Page 77 of See You at the Finish Line

“Is that what I am? A rival?” he asks, voice loaded.

“What else would you be at this point?” I turn to face him. His brows are pinched, his eyes alight with amusement.

“I don’t know. Rival seems too basic. I was thinking more along the lines of archnemesis.”

“Hmm. You were the catalyst to my villain origin story, so I’ll consider a change in title for my autobiography.”

“I’m honoured. To be clear, though, how exactly was I your catalyst? And how can I be sure to do it again?”

I look at him, unsure if he’s joking or not.

“Does the supervillain ever fess up to what he’s done?”

“Whoa, right up to supervillain. Damn, I’m fast.”

“Not as fast as me.” I flip my ponytail in his face, and he groans, bringing a smile to my face.

Henry Whyatt is wrapping up his speech and the energy among the runners is high. When the energy of the crowd hits me, it surges in like a tidal wave washing over me.

It could be a 5k or a 240-mile race, but the feeling is the same. A runner is a runner, no matter the distance or the speed, and I feel the urge to cry at how much I’ve missed this.

The runners are unable to stand still, stretching, checking their watches for the fiftieth time. Spectators hold signs on the sidelines, the crowd waiting in anticipation. Starting line jitters creep up the length of my spine.

I check my watch to make sure it’s ready, and as soon as the countdown begins, I can’t help but jump up and down on the spot a little, trying to stave off the excess energy.

As a sprinter, I’m ready. I’ve got this speed race in the bag. Adam can eat my dust.

5ks are not speed races, but I’m making this into one.

He’s watching me out of the corner of his eye, a concentrated expression on his face, and I know he’s getting ready to compete. He’s an athlete, and our little bit of banter is not enough to make him hold back. I’m ready for it, in fact, I’m counting on it. He may be taller, but his stacked muscles will not help him when it comes to racing.

That’s why most elite male runners are lean and a little lanky. Too much muscle creates too much wind resistance. Not that I’m complaining.

The starting gun fires—not a real gun, of course, this is Canada—and we’re off. Just before we cross the chip line I turn to Adam.

“If I flash you right now, will you be distracted?”

His jaw drops and I smirk as he stumbles. I surge through the crowd, bypassing runners to get out in front.

“That was evil!” I hear from behind me. I look back, and only for a second, to see he’s caught behind a group of power walkers who didn’t get the memo to line up based on their estimated finish time.

Corrals are important in races so runners don’t find themselves in Adam’s current situation, especially races with big prize money like this one. I’ll take it, though.

I laugh as the adrenaline of racing for the first time in two years soars through me. It’s like my mind is waking up after hibernation, and it feels good to stretch my muscles and lungs.

My eyes fixate on two women in front of me as I hear the pounding of footsteps behind me. I have no idea if it’s Adam, but I barrel ahead anyway, skirting around the women, knowing I’m not pacing myself like I should. But the competitive side of me has been buried for so long, she’s rearing her ugly head.

I’ll be damned if I don’t win this race.

My feet fly on the pavement like they were born to do. I’m so proud of myself for not tripping on anything, even though it’s a road race and there’s really nothing to trip over except my own feet.

As soon as I think about it, my legs are determined to glitch, but I switch my focus from winning to not smashing my face into the concrete. I have to slow down, otherwise I’m going to fall flat on my face.

I pass the 1km mark and check my watch, my eyes bulging. I’ve never gone this fast before. It’s been three minutes and fifty-fiveseconds but I feel the rush of adrenaline ease. I pushed myself too hard that first kilometre and have to slow my pace to about four minutes and twenty seconds, creating an opening for Adam to catch up.

Resisting the urge to constantly look behind me, I focus on how my body feels, adjusting my cadence and keeping my strides short and quick. I’m out in front now, leading the race for women.

There are a few men ahead of me, Mateo included, and I distract myself from the repercussions of my lack of pacing by watching his beautiful curls bounce up and down. He looks effortless, making me feel like a charging rhinoceros in comparison, but at least the distraction works.

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