Between Hearts: A Romance Anthology

by Alexander, Erica

  When he turns to trot back to the finish, he glances toward the stands, and his eyes meet mine. I’m enraptured by him and can’t look away. Then one of his classmates slaps him on the back, and the moment is lost. That wordless exchange makes me even more curious about Declan.

  “I’d do him.” Sarah whistles under her breath as Declan walks onto the infield.

  “He’s impressive,” Gabe remarks.

  My eyes flicker to Coach Sylvia. I want to see her reaction. She’s been around high school athletes for her entire career. What does she make of Declan? Her gaze bounces from her clipboard to her stopwatch and back again as she jots down notes. A thin smile crosses her lips.

  That’s a good sign for Declan McCoy.

  The excitement of starting something new and introducing my fellow students to something I’ve enjoyed my entire life surges through me. Because even though it won’t be my chosen career path, it’s certainly fun.

  And I’m all about fun.

  Chapter Two

  Declan

  The first two days of tryouts were a cake walk.

  I’m not full of myself. That’s what they were.

  My training paid off. I smoked my competition in the 1,600-meter run three times. Swimming and cycling weren’t much different yesterday. Even though I’m weakest on the bike, I didn’t have a hard time overpowering my competitors.

  Today is different, though.

  Today, we’re putting the three parts together. Even though my confidence swelled from my lack of competition earlier, my nerves still crackle to life. I’ve never done this before . . . not really. From all the locker room talk about pacing to transitions and mid-race fuel, my swagger is well in check. I’m not an idiot, even though I think I stand a good chance — at least from what I’ve done up to this point. That’s assuming I don’t crash and burn now.

  Today is the most important day of the tryout.

  If I can’t compete in an environment like this, how can I succeed at an actual race?

  Sitting on the ground with my legs splayed in a wide V, I lean to one side, grabbing my ankle since I can’t quite grip my foot. I feel the stretch all the way from my calf into my thigh and groin. I hold it for a few seconds before shifting my focus to the other side. I grip my bicep, stretching my arms and back muscles.

  I repeat these movements multiple times, hoping they distract me while I wait for my grade to be called to the starting line.

  The repetition lulls my anxiety. Once a calm has taken root in me, I lean back and stretch out on the soft grass of the infield. I close my eyes, soaking in the warmth of the sunshine, and retreat to the happy spot inside my head.

  My mother was a yoga teacher a long time ago. Even though she no longer teaches, she believes in the power of the mind. Clearing my head of all the clutter eases my frayed nerves. While I might appear a confident guy — and I am, most of the time — this inner peace business that my mom drilled into me and my brothers is one of the things that’s helped me through tryouts.

  I sigh contentedly, my hands cradling the base of skull as I lie in the grass.

  My moment of peace is interrupted with a question. “You okay down there, McCoy?”

  My eyes snap open, and as I instinctively jolt into a sitting position, I find Gabe Patterson standing next to me. He grins at my surprise.

  “Dozing when you should be getting in the game?”

  I shake my head, surprised that a club founder is giving me any attention. “Nah. Just clearing my head.”

  “That’s what we’re calling it now?” he asks, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

  “Sure.”

  “You ready for this?” He tilts his head toward the finish, and I see some of the underclassmen coming in. I’ve apparently missed the strongest competitors because the students crossing the line look like they’ve seen better days.

  A girl staggers across, her hands raised in victory before she folds in half, totters over to the grass, and loses her lunch. Both of us grimace and turn our heads in disgust. Both of us grimace and turn our heads in disgust.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I confirm, scrubbing a hand over my eyes in an attempt to remove that last image.

  “You’ve looked strong.”

  “Thanks.” I shrug.

  “Good luck,” he says before he trots toward the finish line.

  I spot several of my classmates gathering, and I take that as a cue to finish my preparations.

  Before the freshmen and sophomores were sent onto the course for their race, Liv walked everyone through the transition area, explaining we’d leave our bikes and our running gear in the marked off area.

  The trick, I gathered, is transitioning efficiently from one event to the next without much lag time. How to actually do this, I haven’t a clue. I’m banking on my natural athleticism to help me.

  After the freshmen and sophomores finish, my class is escorted to the school’s outdoor Olympic-sized swimming pool. Sarah explains that we’ll start together, two to a lane, and complete the 750-meter swim before running to the transition area, changing into our cycling gear, hopping on our bikes, and starting the cycling course. After that, we’ll transition into our running gear and take off for a 5K to finish the triathlon.

  Easy, right?

  I wish.

  Dennis is my lane partner, and the two of us swing our arms awkwardly as we wait. It’s like we’re trying to emulate Olympic swimmers who can’t stop moving before they’re instructed to climb onto the blocks. We continue expelling nervous energy until Coach Sylvia blows her whistle and calls us to the start. I snap my swim goggles in place and focus my attention on the water.

  This is it. Now is my time. I’ve trained, and I’m strong. I worked my ass off all summer for this moment.

  I can fucking do this.

  When she blows her whistle again, we dive in.

  The water is warm, and it sluices against my skin as I set an easy pace, my legs kicking and arms circling. I settle into the freestyle stroke I learned as a kid. When I reach the end of the pool, I do a flip turn and push off the wall, kicking hard as I swim the direction I came from.

  My oxygen runs low as I resume my stroke, and my lungs burn from the exertion. I rise to take a gulping breath before I turn my head back in line with my body.

  The thrill of competition buzzes in my veins as I settle into my stride.

  I never thought I’d do something like this, but here I am. And even though I always complained to my parents that I felt like I was drowning during swim lessons, I’ve somehow found my rhythm in the water. I enjoy myself in the midst of this craziness.

  Fourteen laps later, I pull myself out of the pool. The water pours off me as I jog toward the transition area by the track, looking around for my competition.

  A few students huddle by the entrance to the roped off area, cheering, but I don’t spot any other juniors.

  I take this as a good sign, and I lengthen my strides, entering the area with ease.

  When I’m at my designated spot, I towel dry quickly before sitting down next to the road bike my parents purchased for me after I reached the halfway point of my training. My mom insisted, saying they were so proud of me for going out for this club. And they’re certainly not hurting for money. While my mother has tried her hand at lots of careers, my dad’s first career, his internet startup, provides everything our family could ever want or need and more.

  Wiping off my wet, dirt-and-grass-covered feet, I work them into the special sweat-wicking socks my brothers swore would be helpful. Then I slide my feet into my running shoes and quickly tie them. I pull the highlighter yellow shirt from the seat of my bike and over my head. I grab my helmet off the handlebars, shove it onto my head and snap the strap beneath my chin. Pushing to my feet, I see a few of my competitors in the transition area. I step into a pair of running shorts, which slide easily over the compression shorts I used as swim trunks. Then I pull my bike from its rack and guide it toward t
he exit.

  It’s time to cycle.

  I know a lot of guys are into it, and that’s cool, but for me? I can’t seem to get comfortable on the bike. Especially the times I’ve gone from swimming to cycling, which makes it that much worse. My compression shorts hug my skin, and even though I dried off at the transition area and applied tons of anti-chafe cream to my balls, groin, and thighs before I left the locker room, it’s still a challenge.

  Because of this, cycling is my weakest event.

  When I’m out of the chute, I throw a thigh over the bike and begin my 12.4-mile ride around the high school campus and surrounding neighborhood. Parkview is located in the wealthiest area of town, so the scenery is gorgeous.

  My mind wanders as I change speeds, pedal hard, and push myself to see what I can accomplish as the miles fly by. Just because I’m in the lead doesn’t mean I’ll stay here, and I don’t want to give anyone a chance to catch up.

  I steer my bike down a steep incline near the end of the course. I’m back on campus, and I see the transition area in the distance. As I negotiate the hill a little too fast, the wheels slide out from beneath me, no longer gripping the road. In the span of five seconds, I go from riding my bike, trying to control the slide, to flying toward the asphalt.

  I hit the ground with a groan. The running shorts ride up, but my compression shorts blessedly stay in place. They can’t stop the slide, though, and the exposed skin of my waist catches the brunt of my crash. My arms scramble to stop the movement, already aching, and my calves burn.

  The pain is instantaneous. As my body comes to a stop, warmth spreads over me. My bike comes to a clattering halt five feet away.

  “Dammit,” I curse as I stare down at myself, the scuffs on my waist, arms, and legs already angry and pooling with blood. My heartbeat pumps in my extremities. I can hear the dull thudding in my ears and feel it in my wounds.

  I’ve definitely lost the top layer of skin, if not more, in some places, and it fucking throbs.

  But I’m not stopping now.

  A group of students runs in my direction, but I’ll be damned if they try to stop me. I’m doing this, dammit, and last I checked, I was in the lead.

  Of course, as soon as the thought crosses my mind, Dennis Waters flies by me on his bicycle, laughing at the carnage as he speeds toward the transition area. He looks like a goddamn Tour de France cyclist.

  Hell fucking no.

  I clamber to my feet, feeling shaky.

  I’m finishing this fucking race.

  I pull off my shirt, noticing two more classmates pass by, and I wipe up the blood as best I can. I tie the shirt around my handlebars, then I lift my bike and haul my ass back on it.

  The students who were running in my direction turn and sprint back in the direction they came from when they see me climb onto my bike.

  It’s slow gaining speed, but I don’t have far to go. I become more confident with each spin of the pedals carrying me closer to the transition, even though the searing pain is hard to ignore.

  Some students cheer as I enter the transition area. It’s equal parts mortifying and encouraging.

  “Way to recover, McCoy.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  “There are three guys ahead of you.” This drives home the point that the race isn’t over. I still have a chance.

  I dismount the bike, guiding it into its spot on the rack. I unsnap my helmet, tossing it down to the ground, and do a quick assessment. Yeah, I’m all scuffed up, but the endorphins rushing through me feel damn good. And I feel even better because running is my strongest suit. I shouldn’t be counted out yet.

  I jog to the transition exit and make my way back onto the course, knowing I have 3.1 miles to make up for lost time.

  Oxygen fills my lungs as my feet pound the ground, following the paved path around Parkview’s campus. The footpath is a 5K, and it’s marked to show runners exactly how far they’ve gone. I settle into a comfortable pace as I enter the wooded section of campus, my arms and legs pumping and bringing me closer to the finish line. I don’t want to push myself too hard, but I don’t have a lot of time left. I need to conserve my energy for a final push. And there will be a final push. I’ll be damned if my classmates beat me.

  My mind goes blank as my legs churn, eating up the ground between the three guys leading the way and me. Within the first mile, I pass two of them easily.

  Two down, one to go.

  Dennis is harder to catch, but I spot him on the trail with about half a mile left.

  Each stride brings a jolt of pain in my road-burned body, but I focus on the task at hand: I’m going to beat Dennis if it kills me.

  With a quarter of a mile left, I’m still a good distance behind Dennis, so I dig in.

  As we pull onto the track for the final 200 meters, I’ve shortened his lead to mere strides. While Dennis is a strong competitor, he’s a head shorter than me, and his legs are not nearly as long as mine. You’d better fucking believe I’m using that to my advantage.

  I lengthen my stride, stretching my legs out to shorten the distance between us as we round the final turn.

  This is it.

  The thrill of competition overwhelms me, endorphins hum through my very being, and I push, searching for something I don’t know that I have left.

  Blame the hormones. Blame the endorphins. Blame overconfidence in the moment. But I was fucking made for this.

  One stride, and I’m within striking distance.

  Two strides, and I’m just behind him.

  Three strides, and he picks up his pace.

  Four strides, and I’m lengthening my gait, my feet thundering against the synthetic material of the track.

  Five strides, and I’m pulling up beside Dennis.

  Six strides, and so close to the finish line, I pull ahead, my legs aching, my lungs burning, my body thrumming with unseen energy.

  I cross the finish line a few strides ahead of Dennis.

  A cheer goes up, but I can’t respond. Instead, I stumble toward the infield grass and drop to my knees. I take huge gulping breaths as my heart hammers out of control, pumping blood to my extremities and back again. The endorphins that once fueled me begin to putter away as reality slams home.

  I won.

  I fucking won.

  And I feel like absolute hell.

  Gabe, Sarah, and Liv sprint toward me. Gabe reaches me first and offers his congratulations with a hearty slap to the shoulder.

  The movement reverberates through my entire frame, and I wince when I feel Gabe’s enthusiasm in my injuries.

  It takes a second before Liv gasps, “Oh, my God.”

  Of course, she’s the first to notice something is wrong with me. She’s so observant. I think I love that about her. Why didn’t Sarah and Gabe notice? I suddenly feel shaky, my heart pumping overtime and pounding in my road-burned skin. Is this normal?

  Now if Liv would just offer to take care of me with that mouth of hers, I’d be perfect. An unexpected advantage of crashing on the course: sympathy attention from Liv. I’ll take whatever I can get.

  She drops to her knees in front of me, her small hand rising to my arm. She doesn’t touch me, though. She just categorizes my injuries as she frowns, and her eyebrows pull together with concern. When she finally meets my eyes, I want to lean into her and make her touch me. But I don’t. I’m wobbly enough that I fear I’ll fall over if I make any sudden movement.

  “What happened to you?” she finally asks.

  “You didn’t see him crash?” Sarah gasps.

  “No!”

  “I’m fine,” I tell them weakly, but I’m beginning to wonder if I actually am.

  I can feel my heart pounding everywhere. Tendrils of pain streak through my exposed skin, thumping in time, and with each beat, the ache intensifies. I glance down to see fresh blood streaming from the road burn on my waist and grimace. Disgusting. No chick wants you to bleed all over her.

  “We need to get you cleaned u
p,” Sarah remarks and shoots me a kind smile. She looks to Liv, whose expression doesn’t change, and Sarah shrugs. “Come with me, Declan.”

  I take another gulping breath, unsuccessfully trying to push the pain away, and nod, climbing to my feet with help from Gabe.

  “Nice job, man,” he tells me before his gaze flickers back to the finish line. “I gotta help Coach Syl with the finish, but Sarah and Liv will take care of you.”

  Excitement roars to life at his words and the implication of Liv taking care of me in any way, sexual or otherwise.

  Liv stares at me, her eyes huge. I want to ask what she’s thinking. I want to know, dammit. I want to know what she thinks of my performance. I want to know what she thinks of me.

  “I’ve got this,” Sarah volunteers, and disappointment rushes through me.

  I did this for Liv.

  I want her to notice me.

  Does she?

  Does she even care?

  If she does, why the hell isn’t she offering to help?

  It shouldn’t be a surprise, but her silent dismissal burns. I shove it away, instead focusing on the petite brunette leading me to the tent that was set up earlier to house snacks and drinks for participants. As we approach, the school nurse rushes toward us. I guess she noticed my limp or maybe the shocking amount of blood on my skin.

  Sarah guides me into what appears to be a tailgate chair, hushing me when I tell her it’s not so bad. Nurse Hawkins catalogues my injuries, speaking in a tone I assume she thinks is soothing. It’s not. I tune her out and bite my lip when she tells me what needs to be done. I can tough this out.

  A small hand wraps around mine, and I swing my gaze to find Sarah sitting next to me, a concerned look on her face.

  “You did good,” she tells me earnestly.

  I nod, not trusting my voice, and look away. She doesn’t say anything else, and we sit in tense silence as Nurse Hawkins forcibly scrubs at my skin to remove the gravel and rocks from my wounds.