Page 129 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
“And yet, you did.”
“No, I, Christian…”
“Runners, five minutes to start time!” The announcement crackled through the speakers, cutting off whatever landmine I’d been about to step on.
“I should get to the line.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He surprised me by reaching out to touch my arm briefly. “Thank you. For being here.”
And then he was gone, jogging toward the starting corrals.
I found a spot along the route at mile twenty-four, where the course made a sharp turn before heading toward the final stretch.
The morning had warmed slightly, but the conditions remained perfect for racing. Spectators lined both sides of the street, holding signs, ringing cowbells, shouting encouragement to everyone who passed. The energy was electric, infectious in the way that only comes from watching people push themselves to their absolute limits.
The first runners appeared as tiny figures in the distance, gradually growing larger as they approached my section. They moved in a tight pack of five, with efficient and powerful strides. These were the elite runners who’d been training for times that most people could only dream of.
And there, in the middle of the pack, was Christian.
Even from a distance, I could pick him out by his form, by the way he held his shoulders, by the rhythm of his stride. As he got closer, I could see the focus etched on his face, the complete absorption in the task at hand that I’d witnessed during his training runs.
Sweat darkened his tank top and glistened on his exposed skin, but his pace never wavered. His legs worked like pistons, powerful and mechanical, eating up the pavement with each step. The months of early morning runs, weekend-long runs, interval training, and hill work had all led to this moment.
His breathing was deep, his arms pumping efficiently at his sides. There was something beautiful about watching him run,the way all the separate components of his body worked together in perfect harmony, the way he seemed to flow over the ground rather than pound against it.
I found myself taking in a sharp breath as the pack passed my section, my heart racing as if I were running with them. Christian didn’t see me in the crowd—his focus was complete, internal, existing only in the rhythm of his footfalls and breathing.
After they passed, I quickly made my way toward the finish line area, wanting to be there when he completed what he’d worked so hard to achieve.
The finish line area was a chaotic scene—spectators cheering, volunteers distributing medals, and exhausted runners getting closer to the finish line. I pushed through the crowd, searching, and there he was at the head of the pack, running like he didn’t feel the exhaustion that everyone else felt. Pride swelled inside me, and I clasped my hands together and smiled as he crossed in first place.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have our winner! Christian Valentine of St. Louis, with a time of two hours and fifty-one minutes!”
“Yes!” I shouted, clapping enthusiastically.
He dropped his hands to his thighs and took in a few deep breaths before shaking it off and being crowded by people.
Seconds later, he was on the winner’s platform, having a medal draped around his neck. His smile was brilliant, and I’d missed that smile tremendously.
Without thinking or considering the consequences, I ran toward him.
“Christian!”
He turned at his name, and when he saw me approaching, his face lit up with surprise and joy.
I launched myself into his arms, and he caught me easily, spinning us both around as I wrapped my legs around his waist.
“You did it! You won! I knew you could, I knew you would!”
“Naomi.”
I kissed him. Right there in front of hundreds of people, cameras, and reporters. I kissed him like he was mine, like I had every right to celebrate his victory.
And he kissed me back just as fiercely, his hands gripping my waist as he held me against him. For those seconds, nothing else existed. Not our past rules, or the distance we’d been maintaining.
Just him and me and pure joy.
