into your blood.”
Her whole body tensed. Ever since high school, when two girls from the country club had deliberately led her off course and then abandoned her on a cross-country run, she hated running outside. There were so many variables that she couldn’t control: weather, temperature, teenagers on bikes, dogs off leashes, cars running stop signs—the list was endless. It baffled her that people found running to be a relaxing pastime, because to her it was a perfect storm of uncontainable neuroses.
She shook her head and went for the first excuse that popped into her head. “No way. It’s too hot.”
“It’s not even nine o’clock, and it rained this morning. It’s fine.”
“It’s rush hour. The roads will be packed.”
“You live in a gated community. There is no rush hour.”
She studied the laces of her sneakers. “I don’t have my running shoes.”
“Neither do I. Those will be fine. It’s a couple miles, not a marathon.”
“A couple miles ? I can’t. I don’t have my headphones, I’m not wearing the right clothes, my socks are way too thin and I told you that sometimes running too much makes my knee—”
“Cut the shit, Regan.”
Startled into silence by his uncharacteristically harsh tone, her eyes shot up to his.
His expression was as unyielding as his voice. “You need to get it through your skull that I’m not like your other coaches. You can’t wheedle and complain until you get what you want, and nothing you do—”
He faltered, and Regan wondered if he was thinking about that hotel corridor, about the roaring fire tugging them together and the cold water the staff member’s entrance threw on it. He squared his shoulders and continued even more resolutely, “ Nothing will make me quit. You’re stuck with me until the moment you step onto the winner’s podium at the Baron’s. Now stand up and stop acting like a child.”
She knew the slack-jawed, wide-eyed look wasn’t her most attractive but couldn’t seem to make any of her muscles work—except the ones that hoisted her up onto her feet and had her following Ben through the clubhouse and out to the street in silent, stunned obedience.
“Right,” he announced as they emerged into the morning sunlight, “away we go.”
As he broke into a slow jog, the familiar, nauseating roil of anxiety began to churn in her stomach as increasingly panicked thoughts whirred through her mind, slowly at first, then faster like a rusty outboard motor coming back to life. What if I fall behind? Will he stay with me? What if he runs on ahead? What if I get lost? What if I need to stop? Will he laugh at me? Why is he making me do this?
Her stomach tightened, her hands clenched into fists at her side.
What if I can’t do this? Oh my God , I can’t do this , I can’t do this...
“That’s it, nice and easy.”
Ben’s voice broke through the dizzying stream of thoughts, and she was back to the world of chirping birds, warm pavement and the muffled sound of sneakered feet hitting the ground. They left the clubhouse driveway and turned onto the main road, and she tried to talk herself out of the high-alert nerves that were tightening her throat so much her breaths came in short, ragged gasps. She held each inhale for a count of four and exhaled fully, reminding herself that she was a professional athlete. Assuring herself that she wouldn’t get lost, that she could keep up, that Ben wouldn’t leave her.
He’d said as much, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t quit. They would draw a line under Monday afternoon, she would reset her expectations, let go of her disappointment and start fresh. And she would at least try to do what he wanted—to relinquish control.
Starting now.
She could do this, she told herself sternly, as the warmth of exertion began to flood through her veins, easing the tension in her body. Of course she could.
This part of the road was one long incline, and Regan’s body shifted into gear, her heart and lungs
Her whole body tensed. Ever since high school, when two girls from the country club had deliberately led her off course and then abandoned her on a cross-country run, she hated running outside. There were so many variables that she couldn’t control: weather, temperature, teenagers on bikes, dogs off leashes, cars running stop signs—the list was endless. It baffled her that people found running to be a relaxing pastime, because to her it was a perfect storm of uncontainable neuroses.
She shook her head and went for the first excuse that popped into her head. “No way. It’s too hot.”
“It’s not even nine o’clock, and it rained this morning. It’s fine.”
“It’s rush hour. The roads will be packed.”
“You live in a gated community. There is no rush hour.”
She studied the laces of her sneakers. “I don’t have my running shoes.”
“Neither do I. Those will be fine. It’s a couple miles, not a marathon.”
“A couple miles ? I can’t. I don’t have my headphones, I’m not wearing the right clothes, my socks are way too thin and I told you that sometimes running too much makes my knee—”
“Cut the shit, Regan.”
Startled into silence by his uncharacteristically harsh tone, her eyes shot up to his.
His expression was as unyielding as his voice. “You need to get it through your skull that I’m not like your other coaches. You can’t wheedle and complain until you get what you want, and nothing you do—”
He faltered, and Regan wondered if he was thinking about that hotel corridor, about the roaring fire tugging them together and the cold water the staff member’s entrance threw on it. He squared his shoulders and continued even more resolutely, “ Nothing will make me quit. You’re stuck with me until the moment you step onto the winner’s podium at the Baron’s. Now stand up and stop acting like a child.”
She knew the slack-jawed, wide-eyed look wasn’t her most attractive but couldn’t seem to make any of her muscles work—except the ones that hoisted her up onto her feet and had her following Ben through the clubhouse and out to the street in silent, stunned obedience.
“Right,” he announced as they emerged into the morning sunlight, “away we go.”
As he broke into a slow jog, the familiar, nauseating roil of anxiety began to churn in her stomach as increasingly panicked thoughts whirred through her mind, slowly at first, then faster like a rusty outboard motor coming back to life. What if I fall behind? Will he stay with me? What if he runs on ahead? What if I get lost? What if I need to stop? Will he laugh at me? Why is he making me do this?
Her stomach tightened, her hands clenched into fists at her side.
What if I can’t do this? Oh my God , I can’t do this , I can’t do this...
“That’s it, nice and easy.”
Ben’s voice broke through the dizzying stream of thoughts, and she was back to the world of chirping birds, warm pavement and the muffled sound of sneakered feet hitting the ground. They left the clubhouse driveway and turned onto the main road, and she tried to talk herself out of the high-alert nerves that were tightening her throat so much her breaths came in short, ragged gasps. She held each inhale for a count of four and exhaled fully, reminding herself that she was a professional athlete. Assuring herself that she wouldn’t get lost, that she could keep up, that Ben wouldn’t leave her.
He’d said as much, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t quit. They would draw a line under Monday afternoon, she would reset her expectations, let go of her disappointment and start fresh. And she would at least try to do what he wanted—to relinquish control.
Starting now.
She could do this, she told herself sternly, as the warmth of exertion began to flood through her veins, easing the tension in her body. Of course she could.
This part of the road was one long incline, and Regan’s body shifted into gear, her heart and lungs
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