly I was lying to myself about it.
The rest of the stands were mostly empty, just a few girls waiting on a different event, and Waylon was still on his feet with his homemade sign. Marcus was not there.
I’d checked the team schedule that morning. There was no practice, no event, no Greek meeting, nothing. He’d made up the thing, or he just hadn’t cared, and I’d stopped trying to figure out which one because the answer didn’t change how empty his seat was.
I’d told Waylon about Gabby Thomas on a hill at sunrise, tossed it out like nothing, and he’d looked at me like it mattered. And here he was. Because he’d heard me say November fourth once at the tutoring center, to my student, across the room, and he’d filed it.
Marcus never came to anything. Waylon came to everything. I should probably think about what that meant, but not today.
I picked up my bag and walked toward the stands. He was coming down, hands in his pockets. He’d left the sign propped against the seat.
“D1,” he said, low and proud.
“You made a sign.” My voice shook, and I didn’t bother pretending it didn’t.
“I made a sign.” Full grin, both sides, maximum dimple. “Thought about glitter but figured that was overkill.”
“How did you even know?”
“You said November fourth once. At the tutoring center.” He shrugged like this was unremarkable. “I pay attention.”
“Thank you.” My voice broke.
“Come on, Flash. Let me buy you something to eat. You look like you ran your legs off.”
“I did run my legs off.”
“Exactly. Food. My truck. Let’s go.”
I fell into step beside him, cold air burning my lungs, wrecked legs wibble wobbling with each step, and a smile I could not get under control, which was a problem, because smiling like this about a man who wasn’t my boyfriend, while my actual boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to show up, wasn’t the behavior of someone who had her life together.
And I kept telling people I had my life together.
I was starting to think that was the biggest lie I’d ever told.
He’d said my Flash, like he was claiming me in front of eight middle-distance runners and a woman with a stopwatch. The terrifying part was that I’d wanted him to.
Girl, you are in so much trouble.