Page 97 of Own the Eights Gets Married
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The race horn cut through the air, and the pack took off.
“Let’s go!” he said, as he and Simon wove through the pack of runners.
The pound and grind of hundreds of sneakers eating the pavement rumbled around them. Simon held his own, meeting him stride for stride as they pushed to the front of the pack.
“Are you ready to hit our personal best speed?” he asked the boy.
“Let’s do it,” Simon huffed between tight breaths.
They kicked up their pace, passing clusters of participants. His arms sliced through the air, driving him forward as the kid maintained top speed next to him.
1K down.
2K down.
3K.
4K.
As they passed the signs, marking their progress, Jordan watched from the corner of his eye as Simon lifted his chin, growing more confident with every stride until they approached the jocks.
“You’ve got this, Simon,” he said under his breath as one of the kids glanced at them.
“Hey, check out Bacon Bits!” the guy blurted out like a true meathead.
Bacon Bits? Jesus! Jordan thought back to his stupid nickname, Straws. It looks like the jock squad hadn’t gotten more creative since his days brushing off taunts. He glanced over at Simon, ready to give the kid a pep talk but found him smiling.
Without missing a beat, Simon dialed up his pace. “Looks like you’re getting passed by Bacon Bits, asshat,” Simon called as they sailed by the group of speechless athletes.
Jordan bit back a grin.
“Sorry about the language, Mr. Marks,” the kid panted.
“I didn’t hear anything,” he answered, tossing Simon a wink when the hum of what sounded like a weed whacker on steroids rang out from behind.
Was some asshat riding a motorbike in the race?
He glanced over his shoulder to find—not an asshat—but Georgie!
With her hair streaming around her shoulders and determination written all over her face, she snaked her way through the herd of runners, nearly taking out one of the jock brigade, while vrooming the peewee engine of a cotton candy electric pink scooter.
“Jordan, it’s not over!” she called, waving, then almost wiping out before gaining control of the tiny motorized skateboard.
“What are you doing, Georgie?” he asked as she zoomed up alongside of them.
“I needed to tell you something, so I decided to run the race with you guys,” she answered over the buzz of the sputtering engine.
“But you’re on a scooter, Miss Jensen,” Simon bit out.
