I wish I knew what was going through his head at this exact moment.

The entire stadium is quiet, waiting for the showdown that’s going to last mere seconds. The anticipation is worth the energy surge in its purest form.

“Go” is announced by the deafening pop from the starting gun.

They’re off.

The angle at how they pop up means the first few strides are taken with their heads down, fixed toward the ground until physics gives them the leverage to fixate toward the finish line.

His legs propel him forward in an even cadence, but his arms are mere accessories as he widens his stride.

The pace at which his body moves makes me believe that he’s untouchable.

He’s right in front of me, but somehow, he’s on another plane of existence.

I finally breathe when the blurs cross the finish line.

Times are checked, and James comes away from the group with a huge grin on his face.

They both walk toward the field encircled in the track to catch their breath while a few of their teammates offer congratulations on taking the top two spots. Sometimes I’m so focused on the individual outcomes that I forget that track and field is actually a team sport.

“You know, you almost seem disappointed for someone whose best friend just kicked some serious ass.”

Brandon sits beside me all nonchalantly, but his words are heavy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I say this with as much seriousness as I can muster, but I’ve been told that I have a terrible poker face.

James waves at me, and I stick my hand out from the layers of fabric momentarily to return the gesture.

“Right,” Brandon says.

We both watch Serena saunter over and offer Dylan a sip of her Gatorade, but I turn my head to Brandon to distract myself from whatever that outcome is.

“Do you come to a lot of these?” I ask Brandon.

Aside from being Dylan’s best friend, Brandon is new to the yearbook staff, so I feel like I have an obligation to be cordial.

“Not really,” he says. “I’m usually too busy, but Lyla’s trying to rope me into helping her with the track spread, so I felt I should get reacquainted with it.”

“Are you saying that just to get on my good side?” I ask.

“Am I on your bad side?”

Brandon’s personality reminds me so much of Dylan’s—guarded and sarcastic comments with exceptionally formal words for our age group. It’s like they’re close to speaking in formal British English while still having American accents.

Maybe it’s a rich people thing.

“Not yet,” I admit.

Brandon watches the long jump event with feigned interest before he says, “So, Dylan tells me you actually sit here and do homework sometimes instead of watching the events. Do you not find them entertaining?”

I have to blink at the admission that Dylan actually said something to another human, especially one in his inner circle, about me.

Brandon’s gaze is on my features like he’s expecting me to give something away when I speak.

“Dylan who?”

He smirks, and I know I’ve said the right thing.

I don’t think boys like Brandon and Dylan do friendships like normal people. I have to speak in riddles to earn approval and keep up the conversation, and honestly, it’s kind of fun.

I adjust the sweatshirt on my lap, tracing the white block letters of ARCHER that sits across my thighs. “Is that the tall blond one?”

“Don’t you mean the devastatingly gorgeous heir to the Archer fortune who is trying to avoid getting felt up by his ex-girlfriend and catch the attention of his English tutor?”

I keep my eyes locked on Brandon’s brown ones, refusing to show enough interest in Dylan to see if he’s telling the truth.

“Why would a boy like that need help with anything?” I ask.

“It’s the same question I’ve been asking,” Brandon mutters.

“But, hypothetically, if I were aware of who you were speaking of, wouldn’t it be odd for his best friend to be speaking to the best friend of his mortal enemy?”

He considers this. “Hypothetically, we’d be carbon neutral,” Brandon decides. “Although we’re pulled into the bad emissions from time to time, we plant enough trees to offset.”

“Actually, I think we’re both signing up to kill a bunch of trees. I don’t know how many of them are used to create a fifty-page yearbook, multiplied by everyone who buys one, but it can’t possibly be good.”

“Guess we’ll have to find another way to stop global warming.”

I smile. “Works for me.”

We watch the next few events in comfortable silence, and I’m thrilled to have a companion who finds this sport just as dull as I do.

A few parents chat me up and ask about my post-graduation plans, but I deflect by introducing them to Brandon or babbling on about how buried I am in schoolwork at the moment.

Brandon stands when the four-hundred-meter race is announced.

“You’re leaving before the best part,” I tell him somewhat bitterly. “The one hundred meter is interesting, but it’s over so fast. This one is more complex. I mean, there are curves and plans for pacing and everything. You can’t miss it.”

“I’m just going for a quick smoke break,” he explains. “Want to come?”

I’m somewhat flattered by this offer, but it’s also repulsive. “Do people still smoke cigarettes these days? I thought that all of the studies, commercials, and scientific proof about the link to cancer nearly obliterated that entire industry.”

“Who says it’s cigarettes?” Brandon poses, shoving his hands in his pockets.

I don’t necessarily want to understand what he is implying.

“I’ll pass,” I say. “Thanks, though.”

Brandon shrugs, and I’m left to watch the race alone.

It’s a full lap around the track, so their lanes actually have an impact on the angle that they run. James has spent hours explaining to me the endurance needed to maintain that fast of a speed for that length of time and how he changes his strides when he is on the curves versus running on the straight lines.

This time around, I’m overly invested in the outcome of this race, trying to decide who is going to be more insufferable to deal with if James wins the second one of the day.

In the end, Dylan beats him by a full two seconds, which is nothing in the normal span of time, but in the sprinting world, it’s a huge margin.

Brandon doesn’t return to our spot, so I wave bye to some of the parents I chatted with and make my way down to the track.

“Congratulations,” I say to Dylan as I reluctantly hand over his outerwear.

It’s getting colder by the second, and I can’t wait to be in the safety of my car once again.

“Bring a scarf next time, Reed,” is all he says to me as he shrugs everything back on.

I ignore the attitude. “We're still on for tonight?”

“Did I send you a letter with my regrets or otherwise change our plans?” Dylan asks rhetorically. “Then yes.”

Nearly a week after we had our verbal handshake, we’re finally having our first work session.

I offered to get started last week or over the weekend, but Dylan kindly reminded me that some people actually have things to do that aren't school related.