by Ali Dean
“I heard you broke a record last weekend. Congrats,” Clayton says, keeping my ankles in his hands. I could kick them off, but that might be a bit dramatic.
“Thanks.” He notices me looking at amazon-girl and apparently doesn’t interpret the glances as wariness, because he gestures her over.
“Savannah, this is Pepper Jones. Brockton Public Running Phenomenon,” he quotes from a newspaper headline from last cross season. He must not recall that he introduced us already at the Tavern weeks ago.
“Yeah, I know who she is, Clay,” Savannah says, chewing her gum loudly.
“Savannah’s a sophomore. She’s a striker on the soccer team. Lead scorer this season, right?” he asks.
She shrugs, but her fake-nonchalance doesn’t fool me. She likes that Clayton Dennison knows her stats. After all, if she can’t have Jace Wilder, Clayton is the next best in the male athlete hierarchy. I’ve heard there’s a dude on the field side of the track and field team who was runner-up at Nationals in the shot put last year, but if his picture on the homepage of the team website is accurate, he’s probably 300 pounds and very scary looking. So yeah, Clayton might not have the accolades in his sport that the shot put guy has, but he’s got the classic good looks to make him a hot commodity. Plus, let’s be honest, a lot more people show up to watch baseball games than shot put.
Clayton introduces the other guy and girl, and when he still hasn’t released my ankles (actually, his hands have crept up to my calves now) I muster my courage to stand up to the hot shot baseball player.
“Clayton, can you stop touching my legs, please?” My voice is loud and clear, and I’ve made an effort to sound as genuine as possible. I’m convinced my request embarrasses him in front of his friends, but he just chuckles.
“I just thought you might have some magic in those legs that I could use on the field,” he teases, leaning uncomfortably close.
Savannah glares at me before glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes light up when she sees someone she recognizes and she walks away.
“There’s nothing magical about me, Clayton,” I tell him, keeping an eye on Savannah. When I see who she’s approached, I’m tempted to jump right on down, but there’s a chance my shins will literally shatter if I do that. Instead, I try to make eye contact with Jace, who is holding a soda in each hand.
He tries to side-step Savannah, but she blocks him against the wall with those absurdly muscular hips. Jace’s eyes dart to mine and when he sees who is hovering by me, I hope he finds humor in the situation. But instead, the familiar jaw clench reveals only frustration. He looks so sexy when he’s angry.
Clayton continues to position himself inappropriately by my legs, and the guy and girl he was with have drifted closer to the stage, farther from us. Did these two plan this ambush or something? What the heck is going on?
“You know, Pepper Jones, I was pretty upset when you shot me down for prom back in high school. Why’d you do that?”
“Why’d you ask me?” I retort. We both know why he asked.
He pulls his head back in surprise. “Oh come on, you’re just fishing for compliments. Isn’t it obvious why I asked?”
I raise my eyebrows but remain silent.
“Uh, because you’re a cool girl. Not wrapped up in any drama. Or, at least, you weren’t back then,” he says with a smirk. “You’re a kickass runner, which makes you even hotter than most girls.”
I can’t help my eye roll. “You’d never even spoken to me before. You didn’t know anything about me. And I was a freshman. Just admit that you were trying to get under Jace’s skin. You were then and you are now.”
Instead of arguing with me or getting angry, Clayton flashes a lopsided grin, making him look a little crazy. He opens his mouth and begins to speak, but Jace is suddenly between us, and I no longer feel suffocated by Clayton’s body inching inappropriately closer to me.
“Hey, Dennison,” Jace casually greets him after placing himself between us. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed Jace Wilder being fake with someone before, so this is a first. “Wesley told me he’s been running into you a lot lately.”
My brows furrow in confusion. What’s he talking about?
Clayton straightens to his full height. The freshman quarterback and junior pitcher both tower over everyone else in the theater. Savannah holds her own, having returned with Jace. She doesn’t know their history, but her wide eyes dart between the two of them, sensing the tension.
“Yeah, Wes has a lot of time on his hands these days and he wants to stay in shape. He joins us in some of the team’s unofficial lifting sessions,” Clayton responds after a moment’s hesitation.
“Right, well, good luck with MLB scouts, man.” Jace hands me our drinks and pats Clayton on the shoulder, hard, judging by Clayton’s wince, before propelling himself up to the ledge in one swift athletic move and kissing me on the top of my head.
As Clayton and Savannah make their way back to their friends I turn to Jace. “Jiggawhat?” I give him my one-word question, which really means, please explain what the heck just happened?
Jace grins, but it’s tinted with regret. “Well, my suspicion about Wes was right, I guess.”
“What was that? Clayton Dennison can’t be a drug addict, Jace. You mean you think he deals with Wes or something?” I just don’t understand how an athlete at Clayton’s level can get away with a recreational drug habit. Not only would it make training impossible, but Division I athletes get tested, don’t they?
“I think Wes is just dealing steroids. Still bad, but it doesn’t involve him with the Denver gang or Wolfe’s crowd, at least.” Just hearing that name sends shivers up my spine. Wolfe was angry that Jace didn’t help him make connections to the Denver gang who runs the drug dealing show. When Jace quit dealing, Wolfe wanted to take over his “position” and when he didn’t get to, he went for Jace’s weakness – me. Jace continues, “Now that I’m on the UC team, I hear shit about other UC teams that most people never hear about. My teammates think the baseball team’s taking steroids.”
I gasp. Dramatically. I just can’t help it.
Jace smiles at my reaction. “It’s actually sorta commonplace with baseball teams, even in college. Based on how cagey a few guys have acted around me when that shit comes up, some of my teammates must know that Wes is dealing. Dennison’s reaction at my comment about Wes tells me what I need to know.”
“And mentioning the MLB? What was that about?”
“Just reminding him what’s at stake. More than his status on campus, that’s for sure.”
A threat. And if Jace is right about the steroids, it’s not a threat Clayton will be taking lightly. Hopefully that means Clayton won’t bother me again. A lot was accomplished by that little exchange. I kiss Jace on the cheek before realizing he doesn’t look pleased with his discovery. “Isn’t it at least some relief that Wes isn’t into the other stuff you guys were doing?”
“He’s my brother, Pep. He’s hurting. I know it and this shit he’s doing is dumb and destructive. I’ve gotta help him. What do I do?”
I snuggle into his chest. “I don’t know. Can you make him work for your dad somehow?”
“I’ll try,” he replies.
And then the drummer hits the beat and we’re swept away into the music. We can’t dance from our seated position, but we snuggle together, swaying to the rhythm. Jace gets restless after a couple songs and swings me onto his shoulders so he can be on his feet while keeping pressure off my legs.
It’s hard not to enjoy good music from Jace’s shoulders like this, despite the pain in my legs. Bodies swing and bounce to the rhythm and my view lets me take it all in. My head and arms have a life of their own as I try to let go of the fear and pain from the day. The music takes over, and Jace’s strong hands grasping my ankles ground me in a way I didn’t know I needed. Without his steady shoulders beneath me, I’m not sure how I’d be facing the truth: my running goals have been crushed. And perhaps not just for this se
ason. I may have even jeopardized my chances at a scholarship to UC, which seemed like a sure thing only this morning.
But just when I start to feel suffocated by self-pity, the band starts in on an upbeat tune. I’m so tempted to jump down and get my groove on – I love dancing – but instead I lean forward to kiss Jace’s head. When the band finishes its first set, Jace lifts me off his shoulders and places me back up on the ledge. It’s past bedtime, and the day has taken its toll. Jace senses my exhaustion. We silently agree it’s time to head out. He’s got early morning practice anyway.
“Come on, I’ll bring you home.” He gestures for me to hop on his back, and I decide that having an injury has some perks after all.
“What about Wes?” I ask as Jace makes his way through the crowd.
“We’ll find him.”
I’m not so sure. Wes tends to take off whenever there are crowds around. Often with a girl, but apparently he also has other things that preoccupy him these days.
I see him first, standing by the stage with his head lowered, talking to Clayton Dennison. When Jace’s arms stiffen around me, I know he’s spotted Wes too. He starts to head in the opposite direction.
“We should go over there, Jace. Don’t you want him to know you know what’s up? Don’t you want Clayton to know, too?”
He takes me down off his back so he can speak to me. It’s too hard to hear him otherwise. I suppress a cringe when my feet hit the floor. It’s not just my shins. Everything hurts.
“You okay?” Jace puts an arm around my waist to steady me and when I nod, he proceeds to half carry me toward the exit. I don’t fight his coddling. He’s taken some of the weight off my shins, and I’m grateful.
“I don’t feel like dealing with it tonight, Pep. I came here to relax and enjoy time with you. For you to take your mind off shit.”
“Well, Wes and Clayton’s ‘shit’ is a distraction, at least.”
Jace smiles grimly. “There’s that, I guess. But the band’s not bad, huh?”
We talk about the music until we’re outside, when he crouches down and I happily climb onto his back. I’m dreading going back to my apartment. Just thinking of being alone in my small bedroom makes me feel suffocated. Dave will be there, but so will the pain in my legs and the dread of what it means. I probably won’t be able to fall asleep and I’ll end up on the Internet, typing into Google the words I’ve been avoiding searching for weeks. And I’m so scared of what I’ll find. What if I’ve done permanent damage? I haven’t even been thinking beyond this season and what it might mean for my scholarship to UC. But what if I can’t run competitively ever again?
Jace glances at me, and I notice I’m practically shaking and gasping for air. He’s transferred me from his back to the passenger seat, and I don’t even remember it happening. He takes my hand, driving one-handed, and I realize he must’ve forgiven me for the Ryan/Gage episode last night. Or maybe there was nothing to forgive in the first place. Either way, we’re past it.
When he pulls into his parking spot by the dorm, I start to breathe normally. The relief that I’m staying with him tonight, that I won’t be alone, soothes me. Jace treats me like a child as he carries me inside, nodding to his roommates and the soccer girls. I glance over his shoulder and see the same scene from the other night, but without Savannah. Jace closes and locks his door before quietly undressing me, handing me one of his softest tee shirts, and tucking me into bed. He follows close behind, pulling me onto his chest. We don’t talk, but his presence alone comforts me and protects me from the grief that’s settling into my bones.
Losing my goals, my dreams, my identity… it’s too much to bear alone. Running is who I am. It’s what I do to think. To feel. But it’s also just habit. Like brushing my teeth. Something will always feel off, all day and every day, if I don’t go for a run. Jace’s heavy arms are tightly wound around me and he’s telling me without words that everything will be all right. I drift to sleep, trying to believe him.
Chapter 14
Jace can’t miss class so it’s just me and Gran at the doctor together. They do an x-ray and a bone density scan and then leave me waiting in the tiny room with Gran. I’ve turned my phone off, not wanting to deal with my teammates, or anyone else, asking for updates. Gran is engrossed in a celebrity gossip magazine and I’m jealous she finds it so fascinating. None of the magazines are sufficiently distracting for me right now. I haven’t eaten a thing all morning, yet I still feel like I might throw up at any moment. Apparently shin pain and pregnancy have the same symptoms. Good thing I don’t have to worry about the latter as a possibility.
Finally, Dr. Kennedy returns to our room. She introduced herself before the tests and went over some questions with me. I liked her immediately, and decided I would trust her diagnosis. After all, it still hurts to walk this morning. Again. The jig’s up.
“I know you are a very competitive runner, Pepper, and that this must be hard for you,” she begins. “So I’ll just get right to it. You have bone marrow edema in your left tibia, and severe shin splints in your right tibia.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t quite have stress fractures yet, but your left leg nearly has one, and your right leg is headed in that direction as well.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Deep down, I knew I would hear something like this. But it doesn’t make hearing it okay.
“How long until I can start training again?”
“The healing process for this injury usually requires six to eight weeks of rest.”
Mercifully, Gran remains silent. She knows I’m already kicking myself. Six weeks puts me in mid-November. I might be able to make it to the state meet! But even if I can run by then, I’ll be totally out of shape and there’s no way I’ll qualify for Regionals a week later. Regionals is the qualifying meet for Nationals, which is the second week in December. I can’t decide whether to feel devastated or hopeful. I have avoided learning anything about my condition before today, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be out for days or months. I suppose I thought months were more likely.
Renewed hope – realistic or not – takes a hold of me, and I revel in it.
“I spoke with your coach briefly before your appointment today, and I’ve agreed to meet with you and him to discuss the course of treatment and how it will impact your training. With your consent of course,” she says, nodding at me and Gran.
“How it will impact my training? So, I’ll still be training in some capacity?”
“Oh, yes. No running, of course. And I’d like you to take a few days completely off from any form of exercise to start. Also, you’ll be using crutches for ten days to keep weight off your left shin.”
“Crutches? Are you sure? I just ran my fastest 5K time ever... I’m not sure that’s really necessary.” Crutches are for people with broken legs and ankles. Not me. I’ll still be training. She just said so. I’ll still be an active athlete.
“Just for ten days. It will accelerate the healing process, and have you back out running faster.”
She knows how to sell me on the crutches. I’ll do anything to be back out running faster.
After picking up my crutches, promising to forgo exercise until Saturday (gulp!), and arranging a time to meet with Dr. Kennedy and Coach Tom tomorrow, Gran takes me to Clyde’s Creamery. It’s only just opened for the day, but unlike when the boys dragged me here last night, I have an appetite now. We order chocolate milkshakes and sit outside on the picnic table together.
“How does it feel?” Gran asks.
“The crutches?” I ask. “They’re all right, I guess.”
“I didn’t mean the crutches,” Gran says.
The kernel of hope that maybe I will recover from this in time to go to Nationals is barely alive, but it’s there. “Do I give up for the season, Gran? I don’t want to let go of the hope that maybe I can come back from this before it’s over.”
Dr. Kennedy did say that I may need long
er than eight weeks, and I shouldn’t expect to just up and start training at the level I’m used to when I finally do get out running again. But I mostly held onto her words that six weeks might be sufficient. And that would give me four weeks of running before Nationals. As I think more seriously about this timeline, and the measly four weeks I’ll have to prepare even if I do qualify, the kernel of hope dwindles to the size of the tip of a needle. It hardly exists at all.
I share my fears with Gran. “I’m scared that it will hurt that much more if I do all the cross training and everything I’m supposed to do, only to be told I still can’t run until the season’s over. Or, what if I do get to run at State, but I do horribly because I haven’t been running, and I don’t qualify for Regionals?”
“You want to know what I think?” Gran asks. “I’m no athlete, but you just said you don’t want to give up hope before the season’s over, so don’t. I saw how you were during track season last spring. You weren’t your best self, Pep,” she says with a knowing look. And then she shrugs. “You’re special. And you’re special because you are your best when you focus on a goal. When you do everything you can to get that goal. You maybe went about it a little too aggressively this time, but this new approach might just be your ticket. So no way, girl, am I telling you to give up when the goin’ gets tough. It ain’t over. You heard the lady. She’s gonna talk to your coach, get a plan and all that.”
I’m grinning so widely at Gran I feel like my face will break.
“Just be smarter this time. Do what that doctor and the coach tell you to do. Don’t run before they say you should. And maybe you’ll get where you want after all.” She winks. “You’re a fighter, Pep.”
Her words get me through the rest of the day. As expected (and the reason I didn’t want them), the crutches draw a lot of attention. If people didn’t know already, everyone is now aware that I’m injured, and that it’s bad. The hardest part of the day, though, is when I make my way over to the team’s meeting spot by the baseball field dugouts. Even though it takes a while on crutches, I’m the first one there. Everyone else had to go to the locker room first to change. Coach Tom and the assistant coach, Janet, watch me approach.