We’re put in the same heat for the hundred meter dash, like always, but for the first time he’s assigned the lane right next to mine.
“Jesus fuck, it’s cold,” he mumbles, half towards me. He rubs his bare arms and shakes them out. I’m transfixed by the graceful shoulders, the ripple in his jersey. He’s grown since last year.
“Yeah,” I say lamely, my cheeks heating. “Meets in March suck.”
The official blows his whistle and points to our line. We crouch, our fingers pressing the asphalt, so close. I hear his breath. The gun cracks, and we fly.
Cynthia Hamill 