Page 29 of Fake Dates and Home Plates
I am. I’m ready to focus on setting a good pace and waiting for the right time to kick into my speed, passing the runners who were once ahead of me. I love the feeling of battling it out until I’ve passed the finish line.
There aren’t a ton of fans when it comes to running. It’s not like a marathon, where people stand against the barricade all over the course, though we do normally have designated cheering sections for the few spectators that do come.
Most of the time, it’s quiet, other than the sounds of feet hitting the terrain below us and the breathing of the other runners. I only wish I could run with headphones, but it’s not permitted.
“I’m sure you’ll do great, sweetheart,” my dad tells me, and the confidence in his voice is reassuring.
He’s the reason I even learned to love running in the first place, and I love that we’ve had something special to share. Even now, I think part of me still runs to make him proud.
They ask about my classes and teammates, but I speak to at least one of them every day, so there aren't many updates to share.
“How’s Theo?” Mom asks with a grin.
I shrug, trying to remain casual. “Good.”
As far as they know, Theo and I are really dating, but I can’t bring myself to lie straight to their faces. Instead, I stay tight-lipped as they do their best to grill me for answers to no avail.
When my mom brings out dessert, my mouth waters at the sight of her homemade oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. She’s added a scoop of ice cream to the top of each of our plates, and I think I'll devour the entire thing in under a minute.
As we all start to clean up, I hear the two of them whispering.
With a raise of my brow, I ask them, “What are you two conspiring about?”
While Dad tries his best to look nonchalant, the smile on my mom’s face is downright devious. “Nothing,” they both say.
I narrow my eyes and cross my arms. That’s all it takes. Not because she can’t keep a secret, but because she wants to gloat about it.
“I didn’t greet you at the door because I had to make a call,” she says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction, but I already knew that piece of information, so I wait for her to continue. “We ordered one of those packages that explodes into glitter confetti everywhere.”
I’m sure they see the confusion on my face. “Why would you want that?”
They laugh. “Not for us. It’s being delivered to Dakota tonight. Oh, and the glitter is shaped like dicks.” Mom has pure joy in her voice.
I don’t even know what to say. Part of me wants to tell them how he’s been using different apps for new phone numbers that I continue to block. The other part wants to see if it’s too late for us to hide nearby and watch him open it.
I don’t do either. Instead, I lean back against the counter, let out a slow breath, and shake my head.
“You two are too much,” I say.
But I’m smiling.
Because they’remytoo much.
And honestly? It’s kind of nice having parents willing to fight your battles when you’re too tired to keep throwing punches.
Even if they’re fighting them with tiny, glittery dicks.
Chapter Thirteen
Henley
Early-season races are always a little weird.
The course is familiar; I’ve run it for four years. It’s local, and the route is one I know. It’s a mix of terrain from the road, some grass, sidewalk, and then repeating a section until the almost four-mile run is complete.
But some of the girls have never run this before, and their nerves are showing as they pace around our tent.
Coach Stone approaches me, and I remove my headphones. “Take it easy today, Henley. No need to break your personal record or push yourself too hard. There are only four other schools here, and you’re easily the fastest on the board.”
