There’s something exhilarating about pushing your body to the limit, then pushing past that to see what you can achieve.
It’s addictive.
So I’m preparing to swim, cycle, and run to impress a girl one year my senior who doesn’t know I exist.
This might be my only chance to spend time with Liv, and I desperately want to spend time with Liv.
Hell, she doesn’t even have to talk with me. I just want to be in her fucking presence. And if she happens to know my name by the end of this? Even better.
Sexy, smart, and mysterious Liv Samuels is a senior this year. With her long legs, flowing blonde hair, and unmistakable sense of humor, she’s every guy’s dream girl. She’s my dream girl, but she doesn’t know it.
Liv and her family moved to Tahoe a year ago. I don’t know her story, but she’s received a ton of attention since she arrived. She doesn’t seem to like it, and unlike most high school girls, she keeps to herself. Instead of dating, she’s struck up friendships with a few classmates, and that’s it. This hasn’t deterred the many interested guys, myself included. The most interaction I’ve had with her was a simple “Hello” in the hallway last spring.
A guy’s gotta start somewhere.
Someone bangs on the locker room’s wooden door and announces we have five minutes to get our asses to the track. The flier advertising the tryouts specified today would begin with running. Tomorrow, we’ll swim and cycle. Then on Wednesday, we’ll put all three together and compete against each other in an unofficial sprint triathlon.
The nerves buzz in my veins and tighten my chest.
While I’ve never competitively played a sport before, I feel competitive, and I look the part. Thanks to a serious growth spurt this summer and crazy height genes, I stand close to 6’3”. By some miracle, I’m nowhere near as clumsy as most guys who finally grow into their overlarge hands and feet at my age. Add in the muscles I gained while actually training for this, and I look like an athlete, even though I feel like an imposter.
Those of us who are ready shuffle out of the locker room. I catch my reflection in the clouded mirror hanging on the wall. My blond hair is wild. My brown eyes are sharp. I give my stern face a nod, then silently trudge my way to the track, which lies just outside the gymnasium’s double doors.
No one speaks. A quick glance around reveals a few fellow juniors who I’ve known since elementary school, as well as some rising freshmen and sophomores. There are also a few students I’ve never seen before. My high school is large enough that this doesn’t surprise me, but it’s unnerving to realize I am competing for one of eight available spots against these people.
As we step outdoors into the California sunshine, I take in our surroundings and try to soothe my nerves. The August sky is bright blue, the grass growing in the track’s infield is vibrant green, and a gentle breeze blows. The temperature has been hovering around the mid-70s all week, and everyone has enjoyed the sunshine. The weather is one of the bonuses of living in Tahoe, providing the perfect conditions for both summer and winter sports.
“Feeling good, McCoy?” Dennis Waters asks as he jogs up beside me, changing his stride to match mine. He’s several inches shorter than me now.
I respond with a nod.
Dennis and I have known each other since elementary school, but I don’t consider him a friend. We haven’t spent time together outside of school since the awkward birthday parties of our younger years. Tahoe is a really fucking small world, and because of this, we were required to invite all our classmates so everyone felt included. It was stupid then, and this moment’s camaraderie feels as forced as those. I didn’t even know he was trying out until he strolled into the locker room fifteen minutes ago, chest puffed, talking a big game about how triathlon was his thing.
Rolling my eyes over Dennis’s triathlon prowess is hypocritical since this is new for me, too. But unlike me, Dennis has never done anything athletic in his entire life. He certainly doesn’t look like he spent his summer vacation preparing for this, either.
I spot a group of students dressed in athletic clothing by the metal bleachers. I tilt my head and comment, “Guess we’re over there.”
“Guess so,” he agrees cheerfully as we stride to meet the other students. “Liv Samuels is looking good.”
Those five words enrage me, but instead of speaking to Dennis again, I seethe silently. Who the hell is he to want Liv? Is he trying to win her attention? Fuck that.
Dennis finds a seat on the first row. I walk up the stands and drop into a spot a few rows back. I don’t want to be associated with that asshat.
I stare down at Liv, Sarah Matthews, Mike Cavanaugh, and Gabe Patterson, who are standing on the bottom row. They’re the club’s founding members. Coach Sylvia, a black-and white-haired math teacher in her mid-fifties, stands to the side with a clipboard in hand and a stopwatch hanging around her neck. She’s the team sponsor. She coached the track team to the state championships for the last five years.
Triathlon isn’t a new sport to Tahoe, but high school triathlon clubs are. Some schools, like Parkview, are able to form a club from large student bodies. Smaller schools that don’t have enough students for their own clubs can form regional teams. Then club members compete on behalf of their schools at local events.
It’s not that a triathlete needs teammates to compete, but being in the club provides the advantage of learning and training together, as well as wearing your school’s colors.
None of those things matter to me. My only real incentive is Liv Samuels.
I know I can train and compete in triathlons on my own. If I’m going to do it, I want to be around her. I want to spend time with her. I want to get to know her, and I want her to know me. And hell, if she wants to do more than that, I’m happy to oblige.
The thoughts of Liv and doing things with her send a potent cocktail of excitement and arousal rushing through my veins. I bounce my leg on the bleacher, needing an outlet for this energy as I wait for whatever the hell kind of speech is given before a tryout like this.
“Welcome, everyone!” Sarah, Liv’s dark-haired pixie of a friend, calls out with a wide smile to those of us sitting in the bleachers. Unsurprisingly, the longer I sit here, the less good I feel about my chances. There are a lot of us, and we’re competing for eight spots. Some students who sit near me are members of the school’s track, cross country, and swim teams.
Oh, God. I’m about to make an ass of myself in front of Liv.
Nerves flutter in my stomach as we all mutter a greeting back. Liv steps forward, looking like a fucking dream.
The light hits her just right so she looks almost angelic, even though I’m sure she’s not. What rising senior is? And hell, if she somehow is, I’m happy to figure out sex with her. God knows my summer spent with Jenny Aarons gave me confidence to know I can at least make her come.
Liv is wearing a fitted sky blue tank top, which brings out the cobalt of her eyes. There’s a hint of her neon pink sports bra beneath the shirt, pushing her small tits up and together. Her long legs are barely covered by a tiny pair of black-and-yellow polka dot running shorts. Her dirty blonde hair hangs over one toned shoulder in a messy ponytail, the strands tickling the top of her barely visible cleavage. Her lips are the color of strawberries.
She looks so fucking good, and I am in so much trouble because there’s no way this girl is ever going to notice me.
She clears her throat and looks around nervously before speaking, receiving an encouraging nod from Coach Sylvia.
“We’re excited you all have come out for the club,” Liv starts. “Today, you’ll be running 1,600-meter time trials.”
My spirits sink at her words. She continues, describing exactly what we’ll do, how we’ll warm up, how we’ll be divided into competition groups — by grade and gender — and how we’ll run the trial three times. Because, apparently, along with being crazy enough to try out for this new high school sport, we’re masochists, too.
&
nbsp; Bring it on.
Liv
“Who’s the Viking?” I tilt my head toward the lanky blond guy who stands a head above the rest of the juniors. He and his classmates are lining up for their first 1,600-meter time trial. They’ll loop the 400-meter track four times.
I cross my arms over my chest as Mike starts the group. I’m not expecting much from these guys, but we do live in Tahoe. This resort town is an athlete’s paradise. Most of the kids who live here spend a lot of time outdoors year-round. Granted, while there are a lot of athletes, not many are triathletes. Tahoe’s laid-back California mindset makes cultivating a competitive club challenging.
Coach Sylvia thought I was crazy when I mentioned starting a triathlon club for the new school year. She said the school, which is by no means huge, had more than enough sports for students to participate in.
The thing is, I couldn’t help myself.
My parents are professional triathletes. My older sister was following in their footsteps before she was derailed by poor life decisions, forcing our family’s move to Tahoe. I’ve been around the sport my whole life, competing ever since my parents gave me my first road bike at eight. While I know I’ll never be a world-class triathlete like my parents, I’m not mediocre at it, either.
Triathlon is what I know. It’s what my entire life has been centered around. Having something that reminds me of the home I miss is what I want to bring to this school.
Coach Sylvia tried to explain this would never work, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Even though high school triathlon clubs don’t follow the traditional JV and varsity structure, we could form a team to compete in local races from the various athletes at our school. After petitioning several other students and their parents, we hosted a fundraiser to purchase road bikes, helmets, tri suits, and other necessary equipment. Not only was everyone excited about this new club sport, but my parents were over the moon about it, too.
My father said, “This is a step in the right direction,” while my mother joyfully donated equipment to the team.
They both assumed this is my first step toward a career in triathlon. What neither realizes is that is not the case. This is me filling the rest of my high school days with something I enjoy until I get the hell out of this town.
I didn’t want to move to Tahoe.
I still don’t want to be here.
But if I’m gonna be forced to stay, I will do what I damn well want. And I want to introduce my fellow students to triathlon.
Fast forward to today, and we’ve got nearly forty students trying out for eight spots, which will total to twelve club members.
I’m startled out of my reverie when Sarah responds.
“Declan McCoy,” she says on a sigh and waggles her dark eyebrows.
I press my lips into a flat line as I turn slightly to stare at her. What’s so special about this guy? Why the hell has my friend turned into some swooning girl over him?
She shrugs and explains, “He’s fine as hell.”
My eyes flicker back to the juniors running.
Declan McCoy is easy to spot at the front of the pack. Why have I never noticed him before? His leanly muscled build, tanned skin, and wild blond hair make him appear to be a laid-back surfer, but his stride tells me he’s something more. I wish I were standing at the finish to get a closer look because I definitely agree with Sarah. He is fine as hell.
Teenage guys aren’t known for their gracefulness, but Declan’s gait speaks of an athleticism I haven’t seen from many of our classmates. I’m impressed by his long, leisurely strides as he runs down the backside of the track.
“What’s his story?”
“He’s lived here his entire life.”
That information doesn’t really say much.
“But he grew up something fierce this summer,” she continues.
“Yeah?”
“Look at those muscles.” She sighs again, and I’m tempted to smack her. We’re better than the stupid teenage girl stereotype of sighing over hot guys, no matter how attractive they are. We both know this.
“He’s wearing a running shirt.”
“Yeah, but check out those legs and his arms, too,” Sarah points out, as if I hadn’t already noticed them. Oh, I have. I definitely have. I might be more on the antisocial side of the high school spectrum, but I’m not blind, and I’m certainly no nun. “You can go ahead and admit he’s a damn fine piece of man meat, Liv. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Who’s a fine piece of man meat?” I hear Gabe ask from behind me, his large hands cupping my shoulders.
“Who do you think?” Sarah teases.
Gabe steps forward and takes the spot next to me on the bleachers, his dark brow furrowing as he follows the runners on the track.
“Declan McCoy?” he asks, sounding almost amused.
“You’re good,” Sarah quips.
Gabe snickers.
I say nothing.
“So whatcha think about him, Buttercup?”
“Buttercup?” Sarah snorts.
“Her shorts,” is all he says.
“What?”
“Buttercups are black and yellow,” Gabe explains with an eye roll, as if we should’ve known what he was talking about. “Your shorts remind me of buttercups.”
“You’re thinking of another flower.” Sarah dismisses him with a wave. “Black Eyed Susans, I think.”
“Buttercups are yellow,” I confirm.
“Declan McCoy. What do you think?” Gabe asks again, ignoring our comments as the three of us watch the juniors run their rat race.
I hate running on the track. It’s boring as hell, and I’m thankful most triathlons send competitors out on the road instead of forcing them to loop a track for the entirety of the race. I could never do that, which is why I’ve never gone out for the track team, even though my parents believe I’m faster than every distance runner at Parkview.
An elbow jabs my ribs, and the grunt that leaves my lips is anything but attractive. My two friends cackle, as if my nonresponse means something.
“Nothing at all?” Sarah asks, tilting her head to the side in a move that reminds me of a confused dog.
“He’s a hell of a lot taller than those guys,” I observe. I don’t want to critique another student’s appearance, even though that’s what high school is all about. The attractive guys and girls get together and gang up on the less attractive students.
Before our move, I was the one who was picked on. I was awkward, with too long arms and legs, and I kept to myself, save for my first and only boyfriend. He seemed to find my awkwardness cute. The summer we moved, I grew into my body, and I was shockingly asked out by multiple guys my first day of school. It was horrifying, especially since I don’t like being in the spotlight in that way. Competing and winning? Yes. Garnering attention from guys left and right who want to be the first to bang the new girl? No.
I don’t know how I went from Ugly Duckling to Princess, but I don’t like it. I have no interest in popularity games. Instead, I’ve focused on forming friendships, with the exception of my arrangement with Gabe. Parkview isn’t the place where I’ll meet the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.
I know how high school relationships go. They never last, and one going awry is what drove my sister over the edge. Which, in turn, drove us to this ritzy resort town in the first place.
I’m not going to be here for long. One more year, then I’m gone. And once I graduate, I fully intend to dive into college life, wherever the hell I go.
“He comes from a family of giants,” Sarah says. “His dad and brothers are at least 6’5”. It’s not a surprise that he’s grown up this summer.”
“His twin brothers graduated last spring,” Gabe adds.
“And this matters why?”
“Sam was the star center on the basketball team,” Gabe provides. “Chase played wide receiver on the football team.”
“They are also hot as shit.” This informati
on is from Sarah.
I roll my eyes. In the year I’ve known Sarah, she has never been boy crazy, except when she and Mike started sneaking around last fall. But since they’ve settled into their relationship, things are better. Which makes me wonder what Mike would make of this conversation.
“How would Mike feel about you ogling poor Declan?”
Sarah giggles, and Gabe snorts his amusement.
“He’s a junior.” Gabe waggles his black eyebrows.
“I gathered that,” I respond and hope my friends drop the topic.
They don’t.
“He’s not just any run-of-the-mill junior,” Gabe observes.
“He’s definitely not,” Sarah agrees.
“I heard he started training in June.”
“I heard he has a crush on one of our club’s founders.” Sarah one-ups Gabe, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course, he has a crush on her. Every guy at our school does. And she’s going to lord it over him because she finds making others uncomfortable amusing.
Gabe goes in for the kill. “He went down on Jenny Aarons at the end-of-year party.”
Sarah’s dark eyes go wide. And I can’t stop the question that bubbles out. “What?”
Gabe smirks. Sarah shoots me a knowing look.
It shocks me that he did something so publicly and that it’s common knowledge. It shouldn’t surprise me. I was doing that last year, too. But I was doing it behind closed doors, and no one knew my business.
One of the stark differences between Tahoe and San Diego is this town is small. Everyone who lives here year-round knows everyone. I wonder what else Declan has done. What else is being said about him? And that thought begs the question: What’s being said about me?
Gabe seems to sense my line of thought, and he shakes his head. “Your secrets are safe with me. You know that, right?”
I nod. Because while Gabe and I have never been exclusive, we’ve always been discreet. And even though we both know our arrangement will come to an end at graduation, we’re enjoying the hell out of ourselves in the meantime.
The runners cross the finish line, Declan McCoy leading the pack by several strides and letting out a triumphant whoop as he slows. He raises his long arms in the air above his head, his golden hair shining in the sunlight.
Between Hearts: A Romance Anthology Page 32