Rock Bottom Girl(14)

“This is a sprint, ladies! Push harder!” I yelled, channeling my old, beer-bellied coach.

Reluctantly the pack picked it up a little bit.

“Keep going,” I gasped as I jogged back to the end line.

I was going to knock myself out with my boobs. These girls could not be harnessed by a simple yoga sports bra. No, they needed to be tamed, smushed, wrangled into submission.

Oh my God. I could feel my heartbeat in my head. I couldn’t see, the sweat was stinging my eyes. I swiped at the never-ending river of it with the hem of my shirt. “There’s no rest here,” I gasped at the stragglers that were trying to catch their breath on the goal line. “Go!”

My world narrowed to the sun, the heat, and the hard ground under my feet. I was plodding. It wasn’t even jogging. I wasn’t even sure if this qualified as walking. It wasn’t just hot. It was Satan’s sauna on this patch of crispy fried grass.

I was vaguely aware of girls walking, their breath coming in sharp wheezes heard over the sound of the cicadas buzzing in the trees on the street. This had been a very stupid idea. I might die from this. I might kill one of them from this. I hoped it wasn’t one of the nice ones. I looked up, swiped the sweat out of my eyes, and saw Ruby slowing to a jog at the other end of the field.

“Push harder!” I yelled.

Out of breath, the words tore through my throat, trying to bring up bile with them. I gagged and slapped a hand over my mouth. Nope. Nope. Nope.

“Suck it up,” I whispered to myself. I took a deep, shuddery breath and pushed on. My feet were made of lead. I pictured my dad at the end of the field holding a platter of snack cakes and a gallon of ice water.

“Can we quit?” one of the freshmen on the team begged from somewhere out of my peripheral vision.

“You do not quit. You cross this line on your hands and knees if you have to,” a voice snapped. Freaking Ruby. How did she still have oxygen to speak?

I was no longer a coach. I was no longer human. As my foot touched the far end’s goal line, I realized that I would die out here on this humid, Pennsylvania kill zone. One hundred-ish yards separated me from my water bottle and that bottle of ibuprofen. Why did I agree to do this? Why would I put myself through this?

To prove myself. A therapist would have a field day with my constant need to prove that I was at least adequate.

The thought punched me in the sternum as I stared down the field. I’d screwed up or lost everything that had been important to me. On paper, I was a loser. But I didn’t feel that way in my heart. I had potential. If I could finish this. If I could put one foot in front of the other, I could do something with my life.

I desperately needed this.

The opposite end of the field wavered in my vision like a mirage. But I forced my feet to move. I was walking, then jogging, then something else. Flailing. Stumbling. Running.

There were still a dozen girls struggling with me on the field. The rest were laying in the grass at the finish line. I wasn’t sure if they were dead or recovering. There was only one way to find out.

Get there.

“Come on,” I whispered to them, to me. “Come on.”

Goosebumps rose on my skin, but I was too hot, too gutted, to pay attention.

My stomach knotted as my breath clogged my throat. I was going to puke. In front of people. In front of teenagers genetically designed to exploit any weakness discovered in adults. But I was going to finish this run first.

Half field. My foot touched the white line, and I swear I felt it zing up my body. Almost there. Almost there.

I chanted to myself.

Oh, God. The penalty area. Yes, baby cheeses! So close to the end of this stupid torture. To the end of the only challenge I’d risen to in months. Or years.

I pushed, forcing my wobbly legs to chug faster. Crossing the line on a gasp, a wheeze, a dry heave. I collapsed onto my hands and knees.

“Nice run, Coach,” one of the girls said weakly. I think it was sarcasm.

But I was too busy vomiting to respond.

“Well, shit,” someone sighed.

Oh, God, no. I knew that voice. I knew the man behind that voice. He was the last person on the planet I needed to see me retching my guts out of my body through my throat. A worn shoe, one of those finger sneaker things, came into my line of sight. I gave one last heave before flopping over on my back.

“Hi, Mr. Weston,” Ruby wheezed from somewhere very far away.

“No, you don’t,” the voice said as things went blurry and gray. Something hit me in the face. Hardish.

“Coach, what do we do?” a teenage boy squeaked.

“Hey, dumbass. Do you know what heat stroke is?” the gravelly voice demanded of me. I felt another slap. A slap?

Someone was slapping me in the face? How dare he!

I struggled against the gray, the stars that were sparkling in front of my eyes. Defensively, I flailed my hands, catching myself in the face.

“Guys, let’s drag everyone down to the locker room,” the voice ordered. “Take as many bodies as you can.”

Suddenly I was airborne. Floating up, up, up. Then I was unceremoniously tossed over something hard and sweaty. I was upside-down. My ponytail hung straight down. Everything was still a blur, but was that an ass in my face? Wow. A really nice ass. Tight globes of muscle that bunched under shorts.

Hallucination or not, that ass was connected to the finest pair of thighs I’d ever seen in my life. Some women were into the arm porn. Others into the chests or v-cuts. Me? I wanted a meaty thigh to sink my teeth into.